This was one of the longest speeches she had ever made in front of Virginia, who nodded sympathetically.
“Well, everyone has different dreams and talents,” she said carefully. “And I respect your reasons. You’re a strong-willed girl, Cornelia, who knows her own mind. I am always inspired by the incredible resources of children like you and Patel when he was your age.”
Cornelia relaxed in her chair. Virginia really was miraculous. No other adult had ever treated her with such consideration and respect. She looked up from her hands and at the face of her tired friend.
“Did the maharaja find out about Patel’s paintings?” she asked, eager to hear the end of the story before Virginia got too weary to tell it. “And what happened when you went back to the market?”
“Ah, now we’re getting to my favorite part of the story,” said Virginia.
“The next day, Kinyatta served us tea and bebinca cakes in our courtyard at teatime. Gladys had just polished off the last cake when the maharaja strode into the quad, attended by a gaggle of servants.
“We all greeted him from our table under a grove of orange trees: ‘Namaste, Your Excellency.’
“The maharaja looked imperiously down at us. ‘How was the Somerset excursion into town?’ he asked. ‘How was Real Daily Life? You act as though you are missionaries, not heiresses.’
“‘We should have listened to you in the first place, Your Excellency,’ I said quickly. ‘All of the beggars—it was just repulsive. You were absolutely right.’
“The maharaja’s face registered surprise at this apparent change of attitude. ‘Well!’ he sputtered, and collected himself. ‘I always am. I’m pleased that you came to your senses. In any case, you missed a fine polo match,’ he said, and sat down with us. ‘I was most impressive. I am sorry that you were not there to enjoy it.’
“Several monkeys ran across the patio, screeching as they went.
“‘I couldn’t help but notice your wonderful art collection throughout the palace,’ Gladys said, changing the subject. ‘You have such divine paintings.’
“‘Yes,’ agreed the maharaja. ‘It is true that I have supremely good taste. I buy paintings from only the most important artists and galleries around the world. Just like my father and grandfather and great-grandfather before me. Our art collection is the envy of all India.’
“Alexandra cocked an eyebrow as she sipped from her teacup. ‘Your Excellency,’ she said, ‘did you know that Beatrice and I studied with one of the most famous artists in the world, Monsieur Pablo Picasso?’
“‘Is that so!’ said the maharaja, his interest tweaked at hearing such a legendary name uttered in his own courtyard.
“‘Yes, it is,’ said Beatrice. ‘And, well, we would like to offer you a gift for your art collection: one of our own paintings to thank you for the gracious hospitality you’ve shown us.’
“‘I am most interested to see this gift,’ replied the maharaja, smoothing his silk shirt down over his fat stomach. The jewels pinned to his turban twinkled in the afternoon sunlight.
“‘Very good!’ exclaimed Alexandra. ‘I’ll just run to my room now to get it. Wait here!’
“Five minutes later, she returned with a painting. ‘Here it is, Your Excellency,’ she said, plunking it down against the table.
“The maharaja drew in his breath sharply. ‘How captivating!’ he said, getting up and examining the painting closely. ‘It is most original! Yes, yes—I can definitely see the influence of the great Monsieur Picasso in your work. And how interesting that it is on a wooden board and not a canvas.’ Alexandra and Beatrice looked at the floor modestly. The maharaja continued his inspection. ‘I daresay that it is genius!’
“My sisters and I looked slyly at each other.
“‘We’re honored that Your Excellency has such a high opinion of our humble work,’ said Alexandra. ‘Please note the texture of the paint. We believe that a work should be pleasant to the touch as well as nice to look at. It’s the latest fashion—all the rage in Paris.’
“The maharaja immediately ran his fingers over the thick ridges of paint on the picture. ‘Yes, yes—most unusual,’ he cried. ‘What a fascinating concept! A painting that appeals to two senses instead of just one! I am certainly the first to have such a thing here in India. The other maharajas will be mad with jealousy. I will hang it among my most important paintings in the main reception hall!’
“‘Maybe we should tell him that it’s edible too, just to watch him chomp on it,’ Gladys whispered to me as the maharaja’s servants carted the painting away.
“The very next day, the maharaja’s servants hung the painting between a painting by the famous artist El Greco and another by the great painter Rubens. He threw another lavish party to celebrate his new acquisition, and invited all of his friends over to admire and praise it. All of the princes touched the paint and coveted the maharaja’s new possession. One of the guests even begged Beatrice and Alexandra to paint one for his collection as well.
“Of course, Alexandra and Beatrice had not painted the now prominently featured gift in the maharaja’s gallery—Patel the Harijan did. My sisters and I deliberated for hours about whether we should tell the maharaja the truth about the painting. In the end, we decided against it. We liked the idea of the painting living forever among the maharaja’s most treasured items. If the prince ever learned the real identity of the artist, he would burn the picture on a bonfire, and the work was simply too good to sacrifice like that.
“A couple of days later, when we finished our stay at the palace, we negotiated with the maharaja to hire Kinyatta to be our guide all over India. The five of us drove away through the palace grounds, back through the gates, and into Bombay. We made one last stop on our way to the train, which would take us to another city.
“Patel waited for us next to the tin shack in the Thieves’ Market. A glistening new painting was by his side. I signaled to Kinyatta, who got out of the car and spoke to the boy.
“‘What’s Kinyatta saying to Patel?’ Alexandra asked, confused about why it was taking so long to buy the painting.
“‘He’s asking him if he’d like to come with us,’ I said, looking at the scene through the window.
“For once, my sisters were stunned into silence. ‘Don’t worry—if he says yes, I’ll take care of him, unless you and Beatrice want to give him painting lessons as well,’ I added.
“‘Virginia, have you thought this through?’ Beatrice said nervously. ‘Taking care of a little boy is a huge responsibility, something you know nothing about. And we’ve only just begun our trip throughout India. We’re going to see a lot of poor children. You won’t be able to take care of all of them, you know.’
“‘I know that already,’ I said. ‘But for some reason, I feel like this boy is meant to come with us.’
“Kinyatta clapped his hand on Patel’s shoulder, and they headed toward the car together. The boy climbed happily into the backseat with us and smiled. The only possessions he had with him were the outgrown clothes he wore, his paints, and the painting on his lap.
“And that’s how Patel became part of the Somerset coterie. He traveled with us all over India, and then all over the world. We taught him English and he taught us Hindi, and he ended up giving Alexandra and Beatrice painting lessons instead of the other way around. Over the years, he has become my best friend and constant companion.”
“Sometimes, when I imagine what might have happened to Patel if Gladys hadn’t insisted on going to the Thieves’ Market that afternoon over fifty years ago, my heart stops for a moment,” said Virginia. “We never would have known each other.”
“I guess it was fate,” suggested Cornelia.
“Yes, I think it was,” said Virginia. “I genuinely believe that some people are destined to come into your life. Don’t you agree?”
“Do you think that I was destined to meet you?” asked Cornelia.
“Why, certainly,” said Virginia. “As the great pain
ter Jackson Pollock supposedly said, ‘I deny the accident.’ Everything happens for a reason.”
The light filtering through the arched window grew dim, and Cornelia was suddenly aware of how long her stay had been.
“I simply must take a nap now, Cornelia,” Virginia said sleepily. “I wonder if I’ll dream about tigers, like I did at the maharaja’s palace.”
And she closed her eyes.
Chapter Eleven
Tulips in Every Color
Springtime surprised everyone in New York City. It rushed in like an unexpected guest, bearing gifts and good news from faraway places. Sunshine warmed the streets. Crocuses and daffodils pushed their way up through the dirt around the trees lining the streets in Cornelia’s neighborhood. The breeze coming off the Hudson River became pleasant and soft. Madame Desjardins opened some of the windows in the living room, study, and music room. At times, the warm spring wind mixed with the light sound of Lucy practicing Mozart on the piano, making the apartment seem more alive than ever before.
Cornelia could not remember a lovelier April. After school, she spent a great deal of time outdoors, watching the city come to life again after the long, cold winter. Every day, she stopped by Virginia’s apartment to retrieve Mister Kinyatta, and they trotted up and down Bleecker Street together.
Sometimes Natalie Hunt came over in the afternoons, and the two of them played with Mister Kinyatta in the park. Natalie was the only person whom Cornelia had told about Virginia, and Natalie had sworn to keep Cornelia’s friend a secret. The girls spent time talking about Virginia’s stories, and even making up their own Somerset tales.
Having a new friend and a dog to play with made Cornelia happy. Her gnawing loneliness slowly disappeared as the days grew longer and warmer. However, she increasingly worried about the person who had changed her lonesome life in the first place. Virginia never came downstairs to her English library, French drawing room, or Moroccan forest room anymore. Whenever Cornelia came to visit, Patel invariably brought her upstairs to the Indian bedroom, where Virginia would be reading or dozing in her cloistered white bed.
And more and more frequently, Patel didn’t allow Cornelia upstairs at all and asked her to come back another day. Cornelia tried not to worry, but there was a dark shadow of anxiousness growing in the back of her mind. She desperately wanted Virginia to feel better, come downstairs, and reign over the wonderful kingdom she had built for herself in the apartment behind the blue ATTENTION! CHIEN BIZARRE sign.
It was a sunny Tuesday afternoon, and Cornelia had been saving her allowance for two weeks. She planned to buy Virginia the perfect present on her way home from school. She walked past the Magnolia Bakery and the Biography Bookshop and headed for one of the outdoor flower stalls. A few minutes later, she stood in front of dozens of buckets of fresh tulips. Their red, yellow, and orange petals reminded Cornelia of the saris hanging on the clothesline in India. She breathed in the crisp, fresh scent of the flowers as she picked out a few tulips in every color. Her finished bouquet was as vivid as one of Patel’s paintings, and she hoped it would remind Virginia of the Somerset adventure in Bombay.
Walter greeted Cornelia as she walked into her lobby with the present. “Miss Cornelia,” he exclaimed in a loud voice. “Right kind of you—who told you it was m’ birthday?”
It wasn’t his birthday, really—he was just teasing Cornelia. She smiled and gave him a big, fat cherry-colored tulip, and then ran into the elevator.
When she got out of the elevator on her floor, she noticed that the front door to Virginia’s apartment was open a crack. How strange, she thought to herself. She knocked softly, and when she got no answer, she pushed the door open a little bit.
“Hello?” she called quietly, not wanting to disturb Virginia if she was asleep upstairs. “Patel?”
She walked into the foyer and peeked into the kitchen, expecting to see Mister Kinyatta waiting there. But the room was empty, and the collar and leash weren’t on their usual hook on the wall. For some reason, Patel must have taken the dog out this afternoon. She walked back out into the front foyer, sat politely on a chair, and waited for Patel to return.
Then she heard voices murmuring from the Indian bedroom upstairs. Cornelia strained her ears to listen. It sounded as though Virginia was speaking with another lady. Therefore, Virginia was clearly receiving visitors today after all, Cornelia concluded, and she stood up. She worried that her flowers would wilt before she had a chance to show them to Virginia. Then she paused. Would Patel be angry with her if she went upstairs without being announced first? She deliberated for a moment. She finally decided to take her chances, and tiptoed up the staircase.
Cornelia walked down the long hallway to Virginia’s bedroom and knocked on the door. The voices inside stopped talking.
“Patel?” Virginia called out weakly from inside.
“It’s me, Cornelia,” said Cornelia. “I’ve brought you a present.”
She pushed the door open a little bit and peeked inside. Honey-thick, golden afternoon sunlight filled the room. She walked in timidly and approached Virginia’s cloistered bed. The lady visitor pulled aside one of the white curtains, and when Cornelia saw who Virginia’s guest was, her heart skipped a beat and her stomach turned to water.
It was Lucy.
She sat in the white chair next to the bed, and her eyes were wet from crying. Virginia leaned back in her big white bed, looking very gaunt and serious, her hair wrapped in a silk scarf of the palest pink.
Lucy sat up straight and took a deep breath. “Oh, hello, darling,” she said to Cornelia, dabbing at her eyes quickly with her sleeve. “Virginia and I were just having tea and looking at the river. Come over here and show us what you’ve brought with you.”
The sky tumbled down on Cornelia. Tears welled up in her eyes and she clenched the stems of the flowers in her hand. Her heart pounded in her ears as she walked stiffly toward the bed.
“Are those really for me?” Virginia asked graciously about the flowers. “They’re resplendent, Cornelia. How wonderfully thoughtful of you.” She clearly sensed Cornelia’s shocked dismay at finding Lucy sitting there in the white seat where Cornelia herself usually sat.
Lucy stood up. “The tulips are lovely,” she said. She smoothed down her hair and exhaled slowly. “Virginia is very tired this afternoon, darling. Will you leave the flowers with Patel and come home with me?”
Despair coursed through Cornelia, as though her mother had snooped through a diary in which Cornelia had recorded her deepest secrets. How had this meeting happened? Had Lucy asked Walter about the Somerset sister in the building after all, and simply come by to visit out of curiosity? Or had Madame Desjardins secretly seen Cornelia go next door and told Lucy? In any case, the curtain had fallen.
Lucy turned toward Virginia and took her hand. “I can’t tell you how important this talk was for me,” she said. “I can tell that you mean a great deal to Cornelia. And I have been such a fan of your writing for so long. I know that I have met a very great lady here today.”
Virginia smiled at Lucy. “And I have been an admirer of your music as well,” she said. “I hope to hear more Chopin and Rachmaninoff through this wall soon.”
As this exchange took place, a sullen rage began to well up inside Cornelia. This was exactly what she had imagined would happen if Lucy ever met Virginia. As of this moment, she was no longer Cornelia S. Englehart. She was back to being the daughter of Lucille Englehart, Famous Concert Pianist. And all it had taken was one hour and two cups of tea. Cornelia knew that her enchanted confidence with Virginia was over. She could no longer consider the fanciful rooms of Virginia’s apartment a hidden, private refuge. She suddenly envisioned Madame Desjardins knocking noisily on the front door, pushing past Patel, barging into the library, and interrupting Virginia while she was telling Cornelia a story. Cornelia supposed that this image was a horrifying glimpse into the future.
“Good-bye,” said Lucy, shaking Virginia’s hand with great fe
eling. She put her hand on Cornelia’s shoulder and gently steered her toward the bedroom door.
“Cornelia S. Englehart,” said Virginia faintly from across the room. Cornelia stopped and looked back at her despondently. “I love the flowers. I haven’t seen such colors since I was in India with Alexandra, Beatrice, and Gladys.”
Cornelia was afraid that she would burst into tears if she said anything, so she kept quiet. But at least Virginia had understood about the tulips.
Patel returned with Mister Kinyatta just as Cornelia and Lucy were leaving. The dog leaped up and down in excitement when he saw Cornelia, who patted him miserably and gave the flowers to Patel to put in a vase. When the front door to Virginia’s apartment closed behind them, Cornelia knew that she would never see the inside of Virginia’s home in the same way again.
As soon as they got into their apartment, Cornelia ran upstairs to her bedroom. She slammed her door shut and threw herself down into her armchair. She stared resentfully at her bookshelves for some time, darkly assessing the unfortunate events of the afternoon. The lights in the buildings outside her bedroom window came on one by one as twilight faded into nighttime.
Engrossed in her turbulent thoughts, she didn’t even hear Lucy knock on her door. A shaft of light fell across Cornelia’s face as the door to her room opened.
“Cornelia Street,” Lucy said softly. “I need to talk to you.”
Cornelia just looked coldly at her mother from her chair. Lucy came into the dark room and turned on the lamp near Cornelia’s bed. The yellow light shone softly on Lucy’s austere, often-photographed features.
“Cornelia,” Lucy said, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“I don’t want you to think that I was spying on you by having tea with Virginia this afternoon. I didn’t even know she lived next door until this morning. She sent me a note, asking me to come by and talk with her.”
Cornelia and the Audacious Escapades of the Somerset Sisters Page 17
