by Ami McKay
Perdu, however, couldn’t resist the urge to meddle with the lad. Hopping to the floor, he waddled towards the table and stuck his head under the tablecloth. In a low, throaty whisper he said, “Boo.”
The boy let out a gleeful squeal.
Beatrice stifled a laugh.
As she delivered the tea to Mrs. Dashley, she was amazed to find the woman staring at the street, seemingly deaf to her child’s excitement. Such calm, she thought. Such nonchalance. “This tea smells divine,” Judith said, sniffing at the ribbon of steam that was whirling from the pot’s spout.
“Would you like me to pour?” Beatrice asked, at the ready with honey and milk.
Motioning to the seat across from her, Judith suggested, “How about you fetch another cup and join me? Drinking tea should never be a solitary endeavour.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Dashley,” Beatrice said, “but I’m not sure Miss St. Clair would approve.”
“Miss St. Clair isn’t here,” Judith argued, “and I insist.”
“All right then,” Beatrice replied. “If you insist.”
On her way back to the counter, Beatrice spotted a shiny marble rolling towards her along a groove between two floorboards. Catching it, she picked up the sweet blue orb and stared at the tiny constellation of bubbles trapped within it. This must belong to Mrs. Dashley’s boy, she thought. Did he know he’d lost it? Walking to Adelaide’s table, Beatrice lifted the edge of the tablecloth expecting to find him there. Much to her surprise, he was gone.
“Everything all right?” Judith called from across the room.
“Yes,” Beatrice replied as she glanced around the shop to see where he might’ve got to. “I’ll be right there.” The last thing she wanted was to get him in trouble. Tucking the marble in her pocket, she fetched a cup along with the parcel Eleanor had set aside for Mrs. Dashley.
“Ah yes,” Judith said, giving the parcel an affectionate pat. “Eleanor’s Sweet Dreams Tea—have you had the pleasure of trying it?”
“No,” Beatrice answered, wondering if it was the same tea that was mentioned in the book she’d found.
Holding the package to her nose, Judith inhaled deeply. “It works like a charm. I’d been having the most terrible time falling asleep, but this tea fixed all that. Just one cup an hour before bed and I drift off like a baby. Miss St. Clair has given it a fitting name—I’ve been having the most wonderful dreams since I started drinking it.”
“Really?” Beatrice asked as she poured tea into Mrs. Dashley’s cup.
“Beyond belief,” Judith said, offering, passing, accepting, honey, sugar, milk. “Just last night I dreamt of a secret room, hidden from everyone in the world except me. It looked identical to the parlour in my house on Marble Row, only everything was white—the furniture, the draperies, the fixtures, the flowers. There was no clock, no mirror, no letter tray, no doorbell. Nothing was expected of me, and no one came to call except for one delightful visitor, my dear little Billy.”
“Your son?” Beatrice asked, puzzled as to why Mrs. Dashley would consider her child a visitor in her own house.
“That’s right,” Judith replied. “Did Eleanor tell you about him?”
“No,” Beatrice said, remembering that Eleanor had instructed her not to lie. “She didn’t.”
Judith took a sip of tea and smiled. “He was such a beautiful child, so full of joy and life. I can’t believe it’s been five years since he’s been gone.”
Gooseflesh blossomed on Beatrice’s arms as the sound of a child’s footsteps seemed to race in circles around the shop.
Perdu ruffled his feathers and nervously sidestepped on his perch.
Oblivious, Judith closed her eyes in wistful thought.
Beatrice tried to make sense of it. Hand in her pocket, she felt for the marble she’d found on the floor. It was solid, round and real, even if nothing else was.
In an instant, the boy appeared again, this time from behind his mother’s chair. He stared at Beatrice with sunken eyes, his pale face shining with the sweat of sickness. Despite the form he’d now taken, his clothes were tidy, his countenance keen, and from the way he looked at his mother, Beatrice sensed that he loved her with all his heart and that he desperately wanted her to know it.
Unlike the frightful Gypsy woman, the boy’s spirit didn’t scare her. Perhaps it was because he was only a child, or because his mother was so incredibly kind, but any uneasiness she felt was soon replaced by an overwhelming sense of duty and care. Turning to Mrs. Dashley she quietly said, “He’s here.”
“Who?” Judith asked with a confused stare.
“Your son.”
“Didn’t you hear me? He’s been gone for years.”
Unable to take her eyes off the boy, Beatrice said, “I believe his spirit remains.”
The colour drained from Mrs. Dashley’s face. “My dear girl,” she said. “I want to think well of you, I really do, so please don’t toy with me. Did Miss Thom tell you to do this?”
“No,” Beatrice said, shaking her head. “She did no such thing.”
“Are you a medium?” Judith asked. “Some sort of spiritualist?”
“No,” Beatrice said, regretting her impulse to help. “Please believe me when I say that I don’t want to frighten you, or upset you in any way. I wish I could explain exactly what it is I’m seeing, but I’m not sure I can.”
“Try,” Judith said, desperately. “I’m listening.”
The boy remained at his mother’s side, as if he too were waiting for Beatrice to speak.
Taking a sip of tea to calm herself, Beatrice considered how to begin. Should she steer clear of mentioning the darker details of Billy’s appearance? Yes, she thought, that would be best. His mother remembered the toll the boy’s illness had taken on his body—no need to revisit those horrors. She cleared her throat and said, “There’s a young boy here with a round face and dark curls. He came in with you when you entered the shop. He’s all of six years old, maybe seven. He’s missing a front tooth.”
“Billy—” Judith cried, looking around in all directions. “Is it really you?”
Turning to the ghost, Beatrice asked, “Is that your name?”
The boy nodded.
“He’s a fine lad,” Beatrice said. “A real charmer.”
Looming in front of Beatrice, Billy put his face to hers, nose to nose.
“A little too curious for his own good,” Beatrice said, leaning back in her seat. “He’s got a small, crescent-shaped scar on his left cheek. A souvenir from a nasty spill.”
Billy gestured for Beatrice to gaze into his eyes. When she did, she caught a glimpse of a lovely parlour with large windows and flocked wallpaper. “He was playing too close to the edge of the mantel,” she said. “He slipped and fell.”
Judith gasped.
“Good thing the stove wasn’t hot,” Beatrice went on, rubbing her hands together as if to warm them by a fire. “He only suffered a nick, no stitches required. You’d told him a hundred times not to chase the dog through the house. He knows, Ma. He knows.”
“Yes,” Judith said, caught between laughter and tears, “that’s right. I did.”
Sticking his hand inside his coat pocket, Billy brought out a crumpled paper bag.
“What’ve you got there?” Beatrice asked.
“Peanuts,” the boy answered with a grin. Then, holding the sack next to Beatrice’s ear, he shook it and teased, “Get ’em while they’re hot!”
Beatrice’s mouth went dry. Parched with thirst she licked her lips, tasted salt on the tip of her tongue.
Perdu bobbed his head and let out a hungry squawk.
Billy took up the greasy, rumpled bag again, this time holding it out to his mother.
Imitating the boy’s actions, Beatrice said, “He’s clutching a sack of roasted peanuts like a prize and saying ‘Get ’em while they’re hot!’ ”
Judith’s hands went to her face as she began to sob.
Tugging at Beatrice’s
sleeve, Billy begged, “Please tell my ma I’m sorry. I don’t want her to be sad.”
“It’s all right,” Beatrice said attempting to comfort mother and son, “all will be well.”
Billy moved to his mother’s side and placed his hand on her shoulder.
Through her tears, Judith instinctively reached to touch her hand to his.
Moved by the sweetness of their bond, Beatrice felt as if she, too, might cry. Clutching the marble tight in her fist she closed her eyes. In her mind she saw the parlour again, now with a Christmas tree in the window, decorated top to bottom with candles, beads and bows. Underneath the tree sat several toys all bearing tags that read “For Billy”—a hobby horse, a tin soldier, a pair of skates, a wooden puzzle, an India rubber ball. Bells and carols sounded in her ears, heralding a vision of mother and son. Holding hands, the pair twirled in uneven circles like a wobbly wooden top before skittering into a happy heap on the floor.
Judith attempted to recover from her tears. “Please forgive me,” she said, “I didn’t mean to make a fuss.”
“I’m the one who should apologize. I never meant to cause you heartache.”
“You didn’t,” Judith insisted. “You’ve only brought me happiness, I swear it.”
She leaned towards Beatrice. “Every minute of every day since my dear boy’s passing, I’ve tried to imagine what had become of him, and I just couldn’t figure it out. Was he in Heaven? Was he lost? Nothing anyone said has brought me peace. I fretted over Billy after his death more than I did when he was alive. I’ve never felt such worry in my life! It’s weighed on me something fierce…right up to the moment you mentioned those silly peanuts. They were his favourite treat. He used to beg for pennies to give the vendor whenever we visited the park, pulling at my sleeve until I gave in. Bless you, my dear girl! Bless you again and again and again. Bless you and my darling Billy and those wondrous peanuts!”
Beatrice sat trembling, not knowing what to say. The woman was staring at her with such reverence and awe. Looking at the boy, she noticed his form was growing less distinct, his presence waning. “He’s leaving now,” she said. “He’s fading away.”
Judith begged, “Can’t you make him stay?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know how.”
“Quick then,” Judith said, “ask him something for me before he leaves?”
“Of course,” Beatrice replied. “What is it?”
Hand to her heart, Judith asked, “Is he safe?”
Looking to the boy, Beatrice waited for an answer.
With a solemn nod, Billy kissed his finger and crossed his heart.
“Yes,” Beatrice said, “he’s safe.”
May my mind be free from worry, my eyes clear of tears.
May my heart be filled with calm instead of fear.
In times of darkest turmoil, may the light of hope shine bright,
Fuelled by the knowledge that all will soon be right.
Lady Hibiscus.
ELEANOR STOOD ON the balcony of Liberty’s torch waiting for Lucy Newland to arrive. It was Lucy with whom she’d had the affair, whom she’d chased the day before (but never found), who’d left a cryptic note under the door requesting they meet in the park. Yesterday, Lucy had needed to speak with her “soon.” This morning, whatever was on her mind had become “urgent.” Eleanor wished the young woman had given at least some small clue as to what was troubling her.
Holding fast to the railing, Eleanor kept watch on the pathway that led to the base of the popular attraction. Couples were walking arm in arm while nurses pushed baby buggies around the block. Two girls were making a game of bouncing a ball, chanting their progress as they played. “Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four…” When a gangly boy scampered between the pair and interrupted their fun, the girls shouted curses at his back. “May you sprout a dog’s tail! May your papa go to jail! May you step on a crack and break your mama’s back!” Eleanor saw no sign of Lucy. Had she already been here and left? Reading the note again she checked to make certain she’d gotten the place and time correct. Meet me at Lady Liberty’s Torch at eleven a.m. Yes and yes. It was just like Lucy to make her wait.
They’d met in early May when Lucy’s aunt Mrs. Ida Scrope had brought her to the shop. Lucy had been a month away from marrying Cecil Newland, a successful real-estate magnate determined to leave his mark on every square inch of Manhattan. “The poor girl is beside herself with nerves,” Mrs. Scrope had explained. “Have you anything to soothe her jitters?”
Taking a bottle of nerve tonic from the shelf, Eleanor had placed it on the counter in front of the fidgety flaxen-haired bride-to-be. “This should do the trick. Take one teaspoon in the morning, another at noon, and one more before bed—no more, no less. There’s a verse on the back of the bottle designed to give comfort in times of distress. Don’t hesitate to recite it whenever you feel tested.”
The following day, Lucy had returned to the shop, this time without her aunt. With her hands behind her back, she approached the counter.
Fearing the tonic hadn’t agreed with her, Eleanor had asked, “Is there anything else I can assist you with?”
“Yes and yes,” Lucy had replied, giving her a smile. “Would you mind closing your eyes?”
Taken aback, Eleanor had said, “Why would I do that?”
“Indulge me,” Lucy had urged. “You’ll be glad you did.”
Feeling foolish, Eleanor had followed Lucy’s orders. After some shuffling about, Lucy had announced, “All right, Miss St. Clair. You can look.”
A marble mortar and pestle, tied with a bright red bow, sat on the counter. “Is this for me?” Eleanor had asked, cupping the mortar’s beautiful bowl in her hands.
“A token of my appreciation.”
“That’s not necessary,” Eleanor had said, ready to return the gift.
“Yes, it is,” Lucy had insisted.
“Why?” Eleanor had asked.
“Because I woke up this morning feeling more myself than I have my whole life.”
Eleanor had had enough companions over the years (the most notable, a dark-eyed nurse named Florence with a predilection for ether) that she understood when certain cues were being given. A lick of the lips here, a well-timed compliment there, could get the point across nicely, efficiently. Sensing the young beauty’s gesture was meant to test the waters, Eleanor had placed the mortar and pestle front and centre on the shelf and said, “Yes, it does seem to agree with you.”
Two days later, Lucy had paid Eleanor another visit, this time with an errand boy trailing close behind carrying a large rosemary plant in a pretty brass pot. After Lucy had paid the boy for his help, she’d turned to Eleanor and asked, “Care to take a stroll with me through the park after you close shop? It’s a lovely evening and it would be a shame not to take advantage of it. Please say you’ll come.”
The invitation had made Eleanor feel as if she was being courted, and she’d quite liked it. Her other affairs had been more accidental in nature—brief, enjoyable encounters that had filled a need. She’d never been the sort to seek out opportunities for love or lust. She’d thought herself to be more like Princess Odoline, happy to reject romantic overtures in favour of keeping company with books. Her mother had been right. Women were complicated creatures. Still, if Lucy, with her confident gaze and winning smile, insisted upon pursuing her, she wasn’t going to turn her away. Impending nuptials be damned, it was spring.
They’d stopped for ice cream (Lucy’s treat), then strolled along the garden paths until it was near dark, eventually finding their way to the top of the torch. The structure itself was a wonder to behold, a magnificent marriage of glass and copper metalwork. Lucy, with the last rays of the day’s sunlight shining on her rosy cheeks, had leaned into Eleanor and said, “You’re not like anyone I’ve ever known. Will you dine with me tonight?” Then she’d dared to caress Eleanor’s hand. “My parents have gone to Boston, and except for the cook and maid, I’m quite alone in the house.
”
“Yes,” Eleanor had replied, “I’d like that.”
Eleanor hadn’t planned on keeping the affair from Adelaide, but when things with Lucy had felt tantalizing and fresh, she’d chosen to follow her lover’s lead and not say a word. The last thing she’d wanted was to unleash the barrage of questions Adelaide would be sure to heap upon her. Adelaide had always been quite free in her talk of her own exploits, but Eleanor had found it easier to play the stoic than confess to things she wasn’t sure Adelaide would understand.
In a moment of weakness on their last night together before Lucy’s wedding, she’d turned to her lover and asked, “Why didn’t you choose to lie with your future husband instead?”
“Why would I? It’s my last chance to make him wait.”
Eleanor had hoped Lucy might make him wait forever.
On the sixth of June, as Lucy was becoming Mrs. Newland in an orange-blossom-bedecked affair at Trinity Church, Eleanor had stood near the shop window for much of the day, half expecting her to come running through the door.
“What’s the matter with you?” Adelaide had asked. “Who are you waiting for?”
The day slipped by without a word from Lucy. A week passed and the only news Eleanor received was by way of a wedding announcement torn from the society page and delivered by Ida Scrope. “It was an astounding success!” she had reported. “Not a petal or pearl out of place. Whatever magic you performed on behalf of our dear Lucy, it certainly worked.”
After reading the glowing account of bouquets, topiaries, tulle and lace, Eleanor had crumpled the paper in her hands and sighed. The dashing groom and his radiant bride will be touring Europe for the summer. They intend to welcome visitors to their Manhattan residence in September. Tossing it into the fire, she’d thought, Lucy’s made her choice.
—
In August the bride had reappeared, once more seeking Eleanor’s help. “I need something to keep my womb clear,” she’d said, nervously turning her wedding ring around her finger. “I’ve run out of the regulating powders I purchased while abroad.” She’d offered Eleanor no apology, expressed no regrets, shown no sign of being a reluctant wife other than not wanting to be a mother.
