Anyone but Ivy Pocket

by Caleb Krisp

  My first breakfast at Butterfield Park was heartbreaking. Not a pancake or potato in sight. Lady Elizabeth suggested I would be more comfortable eating in the kitchen with the help. I told her I was completely comfortable eating in the dining room with the aristocrats. She nearly choked on her boiled egg.

  The morning passed swiftly. I received a letter from Miss Always. Terribly depressing. While her mother was feeling better, her family’s cottage was small and crowded. It was impossible for her to get any writing done. And the changes to her manuscript were due at the publisher in less than a month. Her most cherished dream was of was a quiet country house where she could write in peace. But alas, she hadn’t the money to let one. Oh, Ivy, she wrote, whatever will I do?

  Poor, wretched Miss Always!

  I went out for a walk in the meadow. Tried my best to think happy thoughts. Only four days until Matilda’s birthday ball. Soon I would begin my new life. I wasn’t about to let a silly nightmare spoil my sunny future. And that was all it had been. Just a dream. I felt guilty for wearing the necklace and breaking my promise to the Duchess, so I had conjured her up in my sleep. Put a lot of gibberish about the stone in her mouth. That I mustn’t be tempted by what it had to show me. That it would bring me suffering. Stuff and nonsense!

  I wandered back towards the house and found Rebecca sitting in the conservatory, working on her book report. She glanced up when I entered, a curious look in her eyes. “Did she scare you?” she asked.

  I gasped. How did she know about the ghost?

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” I said brightly.

  Rebecca closed her book. “I don’t believe you,” she said. “I heard Miss Frost warning you about the diamond.”

  Oh, Miss Frost. The gloomy governess. I felt a wave of relief. “Well, yes,” I said, “perhaps she did bother me a little. She seemed rather fixated on it.”

  “I don’t think she likes you,” said Rebecca.

  “Miss Frost is a terrible governess,” I said, in my most disapproving voice. “Why would Lady Amelia employ an American? Strict, humorless, fat, lonely, and British. That’s what a governess should be!”

  “Our last governess was from Wales,” said Rebecca softly. “Miss Rochester. She was lovely.”

  “What a coincidence,” I said, falling into an armchair. “My last governess was also a Miss Rochester. Jolly good sport, she was. Only one arm, but a gifted knitter.”

  Rebecca looked baffled. “Is that true, Ivy?”

  “I certainly hope so. But back to your Miss Rochester—where did she go? Did she marry? The good ones always do.”

  Rebecca shook her head. “She vanished.”

  “Vanished?” Suddenly I was very interested. “What do you mean, dear?”

  “We woke up last Friday, and she was gone,” said Rebecca, her voice ripe with sadness. “No note. No forwarding address. No explanation.”

  “Goodness,” I said. “How deliciously mysterious! My godfather vanished once. In a puff of smoke. Didn’t reappear until the following spring.”

  Rebecca was silent. Her fingers knotted together. Her gaze far away.

  “And you have heard nothing from Miss Rochester since?” I asked.

  “Not a word,” she said. “She lived with us for two years. That’s more than seven hundred days. Seventeen thousand five hundred and twenty hours. Then she was gone.” She looked at me. “People do that, don’t they?”

  “Vanish?” I asked.

  “Run out of time,” she whispered.

  The poor girl was positively bonkers. Who could keep track of all those silly numbers? I did my best to get back to the matter at hand. There was a puzzle here. I could feel it. “So Miss Rochester vanished last Friday?”

  Rebecca nodded somberly.

  I frowned. “How on earth did you find a new governess so quickly?”

  “Aunt Amelia met Miss Frost on a train the very day Miss Rochester vanished,” answered Rebecca. “Turns out Miss Frost had come all the way from America to take up a position with a family in London. But they had to sail for Australia all of a sudden. Miss Frost was reading Aunt Amelia’s novel—that’s what got them talking.”

  “Lady Amelia wrote a novel?” I said.

  “Summer Tempest. Nobody bought it—well, apart from Miss Frost. Anyway, they started talking, and by the time the train reached London, Aunt Amelia had hired Miss Frost to be our new governess.”

  “How lucky for Miss Frost,” I said, my mind spinning with dark thoughts about the vanished Miss Rochester. “It must have been the hand of fate.”

  Rebecca shook her head. “I’m not so sure.”

  After lunch that same day, I decided to spend a few hours in the library reading Lady Amelia’s book. I was on my way there when a maid came rushing out of the morning room carrying a bowl of water, a damp cloth, and a grimace—she looked on the verge of tears. The tormented creature explained that Lady Elizabeth was having one of her headaches. As such, she was making everybody’s life a misery.

  Naturally, I knew just what to do. I picked up a basket from the kitchen and set off toward the garden.

  With my supplies gathered, I found Lady Elizabeth in the morning room, resplendent in a black silk gown. She was lying on a sofa with the cat. Her withered head was propped up by a pillow. She was muttering about her life of suffering.

  “You look terrible,” I said brightly, setting the basket on the table. “Do you get headaches often?”

  “Constantly,” she snapped. “My suffering is monstrous. The future weighs heavily upon me. Thank heavens for Matilda. Without her, I would give in to complete despair.”

  “What about Rebecca?” I said firmly. “She is your granddaughter too.”

  Lady Elizabeth huffed. “That girl is as deluded as she is bumbling! No, Matilda is the future of Butterfield Park.” The old bat thrust a bony finger into the air. “She will be my legacy!”

  “I think you should worry less about your legacy and more about your nose.” I wiped Lady Elizabeth’s dripping nose with my handkerchief. “Big blow, dear—get it all out.”

  The old woman slapped my hand away and gasped. “How dare you!”

  I looked into her fierce eyes and suddenly felt a wave of pity for her. It must be monstrous, being so old and so unhappy. “Lady Elizabeth, there is no great crime in being a dried-up bag of wrinkles. Although it may be kinder to drag you outside and shoot you.”

  Walnut Head gasped, and the cat leaped from her lap. “Help! Somebody help!”

  “But I believe it is the headaches that are making you such a miserable old bat.” I climbed onto the sofa, kneeling beside the old woman. “Luckily, I have an excellent remedy. I have a gift for such things.”

  I dipped my handkerchief into a cup of beef tea and began blotting Lady Elizabeth’s forehead with it.

  “What are you doing?” she barked.

  “Be a dear and shut your cake hole.” I took an onion sliced in two from the basket. “Now for best results, I normally require a butter knife and a corkscrew—but we will make do with what we have.” I held out the halved onion. “Take half in each hand.”

  “What for?” she barked. “Get off this sofa!”

  “For once in your life, do as you’re told.”

  With a huff, she took them. I grabbed her hands, pressing the flesh of the onion against her skin. “This will ease pain in the temples.”

  “Claptrap!”

  I picked a stalk of lavender from the basket, broke off the flower, cut it into two pieces, then wedged them into the old woman’s nostrils. Then I began to massage Lady Elizabeth’s forehead with small circular motions. At regular intervals, I told her to breathe the lavender in deeply. And from time to time, I blew gently on her face.

  In a minute or two, five at the most, Walnut Head was quiet. Her breathing slow and even. I pulled the sprigs of lavender from her nose and took the halved onion from her hands.

  “Job well done,” I said.

  “Claptrap,” she
said faintly.

  Then Walnut Head drifted off to sleep.

  Summer Tempest was a terrible book. Frightfully bad. Full of breathless maidens trapped by dark secrets and hideous villains obsessed with revenge. In short, I loved it!

  The library at Butterfield Park was a two-story wonderland—just the place to spend the hour before afternoon tea. I had come to find Lady Amelia’s book, which took pride of place in a glass cabinet by the spiral staircase. Then I settled down in Lady Elizabeth’s chair by the window. The view of the rose garden—shimmering in the soft light—was so splendid, I was torn between reading Lady Amelia’s book and admiring the tapestry of red and white flowers outside.

  A warm glow washed over me. I wasn’t tired. I never got tired. I have the energy of a large rabbit. Or at the very least, a field mouse. But I hadn’t slept at all well last night. That silly dream. I didn’t drift off to sleep. Just dozed.

  The murmur of voices roused me. Whispers. Echoing through the vaulted library. I opened my eyes. Peered around the side of the chair. Miss Frost and Rebecca were standing up on the library’s first-floor landing. They were deep in conversation. Voices low. Rebecca looked distressed. It seemed as if Miss Frost was doing all of the talking. Remarkably, I could hear practically every word. It was as if I could hear a pin drop.

  “I don’t believe you!” Rebecca’s voice shattered the quiet.

  “Shhh!” was Miss Frost’s reply.

  What on earth were they discussing? Miss Frost slipped something into Rebecca’s hand. A book. It was red. Small. Rebecca didn’t want it. Shook her head. Miss Frost pushed it at her. Her manner was most insistent.

  “Read it,” she ordered. “It will explain a great deal.”

  “What you’re saying isn’t true,” said Rebecca. “It can’t be!”

  “And yet it is.” Miss Frost sounded tired. “I will endeavor to bring you more proof, but there isn’t much time. The matter is urgent. Believe me, I wouldn’t involve you if I didn’t have to. She must be watched, and I cannot keep an eye on her day and night. As such, I need your help. I need it and I will have it.”

  Rebecca began to cry. “How . . . how could she not know? It’s impossible.”

  “Tears will not alter the facts.” Miss Frost grabbed Rebecca’s chin. Her voice was cold. “Read the book. Do as I ask. If you don’t, this house will see a great deal of suffering. I promise you that.”

  Rebecca’s head dropped in apparent surrender. She took the book, then rushed down the spiral stairs and fled. Poor creature!

  Miss Frost seemed to struggle for breath. She shuddered. Reached out and grabbed the iron railing. Then she straightened herself up. Patted her red hair. Came quickly down the spiral stairs. She was clearly in a hurry and was almost at the threshold of the library when she stopped and looked back, her eyes hungry. I edged behind the chair. Held my breath.

  “Hello?” Miss Frost’s voice was urgent. “Is someone there?”

  How slowly the seconds passed! I could no longer see her. Had no idea if she was roaming the library or standing still. I prayed. Yes, prayed. I don’t know why I feared Miss Frost so completely at that moment. But I did.

  All was quiet. Then, the rustling of a skirt. Then silence again. I dared to peek around the side of the chair.

  The doorway was empty.

  Miss Frost had gone.

  8

  “You really liked it?”

  “Liked it? Loved it, dear. Summer Tempest should be required reading in every finishing school. Young ladies must be warned about the dangers of accidentally marrying a villainous cheese maker. I still have a few chapters to go, but so far it’s a triumph. A monstrous triumph!”

  Lady Amelia clapped her hands (not unlike a seal). “Oh, Ivy, I am pleased!”

  After the curious incident in the library, I had searched the house for Rebecca but found no sign of her. I had hoped she would be at afternoon tea in the rose garden. She was not. But the delicate sandwiches, fresh pastries, and vanilla cheesecake were delicious. Old Walnut Head was seated in the arbor, the cat curled up on her lap. Fortunately, she was asleep.

  “The critics were rather unkind,” said Lady Amelia meekly. “I fear they didn’t appreciate my little tale.”

  “Writing a book is a fine achievement,” I said, taking another slice of cheesecake. “Who cares if it is terrifically bad?”

  Lady Amelia paled slightly. Indigestion, I expect. Fortunately, Matilda was on hand to take her mind off it. She spent the next half hour complaining that she had to wait four whole days until her birthday ball. She felt it a grave injustice. I pointed out that there were children in the world who had never had a birthday party in their lives and that she was a hideous ingrate. Matilda responded by suggesting I drown myself in a bucket. Which was most unhelpful.

  “Luckily, I have enjoyed some wondrous birthdays,” I said, taking a sip of tea. “One year my parents rented a theater in New York and had a troupe of Romanian puppeteers reenact the most thrilling episodes from my life—my heart-stopping dual with a double-crossing juggler was a high point. Another year, we traveled across India in a hot air balloon. Took hours. We landed on a mountain somewhere southeast of whatsit. Delightful village—populated entirely by panda bears. Wonderfully friendly, but terrible cooks.”

  The whole family was staring at me (except for Lady Elizabeth, who was still fast asleep). “Nothing you say is true, Pocket,” sneered Matilda, “not one word of it. You’re even crazier than Rebecca.”

  “I do love a birthday ball,” said Lady Amelia dreamily. “Although masquerade balls are my favorite. I wanted Matilda to have one, but she says her face is far too pretty to hide behind a mask. Ivy, I hope our little party compares well to some of the others you have been to.”

  “She’s not invited!” barked Matilda.

  “I know you two are not great friends,” said Lady Amelia, looking hopefully at her daughter. “But as Ivy will be there to present your special gift, she simply must come as your guest.”

  Adorable creature!

  Matilda looked violently unhappy. Which was delightful. It seemed the perfect time to gloat shamelessly. And I would have, but for two things. The first was that Lady Elizabeth woke up with a start. The second was that Miss Frost came across the lawn from the schoolhouse to collect Matilda for her French lesson.

  “If I could have a brief word, Lady Amelia,” said Miss Frost. “It is about the birthday ball. I assume Matilda is to give a speech?”

  “Only if she wishes to,” said Lady Amelia. “Matilda isn’t terribly fond of—”

  “Of course she will give a speech,” said Lady Elizabeth, interrupting gruffly. “It is a Butterfield tradition.”

  Miss Frost frowned. “The trouble is . . .”

  Lady Elizabeth slapped her bony hand on her knee. “What is the trouble? Matilda, is there a problem I should know about?”

  Matilda stole a glance at her grandmother, but said nothing.

  “Only this, Lady Elizabeth,” said Miss Frost. “I have assisted as much as I can. Matilda needs help. Professional help.”

  “To write a birthday speech?” huffed Lady Elizabeth. “Bunkum!”

  “Oh, dear,” said Lady Amelia. “Perhaps I could help her. After all, my book—”

  “I’ve read shopping lists with more flare than your ghastly book!” snapped Lady Elizabeth.

  Poor Lady Amelia looked crestfallen!

  “Matilda doesn’t want to disappoint anyone,” said Miss Frost with a sigh. “She is a Butterfield, after all, and the whole county will be at the ball.” She sighed again, rather loudly. “If only there was someone who could help.”

  Then it hit me. The most wonderful idea!

  “I think I may have just the answer,” I announced.

  “Heaven help us!” barked Lady Elizabeth.

  “My dear friend, Miss Geraldine Always, is in desperate need of a quiet place to work on her new book, and she would be a great help to Matilda,” I said, smiling winningly. “I
shall write to her this very morning and invite her to stay. It’s a perfect solution, don’t you agree?’

  Lady Elizabeth glared at me. “You think it is your place to invite guests to my home?”

  I nodded. “Just the one, dear.”

  “Miss Pocket, the fact that you are a guest at Butterfield Park gives me constant heartburn. If you think I would welcome another ghastly interloper, you are even more deluded than I thought.”

  Which wasn’t very nice. I put this down to the fact that Lady Elizabeth was shockingly old. And slightly evil. Amazingly, Miss Frost saved the day.

  “I think it is an excellent idea,” she declared.

  “Miss Always is terribly plain, but very gifted, Lady Elizabeth,” I said. “She could help Matilda craft a brilliant speech—thrilling, funny, moving. One that would have the whole county talking.” I took a large bite of cheesecake (I felt I had earned it). “And in her spare time, Miss Always could work on her book.”

  “Not the worst idea I ever heard,” muttered the old woman. “A compelling speech would honor the Butterfield name.” She nodded her shriveled head. “Yes, I like it.”

  Lady Amelia looked thrilled. “Well done, Ivy!”

  “The ball is in four days,” said Miss Frost. “We haven’t much time.”

  “Time enough,” I declared. “I will write to Miss Always at once—the letter should reach her by nightfall. I will explain everything and beg Miss Always to come immediately.”

  And with that, the matter was settled.

  With the letter written and sent, I wandered down to the schoolhouse, looking for Rebecca. I wanted to lure her away and speak with her about Miss Frost before dinner. Their whispered conversation in the library would not leave my mind. Something was afoot. I found the schoolhouse empty—apparently Miss Frost had dragged her pupils out to the orchard to teach them about insects. I looked about. The blackboard was covered in Miss Frost’s ornate handwriting. Some nonsense about the cycles of the moon.

  I sat down at one of the desks and drummed my fingers in a dainty fashion. Matilda’s sketchbook was open before me, containing a woeful drawing of a bower bird. Waiting is a nasty business. Glancing out the window, I spotted an old man—a gardener, no doubt—bending over a rosebush with a pair of clippers in his hand. He had white hair. A tatty straw hat. Whiskers that went on for miles. I picked up a pencil and begin to draw him. Surely I could surpass Matilda’s pitiful effort! I became so engrossed in the sketch that I didn’t even hear Miss Frost return to the schoolhouse.