My interest quite heightened, I assure you.
“A wedding, of all things, here?”
It has to be Cecily, it has to be, I have got it right, yes!
As inwardly I rejoiced, the speaker went on, “What an odd—”
“One must not ask questions,” someone shushed her. “The baron has promised a great deal, not just funds but favours of all sorts.”
Including, I supposed, “treats” such as the visit to “his” house.
“The attic room’s not yet ready,” continued the complainer, “and there’s all the flowers to be got in.”
“Come along, then, we’re wasting time.”
I heard them leaving.
“The girl will turn up.”
“God forgive me, I quite hope she doesn’t.” I recognised the voice of the matron who had evaluated me saying, as they went out the door, “She’s a terribly repulsive ragamuffin, not at all the sort of thing one would wish the baron to encounter here.”
Oh ho, I thought, my nerves steadied by a moment of amusement. Little does she know.
CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH
IN MY NEST ATOP THE PIPE-ORGAN I ACTUALLY napped, with my belly full of bread and nothing to do but stay where I was until waifs, strays (what was the difference between a waif and a stray, I wondered), and bell-headed matrons had retired for the night.
Evening prayers awoke me—indeed, nearly deafened me even though I plugged my ears with my fingers; my entire personage vibrated. The experience shook me in more ways than one, for I heard the organist remark on her way out that there was something odd and muffled about the tone of the instrument. I lay quite still for an hour or more afterward, but as nothing came of it, my ears stopped ringing, and all seemed quiet, finally and cautiously I climbed down—feeling my way in utter darkness.
First, however, I stripped off my rags, leaving them atop the organ. Underneath them, having planned as thoroughly as possible, I wore a simple muslin frock. The bundle of orphanage clothes I carried with me as I shuffled and groped towards the altar in order to light some candles.
I must admit that, even though I am a free-thinker and a rationalist, I felt quite queer helping myself to the holy tapers in this fashion. And, after I had provided light, I felt even more discomfited as I washed myself with the water in the baptismal font. There is something intimidating about a shadowy chapel at night, and once I had tidied my hair into a simple bun and removed every possible vestige of “waif” from my appearance, I felt quite eager to go elsewhere.
Specifically, I wanted to find the attic room that was being got ready for the baron.
I reasoned that Lady Cecily Alistair would be brought to this orphanage quietly, by boat, perhaps before dawn, for the unfortunate girl was to be married to the toad-like Bramwell Merganser under duress, and therefore in secrecy. Usually, a bride-to-be of the upper classes would be coached to the church in her wedding-gown; perhaps they might dress up the stable-boy—but no, any show of wedding finery would surely excite comment and inquiry. Baron and Baroness Merganser needed to complete their unsavoury deed and have it a fait accompli before any boasting could ensue.
Yet I could not conceive of such a proud pair for-going all of the usual marital pomp. You will need a trousseau, and a trousseau you shall have…poor Cecily. Surely Aquilla and Otelia would force her to dress the part of a blushing bride.
Premise: They will require her to wear a wedding-gown.
Premise: Circumspection requires that they will not bring her to the orphanage actually wearing the gown.
Conclusion: They will put the gown on her in situ.
Hence the attic room; for what other purpose could it be needed? Presumably all other chambers in the place were occupied by waifs—or strays—whichever—and a bride requires a certain privacy.
Especially when it is not her idea to be a bride.
Tomorrow morning, when Cecily Alistair was brought in to be all dressed in white, I quite wanted to be there, hidden and waiting.
Slipping out of the chapel door, I found hallways dimly lit by gas turned to its lowest flame, and in the near distance I heard the creaking tread of a matron, then her murmur as she accosted a wayward child: “What are you doing out of bed?”
Oh, dear. It seemed that an orphanage never truly slept. How fortunate that, outwitting brother Mycroft last summer, I had become quite adept at walking silently upon stocking feet. As quickly and silently as I could, I crept away from the matron, located a stairway, ascended it to the first storey, then the second, then, eureka! In darkness I climbed a final narrow stairway to what must be the attic door.
Locked, of course.
But only with a simple, old-fashioned latch, the sort I knew how to pick. I did so, opened the door, stepped inside, closed the door silently behind me, then with a sense of triumph I lit a candle I had brought with me from the chapel. Raising it, I saw—
Steamer-trunks, an empty birdcage, broken rocking-horses, and the like, with dust enshrouding everything.
For a horrible, sinking moment I could not understand what dreadful mistake I had made. This was not the first time my reasoning had been wrong, wrong, wrong. I was after all only a stupid girl, unfit to—
Nonsense, Enola. Think.
I thought, and realised that such a large building would have more than one attic. I must try again, that was all.
And so I did, and eventually succeeded. I will spare the gentle reader any account of the ensuing several hours and near-encounters except to say that finally, just at dawn and with huge relief, I found myself in what was obviously the right place: an attic room cleared, cleaned, scrubbed, shined. With a dressing-table, a standing mirror, and some chairs.
And with quite an imposing ghostly white presence hanging from a rafter to puddle on the floor.
White on white. Draped in a sheet to keep it clean, this looming spectre was the wedding-gown, a titanic one, its crystal-beaded lace train trailing a good nine feet.
Close by hung a similarly beaded, elaborate head-piece with yards of cloudy white veil.
And near at hand stood the most peculiar pair of white shoes—slippers, rather, their fine leather uppers daintily shaped, but with soles like the clogs gentlewomen sometimes wore to elevate themselves above the muck of the street. Yet even taller. Soles that would put the wearer at least ten inches above the ground. Wearing those shoes would be like trying to walk on stilts.
It took me a moment to comprehend: how wickedly clever! A way to hobble the bride without letting it show, and at the same time to make her look older, taller, and more splendid in the expensive gown.
Poor little Lady Cecily, who wanted only to read, draw, think, and do some good in the world, to spend her life at the dubious mercy of Viscountess Otelia and Baroness Aquilla?
“Harpies,” I muttered. “Vipers. They must be defeated.” My unlucky lady must be saved.
But first I must find a place to hide until it was time.
And this necessity, which I had considered would be the least of my worries, turned out to be most troublesome. I blew out my candle and, after it was cool, secreted it in my pocket; would that my long and lanky personage could so easily be concealed! By the dawn light streaming in through dormer windows I looked high and low, but there was simply no cover to be found in that bare attic. No sofa behind which to crawl, no wardrobe or other bulky furniture, no concealing draperies, not even a cloth skirt upon the table.
And as I stood there, in plain sight, I heard footsteps ascending the attic stairs.
Ye gods! Now what?
Only one possibility presented itself, which I acknowledged with the greatest reluctance, for it caused in me a revulsion of feeling even worse than that which had afflicted me whilst appropriating altar candles and baptismal water. Why so I cannot say, for I love beautiful clothing, and the gown was exquisite—princess seaming, puffed sleeves, gleaming silk overlaid with dainty lace, as I saw when I forced myself to lift the sheet and look. Yet the sight of all
that white appalled me. I hesitated until I heard someone actually at the door before I took a deep breath, steeled myself as if entering the sea from a bathing machine, and dived under the heavily beaded hem to stand up within the hanging gown. Dangling my bundle within the fullness of its gored skirt, I placed my feet so that its train would hide them. As I then stood quite still, it settled around me naturally enough.
Or so I hoped.
I heard multiple footsteps; several persons were entering the room. I heard a leaden sort of thump or thud, and then a matriarchal voice said icily, “Very well, Jenkins, I think she is unlikely to cause any mischief here. You may remove the restraint from her mouth.”
The—the harridans, the hags, the—no appellation seemed forceful enough—the viragoes had gagged her? Wanting a look at Lady Cecily, some indication of how she was bearing up, I peeped through a placket near the wedding-gown’s waist, but without much success. In a fragmentary manner I saw:
A lopsided derriere much draped in mauve and cream. That would be Viscountess Otelia.
Just as elaborately clad in dove-grey silk not an inch of which went unadorned, another figure quite similar to the first: the charming Aquilla.
A simple flowered skirt with the tails of white lace apron-ties hanging down: a chambermaid in her morning dress.
All three of them turned towards a fourth person who had apparently flung herself into a chair on the other side of the room, as far as possible from the gown in which I hid. Of this individual I could see only a bit of citrine: the same awful bell skirt they had put on Cecily when I had first seen her in the Ladies’ Lavatory.
I felt a pang both of pity and of triumph: my little left-handed lady had more spirit than Sherlock Holmes would have credited. Obviously she had not ceased resisting.
It was Aquilla (ruched, ruffled, pleated, poufed, flounced, fringed, beaded, beribboned, bedecked beyond description) who had spoken, and now continued, “Do the best you can with her, Jenkins. We must see to the altar flowers. You,” to the lump of citrine rebellion in the chair, “put a better face on, or there will be hobbles for you as well as the shoes, and no dinner afterward; you will watch the rest of us enjoy your wedding feast. Come, Otelia. We will return shortly.” She said this over her shoulder to Jenkins as the two of them rustled silkily out the door.
As soon as they moved, I could at last see Cecily fully. With her head down she slumped in her chair like a comma, despair written in every line of her personage. Although she looked not much thinner than when I had last seen her—they could not, after all, starve her entirely, lest she die—still she seemed in some less tangible way diminished. Her face more frail and elfin, her eyes more shadowed. Seeing her thus, I bit my lip in consternation, for what if she no longer had the necessary strength?
“Now, Miss Cecily,” coaxed the maid, Jenkins, “sometimes a body’s got to just make the best of what’ll be better when it’s over. Now, just think how pretty you’re going to look, all done up in orange blossoms and myrtle, with the sweetest wee grosgrain ribbons—did you see the dear, dear ribbons Lady Aquilla got for your bouquet?” Crossing the room, the maid picked up a large bandbox someone had left on the floor inside the door, placed it on a chair, lifted its lid, and bent over it to search its contents.
Her attention fully diverted.
My chance.
From one of my pockets I drew a certain peculiar pink fan. Then, from inside the wedding-gown I opened the placket and poked my head out, holding the fan to my chin as a signal, so that Lady Cecily would be sure to recognise me and understand what I was about.
If only she looked up!
She did. My movements caused her to lift her head and stare at me. I felt once again that sense of electric shock when our gazes met and locked—shock especially keen, I am sure, on her part, under the circumstances; her great, dark eyes widened enormously.
Pointing to the oblivious servant, I silently mouthed the words, “Send her away.”
How Cecily was to do this when the servant was under strict orders to stay with her, I had no idea. But as it turned out, she accomplished the task with marvellous efficiency even as I drew my head back into the snowy concealment of the gown; she simply slid from her chair with a thump to sprawl on the floor in what appeared to be a faint.
“Miss Cecily?” I heard the maid inquire, and then, punctuated by sounds of movement, a series of panicky cries. “Miss Cecily! Miss Cecily, wake up! Oh, my goodness! Smelling-salts! A doctor! Help!” The good Jenkins fled the room.
The instant I heard her exit, I darted out—rather like a partridge breaking cover—I burst from under the wedding-gown and across the room to close the door and turn the key in the lock even as the maid’s frantic feet thumped down the attic stairs.
“There!” I whispered, feeling quite a triumphant grin on my face as I turned to Cecily.
She still lay motionless on the floor.
Heavens, it wasn’t just a clever ploy. She had truly fainted.
What if I could not revive her?
CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH
BUT AS I KNELT BESIDE HER, CECILY GAVE A LITTLE sigh, blinked, opened her eyes, and as her gaze fixed on my face, joyous amazement dawned. With greatest wonder she whispered, “Enola?”
How strangely it affected me to hear her say my true name in that way. Gripped by emotion, I could neither move nor speak.
“Enola?” Her hands faltered towards me. “You, again, can it be?”
“Shhh.” Her touch made me want to weep, but I quite needed to function. Forcing myself into action, I fumbled in my pockets for the strengthening candies I always carried with me, unwrapping one and giving it to her. She placed it in her mouth and, galvanised, I think, more by my presence than by sugar, sat up—to find me pulling off her shoes. “We are going to disguise you,” I told her softly but with clear emphasis, “so that you can escape. Agreed?”
“Agreed? By all means, my mysterious friend!” Springing to her feet, Cecily began to claw at her diabolical skirt to get it off. The confounded thing fastened in back, of course, as did her blouse; one of the requisites of upper-class clothing is that one should not be able to dress oneself without the assistance of a servant. After I had torn open her buttons, she sloughed off her outer garments, letting them puddle on the floor as I ran for the bundle I had left beneath the bridal-gown.
The bundle of garments, including a coarse leather pair of boots, that had been offered to “Peggy” the afternoon before. “We are going to make an orphan of you.”
“Indeed, I might as well be one!” Still, Cecily’s thin face lit up when she saw the things—she did not look nearly so much like Alice in Wonderland when she was glad—and she snatched at them.
As I, also, was in a tremendous hurry to undo the bundle and get the garments onto her, it became exceedingly difficult to accomplish simple tasks; Cecily and I kept getting in each other’s way. Moreover, I had things to tell her. “You remember Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”
Joyously she responded, “Your brother!”
“Heavens!” She took my breath away. “I hope you have not told anyone?”
“Of course not. Did you tell anyone about my charcoal drawings?”
The question was rhetorical; she knew I had not. Trying to hide my smile, I hurried on. “Your mother has retained Mr. Holmes on your behalf. She has gone to stay with her family in the country. He will take you to her. Confound these stockings!”
It seemed to be taking an eternity for us to dress her in the brown smock and brown gingham pinafore, thick zebra-striped stockings, and sensible (ugly) boots. But in actuality it must have been only a very few minutes, for no one had yet returned as I tried to tuck her hair under her white ruffled cap.
Long, glossy, thick, slithery hair, it kept getting away from me.
“This will not do,” I whispered, growing a bit wrought, aware of moments ticking away. “How are you going to pass as an orphan with such accursedly lovely hair?”
“Just cut it off
!”
“We haven’t the time!” Yet I grabbed scissors out of the bandbox—small things meant for snipping ribbon, they would have to do—and started hacking off her shining locks at the level of her ears.
No sooner had I begun than we both heard foot-steps pounding towards us up the attic stairs. Cecily startled like a deer.
“Hold still!”
Rigid, she did so, but started to say, “Enola, thank you for—”
“Shhh. Make no sound,” I whispered, frantically cutting off long tresses of hair and stowing them in my pockets for lack of any other place to hide them.
Someone, probably Jenkins, tried the door-knob, then cried, “It’s locked!”
Yet, as is the case with most people, she continued to agitate the knob as if somehow she could thus release the bolt.
“Get out of my way,” commanded either the baroness or the viscountess—they both sounded the same. “You nitwit, she tricked you.” A series of thumps ensued as if someone had actually pushed the unfortunate Jenkins down the stairs! At the same time the fierce voice exhorted, “Cecily!”
That shout made the girl flinch; I felt her jump. “Shhh,” I whispered, still snipping my way from one ear around the back of her neck to the other. “Pull your front hair down over your face.”
As she did so, the knob rattled anew. “Cecily, open this door and let us in,” shrieked one of the sisters.
“Open up at once!” screeched the other.
They continued thus in counterpoint. “Cecily! Ungrateful brat!”
“Open this door or I will punish you severely!”
Et cetera.
After a brief time, however, the tenor of their tune changed. “There must be another key,” one of them declared. “Jenkins, go find it!”
Oh, dear.
But I was nearly ready. “There,” I whispered, scissoring a thick swath across Cecily’s forehead. “Finished.” Once more I popped the cap on her head, and a dear little orphan she made indeed, standing a foot shorter than I, in overlarge shoes and clothing too big for her, as if she were expected to grow into it. Her shorn hair, especially the thatch hiding her forehead, made her nearly unrecognisable as Cecily Alistair. “Splendid!”
The Case of the Peculiar Pink Fan Page 10
