She could not answer my smile; her huge eyes remained terrified as they fixed on me for salvation. “But, Enola, now what? How—”
How, indeed, to effect her escape with the enemy’s voices clamouring directly outside the attic?
“Bring men to knock the door down!” shrilled an aunt.
“And be quick!” screeched the other.
“Yes, my lady. Yes, my lady.” Jenkins’s voice faded below.
Cecily bit her lip as if to keep from sobbing.
“Trust me,” I told her, scooting over to where the wedding-gown hung. Ripping off its sheet as I snatched it down off its hanger, I plopped it onto myself.
I would not have thought it possible for Cecily’s eyes to stretch any farther. But widen yet more they did, and her rosebud mouth formed an O.
“To give you time,” I whispered. “Here.” Burrowing under the gown to the pocket of my muslin dress, I found the pink paper fan, on which I had pencilled as a contingency, lest all else fail:
I instructed Lady Cecily, “Hide behind the door. When they have all come in, slip out. Go to the gate, show this”—I handed her the fan—“and Mr. Holmes, or one of his friends, should be waiting for you.”
Meanwhile, footsteps pounded up the attic stairs again. “Here’s an extra key, my lady,” cried a shaky voice outside.
There was no time to fasten the myriad pearl buttons running up the wedding gown’s back. I had just a moment to seize the headdress and plop it into place on myself, covering my face with layers of cloudy veil, as I threw myself into the chair in which Cecily had been sitting.
The key snicked in the lock.
So long as I slouched in the chair, mostly buried in mounds of wedding-gown, they would not see how tall I was, their suspicions would not be aroused—so I hoped, as I hid my stocking feet under yards of white skirt and my hands in my lap, pinning folds of veil between my fingers.
“Cecily!” stormed two harridan voices in unison as the door slammed open. Then, similarly in chorus but quite changed in tone, “Cecily?”
Through my milky thickness of veil I could not make out their expressions, the two dowagers and the cowed servant, as they walked in and formed a semi-circle, staring at me.
“She’s put her gown on,” one of them said in wondering tones.
I could only dimly see them—and behind them, a little orphan girl tiptoeing out of the room to slip down the stairs. In order to keep attention firmly upon myself whilst Cecily made her escape, I began to rock my upper body to and fro in an interestingly demented manner.
“Cecily, stop it.”
“Why have you put your dress on by yourself? You’ve got it all crooked. Stand up.”
Instead, I feigned a sort of spasm.
“Stop that grotesque twitching, Cecily! What’s the matter with you? Let me see you.” One of them tried to lift my veil.
She could not, of course, as I was holding it down. I tried to assess how far the real Cecily might have got by now. Downstairs, surely, and possibly out the door, crossing the yard?
“Cecily! Let go of that veil!” One of the sisters tried to wrest it from me.
“Don’t, Otelia, you’ll tear it, and that’s the finest tulle in London!”
“You make her let go, then!”
“Cecily!” Aquilla grasped me bruisingly by both upper arms. “Do as she says.”
Instead, I began to thrash in a truly pitiful manner.
“Cecily!” Both of them grasped me by the shoulders, shaking me, to my satisfaction; let them maul me all they liked. The only difficulty was to remain stubbornly silent while they abused me, so as not to let my voice give me away. The longer they bela-boured me, the better, giving the real Cecily time to escape.
But they were interrupted. “What’s the matter with her?” roared a male voice—unmistakably that of the baron.
Both baroness and viscountess squeaked in well-bred shock at such a masculine invasion, turning on him. “Dagobert! Bramwell!” squawked, presumably, Aquilla. “What are you doing here?”
Heaven help me, both of them? Yes, through my veil I could make out two looming forms in fancy dress.
“Jenkins said we needed to break down the door,” replied the baron. “Is Cecily misbehaving?”
“I think she’s gone quite mad!”
It was quite simple for me, in my terror of the baron, to act the part of a lunatic, recommencing to rock to and fro in my chair, but this time allowing myself a number of pathetic moans.
The baroness continued, “First she fainted, or pretended to, and then she locked us out, and now she’s gone and rucked her gown all over herself; just look at her! Nod, nod, nodding like a—”
Abruptly the Baroness of Merganser stopped, and when she spoke on, it was in the tone of one who has taken command in a crisis. “Jenkins, fetch the vicar up here.”
“Yes, my lady.” I heard the hapless servant scamper away.
“Bramwell, come stand beside your bride.”
“What are you talking about, Mother?” whined that toad-like individual.
“Do as I say! Don’t you see the state she’s in? And she’ll only get worse; do you think we want to carry her down to the chapel? No, ceremony can go hang; we must get you married to her here and now.”
CHAPTER THE EIGHTEENTH
“JOLLY GOOD IDEA! HA-HA!” ROARED THE BARON.
And in that awful moment I understood my instinctive reluctance to secret myself within bridal white. It had to do with the lock part of the word wedlock. Trapped. Horribly, irrevocably trapped—
Nonsense, Enola. You will do quite well on your own. Think.
Although terribly frightened by the unexpected turn of events, I reasoned that I was no worse off than before. At one point or another I must take very hasty leave, that was all. And as we all waited for the vicar to arrive, even as I squirmed and swayed, whimpered and groaned, doing my best to seem demented, perversely my thoughts and sentiments calmed so much that, despite my awkward situation, I found myself pleasantly contemplating the possibility of a most unforgettable scene. Like my brother Sherlock, I dearly love a moment of drama now and then. I would play my lunatic part, I decided, until the very moment when they would try to make me say, “I do.” At which point I would quite lucidly declare, “I most definitely do not,” and then—as they all stood in shock and astonishment that I should so forcefully reject the charming Bramwell—then with great dignity and decision I would arise from my chair, rip off my disguise, and stalk out.
Or, more realistically, run like the devil.
Without any shoes?
Oh, well. One must be brave; do or die; certainly Cecily had gotten away by now, making my predicament worthwhile—such were my musings as I rocked, twitched, grunted, and occasionally panted for better effect. The wedding-gown had the currently fashionable, bead-encrusted steel-stiff high collar, and this “dog collar”—all too appropriate for these so-called nuptials—rasped against my earlobes most annoyingly, causing me to hiss with pain as well as swaying, shuddering, et cetera. I have that tormenting collar partly to thank for the convincing quality of my performance.
“Most irregular,” the vicar was murmuring as Jenkins brought him in.
“You see how she is?” Aquilla demanded.
“Well, yes, I do appreciate—”
“Appreciate also how well you will be rewarded, ha-ha! And get on with it!” bellowed an unmistakable voice.
Someone, probably Jenkins, thrust a fragrant bouquet into my lap and stuck some flowers onto my bobbing head whilst the others milled around, pushing aside the few chairs, taking their places and asking one another who had the rings. As if herding cattle, Aquilla lashed—with her tongue—and in a surprisingly brief time the vicar did, indeed, get on with it.
“Dearly beloved,” he intoned, “we are gathered here today to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony…”
Holy, my eye. While continuing to bob, spasm, and so on, I paid close attention to the vicar’
s drone, waiting for my cue.
“If anyone here present doth know any just reason why this man should not be joined with this woman in marriage, let him speak now—”
All quite routine. No one ever said anything.
“—or forever hold his peace.”
“I can think of several reasons,” spake a pompous male voice from the doorway.
My resultant squeak went unnoticed in the generalised gasp of shock as all turned to the intruder. The baron demanded, “Who are you?”
But I already knew who it was. The worst of all possible uninvited guests, he whom I feared above all others, the person in all the world who had the most power to ruin my life—
The way he had just ruined my surprise.
Truly it is amazing what disappointed vanity will do: instantaneously, supreme spleen replaced my feelings of terror. Outraged, “Mycroft,” I shouted as I shot to my feet and snatched the veil off my head, “curse you, why can’t you let me—”
“First, although not foremost, that the bride is not who she is purported to be.” Mycroft spoke on in the same pontificating tone, unblinking, whilst screams and exclamations burst from all others.
“—let me alone!” In a frenzy of wrath I ran at him and, with both hands upraised as if hurling a boulder, I threw my bridal veil onto his head.
Alas that I could not pause to admire the effect as I crowned him from top-hat to waistcoat in white lace and tulle. I am sure his appearance was most startling. But in the act I had regained just enough sense to run on past him. As my arms came down, so did the bridal-gown, falling off me to puddle on the floor. I hoped Mycroft would trip over it after battling his way out of the veil. I hoped he would fall and injure some portion of his stout personage. I hoped the belligerent baron would punch him in the nose. Sherlock must have told my other confounded brother where he might find me. I hated him. Both of them. I had no idea why I sobbed as I ran down the attic stairs.
Shouts rose above and behind me. “After her!”
“Stop that wretched girl!”
“Enola! Wait!” Mycroft’s commanding voice.
Muttering something unrepeatable in reply, I plunged down more stairs, and in my stocking feet I slipped and nearly fell, grabbing at the banister to save myself—which gave me the blessed thought to slide down that sturdy, polished wooden rail the rest of the way. I did so, flying through the second storey—I retain a blurred memory of astonished, delighted faces as I whizzed past a group of orphans—and the first storey, to the ground floor. The sounds of footsteps thumping in pursuit faded behind me, and the denizens of the orphanage proper remained upstairs; no one got in my way as I ran through a hallway—some mantles and bonnets hung on pegs; I grabbed one of each—and out the front door.
Slowing to a brisk walk as I crossed the yard, I whisked tears from my cheeks, slung the mantle—a simple navy-blue affair—over my shoulders, and hid my dishevelled hair under an equally simple, old-fashioned dark blue bonnet, probably some matron’s Sunday headgear.
Meanwhile, seated in his sheltering box inside the gate, an exceedingly ancient and withered man dozed, his chin propped upon the chest of his brown poplin tunic. Only as I strode quite close to him did he awaken with a start and study me with bleary eyes, his fogged old brain wondering who I was and where I had come from.
As his mouth fumbled open to ask, I told him in my most crisp aristocratic tones, as if I might be a member of the orphanage board or perhaps one of the trustees, “Towheedle, you’ve been napping again. Shame on you. Open the gate.”
Poor man, he jumped to do so.
Next I demanded, “Did a tall gentleman with a limp come this way?”
He nodded, bobbed, pulled at his forelock. “Yes, um…” He didn’t know whether to call me “ma’am” or “milady.”
“And did the girl go with him?”
“The little ’un wit the pink fan? Yes, um…”
“Thank you, Towheedle, that will be all.”
It really was. All. All right.
All right for Cecily Alistair. Her hair would grow back, and she likewise would grow, coming to terms with herself, finding her place in the world; but first and foremost, she would rejoin her loving mother.
Ah, to have such a mother.
Sailing out of the orphanage, I no longer cared whether the venerable gatekeeper noticed that I wore no shoes. It no longer mattered. Within moments I hailed a cab, which took me to the Underground, which took me to the East End, where I limped to my lodgings, intending to lie down for a well-earned rest. Or, more truthfully, for indulgence in nervous prostration.
As I let myself in at the front door, however, I encountered Mrs. Tupper, who took one look at me and let out a bleat like a sheep. “Miss Meshle! Wot ’appened to you?”
Her question was largely rhetorical, as her deafness, thank goodness, prevented my making any detailed answer. Nevertheless, the dear woman would not take my upraised, dismissive hands for an answer, and hustled me to a seat by the hearth, where she provided me with a basin of warm water in which to soak my insulted feet, a bowl of nourishing if noxious liver-and-barley soup, and a great deal of sympathetic monologue: “The dear alone knows how ye get yerself into these sitchywations, but it’s none uv my business, just let me comb out yer poor ’air now, ye’ll be needing bag balm an’ some cotton lint for them ruined feet, I’ll warrant ye went and give your shoes to some poor wretch, ought to ’ave more care for yerself but there ain’t a gooder ’eart in London, ’ow ye get yerself all scraped and banged up and yer poor smock torn this way is beyond me, eat yer soup now and there’s some bread pudding, poor lamb, yer half starved, wot am I to do wit you?”
But she knew quite well what to do, actually, and by the time I finally thanked her, from the warmth of my bed watched her close my chamber door behind her, and heard her creaking footsteps and plangent voice going down the stairs, I was warmly fed, bathed, and clothed, with my sore feet attended to and my sore heart beginning to feel better as well.
I had felt quite betrayed, you see, because Sherlock had told Mycroft my whereabouts—but my reaction was childish, I realised as I lay trying to compose myself for slumber; Sherlock was only doing his duty as he perceived it, and he had never promised me anything else. In our familial game of hide-and-seek, my brother played fair.
Brothers. Mycroft, too, had done nothing—however annoying—that might not reasonably be expected of him. It was not his fault that he was who he was, any more than it was Mum’s fault—
Oh, Mum.
While Mrs. Tupper had mothered me today, where was my real mother? My riddling inquiry,
Narcissus bloomed in water, for he had none.
Chrysanthemum in glass, for she had one.
All of Ivy’s tendrils failed to find:
What was the Iris planted behind?
had not yet received any answer. Of course it was too soon to expect one. Perhaps in today’s Pall Mall Gazette. Closing my eyes, I told myself that I would have a look at it after I napped.
But even when I received my answer, what would the good of it be? Never in her life that I could recall had Mum washed or bandaged or fed me, or combed my hair…
My eyes opened, staring at the blank ceiling, and errant tears trickled down my temples.
Very well. I was not going to be able to sleep. Sighing as I wiped the tears away, I got up, found myself a sheaf of foolscap paper and a lap desk, and began to sketch.
I drew an orphan, for I felt like one. Then I drew Lady Cecily all got up as an orphan, for she, a girl lacking a father’s love, must feel much as I did. Detailing her sensitive face and brilliant eyes, I thought in how many ways I felt myself a soul-mate to her, and how I had never expected to see her again, yet it had now happened. Therefore might I hope that, perhaps in a few years, when we were grown, we might see each other more often, and perhaps go sketching together?
Meanwhile, Sherlock would make sure she found her way safely to her mother’s care. Feeling an odd hiatus i
n myself as I thought of my brother, I drew a quick caricature of his tall form, and felt my hollow heart fill and warm.
Mycroft’s turn. I made quite a brisk study of representing him with a wedding veil draping him to his swollen waistcoat. It made me smile.
Hoping for another reason to smile, next I drew a picture of quite a lovely young lady with gloriously coiffed chestnut hair in which nestled the most dainty and fetching of hats: myself, in a blue promenade gown and quite an expensive wig, with my face disguised by powders and paints and primping plus a parasol. Beautiful, by George, but—but hardly the whole story. I drew myself as a midden-picker, then as Ivy Meshle in her cheap frou-frou and false curls, then as a street stray in a smashed bowler hat, a paragon among ragamuffins—
But this could go on and on. I ought to draw a portrait of Mum.
Taking a fresh sheet of foolscap, I tried, but found I could not. I could not at that moment bring her features to mind.
Instead, within my tentative outline of a feminine head, I filled in other features.
Steady eyes, young yet wise.
Straight nose.
Strong chin.
Quirky mouth. Mona Lisa smile.
An angular face not unlike that of my brother Sherlock, yet quintessentially—my own?
I gawked. Was it really me? Enola?
Never before had I been able to draw myself truly. Why could I do it now?
My own pencilled gaze demanded truth of me.
Because, I admitted—if only to myself—because I knew why the Mona Lisa smiled so oddly. Doubtless she had a mother somewhat like mine. I knew that I would not search for Mum. Not yet, if ever. Not until, or unless, I felt she wanted to see me.
But whether I ever saw her again or not, I was still Enola.
The Case of the Peculiar Pink Fan Page 11
