Verity Sparks and the Scarlet Hand

by Susan Green

  “I couldn’t help hearing,” I said. “What’s this about the station? What did Mr Leviny mean?”

  “Ernö has made a suggestion that will save our dear Drucilla from her so very horrid Aunt Theodora in Hobart,” said Papa. “He and his wife have invited Drucilla to stay with them in Castlemaine for three or four weeks.” He patted Drucilla’s hand. “It will give her a chance to consider what her next step should be. What is more …” He paused, rather teasingly. He was obviously pleased as Punch with his scheme. “… you and I, Verity – along with Connie and Poppy – are invited to Castlemaine as well.”

  “To stay with Mr and Mrs Leviny?” They must have a very large house, I thought, to hold a family and four guests.

  “No, we’ll stay with Nicky and his wife. See, has not your papa arranged things suitably?”

  “Very suitably, Papa,” I said, standing on tiptoes to kiss him. “We’re all going to Castlemaine, and no one is going to Hobart.”

  Hobart is a long way from Melbourne across stormy Bass Strait. A long way from SP too. On the other hand, you could take the train and be in Castlemaine for lunch. Which is much easier for matchmaking.

  “SP, what are you doing?” said Judith.

  She’d arrived at Alhambra in the late afternoon, saying she needed fresh air. Within minutes, she’d whisked me off for a walk along the Esplanade, but her real purpose was to visit SP. We arrived at his lodgings to find him with his trunk open in the middle of the room. Piles of clothing and books were spread all around. Like Drucilla, he was packing.

  “Where are you going?” I asked quietly.

  SP threw a pair of boots to the floor and slumped on his bed. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know.” His hair was standing on end and he looked as if he hadn’t slept. “I was thinking of Western Australia.”

  “Oh, SP.” Judith put her arms around her brother and gave him a hug.

  “I was very stupid, wasn’t I?”

  We both nodded.

  “Should I write to her, apologising and promising never to bother her again?”

  “No, SP, don’t do that. Not yet, anyway,” said Judith.

  It seemed a good time to tell him about Drucilla’s visit to Castlemaine.

  SP groaned. “See what I’ve done? I’ve forced her out of her position and her home, because she can’t bear to see me. What am I to do, girls? Go west? Return to England? Jump off a cliff?”

  Judith took his hand in hers. “Just hold on, dearest. Don’t do anything silly. She’s embarrassed, that’s all, and feels awkward about seeing you. This visit to Castlemaine is a good thing. It will give her time to settle her thoughts.”

  And realise how much she misses you, I added silently. Judith had high hopes of Drucilla’s visit. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” she’d explained to me. “I’ve no doubt Drucilla will realise that she loves SP once they’re parted.”

  We talked about Drucilla for a while longer – well, SP talked and we listened. He could have gone on all evening, but I knew Mrs Reilly would have something to say if she had to delay dinner again. And Judith had begun to fret about baby Horace.

  So we set off at a brisk walk along the Esplanade back towards Alhambra. We passed a gaggle of nursemaids with small children and an elderly couple with a pug, all enjoying the evening. It was too cool for bathing, but there were a few strollers down on the beach. A shiver ran down my spine as I looked at them. I felt cold. It couldn’t be …

  No. There was no tall figure down on the sands, no grey costume. I’d been mistaken. Or else she’d vanished. I tried to shrug off my uneasiness.

  “Do you mind if we hurry?” said Judith. “I think Horace will be ready for his feed by now.”

  We picked up our pace, and I realised that I’d forgotten to tell SP about the mystery lady.

  The following afternoon we arrived at Spencer Street Station with Drucilla and her trunk. Lucifer wasn’t having a holiday this time. Drucilla had decided that, since her hosts had young children, Lucifer and his bad language should stay put at Alhambra.

  Mr Leviny was waiting with the tickets. There were kisses goodbye, last-minute hugs, and in next to no time the train was steaming down the track. Drucilla leaned out of the window to wave her hand, and then she was gone.

  I have to say that my spirits sank. Dear Drucilla; I was going to miss her. We all were – me, Papa, Connie, Poppy … Where was Poppy? The little imp was quite capable of jumping into the guard’s van as it sped past. Ah, now I could see her. She was down at the far end of the platform. Was she climbing up a ladder?

  “I’ll bring her back,” said Connie, and hurried off.

  Papa was strolling towards the exit and as I turned to follow him, I saw her. In the cloud of smoke and steam left by the departing train, she appeared ghostly and indistinct, but as she moved towards us every detail sharpened. The grey dress, the modish hat, the beautiful face with deep brown eyes. My heart began to thump wildly. She was following me. It had been her all along, in the train, in Collins Street, in the Book Bazaar, perhaps even on the St Kilda Esplanade. Who was she? Why was she shadowing me? Did I have the courage to confront her?

  But in a flash I realised that I didn’t want to. Papa must not see her. This woman looked so much like Mama. It would only upset him.

  “Look, Papa, over there,” I cried, steering him away from her. “Isn’t that Mr Rowland?”

  “Where? Over there?”

  As we made our way towards the gentleman – a perfect stranger – I was fearful that she’d follow. But when I looked over my shoulder, she was nowhere to be seen.

  5

  GRAND OPERA

  When we arrived back at Alhambra, we found that Papa’s lawyer, Mr Quamby, was waiting for him. They spoke together in low voices for a few seconds, and then disappeared into Papa’s study. Kathleen took in two glasses and the brandy decanter and as the door opened, the smell of cigars wafted out. It was a business meeting.

  I drifted into the drawing room. Poppy and Connie were squeezed together on the piano stool and Connie was pointing to some sheet music on the stand.

  “What are those notes, Poppy?” Connie was asking. “Do you remember?”

  I hadn’t known Connie was teaching Poppy to play. I moved closer.

  “Minnows. And them ones is quivers, and them other ones is semi-quivers.”

  I stood behind them. “Minims, Poppy,” I corrected. “And quavers.”

  “We know,” said Connie. “We just like to give things funny names.”

  Oh. Though they both smiled at me, I knew I’d interfered.

  “See? Scale of C major.” Stretching her hands as wide as she could, Poppy tinkled up and down the keys. “Connie says I’m gettin’ better all the time. Connie says even if I didn’t want to get better, I couldn’t ’elp it. An’ do you know why, Verity?”

  “Why?”

  “Practice,” said Poppy. How smug she sounded. “Connie says practice makes perfeck.”

  They smiled at each other and I realised that somehow the shy, sensitive country girl and the streetwise urchin gave each other something no one else could. They were a perfeck combination, as Poppy would say. I left them to their scales.

  My favourite place in Alhambra was the tower. Mrs Morcom said it resembled an upturned chamber pot, but since I didn’t care about architecture I often climbed the circular staircase and sat on the bench looking out over Port Phillip Bay. It was a good place to be alone and think. This evening the sun was sinking amid brilliant red and orange clouds tinged with gold. They looked like fiery dragons in the western sky.

  However, I wasn’t in the mood to appreciate the beauties of nature. I had other things to think about. All the way home, I’d debated with myself about whether to tell Papa about the mysterious stranger. I didn’t want to worry him, but neither did I want him suddenly confronted with Mama’s double. Who knew what the shock might do to his heart?

  “Veroschka?” It was Papa, calling from the bottom of the stairs. �
��What are you doing up there all by yourself?”

  “Just thinking, Papa.”

  “Come down, chérie. I have something to tell you.”

  Papa sounded serious. Had Mr Quamby brought bad news? I took the steps two at a time.

  “No, no, nothing is wrong,” said Papa, seeing my face. “Mr Quamby has given me a surprising letter. It was forwarded from my solicitor in London. Come to my study and I will show it to you.”

  It was from a firm of lawyers in Toronto, Ontario, Canada, and it was dated nearly five months ago. I read the first couple of sentences.

  We wish to inform you that your late wife’s brother, Mr Hiram Parker, has died. Mr Parker, a bachelor, has left his entire fortune to his nearest remaining relative.

  “Which is you,” said Papa.

  “Me?”

  “Yes. I wrote to Hiram when I found you last year. I wanted your only uncle to know you were alive. There was no reply. Perhaps he was already ill. But now, this news. Veroschka, you are a very, very rich girl.”

  I sat back in my armchair and pondered. I would inherit Mama’s fortune when I turned twenty-five. And Papa’s too, eventually – though I didn’t want to think about that. So I was rich enough already. I didn’t need Uncle Hiram’s money and to tell you the truth, I felt odd about inheriting it.

  “Has he truly no other relations?”

  Papa shook his head. “There was another brother, Waldo. Isabella loved him dearly, but he died young. Hiram, she detested. Her parents and this Hiram, they had no understanding of art or music or beauty. Their world was pork, pork and more pork.” Papa gave a wry smile. “Isabella was grateful their hard work had given her a comfortable life. But she hated their ignorance and narrow-mindedness. Isabella …”

  “Yes, Papa?”

  “Ah, Isabella …”

  Papa had gone into a sort of dream. I tiptoed out.

  Papa decided to leave for Castlemaine at the end of the week. The night before we were due to travel, he arranged an outing to the opera. The famous soprano Marie Chartreuse was performing at the Princess Theatre.

  “I saw her in this role in Paris in ’72. She was stupendous.” Papa smiled and stretched his arms wide. “Grand opera – there’s nothing like it, eh?”

  “No,” I said. Nothing else consists of two or three hours of wobbly high-pitched singing and bad acting in Italian or German or French. It was sad, but I just couldn’t share Papa’s passion. I wondered if, secretly, I was a disappointment to him. What with Mama being a famous diva, opera should have been in my blood, but to tell you the truth, I preferred a play.

  Never mind. I could enjoy Papa’s enjoyment.

  We had an early dinner and at around half past seven our coachman Albert stopped the carriage outside the theatre. There’d been a brief shower just before we set out and the blazing gas lamps made glittering reflections in every raindrop. The theatre, too, was lit up like a fairy palace. A street orchestra nearby was playing a waltz. My heart lifted. Opera or no opera, Melbourne at night was a thrilling place.

  Poppy hopped out first with a squeal of delight. She held Papa’s hand and looked around. Connie held Papa’s other hand. She loved music more than anything except her father, and tonight she was beside herself with anticipation.

  The audience was milling around in the brightly lit foyer and on the pavement outside and I felt another surge of excitement as we joined the throng. Top hats, silk evening cloaks, sparkling jewels, rustling skirts … the mingled smells of perfume, hair pomade and cigars … chatter and laughter and breathless excitement. To think that when I first arrived, I’d expected to see kangaroos in the streets of Melbourne!

  The bell started to ring. It was time to take our seats. I tried to follow close behind Papa and the two girls, but we were separated in the crowd. A large man in a brown coat rudely pushed in front of me, knocking me sideways. I would have fallen had not a hand at my elbow kept me upright. I turned to thank my unseen helper.

  “Oh,” I gasped. “It’s you.”

  She was wearing grey again; a pale silvery grey dress and a darker cape. Her skin was startlingly white against the black fur collar. As I stared up at her face, I began to tremble. She was so like Mama’s portrait that I felt a strange impulse to reach out and stroke her cheek. It was as if I was being drawn towards her.

  “Who are you?” I whispered.

  “My name is Della Parker.” She spoke in an urgent, husky voice with a strong accent. Was it American? Canadian? I couldn’t tell. “I am your cousin.”

  “My cousin?” I didn’t have any cousins. Instantly, the puzzle pieces inside my head formed a suspicious picture. Somehow this woman had heard of Uncle Hiram’s death. She knew I was rich. She wanted money and was masquerading as a relative.

  “My father was Waldo Parker,” she said.

  Now I knew she was lying. I stepped away from her. “Waldo died when he was young,” I said. “Now go away and stop bothering me, or I’ll–”

  “No, it’s true.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Believe this, then.” She thrust a small oblong package into my hand and then vanished into the crowd.

  “Veroschka, there you are.”

  It was Papa, come back to find me. He took me by the arm. “What are you waiting for, chérie? We don’t want to miss a minute of the first act.”

  Actually, I missed most of it.

  My mind was on Della’s package. What was in it? Twice the length of my hand, slightly wedge-shaped, it was light yet hard. Trying to be discreet, I slipped the wrappings off. It was a fan. There was a tiny clicking sound as I unfurled it, then my fingers tingled briefly. The darkened balcony seats, the footlights and the orchestra disappeared …

  I was in a small room. There were flowers everywhere, in vases and in bunches strewn on the furniture. Their perfume was overpowering. A woman was sitting on a stool and gazing intently at her own reflection in the mirror. It was Mama. An old lady with grey hair and a hooked nose was fussing with my mother’s hair. I recognised her. It was Victoire – Mrs Vic – Mama’s nurse.

  “What do you think?” asked Mama.

  It was only then that I saw the gentleman sitting in the corner. He was tall and rather fat, with red hair. His face was red too. He was scowling as he opened and shut a delicate lace and ivory fan.

  “Honestly, Penny–”

  “I have changed my name, remember? It is Isabella now.”

  “If you’ll just come back with me … You’ll have everything you want – flowers and jewels and pretty dresses. You can sing. No one will stop you–”

  “We’ve been through all this before. I’m sorry. The answer is no.”

  There were footsteps and a knock at the door. “It’s time, Miss Savage,” said a voice, and then the footsteps went away again.

  “I must go. But at least stay and hear me sing,” said Mama.

  The man nodded, and Mrs Vic beckoned to him.

  “Come this way,” she said. I seemed to follow as she led him through a maze of corridors, up some dark stairs and onto a small balcony that jutted out from the side wall. A great wave of clapping and shouting boomed around the theatre. Mama walked through the chorus to the edge of the stage. She looked out at the audience, her gaze moving from the stalls to the dress circle and the balconies all the way up to the impoverished music lovers sitting in the gods. Her eyes, large and dark and shining, seemed to find each and every person there. A hush fell. It was as if the whole theatre was holding its breath.

  Then she began to sing.

  6

  I WANT WHAT IS MINE

  Applause rose and fell in waves of sound around me. Clapping, stamping, shouting. Dazed and bewildered, I looked down at the stage.

  Papa stood up and thumped his hands together. “Bravo!” he cried.

  Where had Mama gone? Who was that plump lady in the purple robe? Why was the skinny little man holding her hand? Only when the house lights were turned up did I realise where I was: ba
ck in the Princess Theatre in Melbourne. In the real world.

  But I didn’t want to be, not yet. I wanted to keep Mama in my mind’s eye. She’d held me and loved me when I was a tiny baby, yet I had no memory of her. Now, magically, I’d heard her voice, pure and clear as birdsong. I’d seen her smile, her eyes, the way she moved. As if she were real. As if she were here … My heart swelled with grief and longing for all I’d missed. Oh, Mama!

  “Verity, it’s interval. Would you like to come and take some refreshments?” asked Papa.

  I blew my nose and tried to stop my voice from shaking. “No, thank you, Papa; I will just sit here.”

  “Will I bring you a lemonade?” said Poppy. “’Cos you look a bit wore out. Opera is ’ard work, don’t you think?”

  “I do. Thank you, Poppy,” I said.

  Gradually, my feelings calmed and I was able to examine the fan. It was made of cream-coloured lace scattered with tiny red sequins. The sticks were ivory and the ends were wrapped with red silk cord and finished off with a tassel. In the dim light I could see that a name was carved into the ivory. I traced the letters with my finger. Isabella Savage. It was identical to the one in my vision. Why had Della given it to me? Did she somehow know about my gift?

  “Here’s your drink, Verity.”

  I shoved the fan into my pocket and took the glass from Poppy.

  “What do you think of Madame Chartreuse?” asked Papa. “She is marvellous, no?”

  “And funny too,” said Poppy.

  “She’s not meant to be funny,” said Papa. “This is a very serious story. It is tragic.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Very, very sad.”

  Poppy shrugged. “I don’t think it’s sad. I think it’s quite humourious, ’specially when the fat lady–”

  “Enough, Poppy. Do not call her fat or I will call you a philistine.”

  “Phyllis Stein?” asked Poppy, confused. “Who’s she?”

  Poor Poppy. I remembered my early days with the Plush family, and how hard it had been to understand what they were talking about until I got myself a vocabulary.