“It is true,” replied Mirabella. “You will know something Scotland Yard does not know.”
“We know more than the coppers?” Gloria demanded.
“We should tell them,” Amity suggested. “So then they will know.”
“Someone far pushier than you has that well in hand,” Mirabella murmured.
Amity took Candice’s thumbprint with great care, and it was a passably good representation in Mirabella’s mind.
“Mine looks like an arch—like over the train tunnels,” Candice stated when her fingerprint had been taken.
“Excellent, Candice!” Mirabella stated. “Only a very small percentage of the population has fingerprints with that shape.”
“It’s an elaborate pattern,” Gloria considered, tapping her dimpled cheek. “Much like a knitting pattern.”
“I don’t want to use a blanket with that pattern,” giggled Susan. “I might get lost in the bed.”
“It is too hard! How will we get someone to do that for us?” Candice asked almost breathlessly, her copper brown eyes disturbed.
“Ah, that is where the detective work comes in. I will leave my box with you, and you must guard it and treat it like a magical box. Surely you can lure someone in here with one of Amity’s fairy stories,” Mirabella smiled, holding her finger to her lips. “Shhh! It’s all very secret.”
“Do we have to sneak out from our beds at night and go into the streets?” Candice asked with a shudder.
“Amity and me lived in the streets for a while—until they found us after the fire—and I never want to go back there,” Susan exclaimed in a lilting, though strained, musical voice, waving her arms and looking almost ferocious in spite of her blonde hair and blue eyes.
“Most assuredly, you must not, under any circumstances venture out at night—or without an adult chaperone!” admonished Mirabella. “And anyone who would tell you to do so is not to be trusted!”
“It was very scary,” agreed Amity, nodding wildly, suddenly looking to be the oldest and wisest in the room. “Even I knew they would find me and Sukey and I was still frightened. You can’t sleep out in the light where people can see you—and it is so cold. And sometimes you are wet. And always you are hungry.”
“I’ll bet that’s where Sukey learned to run so fast!” considered Gloria, covering her mouth with her hands.
“No one can run as fast as Sukey,” Amity agreed proudly.
“I remember being hungry,” Candice nodded sadly, her expression suddenly distant. “When I feel scared of being hungry now, I cook or plant.”
“I do not like any place outside Lady Graham’s,” agreed Sukey, her expressive eyes frightened.
“I never want to leave,” Candice chimed in. “They used to work us very hard at the other place, the work is easy here, and there is never anyone who would hurt you.”
“Before they found out how important Candice’s father was and went and got her,” confided Susan. “At the workhouse.”
“Oh, no!” exclaimed Mirabella, clutching her chest staring at the beautiful little girl before her. “You can’t mean it!” Everyone shuddered, Mirabella most of all. At least Lady Graham’s was an orphanage rather than a workhouse, which, from Miss Bickers’ description was nothing more than a prison where children were worked until they died.
Utterly inexcusable.
Mirabella heard the bells of Westminster Abbey ringing in the background. Whatsoever you do to the least of them, you do unto me.
“My papa was a police constable,” repeated Candice, her rosy lips forming an awed whisper, obviously very proud of her parentage which had saved her life.
“They don’t care what we do here,” explained tiny Susan in a whisper, her large blue-grey eyes appearing even larger against her pale white skin. “No one cares—except Miss Bella.”
“It is very boring here,” confided Gloria, sighing, fingering her beautifully embroidered apron. All of the girls wore simple brown shift cotton dresses with white aprons and white caps with the exception of Gloria whose apron was outlined in lovely flowers. “I wish there was more to do. We get the smallest allotment of knitting yarn and almost no embroidery thread. If I had more, I would decorate everyone’s apron.” She kicked her serviceable brown boots against the table, revealing white knee socks.
“But your classes must take up a great deal of time,” considered Mirabella. “And don’t you have homework?”
The girls laughed.
“I don’t like homework,” chimed in Candice, her carrot-red hair bobbing. “I like to work in the garden and the kitchen. I only come here for the apple. I want to plant the seeds in the garden.” Gingerly she unfolded her handkerchief containing all the apple seeds, displaying them proudly before refolding the cloth.
“Oh, your tomatoes were so good last year!” Amity exclaimed rubbing her stomach, even as Candice beamed.
“Is your library sufficient?” pressed Mirabella, attempting to return the subject to their scholastics.
“What’s a . . . library?” asked Susan, glancing up.
“What’s sufficient?” asked Candice.
“A library is a room with books,” answered Mirabella. All the girls looked at her blankly.
Oh, this was very bad. She swallowed hard. “And sheet music. A library would have sheet music also.”
Susan’s jaw dropped. “Music? I want to go to the library! Where is it?”
“Oh, dear,” murmured Mirabella. “Tell me, girls, how long do your classes last every day?”
“From eight o’clock to ten o’clock,” replied Amity. “And then we have homework. We all do ours, but lots of girls don’t because Miss Bickers doesn’t grade it anyway.”
“I don’t think she knows the answers herself,” Gloria giggled, kicking her legs back and forth in the chair which was too high off the ground for her.
“Then what do you do?” asked Mirabella.
“Well, we have to wash and press our clothes and clean our rooms,” answered Amity.
“And then it’s time for lunch!” exclaimed Susan happily.
“In the afternoon, we clean the big rooms, and if we finish we get to sew or garden or play games, whatever we like to do,” explained Candice.
“You girls do all the cleaning here?” Mirabella asked, startled.
“Yes,” they all nodded in unison.
Perhaps they were being trained for domestic help after all. Cooking. Cleaning. Sewing. They weren’t being overworked, she supposed, but these girls were far too bright to ignore their education.
“Is it difficult?” asked Mirabella.
“No, I run down the halls while I’m doing it, and I mop really fast, so I do that,” replied Susan.
“And she sings while she mops,” Amity added with a giggle.
“I mostly do the sewing. And all of the girls here have to help with the sewing and mopping and cleaning, so it’s not so bad. Although I am the best seamstress,” answered Gloria proudly. “And Candice helps with the cooking when they let her in the kitchen.”
“And the gardening,” added Candice.
“Where is Miss Bickers while you are doing the cleaning, cooking, sewing, and gardening?” asked Mirabella.
The girls all looked at each other, as if they knew, but didn’t care to say.
“All of us know what it is like outside Lady Graham’s, and we are all good girls,” stated Amity, as if to divert the conversation.
“Do you have any music or dance classes?” asked Mirabella, although she already knew the answer.
The girls shook their heads.
No music, very little science, no French or German, and nothing for the exceptional students. They weren’t even required to read and do their figures! The only requirement was their domestic chores.
“I wish we had singing class all day,” interjected Susan.
“What about art classes?”
“Oh, yes,” exclaimed Amity. “That is my favorite class! I like to paint trees and birds and—wel
l, everything—even bugs!”
“Bugs! Yuck!” exclaimed Gloria.
“Is Miss Bickers a good teacher?” asked Mirabella.
“Oh, yes!” replied Amity. “Miss Bickers is a very good artist. She can draw anything. And paint, too! Most days after dinner we have an art class—and then we all clean up and wash ourselves at the wash basin before we go to bed.”
“And on Saturday evening we even have tea and cookies in the parlor before bed!” added Gloria. “Mr. McVittie is off on Saturday night so they are pretty good!”
“Candice helps makes the cookies!” exclaimed Susan. “Yum!”
“Sometimes one of the policeman friends will come in and sing or otherwise play games with us,” added Gloria, her dimples showing as she smiled. “It is very fun.”
Amity whispered something in the younger girl’s ear, to which Susan nodded emphatically.
“And does Miss Bickers paint a great deal?” asked Mirabella.
“That’s all she does!” Amity laughed. “And except for the class we aren’t allowed to go into her studio. She even keeps the door locked.”
“Does Miss Bickers ever take you on field excursions?” asked Mirabella, frowning. “When she’s not painting that is?”
“Oh, yes,” Amity emphasized. “On Sunday we all go to church. We have a big ham for lunch—and then we do whatever we wish the rest of the day.”
“We can even play badminton!” exclaimed Susan, clapping her hands together.
“I see. On Sunday you go to church. That wasn’t precisely what I mean as a field excursion,” managed Mirabella, placing her pencil beside her tablet. “Do you go to the parks—Hyde Park or Kensington Gardens for example?”
“Do you mean the gardens where the birds are?” asked Susan, her face lit up.
“Yes,” Mirabella answered after some moments.
“No,” replied the girls in unison.
“Ah-ha. And the London zoo. Has anyone ever taken you there?”
“Do you mean the cages where the birds are?” asked Susan. “The bigger birds like the pink flamingo?”
“Yes, I believe they have flamingos and the zoo,” Mirabella state.
“No.”
“The Tower of London, St. Paul’s Cathedral, Madame Tussauds wax museum, or Wyld’s Monster Globe in Leicester Square, has anyone ever taken you there?”
“I heard Madame Tussauds has monsters. I’ve seen monsters and I did not like them,” replied Susan, perplexed. “Why would I want anyone to take me to see monsters?”
Mirabella cleared her throat. “You certainly should not, Miss Susan. But these are not real monsters.”
“I’ve seen the underground railway!” exclaimed Candice, clearly aware of her worldly status. “I hid there once.”
“It sounds to me as if you girls have entirely too much time on your hands,” considered Mirabella. “I definitely need to give you more homework and assignments—and to take you on more field trips.”
Seeing that their faces lit up at the suggestion, she saw that her assumption had not been far off.
“I’ll do the homework, but I don’t want to leave Lady Graham’s.” Candice shook her head.
“I’ll go if there’s birds. Or singing. I love to hear singing,” considered Susan, turning to Candice. “What if there are seeds? I’ll bet you’d go if there were seeds, Candy.”
“I’ll go if it’s away from here,” Gloria agreed without hesitation, smirking at the other girls. “Miss Bella only means for a day, she doesn’t mean forever.”
“There you are,” smiled Mirabella. “Gloria is not afraid to go outside these walls and to see the world.”
“Are you sure it’s safe, Miss Bella?” asked Amity. “I don’t think it’s safe.”
“It isn’t entirely safe,” agreed Mirabella. “But it is glorious! I am just a farm girl and I was never so happy as when I came to London. Or, rather . . .” she paused, realizing the truth for the first time, “when I got my new position.”
“Your new job?” Amity asked.
“Yes.” Mirabella nodded, unable to stop herself from giggling. “However much my employer vexes me—and he does, terribly, almost beyond endurance!—it is the most fascinating existence imaginable to be in the presence of the Great Detective.”
They are stared at her blankly.
“You like to be vexed?” Gloria asked.
“Oh, no!” Mirabella replied vehemently, rolling her eyes. “When you find the profession you were meant to do, whether it be motherhood, or sweeping the floors, or, like Candice, baking cookies, you will know.”
Not for the first time, Mirabella thanked her lucky stars she had found a position with Sherlock Holmes. As she pictured Sherlock sitting in his armchair, smoking a pipe and reflecting on the case, she smiled. The odd thing was that, although he expected so much from her, she always seemed to be able to meet his expectations, even surprising herself.
I feel that somehow, in some way, I am becoming more myself when I am with him.
Perhaps Sherlock understood her better than she thought.
Miss Bickers was right, in these times it was very rare indeed for anyone to advance beyond the station he or she—and particularly she—was born into. For everyone except the very rich, life was hard, inflexible, and powerless.
She looked about her at the beautiful, beaming faces looking up at her. That was what she wanted for these girls: that they might realize their gifts and talents.
“All right ladies, let’s analyze our fingerprints and categorize them,” Mirabella announced confidently, but she felt discouraged. Unless their education was stepped up, how on earth were any of them going to function outside the orphanage when they reached adulthood?
In her heart she didn’t believe that any of them outside of Amity had even the slightest interest in science. But here they all were, giving their best. For an apple.
After the class was complete, with four of the twelve categories represented, and the girls very lively at realizing they had something which was uniquely theirs and quite special, Mirabella began to pack up her supplies.
“Oh! Oh!” exclaimed Gloria, waving her hand frantically.
“Yes, Gloria?”
“Miss Mirabella! I know it’s not science, but can we make Christmas gifts for each other this year? Last year some of the girls didn’t receive any gifts.”
“I don’t think Father Christmas can find us,” suggested Susan.
“That’s because there is no—” explained Gloria, shaking her head.
“—YES, we will,” interjected Mirabella. “And I will write a letter to Father Christmas giving him explicit directions to the orphanage—he might have thought you were somewhere else and couldn’t find you. It is a very difficult building to see from the sky. But never fear: it’s more than three months away so we have ample time for my letter to reach the North Pole. What would you like to make this year? Stockings with your names? Or wool scarves and mittens?”
“Or . . . what about lace hankies?” asked Gloria, the wheels in her mind clearly turning. “With flowers embroidered on them in every color.”
“I could make cookies,” suggested Candice, a suggestion which gained everyone’s approval.
“If only I had enough yarn, I would knit blankets for everyone,” Gloria stated. “It’s cold in the winter.”
“Dolls! I wish you would make dolls, Gloria!” exclaimed Candice excitedly. “I want a doll with little black buttons for eyes and a red checkered dress.”
“I want a notebook for drawing. Not for numbers,” considered Susan, her finger to her white cheek. “And . . . and . . . a pencil! Is that too much to ask? If it is, maybe just the pencil. And one piece of paper. I wish to write a song!”
Mirabella felt her eyes watering even as she rummaged through her bag until she found a small tablet and a pencil—which she handed to Susan, giving her a hug. The little Dresden Doll appeared as if she might cry.
“I want a kitten,” added Gloria. “
When I had a Mommy and Daddy—we had a kitten. If I make blankets or dolls for everyone—may I have a kitten?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t have one of those in my bag,” giggled Mirabella. “But we’ll write a letter to Father Christmas. And please . . . let’s not mention the kitten to Miss Bickers.”
All the girls shook their heads in immediate agreement, understanding evident in their expressions.
Proof that they are more savvy than other children of the same age, mused Mirabella. She would not wish this life on any of them, but it was evident that the orphan girls had not gone through their trials and learned nothing.
“. . . And you, Susan, what would you like from Father Christmas?” pressed Mirabella. “Besides your pencil?”
“A new badminton racket?” suggested Amity. “Sukey is quite the best player!”
“She is,” Candice agreed. “She beats everyone!”
“No,” considered Susan, her blonde hair waving back and forth as she shook her head. “I’d like a dress of my own to wear on Saturday night and to Sunday church—not a uniform. A blue velvet dress. With ribbons.”
“I could make it if I had some material,” Gloria stomped her brown serviceable boot on the floor.
Watching little Susan sway under the heavy brown material, Mirabella concluded that a less flattering outfit could not have been chosen. She determined to ask Miss Bickers if she might make a work dress in a different color: blue or green or pink.
But she already knew the answer: if she couldn’t make a dress for everyone it wasn’t likely to happen.
Dresses for Sunday church and special occasions were a different matter, however.
“I forgot the most important thing. I’d like my daddy back,” sighed Candice, rubbing her eyes with her fist.
“We all would,” whispered Amity, putting her arm around Candice.
Glancing at four pairs of sorrowful eyes which revealed the heartbreak in each of their lives—for a single moment not hiding the devastating grief—Mirabella perceived the girls’ wisdom and depth of character for the first time. It wasn’t an intelligence of math and science—yet—but it was a staggering luminosity nonetheless.
Such resilience. Mirabella took out her handkerchief and dabbed her own eyes. They all carried the pain with them; it had not diminished. Like Miss Bickers, they had lost their families, but somehow these children were all still open to happiness and brewing with love for life.
Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Sword Princess Page 7
