Wishes and Wellingtons

by Julie Berry

  Just then, a shiny black carriage swept impressively into the yard, pulled by a matched set of glossy black mares with red-trimmed livery. Mother paused to gape at the carriage, forcing Polydora to snatch her out of the way while the immaculately dressed footman leaped down and pulled on the door. Out poked a tall silk hat, followed by the bald head wearing it, which head, along with the attached stout trunk, gold watch chain and all, could only belong to Theresa’s father, Mr. Alfred P. Treazleton. He would have been easy to spot even if he hadn’t blazoned his name in gold letters on his coach door.

  He took one step onto the walk and pulled his greatcoat closed about him.

  His glance took in the courtyard—the shrubs, the waiting girls, and Miss Salamanca’s anxious face—with one swift look of indifference. My mother misread his benign expression for friendliness and curtsied low before him, but he strode past, not bothering to acknowledge her. Mother rose and looked about, a bit stunned by Mr. Treazleton’s absence, and adjusted her hat, pretending not to be embarrassed. My fingers curled into a fist. To ignore my mother like that! Daddy did it every day by the parlor fire, but Alfred P. Treazleton could jolly well behave like a gentleman. He was no duke, even if he was as rich as one.

  I hugged and kissed Deborah and Polly each in turn and beckoned to Mother while Mr. Treazleton embraced his little princess.

  “Hey! Get away, you louse!”

  The cry came from Mr. Treazleton’s coach driver. He reached for his whip and lashed it in the direction of one of his horses. But it wasn’t the mare he was aiming for. It was the red-haired orphan boy.

  The lash ripped across his shoulder, tearing his clothes and cutting into his skin. I stared at the boy and wondered why he hadn’t cried out. His mouth was set in a grim, hard line.

  Mr. Treazleton’s footman seized him in an instant and began shaking him. “What do you mean, tampering with the master’s horses?” he cried. His immaculate trousers didn’t seem so impressive to me now.

  The red-haired boy’s cap fell to the ground, but still he remained silent. I wondered if he might be unable to speak.

  “Bring the boy to me,” Mr. Treazleton called.

  The footman dragged the boy over and flung him down before Mr. Treazleton. He landed hard in the gravel, but scrambled immediately to his feet and stared at the giant of industry, eye to eye.

  “Let’s go inside, Maeve,” Mother whispered in my ear. “Let’s get away from this unpleasantness.” I resisted her pull on my arm. I had to know what would happen.

  “Oh, Daddy, that’s one of those horrible orphan boys,” Theresa cried. “They’re everywhere you look in this ghastly place. We can’t ever go outside without seeing them.”

  Mr. Treazleton raised an eyebrow in a trembling Miss Salamanca’s direction, as though the existence of orphan boys in London was a symptom of her negligence and mismanagement. Then he addressed himself to the cowering boy.

  “Touch my horses, will you?” Mr. Treazleton said. His voice, in contrast with his words, was soft, almost pleasantly conversational. He didn’t have any need to raise his voice. “Do you know how easily a boy like you can work a permanent mischief on a horse?”

  “She had a burr in her hide, on her foreleg,” the boy said. “I wouldn’t ever hurt her.”

  Mr. Treazleton ignored the boy. “That mare would fetch a much higher price in the market than a skinny wretch like you would.”

  “What’s the going price on rude, fat old men?”

  I froze.

  So did everyone else.

  For once, even I was astonished.

  Had those words come out of my mouth?

  Chapter 6

  The driver snapped his whip in midair. If I were a boy, I’d have tasted its sting.

  Twenty girls forgot their training and stared at me with jaws hanging down to the pavement.

  Mr. Treazleton’s coattails swirled behind him as he swept Theresa indoors. Miss Salamanca bobbed along after them in a state of mortal panic.

  The red-haired boy took advantage of the commotion…and the footman looking the other way. He darted off in a blink.

  Mr. Treazleton’s driver parked his carriage in the school’s carriage house. Other equipages pulled up, each in their turn, and disgorged their occupants. One by one, girls led their families in out of the cold. The bachelor brother of one of the older girls caught Deborah’s eye, and she sidled her way across the gravel to where he stood, looking bored by the parade of schoolgirls. Polydora watched her go and hesitated, then set her jaw and abandoned our flighty sister to her own disgraces. She steered Mother indoors.

  Mother couldn’t bear to enter the visitors’ parlor after my insult of Mr. Treazleton. She made it only so far as the foyer and stood there trembling. Polly and I recognized the warning signs. A fit of hysterics could be seconds away.

  “If I have to find another school for the ungovernable child…” she moaned. “She’ll be sacked! I’ll never persuade another school to take her in.… Oh, it’s a cruel fate; more than any mother deserves. Brawling with schoolgirls! Insulting shipping magnates!”

  “Mother,” Polydora whispered gently. “People can hear you.”

  Mother resorted to a softer voice, yet it still carried throughout the building. “Why won’t you keep a civil tongue in your head, Maeve? Willful child! Unnatural girl! You’ll be my death. My absolute death. My great-aunt Bernice, she died of despair when her wayward son was court-martialed in the army. Fatal grief runs in my family.”

  “Your voice, Mother,” Polly shushed. “A court-martial is entirely different.”

  A long, gilded mirror hung in the foyer, and with my angle of view, I could spy on the girls visiting with their families in the parlor. Theresa and Mr. Treazleton occupied the central sofa, naturally. I saw Theresa whispering in her father’s ear for what seemed an unusually long time. My own inner ear itched just imagining it. Whispers were so moist.

  Mr. Treazleton’s reflection pointed its fat finger straight at me. To my horror, Theresa’s gaze met mine. She nodded.

  They could me see me. And they were talking about me.

  My blood felt hot in my veins. Theresa was filling his ear with lies about the vicious fight wherein I chopped off her braids, the cunning little cat.

  Then my heart nearly stopped. Theresa opened a satchel and pulled from it something that would look like a small, hairy rodent—except it was a luminous, poison green.

  I moved out of view of the mirror.

  She wasn’t just telling him about the fight. She was telling him about the djinni.

  Well, so what if she was? Let her prattle and tattle. Mr. Alfred P. Treazleton would never believe in a djinni. But let him complain to Miss Salamanca; let Old Sally bounce me out of this school. Good riddance to them all.

  Through the front window, I saw Deborah lean shockingly close to the young bachelor gentleman. He twirled his cane in midair and struck what he obviously thought was a debonair pose for Deborah’s benefit. With his black suit, white shirt, and golden cravat, he looked just like a penguin at the zoological gardens. I snorted, then covered my mouth.

  Mother’s eyes narrowed. “That’s enough unwelcome noise from you, I should think, Maeve.”

  “Come inside for some tea, Mother,” my sister said. “A nice warm cup and a sit-down will do you good.”

  But my mother would not hear it. “Call another cab, Polydora, there’s a lamb,” she pleaded. “I cannot remain here at present.”

  Polly sighed and succumbed, and we went outside. A cab was soon obtained, and the driver assisted Mother up into it. Polydora had to drag Deborah away, leaving the bachelor gentleman with nothing better to do but go indoors and visit with his own sister, who was, presumably, the reason he came in the first place.

  Polydora squeezed my shoulder before climbing into the cab. “Write to me, Maeve,” she said. “And t
ry to behave. Christmas will be here in no time. I’ll come fetch you for the holidays.”

  I grasped Polly’s hand in reply. She pressed a small parcel into my hand: black licorice! My favorite. Dear old Polly.

  Mother spoke her farewells from the cab window by means of a lace handkerchief, which she flitted at me with each syllable.

  “I should think,” she said (flit-flit-flit), “that a sensible girl, who’s had every attention lavished upon her, and been given the best and most expensive education, could learn not to spread so much destruction.”

  At this, the brave little lace handkerchief gave up the good fight and slipped from Mother’s fingers. The cabbie pinched it up from the mud and offered it to her.

  “Where to, ma’am?”

  Mother took the handkerchief gingerly.

  “Ahem. Where to, ma’am?”

  Good old Polly rescued them both. “Saint Pancras Station, please.”

  The cabbie sprang to action. “Righty-ho.”

  My sister Polly waved goodbye. Deborah craned her neck to look one more time at the bachelor gentleman, and Mother stared straight ahead, as if she might forget she’d ever come here.

  I watched the cab wheels spin across the cobbled street. So much for my visit from home.

  I turned heel and ran straight into someone.

  The orphan boy.

  He was taller up close than I would have guessed, with hair so shockingly red poking out underneath his cap that he put me in mind of a ripe tomato. Fabric from the rip in his jacket caused by Mr. Treazleton’s driver peeled downward, leaving his shoulder bare.

  I took a step back. I wasn’t quite sure what to do. Here he was, my rival. I should have had a sharp remark for him at the ready.

  “S’pose I ought to take my cap off to the elegant young ladies,” he said. It was the first time he had spoken to me. The sneer on his lip was unmistakable.

  Fine, then. “I don’t care if you do or you don’t,” I said.

  “We poor orphans,” he said, “got no place speaking to our betters, when we owe the city of London our very lives.”

  I considered his words. “Is that what they tell you at the orphanage?”

  “It’s what they feed us. Along with our porridge.”

  I nodded. We girls at Miss Salamanca’s School knew how it felt to be reminded regularly of our inferior, if cherished, place as females. Adored like poodles, and respected about as much. Orphans’ lives weren’t exactly bowls of marmalade, but I’d never imagined that they, too, were getting a daily drubbing of the soul.

  “You’re no different,” the boy said. “Been trying to talk to you for days, but you’re too proud to talk to me. You and your stuck-up airs.”

  Oh ho! Was that how he read matters? And after I’d defended him—risking a beating and expulsion in the process. The ingrate. My thumbs curled around my fists. I spread my feet in a fighting stance. He was tall; I could use a low center of gravity to my advantage. “Is that what you think?” I cried. “I don’t care if you’re a poor orphan or the Prince of Wales. You’ll never get your hands on my…”

  I caught myself just in the nick of time. Drivers and footmen from nearby carriages were starting to take notice of us. And family visitors were starting to trickle out the door. Mr. Treazleton was bound to appear soon. The boy saw them, too. He turned, poised to spring across the street and around the corner to the orphans’ home. I grabbed his jacket sleeve and heard the rip grow larger as he tugged himself away.

  “Lemme go,” he hissed.

  I wouldn’t have, but I felt badly about his sleeve. I grabbed his wrist instead.

  “What’s your name?” I demanded.

  He tried to tug his hand free, and was surprised by my iron grip. “Tom,” he finally said.

  I let his wrist go, but not without first yanking him close so I could whisper in his ear.

  “You’ll never get your hands on my djinni, Tom. So keep your nose out of where it doesn’t belong.”

  Tom shook his hand free, then glared at me. “Listen well, Miss Stuck-up. Fair warning: I’ll get that djinni, if it’s the last thing I do. I’ll never give up hunting for it. Not so long as I’m alive.”

  “Then I hope you can stomach a life of disappointment,” I said.

  “Hope you don’t mind being hunted without a moment’s rest,” Tom said. “The moment you relax, that’s when I’ll make my move.” His eyes narrowed. “And you know I can do it, too.”

  I thought of the note pinned to my bed. Here was a foe to keep an eye on.

  More and more people were emerging from the front door of the school. I could tell Tom was anxious to leave. Why didn’t he? I wondered.

  “You talk an awful lot,” I said. “You’d better get home.”

  He took a long, hard look at me. When he opened his mouth, I expected another blistering attack. Instead I got a brief smile. It changed his look entirely.

  “Meet me tonight,” he said. “In your back garden.”

  I peered over my shoulder. Mr. Treazleton’s top hat was definitely visible now.

  “Get down!” I cried. Tommy ducked and hid behind me.

  “You’re barmy,” I said. “I shan’t meet you anywhere.”

  “Ten o’clock,” he said in my ear. “Tonight.”

  I watched the visitors pouring out the doorway. When I turned back to Tom, he was gone.

  And so were the licorices Polly brought me. Nabbed right out of my apron pocket.

  Thief. Well, good riddance. As if I’d ever keep a rendezvous with him!

  Chapter 7

  I made my own escape under cover of the bustle of girls bidding their parents goodbye, and drivers cursing one another as they jockeyed to be first to drive away. I had to avoid the schoolmistresses and make it to my bedroom, fast.

  I passed by Alice as she was delivering another rib-crushing hug to her grandmother, Mrs. Bromley.

  “Meet me in our room,” I whispered in her ear. She nodded.

  “Is this a special friend of yours, Alice?” Mrs. Bromley’s speech was elegant and refined—but most unwelcome now, when I needed to escape.

  “Yes, ma’am,” my roommate replied. “This is my roommate, Maeve Merritt.”

  “Ah! The energetic Miss Maeve you’ve written me so much about.” The old lady beamed at me. “Tell me, my dear, are your people from London?”

  I curtsied, all the while waiting in dread for the hand of a furious schoolmistress to yank upon my collar. “No, ma’am,” I said. “My family lives in Luton. But my father works in the city. At St. Michael’s Bank and Trust.”

  “Luton.” She nodded thoughtfully. “I had a friend from Luton once. Charming place. The trains run there now, don’t they?”

  I nodded. “That’s how my father gets to work.” Every second’s delay only worsened my panic. I had to get away. But perhaps Miss Salamanca wouldn’t arrest me while I was still visiting with Alice’s genteel grandmother.

  The old lady gave Alice’s arm a squeeze. “Alice, dear, you must invite Miss Maeve to ride those trains to London over the holidays for a visit. I’ll instruct Agnes to make her tiny coconut cakes specially for the occasion. Do you like coconut, Miss Maeve?”

  “Ever so much, Mrs. Bromley.” I’d had dried, sweetened coconut twice, and pineapple from a tin once. I’d even had a few bananas. Fruits from the tropics were wildly delicious, so much more exciting than our English fruits, though I would always be fond of strawberries, raspberries, and gooseberries.

  Mrs. Bromley clapped her frail hands together. “We shall count on your arrival, then, Miss Maeve! Our holiday won’t be complete without you, so please do come.”

  I curtsied once more. “I will come, gladly, ma’am, if my parents permit me. Excuse me. I must get indoors now. Miss Salamanca…wants to see me.” This was no fib, alas.

  Al
ice’s eyes grew wide. “Does she?” Alice hadn’t seen my episode with Mr. Treazleton.

  “Come soon,” I said, “and I’ll explain.”

  Mrs. Bromley’s valet assisted her gently into her carriage and bundled her tightly against the cold. I made my escape, doubling back around the side of the building to the servants’ kitchen doorway, and up the maids’ back staircase leading to our bedroom. One small advantage to my hours of menial punishment with the staff was that I knew all these secret escape routes.

  Alice found me rifling through her bureau drawers.

  “Oh, Maeve,” she said. “You’re not trying to summon your djinni, are you?”

  I sank onto my bed. “I need it back, Alice. When the last visitors leave, Miss Salamanca will come barreling in here breathing fire. I insulted Theresa’s father publicly. I may be drawn and quartered. At the very least, I’ll be locked up for a fortnight. I need my djinni before she comes.”

  Alice bit her lower lip. “But, Maeve! It’s so dangerous. The last time you summoned him…”

  “I won’t be stupid this time. I promise.”

  Alice wanted to believe me, I could tell, but was having trouble. “Shouldn’t I just keep it here a little longer, for safety’s sake?”

  A nasty feeling came over me. I looked at Alice sharply. She was trying to keep Mermeros for herself! Did she have her own secret wishes planned?

  No. Not Alice.

  But why not Alice? Perhaps she wasn’t quite the sweet, loyal creature I’d made her out to be.

  “Why are you looking at me like that, Maeve?”

  I controlled my voice with an effort. “It’s nothing. I just want my djinni, is all.”

  Alice sighed and entered the closet. I followed her in and was amazed to see her remove a shelf from the wall, revealing a narrow gap in the plaster just large enough to poke a sardine can inside. Honoria Brisbane would never have found it in a million lifetimes. Nor, for that matter, would I.