Wishes and Wellingtons

by Julie Berry

  He laughed again. “It’s a shame you weren’t born a boy, Miss Maeve,” he said. “I’d bring you on at the firm next year and make a great man of you before long.”

  I saw my opening and I took it, and I twisted the knife as it went in. “Is that how you feel about Theresa? Is it a shame she wasn’t born a boy?”

  His mouth hardened. “I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your mouth.”

  I nearly stuck my uncivil tongue out at him, but I was a tad too old for that.

  “What is that you’ve come for, Mr. Treazleton? I’ll need to return to class momentarily.”

  He gave me a withering look. “Let’s not pretend we don’t know, shall we?”

  “Actually, let’s do just that,” I said. “What do you want?”

  He banged the heel of his cane on the floor so violently I nearly jumped. “I want—” He realized he was speaking far too loud, so he shifted to a strained whisper. “I want that djinni, and I want it now!”

  My mind spun.

  Could he be toying with me?

  But why on earth would he?

  He didn’t have it. He didn’t have it! Who did?

  It wasn’t Theresa who stole it?

  Mr. Treazleton believed I still had it!

  A glorious vision burst before my eyes: The Treazletons didn’t have my djinni. Perhaps it was still right here at Miss Salamanca’s School. If it was, I’d sniff it out like a cat sniffing, well, sardines.

  But there was Mr. Treazleton, glaring at me. Was there any good I could squeeze out of a situation like this? Oh, why hadn’t I spent more time letting Aunt Vera teach me whist, instead of cricketing with village boys? Then I might be better at forming strategies, and keeping a straight face to conceal devious plans.

  “In case you need further persuasion, Miss Merritt, I shall make my intentions fully clear to you. I have already planted the seed of doubt about your father’s scruples, his honesty and integrity, with my old associate, Mr. Edgar Pinagree, manager of St. Michael’s Bank and Trust. All that remains is for me to offer confirming proof that your father has mishandled bank funds for his own gain, and he’ll be sacked, never to be hired at an honest establishment in Britain again.”

  My fists, my old friends, leaped to my side. Fat good they’d do me here.

  “You know my father hasn’t mishandled a farthing,” I said through gritted teeth. “You know he hasn’t. He wouldn’t. He’s not that kind of man.”

  Mr. Treazleton shrugged. “Is he? I couldn’t say. I hardly know him. Nor do I care.” He tapped my shoulder gently with the edge of his cane. “What I do know is that his daughter is so greedy, so stubborn, and so selfish that she would ruin her father’s career in order to keep a whimsical plaything she fancies.”

  Oh, there were so many retorts I could make to this, I didn’t know where to start. Silently, I fumed and raged, boiling inside my own skin like a potato in a hot oven. I wished for a moment that I had the old sorcerer’s ring still. I could call down some diabolical punishments upon Alfred P. Treazleton without a second thought.

  The sorcerer king. On second thought, he may keep his evil, far away from me. Next to him, Mr. Treazleton might as well have been made of pillow down.

  He interpreted my silence as defeat. “Now. Miss Merritt. Will you produce the djinni, and we can put this whole unpleasant business behind us?”

  I took a deep breath, grasping at the ether for the words I needed. I wanted to sound quite grown-up and official.

  “I am not able to produce it at this moment,” I told him. “For…safekeeping, I have placed it somewhere where I am not able to obtain access to it without some difficulty.” This might be a vaguely true statement.

  His eyes narrowed.

  “Are you lying to me? I can always tell when people lie to me.”

  I prayed he was bluffing. “Do you think I’d be such a fool as to keep something so valuable lying around, within anyone’s easy reach?” That was precisely the fool I’d been. But Mr. Treazleton didn’t know that.

  “Very well, then,” said he. “I shall return to the school tomorrow morning, under pretense of needing to speak with the headmistress about matters of business. I shall be here by eight o’clock, before your classes begin.”

  I nodded.

  “I shall expect you to come to the headmistress’s office with a package for me. You can say that it’s, oh, let’s see…” He puckered his lips in thought. “Say that it’s a book you borrowed from Theresa, and then I asked her to give it back to me.”

  “That’s a pretty flimsy story,” I said. “Do you really expect Old Sally to believe that?”

  His eyes bulged. “‘Old Sally’?” He grimaced as if my rudeness was a bitter taste in his mouth. “Frankly, I don’t care a fig what ‘Old Sally’ thinks. Bring me the package. If you don’t—if I get back into my carriage with no djinni in my possession—I will drive straight to St. Michael’s Bank and Trust and give Mr. Pinagree more than enough proof of your father’s perfidy. He’ll be out on his ear before nine thirty in the morning.”

  We glared at each other. He clutched his cane so vehemently that for an instant I thought he planned to strike me with it.

  “Do we understand one another?” he said.

  I reached for the doorknob. “I can’t begin to guess what you’re capable of understanding, Mr. Treazleton, but as for me, I believe I understand you as well as I need to.”

  And before he could sputter and rage at me, I opened the door and left him there.

  Chapter 28

  For the rest of that day’s classes, I was worse than useless. Miss Guntherson rapped me on the knuckles with a ruler in French class for not paying attention to the imperfect subjunctive conjugation of se souvenir, to remember. As if I would ever remember how to use it. Or care. All I could think about was: if Theresa Treazleton or one of her minions didn’t steal my sardine can, then who did?

  If whoever took it opened it, they would discover Mermeros, and their lives would never be the same. They, themselves, would never be the same. I was certain of it. I wasn’t the girl I’d been ten minutes before I found Mermeros in the dustbin.

  This caught me up short. I was different. I’d changed. Had Mermeros been right?

  Never mind.

  If it wasn’t someone in Theresa’s crowd who had my djinni, it could be any girl. But that girl would be different now. She’d be…excited. Scheming. Planning. Distracted. Devious.

  Just like me.

  I studied each girl in French class, and in deportment, and in maths. They all looked the same to me. No one seemed to be stewing in a deep secret. They looked like girls who resented returning to school after winter holidays.

  Just like me.

  At teatime, I watched the table where the instructors took their tea together. Miss Plumley made a special point of drizzling their scones with melted butter and honey. She was no fool. Getting the teachers on her side was a wise move.

  What if I had it all wrong? What if it wasn’t a girl who’d found my sardine can, but a teacher? Perhaps a teacher had overheard me talking to Alice about sardines?

  But why would a teacher remain on Miss Salamanca’s penny-pinching payroll if she’d discovered a djinni? If I were old enough to make my own decisions, without parents telling me what to do, and I’d accepted employment here, then found a sardine can with a djinni inside, I’d give notice in a trice.

  Oh. Oh my.

  What if someone had found the sardine can but not yet discovered Mermeros? What if they’d never opened the can? What if they’d just put it back somewhere where food belonged?

  What if even now it sat on the larder shelves?

  I could barely hold still. Imagine. Imagine! What if it was that close, and right within my grasp?

  As soon as I could slip away from my plate of toast and cup of tea, I raced
downstairs, but two kitchen maids, stirring pots and basting mutton, blocked my path to the larder and left me no choice but to try my search later that night. I didn’t know how I could stand to wait. My only consolation was that dinner was delicious. Succulent mutton, not even a little bit burnt. Miss Plumley was a vast improvement.

  After dinner, I pried a novel out of Alice’s hands and, in my most hushed whisper, told her all about my talk with Mr. Treazleton. Her eyes grew wide as moons.

  “But if he doesn’t have it…” she whispered. “Maeve, what does this mean?”

  I took both her hands in mine. “I think it means someone stole the sardine can, and they have it still. I suspect they haven’t opened it. I think, if they had, we’d know.”

  Alice shook her head in astonishment. “But, why take it, if you didn’t know what it was, or if you didn’t plan to eat the fish? What other reason could there be for stealing a tin of sardines?”

  “A prank?” I said. “Or someone who thought the sardines belonged in the kitchen? I plan to search the larder tonight after lights-out.”

  “Maeve, you can’t,” Alice protested. “You’ve already gotten into trouble too many times. Miss Salamanca will expel you if you’re caught poking around the kitchen, after all your other incidents.”

  “I have to, Alice,” I said. “If I don’t find that sardine can, my father will be sacked tomorrow. His life will be ruined. And I’ll definitely be kicked out of school. No matter what, I’m going sardine fishing tonight.”

  Alice groaned and flopped back on her bed cushions. “I’m turning into a criminal,” she moaned. “What will my poor grandparents think when they lock me up in Newcastle?”

  I laughed. “How are you turning into a criminal?”

  “Well, someone’s got to come with you, of course,” she said, “to make sure you don’t get caught. I believe that’s called being an accomplice to the crime.” She made a wry face at me. “You’re a bad influence on me, Maeve Merritt.”

  “Yes, but you’ve got to admit, I’m never boring.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You might want to try it sometime.”

  We tiptoed down the back stairs toward the kitchen in our stockinged feet, keeping to the edges of each stair to reduce the creaking. This routine was becoming all too familiar. Perhaps Alice was right. Perhaps I was leading her down the slippery slope to a life of crime. I could just see drawings of us in the London newspapers, as a shocking pair of criminals, robbing kitchen larders of their supplies of fish.

  “This is hardly amusing, Maeve,” Alice whispered. “Stop giggling.”

  We reached the bottom stair and were headed toward the kitchen when the sound of low voices and a closing door pinned us to the spot. Alice gestured to me to go back, for heaven’s sake, but I crept farther down the corridor. I wanted to hear who was talking. I heard Alice sigh and tiptoe along after me.

  “You poor thing! You’re soaked. Here, have a seat by the stove, and I’ll put the kettle on.”

  It was Miss Plumley’s voice. I heard the strike of a safety match and the whoosh as she turned on the gas stove and lit the burner.

  “Th-thank you, miss.” It was a woman’s voice, sounding like a young one, and sniffling. Crying, even.

  “Have a biscuit, dearie,” urged Miss Plumley. “Have all you like.”

  I hoped she wouldn’t want too many. I needed this impromptu party to end quickly.

  But the crying woman wept all the harder. “You’re too good, ma’am. And me, a stranger!”

  “Oh, tut-tut. None of that,” said Miss Plumley. “I’ll have a nice cup for you as soon as the kettle’s hot. Meanwhile, tell me, who struck you like this? Was it your young man?”

  I inched closer to the kitchen. This was getting interesting. A young man, striking a girl on the streets of London? Right outside my school? I’d sock him, if I saw it happen.

  The young woman’s indignant voice rose. “I never! I’m respectable, miss. I don’t have a young man about anywhere.”

  “Hush,” whispered Miss Plumley. “You’ll wake the students.”

  “She did this to me,” sniffled the young woman.

  “Who’s she?”

  “My mistress,” sobbed the younger voice. “My wicked, horrible mistress!”

  Alice and I exchanged glances. Alice mouthed words at me. “Is that…?”

  I bit my lip. Her voice almost did sound familiar, but I couldn’t think how.

  Miss Plumley was shocked also. “Your mistress struck you across the face? Hard enough to leave a mark?”

  Alice gasped. I turned and held a finger over my lips.

  “That’s right,” said the young woman—a servant, it seemed.

  “You mean to tell me,” said our incredulous cook, “that the lady of that house, there, the one where no expense has been spared to deck it out fit for a queen overnight—that’s the lady who struck you like…like some brawler in an alleyway?”

  The other person blew her nose. “She’s no lady,” she said angrily. “She may dress like one, but she was never raised by the proper sort. Speaks like a barmaid and swears like a sailor. To see her eating at the table makes a body lose her appetite, I can tell you that. And lazy! She’s the laziest thing you ever saw. She won’t so much as reach over to her own dressing table to fetch a mirror, but what she rings the bell for me to get it for her!”

  “You poor girl,” Miss Plumley said in a soothing voice. “I never heard of such a thing in all my life.”

  “When she’s vexed, she hits me. With a hairbrush, or a paperweight, or anything nearby.”

  The teakettle began to sing, and footsteps moved about the kitchen. I heard water being poured into a cup.

  “Is that what happened tonight, then?”

  “Yes, miss,” the unfortunate servant said. “I dropped a tray and broke a china plate. When I’d picked up the tray, she snatched it from me and struck me with it. And this isn’t the first time.”

  “It’s the most appalling thing I’ve ever heard,” Miss Plumley said. “To strike your servants! To use objects as weapons. It’s shocking.” I heard the clinking of china. “Sugar?”

  “If you don’t mind,” the young woman said gratefully. “I’ll never go back. I won’t. She can keep my wages, but I’m through working there.”

  “Of course, you are,” Miss Plumley said. “You ought to summon the police. That’s what you ought.”

  The younger woman blew upon her tea to cool it.

  “Who is your mistress?” Miss Plumley asked. Just what I would’ve liked to ask myself.

  The younger woman clinked her teacup on her saucer. “She calls herself ‘Baroness Gabrielle’…something—something French, but I’m certain she’s not saying it right. She talks like a vegetable hawker off a stall in Covent Garden. If she’s French, then I’m a poodle. If she’s a baroness, I’m the empress of France.”

  France hadn’t had an empress for quite some time, and the previous empress was now a widow living in England, somewhere in Hampshire, but this was not the time to point that out.

  I heard some plates and dishes rattling about. “Are you hungry for something more substantial than biscuits? I have cold mutton and good bread. I could make you a sandwich.”

  “No, thank you, miss, I ate earlier.” The young woman laughed bitterly. “Baroness Gabrielle is awfully fond of cold meat sandwiches.” She took a noisy sip of tea. “And that’s not the only thing queer about her. She has a closet in her bedroom, locked up with half a dozen keys, which nobody can enter, under penalty of getting sacked. What’s she got in there, do you suppose? A dead body?”

  Somebody rose to their feet.

  “A dead body’s what I’ll be, come morning, if I don’t get to bed right away,” Miss Plumley said. “Come along, dearie. There’s an extra bunk in my room, and you can get some rest there. In the morning, w
e’ll figure out what’s best to do to help you.”

  One more long, noisy sip of tea. “You’ve been ever so good to me, ma’am,” the girl said. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  Alice tugged desperately on my sleeve. We only just managed to slip around the corner and exit the hallway before Miss Plumley and her grateful charge left the kitchen and headed toward the cook’s sleeping quarters.

  We waited a moment or two to make sure no one returned, then crept into the kitchen and searched the larder from top to bottom. Every shelf and cupboard and drawer in the entire kitchen, too. I found delicious things and disgusting things and mysterious things and boring things, but nowhere was there a sardine tin to be found.

  We tiptoed back upstairs, out of ideas, and out of time.

  Chapter 29

  We opened the door to our room only to find Winnifred Herzig sitting at my desk and doodling on my ink blotter. She jumped like a nervous rabbit when she heard us come in.

  “Winnifred!” I said. “What are you doing here?”

  She wouldn’t look up at me, but chewed on her lips and drummed her fingertips.

  “What is it, Winnifred?” Alice asked, much more gently than I had done. She put her arm around the younger girl. “Tell us, what’s the matter?”

  “That’s right, Winnie, tell us,” I said. “Has someone been mean to you? We’ll teach them a lesson.”

  Winnifred shook her head vehemently. She clenched her hands together on the desk, but her fingers squiggled like fish in a net.

  “I’ve been the rotten one,” she whispered at last. “I’m so sorry, Maeve!”

  Finally, she looked up at me.

  “Sorry for what?” I asked.

  She scrubbed at her eyes with the back of her sleeve. “For getting you expelled!”

  Alice turned to me. “Have you been expelled, Maeve?”

  “Probably,” I said, “but no one’s told me yet.”

  Winnifred’s bleary eyes opened wide. “But…I heard you! Just tonight! Talking about getting expelled!”

  I folded my arms across my chest. “What were you doing, Winnifred? Eavesdropping at our door?”