by Susan Green
“SP, what are you trying to tell me?”
“The fact is, Verity,” said Daniel, “Pierre isn’t keen for you to continue with inquiry work.”
I frowned but said nothing, and Daniel went on, “He hasn’t forbidden it, but …”
“But why?”
“He doesn’t think it’s suitable work for a young–”
“Young lady,” I said bitterly. If I heard those two words again, I was going to scream.
“Listen to me, Verity,” said SP. “Pierre has suffered greatly. His first wife passed away. He lost your mother in a fire and he thought he’d lost you as well. Then Alexander died, in the most terrible circumstances. But, amazingly, he found you again, and though it must seem like he wants to wrap you in lamb’s wool, he’s only anxious to keep you safe. Be patient with him.”
Judith patted my hand. “Pierre really does want what’s best for you.”
“Oh!” I said crossly. “Why doesn’t anyone listen to what I think is best for me?”
The three of them looked sympathetic, but I knew Papa. Kind and lovable and stubborn as an ox. There would be no more detective work if Papa was set against it.
Judith was sleepy, so soon after, they all said goodnight. I stayed in the drawing room. I was glad they’d gone, for I didn’t feel sociable any more. In fact, I was downright grumpy. Why did Papa have to meddle? First he didn’t want me to write. Then he conspired with Mrs Rowland to send me to that silly school. And now he was trying to stop me from helping SP and Daniel with confidential inquiries. Didn’t he understand that I couldn’t just sit around in a pretty dress, embroidering doilies and talking about the weather?
I looked up at Papa’s portrait and sighed. And then sighed again. The picture had been painted by our dear friend, the artist James Tissot, and given to Papa as a gift. Mr Tissot had caught Papa as no one else could. He looked noble, wise and kind, like one of those big lions in Trafalgar Square.
There was a soft knock at the door. “Do you need anythin’ else, miss?” asked Kathleen.
“Warm milk, please,” I said.
I didn’t wait up, but somehow I couldn’t sleep until Papa came home. I was wide awake anyhow. I went over and over what SP had said to me, about the tragedies in Papa’s life, and the terrible events that brought us together.
“The trouble with you, Verity Sparks,” I scolded myself, “is that you are much too fond of having your own way. It won’t hurt you to do what Papa wants for a change. A school for young ladies isn’t exactly prison.”
And perhaps a change from mystery and mayhem would do me good.
I heard the front door open, and Papa’s shoes clicking on the tiled floor. His footsteps sounded on the stairs and the creaky corridor floorboards. He stopped outside a few other doors until he found mine, and I nearly laughed out loud. That’s what comes of having such a large house, I thought.
“Papa?”
“Yes, ma fille. I’m making sure that you’re safe and sound.”
“Papa, I have made my decision. I would love to go to Hightop House Academy for Young Ladies.”
“Oh, Veroschka, I’m so glad. You will learn lots of new things and make many friends. And whatever you do, I will be very proud of you.” He blew me a kiss and shut the door.
Oh, Papa! Then and there I promised myself that I would make Papa’s life easier, not harder. And if all it took was a term at an exclusive girls’ school, why not?
4
STARTING SCHOOL
Now, you mustn’t think I’m ashamed of my past – of being adopted by Ma and Pa Sparks and working as a milliner’s apprentice. Because I’m not. But considering Papa’s plans for my social success at Hightop House, I began to wonder whether I’d told Lottie Rowland too much.
Lottie was just eleven years old, with a mop of curly black hair, big brown eyes and an irrepressible smile. You wouldn’t guess that she’d nearly died of scarlet fever and only now was well enough to start school. She’d had a lonely time in the past year, poor thing. At our first meeting, when she and Mrs Rowland had come to Alhambra for afternoon tea, she cuddled up next to me as if we’d known each other always.
“You and me are going to be best friends, I know we are,” she whispered.
“Verity, why don’t you show Lottie your dolls?” suggested Mrs Rowland.
Dolls? I’d never had any. Besides, I was nearly fourteen. But I took Lottie to my favourite place in Alhambra. It was a little tower up on top of the house. Mrs Morcom said it reminded her of a chamber-pot, but I wasn’t artistic so what it looked like didn’t bother me. It was breezy and private, and the view across the bay was wonderful. But Lottie wasn’t interested in the view.
“Let’s tell each other everything about ourselves,” she said. “I’ll go first. My name is Charlotte Victoria Rowland and I’ve got a dog called Muffin and a canary called Pip, and I like reading – don’t you? – and I’ve got a brother called Bertram …” She prattled on, and ended up with “… and my best friend is you.”
“Thank you, Lottie,” I said. I couldn’t help smiling at the childish way she spoke. I hadn’t had a girlfriend since I’d shared the attic room with Beth at Madame Louisette’s, and Lottie was very sweet.
“Your Papa sounds foreign,” was her next remark.
“That’s because he was born in Russia.”
“Ooh,” she said as if I’d told her he was a cannibal.
“He’s lived in France and Germany and Canada as well.” And I used a phrase I’d heard from SP, which I thought summed up Papa very well. “Papa’s a man of the world.”
“He’s frightfully rich, isn’t he? Oops!” She put her hand over her mouth and giggled. “Mamma says it’s rude to talk about money, but you know, the grown-ups do it all the time.” She looked me up and down and then said suddenly, “But you don’t sound foreign. Why not?”
I laughed. “Because I’ve lived all my life in London.”
“With your mother?”
“Yes, and no,” I began. “My mother died when I was a baby …”
Mrs Morcom had recommended that only trusted friends be given the whole story, but just then her good advice flew out the window. I was only up to my apprenticeship at Madame’s when I realised my mistake. Lottie was sympathetic. Very sympathetic. Just in the wrong way.
“You had to live above a shop? You had to eat in the kitchen? Oh, you poor thing.” She shuddered. “Dear, dear Verity! How horrible it must have been for you. How could you bear it?”
“It wasn’t so bad. Madame was always kind to us girls,” I said. “We got paid on time. We were well fed, not like some. And the other girls were very nice.”
Lottie caught my tone and she said quickly, “How loyal you are, Verity. Please, go on.”
I gave only the sketchiest account of my time with the Plushes, not mentioning Alexander or the Confidential Inquiry Agency. I also left the subject of teleagtivism well alone. I completed my biography with a happy ending.
“… and it turned out that the Professor’s friend Mr Savinov was my father.”
“Just like a fairytale. You’re so brave, Verity.”
“There wasn’t much else I could do.”
“I would have died.” She squeezed my hand. “I’m so glad we’re friends, aren’t you?”
I returned the pressure of her hand. “I’m glad too,” I said.
But now, on my first night at Hightop House, while Lottie prattled away as she helped unpack my trunk, I wondered if I should ask her not to repeat my story. She was such a scatterbrain, she might just blurt it out. On the other hand, she may well have forgotten. In the end, I said nothing, for two other little girls came creeping in. Their names were Hattie and Emma, and they were Lottie’s roommates.
“I’ll put that away for you,” offered Hattie, snatching up my straw hat.
“I will,” said Emma.
“I knew her first,” said Lottie, jealously. “I’ll do it.”
“No, no,” I said, laughing. “Bet
ween the three of you, you’ll pull that hat to bits. Emma, why don’t you …”
The girls suddenly froze. They were staring straight past me, so I turned. A girl was standing in the doorway. She was tall, with dark hair and eyebrows and strong features. She held herself very erect, almost as if she was a young queen.
“Hello, Jethie,” whispered Emma, who had a lisp.
“Buzz off, you lot,” said the girl, coming in uninvited. “Go on. Shoo!”
“But we’re helping Verity–” began Lottie, but the girl cut her off.
“I said out.”
“Come on, Lottie,” said Hattie, taking her hand.
Lottie stopped to give me a quick kiss, and the three girls scurried out of my room.
“So you’re the new girl.” She mimicked Emma’s lisp. “I’m Jethie.” She laughed, but I didn’t. “Jessie McGryll.”
“Of Gryll Grange, near Hamilton,” I said, remembering Mrs Enderby-Smarke’s boast.
“That’s right,” she said, looking rather surprised.
“I’m Verity Sparks-Savinov,” I said with what I hoped was a friendly expression. So far I didn’t like this girl, but I was new to the school. I mustn’t offend anyone. At least not on my first day.
“Where do you live?”
“In St Kilda.”
“St Kilda’s very fashionable. What does your father do?”
What did Papa do? “He’s in business,” I said.
“My father owns one of the largest properties in the Western District. How old are you?”
“I’m nearly fourteen,” I said.
“I’m fifteen.” She sat on my bed and inspected my scarf and then my gloves. “These are smart.”
I didn’t think much of her manners, but I said, “Thank you.”
“You have very nice things.” She put down the gloves and held up my hat. “Is this new?” Before I could answer, she walked over to the chest of drawers. “What’s in here?”
She pointed to my jewellery box. I didn’t have any jewellery to speak of – just my lucky piece – but it was a good place to keep things I didn’t want to lose, like the trunk key, my buttonhook and any special letters. She opened the lid, poked around and then picked up an envelope. “What’s this?”
“It’s from my father,” I said. When he’d left me at Hightop House that afternoon, just before he’d headed to the docks, Papa had tucked an envelope into my hand. I’d opened it after the carriage had disappeared around the bend in the drive. There was a pound note inside, and in Papa’s bold, upright script, a letter of farewell. By now he’d be on board ship. When the tide was right, the steamer would go through Port Phillip Heads and begin its voyage along the coast to Sydney and then Brisbane.
“What does it say?” Before I could stop her, she began to read. “My dearest daughter, good wishes and of course, all my love–”
Without comment she refolded it, put it back and fished out the lucky piece on its silk cord. But I’d had enough of her prying ways. I held out my hand and after a few seconds, she dropped it onto my palm. She then went back to my hat.
“Very nice,” she said, trying it on in front of the mirror. “By the way,” she added casually, “I’m Head Girl.”
Was I meant to be impressed? “I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t know what that is.”
“The Head Girl,” she said, rolling her eyes as if she was talking to an idiot, “is a Senior who is entrusted by the principal with keeping discipline among the younger ones. Like Lottie, Hattie and Emma.”
“I see.”
“The school is grouped into Juniors and Seniors. Though we all share the same dining room, upstairs each group has its own separate sitting room and sleeping areas. Those three little bugs are supposed to stay in their own part of the school.”
“Oh,” I said. Lottie would be so disappointed, but at least I knew she wouldn’t be lonely without me. She’d made two good friends already.
I heard a bell ringing and then suddenly the sound of feet in the passage outside.
“It’s teatime,” said Jessie. “Miss Deane asked me to fetch you.” She jumped off the bed and put her arm through mine. “I’ll show you the way. I’m hungry, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I–” But Jessie interrupted me. I could see she was a very interrupting sort of person.
“Come on,” she said as she steered me along the passage and down the stairs. “You can sit with me.”
“I promised I’d sit with Lottie.”
“Surely you don’t want to sit with those insects!”
“I promised,” I said.
Jessie let go my arm. “Suit yourself then,” she said. “See if I care.” And she flounced off ahead of me.
Hmm, I thought. If my social success depended on a friendship with Jessie McGryll, I might just have to be a failure.
5
FRIENDS AND OTHERS
The dining hall was a large room, lit now in the late afternoon by gas lamps, and decorated with framed engravings. I had a quick look. More blood and gore. I guessed the Colonel was responsible for that part of the decoration. With over thirty girls sitting down to tea, the noise was overwhelming.
I looked for Lottie. So did Jessie.
“Her table’s full,” she said with an air of triumph. “Here are the Seniors. Move over, Emily. Make room for Verity.”
“Sit here, next to me.” Jessie pointed to a chair underneath The Charge of the Light Brigade. She took her place beside me, under The Battle of Waterloo. Miss Deane looked up and gave a quick smile, but her face had none of the mischief and sparkle that I’d seen before. In fact, she looked downright glum.
“Thank you, Jessie, for fetching Verity. Since Verity is starting later in the year, she won’t know our routines, but I’m sure you’ll all be very helpful. And now, I will introduce your classmates. Jessie you already know. This is Emily Potter.”
She was a brown-haired, bespectacled little dumpling. But I noted she had a firm chin and a very determined set to her mouth. She smiled.
“Welcome, Verity,” she said.
“Alice Hankin.”
Dark, with rosy cheeks and flashing brown eyes. Rather good-looking, except for her peevish expression. She’d been exchanging glances with Jessie; my guess was they were best friends.
“Jemima Penrose.”
Thin, mousy, nervous. One tiny nod and then she applied herself to the study of her napkin ring.
“Louisa Marriott.”
Another mouse. She gave me a frightened glance and looked away.
“Laura, Grace and Annabelle Fanshawe.”
Three “Good evenings”. Three smiles. Three blond heads turned on three swan-like necks. It took me a few seconds to realise that they were triplets. And they weren’t girls, really. They must have been at least seventeen.
“And this is Consolata McTavish, but we all call her Connie.”
What an odd mixture of names, I thought. Consolata – which sounded Spanish – and McTavish, which had to be Scottish. Connie had thick chestnut hair, beautiful creamy skin and large grey eyes. She was wearing an old-fashioned dress of mustard-yellow wool. A tarnished silver locket hung on a ribbon round her neck. She didn’t meet my eyes, but I didn’t sense she was unfriendly. Just shy and rather sad.
Who among the Seniors are possible friends? I wondered. Emily, I was sure. Connie, and perhaps the Fanshawes. Jemima and Louisa? It was hard to tell. But as for Alice – like her friend Jessie, I predicted she would be trouble.
Miss Deane said a brief grace and then began to pour from the big brown teapot. I was hungry, so I took a couple of slices of bread from the plate, buttered them and spread them thickly with strawberry jam. I was just about to take my first bite when a loud voice from the other side of the table said, “Look, Miss Deane. The new girl has taken butter and jam.”
I felt everyone’s eyes on me.
“Thank you, Alice,” said Miss Deane. “But since Verity is new to Hightop House, we’ll let it pass for this evening, s
hall we?”
Butter and jam, I thought. What’s wrong with that?
“Yes, Miss Deane,” said Alice, sneaking a spiteful look my way. I saw her grin at Jessie. What a pair of cats, I thought. I could think of a few other words to call them, but manners prevented it.
“You may have butter or jam, Verity, but not both,” said Miss Deane, handing round cups of weak, milky tea. I liked my tea sweet, but I didn’t like to ask for the sugarbowl. What if sugar was rationed as well?
When we’d finished and the two maids were clearing away, Emily spoke quietly to Miss Deane.
“Where is Miss Smith?” she asked.
“Miss Smith was taken ill while she was on holiday,” said Miss Deane.
I must have looked curious, for Miss Deane turned to me and explained, “Miss Smith is the Senior class mistress. I am filling in for her.”
“When will she be coming back to the school?” asked Emily, looking concerned.
“Though she is recovering nicely, Emily, I’m afraid she won’t be back this term.”
Miss Deane was lying, I could tell. She sounded as if she had rehearsed the answer a dozen times.
“So girls,” she said, “Mrs Enderby-Smarke has decided that I am to be your class mistress until Miss Smith returns. I know I can depend on you all to help me.” She ended this little speech by looking around the table.
“Of course, Miss Deane.”
“Yes, Miss Deane.”
“Yes.”
Jessie and Alice just sat there with blank faces.
“You may go upstairs,” said Miss Deane. Her shoulders sagged in a discouraged sort of way. Then she took a deep breath and said brightly, “I will be up later.”
While the girls of Hightop House had stampeded downstairs for their tea, under the watchful eye of Miss Martindale, the Junior class mistress, they assembled quietly and filed upstairs in pairs. We Seniors waited till they reached the landing, and then Jessie and Alice took the lead. I hung back until I was next to Emily Potter. Connie McTavish was right behind us.
“What happens now?” I asked Emily.
