by Anne Nesbet
They started in again. Darleen was beginning to understand how it all worked, more or less, but it still seemed almost miraculous to her. Light came pouring in through the glass panes of the studio building, bounced off Mr. Williams’s body, and ricocheted into the camera through the unblocked parts of the camera lens. And then the light hit the chemicals coating the filmstrip and changed them, leaving a ghostly trace of Mr. Williams on the celluloid. But most of each frame had been covered up with that card to protect the image that was already there: Darleen in those dreadful ropes. Darleen thinking about what she wanted most in life. And after the film was processed, those two images would be there together, just as if they had been filmed at exactly the same time.
“It’ll be dandy,” said Uncle Dan. “Like magic.”
And then, also a bit like magic, Darleen’s Papa came striding back across the studio floor, and he was carrying a newly created title card very carefully in his hands.
“One last title card ready for your camera, Dan,” said Darleen’s Papa, and he held up the card, which showed something very like the front page of a newspaper, only somewhat more beautiful in its lettering, and there they were! The very titles she had suggested: “EXILED PRINCESS KIDNAPPED” and “WHO IS THIS MAN?” What’s more, in the middle column of the pretend newspaper was the picture of Darleen tumbling into the motorcar, with that kidnapper’s face right in the center of the frame, clear as could be. And, oh, a brilliant extra little touch: in the newspaper columns to the right of the image and the main headlines, Victorine had made sure to have the name Brownstone visible, as if by chance. Really, thought Darleen, the newspaper idea couldn’t have turned out more beautifully. It would put all of those wicked people on notice.
“It was Darleen’s idea,” said Darleen’s loyal parent (and there’s little that’s sweeter than hearing your Papa speak of you with such glowing pride). “And then that new girl, Miss Goodwin, made it look like gold. She’s got real talent, that new girl.”
At the end of the day, a happy trio emerged into the twilight outside the Matchless studios: Darleen, Darleen’s Papa, and Bella Mae, who was coming over to have supper and spend the night with the Darlings.
There were many rather daunting adventures to be faced across the Hudson River in New York City the next day, but now was now, a peaceful moment and one not to be missed. In life, even in the midst of storms and wars and film production, there are shutter-brief periods of peace and quiet — what people sometimes call grace — and those should be savored, since they are rare and since the storm will return soon enough.
Darleen’s father was glad to be headed home after his days spent as a coddled invalid at Aunt Shirley’s place. He was also pleased to have had a good day back on the job, and to have been able to rescue Episode Nine, thanks to the quick thinking of his own dear daughter, Darleen, and the pen-and-ink talents of that nice new friend of hers, the gifted extra, Miss Goodwin.
“Sausage-’n’-apples for supper, girls!” he said with an extra little lilt to his step. “Shirley sent me home with a string of sausages, bless her heart. I have them right here in my satchel.”
Darleen was happy to have her Papa back, and in what seemed very much like one piece. She was glad (but nervous) about the plan she had worked out for tomorrow and hopeful (but nervous) about all those different pieces coming together properly. And it felt very, very good to have Victorine here beside her and not having to hide like a rat in the dressing room.
“Your Papa is such a good and kind man,” said Victorine now as the girls fell a little behind Mr. Bill Darling and leaned their heads together. “I really think, Darleen, that we should tell him the truth —”
“Most of the truth,” Darleen interrupted. “Oh, that’s what I was thinking too. He needs to know that we should bar the doors of the house, and I think he can be trusted not to hand you over to the Brownstones or the police, now that he knows you. It can be our new motto, Victorine: As Truthful as Possible.”
“That’s a fine, fine motto,” said Victorine. “Not as perfect as ‘Completely Truthful All the Time’ would be, but I’m pretty sure that Grandmama, under the circumstances, would approve.”
This is a short chapter because happy scenes don’t last very long in adventure serials. But be assured that the Darlings (and Victorine) had a lovely evening together, and Mr. Darling learned a great deal about the previous few days that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up, but those feelings of horror faded quickly because there was Darleen, right across the cheerfully patterned oilcloth tablecloth from him, and there to his right was Miss Goodwin, for whom he had developed over the course of that one day a great deal of respect and affection. Whatever name she might choose to call herself seemed fine with Darleen’s Papa. And the sausages were very good, too.
The next morning at 8:30 on the dot, a fine new motorcar pulled up in front of the Darlings’ small and ramshackle house, where two eager (but nervous) young people stood waiting in freshly pressed clothes: Miss Darleen Darling and Miss (Victorine) Bella Mae Goodwin (Berryman).
Madame Blaché was not at the wheel today (although one felt certain that she would be as competent behind the wheel as she was on a horse or directing a film). She explained as she hopped out of the rear seat in greeting: “Good morning, my dear snake charmers! In my experience, those in the lawyerly professions are very sensitive to those little clues pointing to class and position. So as you see, I have brought my driver along with me today, and we will be careful to do everything very properly. How are your hats and gloves, girls?”
They were fine (after some emergency laundering the evening before). Not quite as elegant as Madame Blaché’s — but of course that degree of elegance was rarely achieved by mortals.
“Excellent,” said Madame Blaché, and she told the driver to take them down to the ferry, “without taking any truly inordinate risks on the turns today, since there are guests in the motorcar.”
“And now for a brief review of the day’s program,” Madame Blaché continued. (A person who makes films understands the art that has to go into constructing a schedule.) “There is the newly discovered version of Madame Berryman’s will, yes, to present to this Mr. Ridge. That I understand. But first we will procure the evidence of your identity, Miss Berryman.”
“From my dear old home,” said Victorine with a sigh. “Yes.”
That was the riskiest and most daring part of their plan.
By the time they were on the ferry, everyone had an assigned role in the operation. Madame Blaché even volunteered her driver, whose name was Henri, as an honorary coconspirator, and he graciously accepted.
“So perhaps Mr. Henri can knock at Mr. Brownstone’s door,” suggested Darleen, “and ask some made-up questions that will lure him away from the house for a moment, and while he talks Mr. Brownstone’s ear off, Victorine and I will slip into her house through the servants’ door in the back and run up to her room and down again in the fewest possible minutes.”
“And will it be so easy, going right in through the servants’ door?” Madame Blaché asked, but her voice stayed calm.
“I have carried the key around my neck all this time,” said Victorine, and she showed them her necklace, which was really two keys on a pretty chain.
“Then that’s settled,” said Madame Blaché. “And you are not in the least bit worried about running into other people in your house, people who might not be so . . . friendly?”
“Mr. Brownstone fired our old servants already weeks ago,” said Victorine. “To save money, you know. There’s his sister, Miss Brownstone, but she tends to keep to the fancier rooms downstairs. I think we have a reasonably good chance of avoiding unfortunate encounters.”
“An adventure, then!” said Madame Blaché as the buildings of Manhattan grew nearer and the ferry blew its whistle. She seemed quite pleased to be part of this complicated plan thought out by her young snake-charming friends. “Off we go!”
It took a whi
le to drive from the 125th Street ferry building to Victorine’s neighborhood on the East Side (on Fifth Avenue, if you please). It was a genuine mansion, among many other grand buildings, and as they drove by, they had to swerve a little to avoid a taxicab parked right out in front, into which a small woman in fashionable black clothes was just then stepping, assisted by a young man whose face was hard to see because the motorcar was in the way.
“Oh!” said Victorine, shrinking back a bit. “It’s Miss Brownstone!”
“Going somewhere,” said Darleen. “That’s good for us, isn’t it?”
Madame Blaché had the driver park discreetly around the corner, and then she sent him to the mansion’s door to inquire at great length about an incorrectly delivered package.
“Henri was an actor in France before he became a driver in Fort Lee, New Jersey,” said Madame Blaché as her driver rounded the corner. “I think he is relishing this unusual opportunity to use his talents.”
“How will we know when he has gotten Mr. Brownstone out of the building?” asked Victorine.
“I myself will stroll to the corner, I think, to observe the clearness of the coast,” said Madame Blaché.
Darleen had to remind herself to breathe. Oh, please let this work!
Victorine and Darleen watched Madame Blaché, and then watched Madame Blaché some more, and then all at once she turned very slightly and nodded to them: Time to go!
Victorine led Darleen quickly down the street, not running exactly, since they didn’t want to draw attention to themselves. They passed the front steps and then ducked down a little service alley, where there was a side door meant for receiving deliveries.
Victorine lifted her chain over her head and used one of the keys to open the door.
“Oh, good!” she said in relief as the door swung wide. “I did have worried moments when I wondered whether that Mr. Brownstone might have gone and changed the locks. Up these stairs, now — very quietly, just in case.”
They slipped up those stairs as silently as two breaths of wind, except for a squeaking stair that caught Darleen’s left foot by surprise.
“Oh, dear,” said Victorine. “I should have warned you about that step. Now here’s the door to the upstairs hall.”
It was such a grand hall! There were mirrors on the walls, and art from all around the world, and, with a few dead or dying plants in the most elaborate porcelain planters in certain corners, it looked like a place that was beginning to lose hope that its true people would ever return.
“Oh, Darleen,” said Victorine, suddenly stopping short. “Suddenly I feel . . . I feel . . .”
“Of course you do,” said Darleen. “But you mustn’t, not now. Don’t think about anything. We are here to grab whatever documents you most need and leave. We can’t let ourselves get stuck!”
So Victorine shook her head to clear it of old thoughts and opened the door to her bedroom, where it was Darleen’s turn to gasp and get stuck. It was the loveliest room Darleen had ever seen, with a large window seat (with Victorine’s books strewn upon it), a comfortable-looking canopy bed with fancy curtains looped around it, rugs upon the floor in which little woven birds hopped cheerfully through winding woolen branches, bright pictures on the wall, and a venerable old rocking horse in the corner. The colors were all soft greens and blues, comforting and lovely. It was, in short, the perfect nest for a child who would grow up knowing she was loved and wanting for nothing, as long as her doting millionaire grandmother could manage to provide it.
“You really live here?” Darleen whispered in awe.
“Yes, oh, yes,” said Victorine. “Between travels, I do. Or did, I suppose. Oh, Darleen — all my books! Oh, look at them! There they all are. The fairy tales! And A Christmas Carol!”
You could well believe that this room belonged to a girl whose heart’s dream was to become a world-wandering librarian!
Darleen had never seen such beautiful bookcases. They were built along the walls on either side of the windows, with more books beneath the three angles of the window seat itself. And along the tops of the bookcases was an assortment of wonders: little porcelain statues of a milkmaid and a cow, a snow globe with a tiny Eiffel Tower in it, and the sweetest, smallest brown teddy bear Darleen had ever seen, tipped ever so slightly to one side. Someone had balanced a gold locket in his fuzzy arms. He was so tiny that it looked almost like he was carrying a shield.
Hanging on the wall was a sketch of a baby smiling in her parents’ arms, along with a pretty painting of a goatherd tending animals near a cottage in what Darleen suspected was the Alps.
For a moment, Darleen turned slowly around and around, soaking in all the particulars of this magical room, and then she straightened the little bear so that he wouldn’t look so sad. But that didn’t help; the bear pleaded with her not to leave him behind.
Victorine, meanwhile, was pulling books off a shelf, paging quickly through them and sadly blowing dust off the tops.
“So many happy hours,” she was saying, when suddenly there was one of the most horrible sounds Dar or Victorine had ever heard in all their lives: the slam of the majestic oak front door, two floors below.
The girls froze.
“Victorine,” said Dar as quietly as she could. “Is that —?”
“Oh, no!” said Victorine. “Oh, no! I think it may be Mr. Brownstone! Oh, quick!”
She started pulling books off the shelf, fast as fast.
“Victorine!” said Darleen. “Shouldn’t we —”
“There it is!” said Victorine.
A thin leather box was now in her hands. She tucked it into her sash and jumped to her feet.
“And now the back staircase!” she said. “Quick!”
But before taking another step, Victorine stopped and took one last look around the room. Dar felt herself trembling, half from wanting to skedaddle and half from sheer sympathy on Victorine’s behalf.
How hard it must be to leave so many memories behind.
“Thank you, dear everything, and for now, at least, goodbye!” Victorine said to the books and the pictures and the rocking horse, and then she took Darleen’s hand.
“Now we must be very fast and very quiet,” said Victorine. “Here we go.”
She opened the door into the hall an inch’s worth, and they listened. Footsteps were coming up the main staircase quite fast.
So they fled! They made their way down the hall to the back staircase. Victorine went ahead, and Darleen followed fast.
But as she took her first step onto that wooden staircase, a voice came bellowing from the other end of the hall:
“What’s this!” it said. “What’s going on? Is it you, Victorine? THIEVES!”
There was one second when Darleen was stopped in her tracks by the sheer anger in that voice, and then Victorine said, “Hurry!” and Dar’s feet started moving again while the angry man — Mr. Brownstone, she assumed — came pounding heavily down the hall.
The girls scurried down those stairs faster than either one of them had ever descended a staircase before. There is nothing like being chased by an angry, dangerous, shouting man to make your feet move like the wind!
At the bottom of the stairs, they lost about half a second as Victorine fiddled with the door latch with trembling hands, and then they were back outside in the little alley. And there — oh, wonder of wonders! — was Madame Blaché’s motorcar, blocking the Fifth Avenue end of the alley so that it could be as close to the girls as it could possibly be. Its rear door swung open, and a voice with the loveliest of French accents was saying, “Quickly, quickly, girls!”
And twenty seconds later, Dar and Victorine had tumbled into the motorcar. It left the curb with a jolt, before Mr. Brownstone had gotten even halfway down that alley. Madame Blaché settled back in her seat with a smile on her face. She seemed to have enjoyed this adventure.
“Tell me, Miss Berryman, did you manage to find that document you wanted?”
“Oh, Madame Blaché, I
did!” said Victorine, and she pulled the thin leather box from under her sash, where she had so carefully tucked it.
She opened the lid of that box. Inside were a couple of what looked like letters, folded, and an old official-looking document of some kind.
“What’s that?” asked Darleen.
“That’s my birth certificate,” said Victorine. “My Grandmama impressed on me that it is always important to have some means of proving who you are.”
She thought a minute.
“Or, you know, who you used to be,” she said more quietly. “If you are now becoming a different person entirely.”
“That all sounds perfectly sensible to me,” said Madame Blaché. “And now, off we go to discuss things with Mrs. Berryman’s lawyer.”
That was when Darleen realized her hand was still clenched around something small and fuzzy.
“Oh, look at this, Victorine!” said Darleen, unfolding her fingers. “I forgot: as we were leaving, I grabbed it for you. I thought . . .”
In her hand was that tiniest of teddy bears.
“I thought . . . He didn’t seem to want to be left behind,” said Darleen.
Victorine took the little bear from Darleen slowly, like somebody to whom a small wonder has come when utterly unexpected.
“My Theo!” she said. And then she gently plucked the locket from his small arms. “And look what else he has. My Grandmama gave this to me.”
Inside the locket were two tiny photographs. Victorine’s breath seemed to catch in her throat a bit as she looked at them.
“See, these are my parents,” she said, pointing to the man and woman on one side. “I remember my father some but not, of course, my poor mother, though I hear she was very accomplished. And on this side here is my dear, dear Grandmama.”
Even in that miniature portrait, Darleen could see that the old woman had eyes that practically crackled with intelligence and good humor. She did look like a person who would greatly enjoy guiding someone through the wild places of the world.
