“He has to have a uniform,” Snout said. “Everyone’ll know he’s not a student if he’s wearing that.”
The boy wore high-collared shirtsleeves and buckled-at-the-knee trousers. Though both were crusted in mud, they weren’t tattered and billowing like the Higglebottom’s uniforms. He looked like a muddy Perishable, not a ghost.
“He’s closest to your size, Snout. Fetch him an extra of yours.”
But when Frank tried to put on the frayed shirt and trousers, they just floated through his arms and legs. It seemed Perishables couldn’t wear ghost clothes.
“Well, there’s that plan busted.” Bathwater sounded as disappointed as Ace felt.
Ace, however, was not one to give up easily. “The Hauntings Department has an entire storeroom of things that aren’t made of phantom fabric. We could make him a uniform.”
Snout nodded enthusiastically. “We could.”
“How are you at walking quiet so you don’t make a sound?” Ace asked Frank.
“Never tried it.” The boy made a go of it.
His first few attempts were dismal. He’d make a rotten ghost as loud as he was. The element of surprise was key to any proper haunting. Stomping around would give him away straight off. But as he slowed down, he got quieter. After a lot of attempts and a lot of advice, Frank could move with an impressive degree of stealth.
When he spoke, he didn’t sound much like a ghost, but Ace couldn’t pin down what it was about his voice that gave him away. That bit of training would have to wait until he pieced the puzzle together. “Don’t talk to anyone but us. That’ll sort that difficulty.”
“But we do have to worry about his face,” Snout said.
“A fine thing to say,” Frank said, “considering I know why they call you ‘Snout.’”
Even Snout laughed at that. This Perishable was going to fit in nicely.
“I think he means your face isn’t pale enough,” Bathwater said. “We could tell you weren’t a ghost right from the start, and we hadn’t seen your clothes or heard you walking or anything.”
Frank turned to Ace. “You’re heading this expedition. What do you suggest?”
While Ace pondered the trouble of Frank’s complexion, the silence was broken by a sound never heard at Higglebottom’s School for the Dead: a stomach growling.
Frank’s already too-colorful face turned redder. “I’m a little hungry.”
“We have food here,” Ace said. “We don’t have to eat it, but there’s plenty around.”
“I’d die for just a bite or two.”
Ace chuckled. “Seems to me you’d die without a bite or two.” He turned to Snout. “Could you sneak a bit of food up for Pudding, here?”
“Pudding?” Bathwater asked. “Is that his name now?”
“He’s aching for food. Seems to me, naming him for food would be fitting.” He held Frank’s gaze. “What do you think?”
The Perishable shrugged. “I don’t mind.”
“‘Pudding’ it is.”
Snout slipped from the room.
“I know why I’m called what I am, and where Snout’s name came from.” Pudding looked at Bathwater. “Why do they call you ‘Bathwater’?”
Ace was the one who’d given him the name, so he was the one who answered. “Because he objected to being called ‘Baby.’”
“So you threw out the ‘Baby,’” Pudding said, “with the ‘Bathwater.’”
“A brilliant solution if you ask me.” Ace had figured out another “brilliant solution” for their current difficulty. “While Snout’s fetching you food, let’s see if we can’t find a classroom with a good amount of chalk dust. We’ll have you pale as death in no time.”
“And then?” Pudding asked.
“As soon as we’ve got a uniform for you, we’ll test your disguise with a stroll around the school.”
Pudding looked intrigued but wary. “And if the disguise doesn’t work?”
“Then Bathwater, Snout, and I won’t be the only ones of the four of us who’re dead.”
Ana visited her father on Thursday that week, which was unusual, but Elizabeth had invited her to attend the opera on Friday evening, and she had decided she would rather forgo the weekly teachers’ calling time than miss a chance to enjoy an entire evening of music.
She let herself in, as always, and made her way to the empty bedchamber beside her father’s. It had been her mother’s, but now stood empty except for a curio cabinet in the corner and a small square table and slat-back chair in the center. All the other furniture had either been sold or stolen.
Careful not to make noise, she opened the cabinet. She pulled her recently reacquired figurine from its hiding place beneath a loaf of bread and a bundle of apples. Ana carefully placed it beside Grandfather’s silver snuffbox and Mother’s enameled opaline powder box. She turned it slightly, posing the porcelain girl so she kept her violin tucked a little out of sight, a bit coy and a bit shy. It had always stood that way in her bedchamber.
The curio cabinet held treasures she’d reacquired over the past couple of years. Bits and pieces of her childhood, of her parents, of a life that had been stolen from them. She kept a list at Thurloe of the items she wanted back, who had taken them, and where they were now. She likely had years of questionable activities left before she marked off the final treasure.
If only Father hadn’t entrusted his business to a corrupt partner. If only he’d realized his partner’s crookedness sooner. If only polite society had proven truly polite instead of a flock of vultures.
She had enough “if onlys” to drown in. She’d far rather stay afloat.
Pasting a smile on her face, she slipped out once more, closing the door and moving into Father’s room.
“Good evening, Father.”
“Ana. You’ve come on a Thursday. What a treat.”
That he was happy to see her did her heart good. A person living separate from her family, spending her free time attempting to undo the damage done to her loved ones by heartless people, could easily grow cynical. Ana did her utmost not to let that happen.
“I am engaged for tomorrow evening, and I could not go an entire week without seeing you.”
He smiled at her, a sad but loving sort of smile. “You are a good girl, Ana.”
“Is Mr. Thompson behaving himself?”
“The Thompsons left London. Wallace heard whispers amongst the neighborhood servants that the Thompsons have a cousin who’ll be living there for a time.”
“You’ll still have plenty to watch, then.”
Father’s spirits must have been high that day. He shook his head in amusement, something he did not always allow. “I will make you a full reporting next Friday.”
Ana handed off her basket of foodstuffs to Wallace.
He lowered his voice to keep his next comment between the two of them. “Someone broke into the house yesterday.”
Ana’s stomach fell.
“Heard more’n one voice,” Wallace said. “Lots of footprints in the dust. Two, prob’ly three thieves. Never came up the stairs.”
“Did they steal anything?”
Wallace’s brows shot up and his mouth turned in amusement. “There ain’t nothing to steal.”
There had been the last time thieves had descended upon this house. “Does my father know?”
“He’d only fret,” Wallace said. “I ain’t meaning to mention it.”
“That is likely for the best.”
Father wasn’t senile or in a state of mental deterioration. His struggles were born of loneliness and isolation, guilt and bitterness. He hid from the world as a way of punishing them, and likely himself. It was both terribly complicated and painfully simple.
She crossed back to her father and sat on the ottoman near his chair. “What are you reading?”
He held up a penny dreadful.
“That is the newest by Lafayette Jones, I believe.” She had read a few of his works. His tales were light and fun, perfect for younger readers. Indeed, she’d slipped a copy of the first installment of this most recent tale to one of her students who struggled to read.
“Wallace read Jones’s work first. He introduced me to them.” Father nodded. “A fine thing, that.”
“What do you think of this school for ghosts he has concocted?” she asked.
“Brilliant. Children will find the idea vastly entertaining.”
“Have you read any other of the penny dreadfuls?” She enjoyed having something pleasing to discuss with him.
“I like those ‘Urchins of London’ stories.”
“By Fletcher Walker,” Ana said with a nod.
“You’ve read them?”
She smiled. “I’ve met Mr. Walker.”
Father took in a quick breath. “Truly? Is he a respectable sort? One hears whispers about these authors.”
“His speech isn’t overly proper, but neither is it offensive. He acted the perfect gentlemen at the musicale we both attended. And he is good friends with Mr. Hollis Darby, who comes from a notable family. In fact, I am to attend an opera tomorrow and sit in a box with both gentlemen and some other very fine people.”
“Thompsons have a box at the opera.” Father’s eyes darted to the front-facing window as he spoke. “I wonder if these cousins taking up residence will use it.”
“They well might.”
Conversation shifted to the neighbors. Ana’s father watched the world around him but never joined it. Ana wasn’t certain he even knew how to do so anymore.
As she made to leave an hour or so later, she pulled Wallace aside. “If any other precautions are needed to secure the house, I will do my best to acquire the necessary funds as quickly as possible.”
“You’re a right’n, Miss Newport. Good to your father, you are. He oughtta tell you that more often.” Wallace suddenly seemed to realize what he’d said. “Not that I think it m’place to criticize the man I work for, mind you.”
“You didn’t,” she assured him. “You offered me a much-needed compliment. One, I assure you, I appreciate.”
She left with only kind words to buoy her heavy spirits. Father seemed unlikely to emerge from his self-imposed exile, and she was living her life in the shadows.
But she had an opera to look forward to. Music had always been her escape. She would cling to it.
Ana donned the same gray silk gown she’d worn to the musicale. If Elizabeth noticed the fashion faux pas, she didn’t say anything. When Mr. Walker arrived in the hackney and he didn’t point out her repeated wardrobe either, Ana’s nerves began to settle.
As they walked toward their box for the evening, Elizabeth whispered to Ana, “Fletcher has spoiled me for operas. We’ve attended several in this box, and I don’t believe I could ever attend one sitting anywhere else.”
“You have become very highbrow, Elizabeth,” Ana said with a laugh.
“Apparently.”
All around them, jewels glittered, and fine gowns swished about beside finely tailored jackets and silk top hats. Attendees discussed the finer points of that evening’s opera or performances they’d recently enjoyed in this particular venue. There were some aspects of Society Ana truly missed: trips to the theatre, musicales, conversation at soirees.
They stepped into the box to find Hollis already waiting. Since starting to work at the Darby house, she’d begun thinking of Hollis by his Christian name in an attempt to keep the Darby brothers straight.
“Miss Newport.” He offered her a bow. “I had hoped you would be available to attend this evening. Miss Black said Fridays often see you occupied.”
“I was able to rearrange my schedule,” she said. “It has been an age since I attended the opera. I’ve missed it.”
“Tonight’s offering is Fidelio, Beethoven’s only opera,” Hollis said. “Considering you played one of his pieces at the musicale, I thought you would enjoy this night’s selection.”
“You are very thoughtful,” she said.
He appeared to blush, but so slightly she couldn’t be entirely certain. She liked that it was possible he, a gentleman of significant standing, could color up at a compliment. Too many thought approval was their right.
Before another word could be spoken, Alistair Headley stepped into the box. Mr. Headley had once been a regular caller at Thurloe, but he’d not been there even once since Elizabeth and Mr. Walker’s mutual affection had become apparent. He was a touch too arrogant with a tendency to assume that every woman was, by default, intellectually inferior to him.
“Headley.” Hollis’s greeting was one of both surprise and displeasure.
Mr. Headley eyed Mr. Walker with the slightest pursing of his lips. “I see the bar for opera attendees has been lowered.”
Mr. Walker didn’t give the least indication he’d been insulted. “And you saw that, when? Lookin’ in the mirror?”
Elizabeth set her hand on Mr. Walker’s arm. “Ana and I will take our seats. The three of you can fluff your feathers until the curtain raises.”
Mr. Walker’s smile was one of amused mischief. Ana suspected she would like him a great deal if she came to know him better.
She walked with Elizabeth to the chairs at the front of the box and took the middle two. Below, the pit was teeming with working-class people, some even lower class than that. If not for Hollis’s generosity, she’d have been limited to watching the performance from there, if at all. The box was decidedly more comfortable and far more luxurious. It was a treat, indeed.
Behind them, the gentlemen had not ended their posturing.
“I thought your brother would be in his box tonight,” Mr. Headley said.
“The box belongs to the Darby family, of which I am a part,” Hollis answered. “I am using it this evening.”
“A pity for the box,” Mr. Headley drawled.
“Have you come strictly as a grievance monger?” Mr. Fletcher asked. “Or did you mean to jaw at us all night?”
“One would think an author would speak proper English,” Mr. Headley said.
“What is it you want?” Hollis’s question seemed equal parts invitation and exasperation.
“I needed to talk with your brother.”
Ana looked to Elizabeth out of the corner of her eye. Her friend was clearly paying very close heed to the conversation behind them.
“I can relay a message to him,” Hollis said.
“We were meant to meet tonight, have a bit of a lark. He said he had other plans.”
“You want me to tell my brother that he wounded your feelings?”
Elizabeth barely held back a laugh. Ana found herself smiling as well.
“He agreed to—” Whatever Mr. Headley meant to say, he apparently thought better of it. “Do you know where he went this evening—since he’s obviously not here?”
“Odd, Hollis,” Mr. Walker said. “You never told me you were your brother’s social secretary.”
“I can think of no occupation I would rather have,” Hollis answered dryly.
“You two are imbeciles.” Footsteps sounded—frustrated, angry footsteps—fading into silence.
The two gentlemen joined them, Mr. Walker sitting on Elizabeth’s other side, Hollis on Ana’s.
“What is Mr. Headley’s connection to your brother?” Elizabeth asked.
Hollis’s gaze settled on the stage below but didn’t seem to truly focus. “Randolph and Headley have known each other a couple of years, but only as passing acquaintances. Something has changed of late.”
“I don’t like it,” Mr. Walker said.
In a mutter just above a whisper, Hollis said, “Neither do I.”
The curtain rose, but Hollis see
med unable to focus. After a half hour of seeing his distraction, Ana leaned toward him. “Do you need to look in on your brother?”
That seemed to pull him back to the moment. “Forgive me, Miss Newport. I am proving a poor companion.”
She shook her head. “My thoughts are seldom present with me when I am concerned for people I care about.”
“Your students?”
“Always.” They were seldom far from her thoughts, especially those who were struggling in some way. “And my fellow teachers, and my father.”
“Worry over my father occupied the vast deal of my time in the last years of his life,” Hollis said. “I hope yours is less of a weight on your mind.”
Ana never discussed her father with anyone. How odd that she felt at ease doing so with Hollis.
“I would worry less if he needed me less,” she said. “I am not often with him, and he is alone much of the time.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” he said. “Is your father ill?”
“Ill of heart.”
Hollis nodded. “My late mother could have been described that way. The weight of the world eventually broke her heart.”
“I am sorry to hear that.” She set her hand in his, squeezing his fingers. “Losing my mother was one of the hardest things I ever experienced.”
He wrapped his fingers warmly around hers. “Sometimes I feel very alone in my grief.”
They sat there, hand in hand, as the opera continued. And, as they did, an odd thing happened. Ana’s heart rested in a way it hadn’t since before Father had told her his business had failed, all their money was gone, and he was likely to be prosecuted for fraud. She’d been, to some degree or another, fearful every moment since.
“Sometimes I feel very alone, too,” she whispered.
“If you ever wish for a listening ear or a supportive shoulder, those happen to be my two best features.”
She set her free hand on his arm, keeping their other hands entwined. For the length of this one evening, she would let herself find in him the support and understanding so often lacking in her life.
He was a member of a respected and elevated family, a welcome part of the very Society from which she was distanced. Her poverty and lowered status had created a chasm. The necessity of taking up sneak thievery to regain what had been taken only broadened that gap. There was no escaping that reality.
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