by Emma Jameson
Ben, who actually had been run down in the street, and had the limp to prove it, patted his neighbor reassuringly. “Don’t be afraid. We’re going the same direction, remember? I’ll be with you every step of the way.”
He glanced over his shoulder, wondering again where Mr. Ainsel had buggered off to, and saw the door to Howell’s Nonesuch was shut. The picture window was dark, the heavy blackout curtains in place. Somehow the little man had scampered back inside and closed up the shop without making a peep.
“Mr. Ainsel was an odd duck, wasn’t he?” Mrs. Parry said as they made their way home under a starless sky. “Mr. Howell is a bit dull, and rarely has anything worthwhile on offer, but there’s something to be said for a reassuring manner. Do you suppose we’ll ever see that little man again?”
If I don’t keep my promise, Ben thought with a prickle of unease, I suppose I just might.
Chapter 2
“Ow!” cried Juliet Linton-Bolivar.
“That didn’t hurt,” said Dinah, who had recently been promoted against her will—and Juliet’s—to the old-fashioned position of lady’s maid.
“I beg your pardon.” Juliet turned away from the vanity to look at Dinah, who stood behind her with hair brush in hand. “How on earth are you able to ascertain what the individual nerve endings in my scalp do and do not feel?”
“I barely touched you. Lady Victoria gave me this brush. It’s the same one she used on your hair when you were a baby.” Dinah’s tone, like her expression, was colorless. A whey-faced, freckled girl of sixteen, she’d joined the staff of Belsham Manor after her mother died. The maids and cooks enjoyed an easy camaraderie, especially now that the much-feared housekeeper, Mrs. Locke, had been discharged. But Dinah, Mrs. Locke’s former whipping girl, remained withdrawn. She rarely spoke, and what little she did say tended to be unhelpful, if not downright sullen.
Fingering the tortoiseshell brush’s extra soft bristles, she added, “I don’t like this any better than you do. But Lady Victoria was quite firm. Milady.”
“Well. My goodness, Dinah. From you, that counts as a virtual soliloquy.”
Dinah froze. Juliet had seen that look before, on the faces of certain crofter’s children. It was the look of one who’d been taught from birth that saying the wrong thing would be answered with a slap, a punch, or worse.
“A soliloquy,” Juliet explained gently, “is just another word for speech. Monologue. An uninterrupted address of some length involving multiple words. You’ve been exposed to soliloquies before, have you not? During a church play or pantomime, perhaps?”
“Yes, milady. But not in church. Only from you, milady.”
Thank heavens Ben isn’t here, Juliet thought. He’d tease me mercilessly.
Of course, it was rather silly to imagine Dr. Bones in her bedroom. It was a place he had no business visiting, especially now that she’d been forced into a sham reconciliation with Ethan. But her heart was stubborn, and her last encounter with Ben had taught it to hope.
“Yes, you’re quite right, I do speak in soliloquies from time to time,” Juliet said briskly. “After so many years without intelligent discourse, I learned to generate my own. As for the word ‘milady,’ I’d prefer if you jettisoned it. Too many honorifics before dinner spoils my digestion. Now. Let’s get on, shall we?”
“Yes, mi—yes.”
Juliet faced the mirror again, forcing herself to watch as Dinah brushed her hair. The new color, honey-blonde, and the new cut, a bob that could be smartened up with pin curls or a jeweled barrette, was still strange to her. For the first couple of days she’d literally jumped whenever she passed a mirror and glimpsed a towering woman with cinema-star hair.
Her deep blue dress suited her better than any she’d ever owned. The dressmaker, whom Lady Victoria had brought in from Paris, had “a gift for draping stupendous women,” as he’d announced with a heavy French accent. Each bespoke creation emphasized her waist—or, more accurately, made it look like she had one—while turning her broad shoulders and long legs into assets. Allowing her still-lovely, ever-stylish mother to reinvent her had made Juliet feel attractive for the first time in her life.
Then there was Ben’s reaction. When he’d looked upon the “new” Juliet for the first time, staring unabashedly and at a loss for words, she’d felt more than attractive—she’d felt pretty. Not as pretty as Rose Jenkins, of course, but pretty enough for him, which was all she’d ever wanted.
Unfortunately, the old Juliet had never learned to do anything with her limp brown hair except scrape it back into an unflattering bun. A short hair style required careful preparation. The old Juliet had treated her clothes, mostly bought from the men’s section of mail-order catalogs, with the same degree of care she accorded flour sacks. Fine fabrics with delicate zips and laces would be ruined if treated that way. The old Juliet never wore makeup—it seemed like a minefield—and was even shy about choosing her own accessories, particularly hats.
That was where Dinah came in. Lady Victoria had decreed Dinah would assist Juliet until she was sufficiently comfortable maintaining her new look on her own.
“Very well. Recommence the brushing and styling,” Juliet said. “I’ll endeavor to behave. And if we’re going to be a team, we really must get to know one another better. How about a round of Impertinent Questions?”
“I don’t know how to play,” Dinah said. Her reflection in the mirror looked wary.
Juliet didn’t know how to play, either, as she had only just made up the game. That didn’t stop her from delineating the rules with great authority.
“It’s simple. Two women play in secret. They agree, under pain of death—”
“Death?”
Sometimes Juliet forgot how very childlike Dinah was under that sullen shell. “Very well, not death. Under pain of inconvenience, they agree to never repeat anything said during the game. Mutual trust is essential.”
Dinah continued brushing Juliet’s hair, watching her face in the mirror.
“We take turns asking one another impertinent questions,” Juliet said. “Whatever the question is, it must be answered. You can say pass only once. If you pass twice, you lose.”
“I have a feeling I’ll say pass twice,” Dinah said. “Best not to play.”
“But wait. The game is played for stakes as well as bragging rights. We must each ante up. The offering needn’t be material. But it must be satisfactory to each woman. In my case,” Juliet said, reaching for a jeweled pin she’d seen Dinah admire, “I shall put up this pin. If your questions are so impertinent that you force me to say pass twice, it’s yours.”
Dinah goggled at the pin. It was actually quite lovely—gold and garnets, perfect for Christmastime.
“I’d like to win,” she breathed. “But what could I put up? You have everything.”
“Nonsense,” Juliet said. “I have no one to help me deliver meals to the shut-ins this week. Another pair of hands—cheerful hands, connected to a dutiful body and a smiling face—would be much appreciated. Agreed? Capital! I shall issue the first query. Please recall the name of the game is Impertinent Questions, not Meek Chatter for Ninnies.”
“I’m ready,” Dinah said, switching on that what-is-this-world-coming-to device Lady Victoria had bought on a hairdresser’s recommendation: the self-heating electric curling rod. It looked harmless enough, sitting in its ceramic cradle, but it went from cool to warm to volcanic so fast, Juliet had learned to guard against sudden movements. She’d already singed off a patch of arm hair, thanks to a grandiose gesture.
“Very well, Dinah. They say you’re an orphan. Is that true? Have you any living relatives?”
“One.”
Juliet waited eagerly. Nothing else was forthcoming.
“Yes, well, that’s a start. Perhaps I should write what constitutes an acceptable answer into the game’s bylaws. The answer cannot be yes or no. And it must possess a certain revelatory quality.”
“What?”
“It h
as to be worth hearing. These living relatives of yours. Who are they?”
“I have a brother. He was a Borstal boy. Never heard from again, but he used to say he’d run away to New Zealand. Maybe he did,” Dinah said. “There’s my dad’s mum. She might be living. Dad said she used to go from pub to pub, game for anything. Only the good die young.”
“I abhor that particular saying,” Juliet said.
“I don’t.” Dinah held her palm over the electric rod to gauge its warmth. “It means my mum was good.”
Juliet felt fortunate to be sitting in front of a mirror. It reminded her to arrest the look of horror creeping over her face, and replace it with something that Dinah wouldn’t mistake for condescension. “How sad about your mother. And how did you lose your father?”
“He buggered off when we needed him most.” Dinah wrapped one of Juliet’s tresses around the rod. “Is it my turn to ask a question?”
Juliet nodded, and gasped.
“Don’t! I could burn your scalp. Er, right. My question.” Dinah took a deep breath. “Why are you pretending to take Mr. Bolivar back?”
“Good God!”
“You did say this isn’t Meek Chatter for Ninnies.” Dinah’s eyes glinted. Life hadn’t kicked all the spirit out of her yet.
“Yes, well, when it comes to Impertinent Questions, you’ve proven yourself a prodigy. Here is my answer: pass.” Juliet sat quietly as Dinah unspooled a perfect blonde curl. When the next tress was safely wrapped, she said, “And here is my second question. If you could snap your fingers and be anything in the world, what would you be?”
“Some man’s wife.”
“Yes, of course, that’s a given. I mean you. Personally.”
“A lady’s maid.”
Juliet groaned. “We aren’t playing Obsequious Replies. Tell me the truth or pass.”
It took Dinah a few moments to muster an answer. “I’d be in charge of the WI.”
“The Women’s Institute? Why?”
“Because when those ladies speak at the podium, everyone listens.”
Juliet filed that away for future rumination. “Well done. Your turn.”
“Are you in love with Dr. Bones?”
It was perhaps fortunate that the question was posed when Juliet had a hot steel rod to her head, or she might have spoilt everything with an accusatory outburst. Allowing Dinah to unspool that curl and wrap the next tress gave Juliet time to remember two things. First, she herself had proposed the game and made the rules. Second, Dinah was clearly more perceptive than her colorless façade suggested. She’d put her finger on the question Juliet most wanted to be asked—a truth that came clear only after it was spoken aloud.
“Once again, Dinah, I must say well done. At this time, I can do nothing but pass. Therefore, the game is done and the pin is yours.”
Dinah squealed. It was the first time Juliet had heard the girl emit such a joyous sound, making the entire experience worthwhile.
“That was an agreeable way to pass a quarter-hour,” Juliet said. “But now I’m famished. How much more frippery must I endure before I’m permitted to show my face at dinner?”
“Three curls on the other side for balance. Powder, lipstick, and mascara. Then you can go downstairs to Lady Victoria and Mr. Bolivar.” Dinah spoke more easily; playing Impertinent Questions had loosened her tongue. “You said, ‘at this time.’”
“Beg pardon?”
“At this time,” Dinah repeated, unwinding another curl. “Does that mean if I ask about Dr. Bones the next time we play, you might answer?”
Juliet pondered the question seriously. Two people knew of her feelings for Ben. One was her mother, Lady Victoria. The other was Ethan Bolivar, the man whom she could no longer think of as her husband, not even in jest. Both had guessed the truth; it appeared that Dinah had, too. How lovely it would be to talk about Ben, to share her hopes and frustrations with someone other than her mare, Epona, who hardly seemed interested.
Of course, as Father Cotterill liked to point out, “the birds sing in Birdswing,” which meant that in their village, twittering gossips were legion. Confiding in Dinah might be foolish. Then again, Dinah had recently been at Juliet’s mercy over the kind of secret that occasionally drove women to throw themselves off bridges, visit back alleys, or disappear. In Dinah’s case, the baby had been discreetly adopted, giving them both a second chance at life. Juliet had never breathed a word, and she never would.
“I can’t explain about Mr. Bolivar,” Juliet said. “By that I mean, I am quite literally prohibited from discussing the matter. Believe my motives to be noble, for they are. Certainly they have nothing to do with—” She cut her eyes toward the elephant in the room, the enormous Linton heirloom bed. “I sleep alone, as you’ve apparently guessed. Beyond that, please don’t ask about Mr. Bolivar. But Dr. Bones ….” She smiled at herself in the mirror. “Dr. Bones is fair game.”
Chapter 3
Letty Smith lived on Pigmeadow Lane, in what had once been the most disgraceful dwelling in Birdswing. Called the Crow’s Hut, it was the last surviving remnant of that loose collection of “nooks, crannies, thieves, and grannies” that made up Old Crow village. Respectable hamlets, like the neighboring village of Barking, still bore the traces of their medieval forbearers. In such pedigreed villages, even after fire, flood, or rapacious progress took its toll, any amateur historian could tell where the castle had been, where the sixteenth century market had stood, et cetera. Birdswing was different.
Until the newly-created Sir Thaddeus Linton arrived around 1840, Old Crow was a conglomeration of shacks, back-to-backs, hideaways, and unlicensed watering holes. It seemed to have no working population, only miscreants on the lam and old women whom no one wanted. Some were sharp-tongued widows. Some kept too many cats. One was said to be a witch. She’d built the Crow’s Hut herself, so the story went, which accounted for why the Council declared it a public nuisance by 1932. The undressed stone walls were sturdy enough, but the much-mended tin roof (really just a collection of shipyard metal cobbled together) and grease paper windows were more than Lady Victoria could bear.
Over the vigorous objections of Letty, who could still walk in those days, if she used two canes and took it slowly, Lady Victoria had hired men to replace the rusted tin with a shingled roof. A week later she’d sent them back to replace the paper windows with shutters. The Crow’s Hut was still technically in violation of certain Council resolutions, including minimum number of rooms (it had only one) and plumbing (it had none, only an outhouse and a hand pump, both located in the back garden). But compromise was the essence of any community, and Letty was something of a Birdswing institution. If they forced her out of her home, where would she go? The workhouses were shut down, thankfully, and pensioner’s homes were open only to a few.
“Come in! It’s a foul weather day, Dr. Bones,” Letty called in answer to his knock. “Storm’s rolling in. Nothing for me to do but hold fast.”
Letty’s bed was located beside the cast iron stove. Kindhearted villagers had provided pillows, a patchwork quilt, and a bedside table. Her cup and water jug had been pushed aside in favor of Mrs. Parry’s mermaid.
“Isn’t she beautiful?” Letty asked. “Presents should wait until Christmas Eve, of course, but dear Edwina wanted me to have her right away. Mind my feet, Doctor,” she added, as Ben opened his bag and put on his stethoscope. “Can’t even bear a coverlet against them this morning.”
“So I see,” Ben said. The patchwork quilt was pulled up to Letty’s chin, but her lower legs stuck out like raw red sticks. Her knees were inflated, as always, and her bony feet hurt to look at. The great toes were twice the size they should have been, the smaller toes frozen with unnatural bends. There was only one effective treatment for rheumatoid arthritis, a combination of aspirin and bedrest, and for Letty, neither did much. In the big cities there were clinics that would gladly inject patients with gold, irrigate their colons, vaccinate them with viral combinations or attempt to
exercise them into remission, but Ben viewed all such treatments with skepticism. Besides, Letty could barely make it from The Crow’s Hut to St. Mark’s for the yearly Easter service, much less hop a train to London.
He went through the motions of an exam, but nothing had changed, which was probably as much as he could hope for. Letty looked better, and that in itself was a victory. Her gaunt face was haunted by the ghost of prettiness; the deep lines, white hair, and missing teeth didn’t eradicate the symmetry of her features or the sweetness of her smile.
Having taken her pulse, listened to her lungs, assessed her joints and asked the usual questions, Ben pulled up a chair for the heart of his visit. There was only one thing she needed that he could actually give her, and while it was time-consuming, it was not difficult.
“Where were we?” she asked, picking up the porcelain mermaid and turning it over in her hands. “The Mermaid of Padstow?”
“We finished that.”
“Ah. The Mermaid of Zennor, then,” Letty said. “A bard carries tales for all places and all sorts. I learnt tales of giants and wights for the kiddies, because they like things what go bump in the night. I learnt stories of doomed romance for the ladies, and tales of adventure for the gents. But I had it wrong. In the pubs, the ladies let down their hair. They want bawdy stories and jokes. It’s the fishermen in their cups who like pining hearts and doomed romance.” She chuckled. “Can you picture it? Beefy blokes who swilled rum like water fell dead quiet for mermaids and magic and hopeless love.”
Ben made a noncommittal noise. Letty seemed to catch that. There was very little she didn’t catch.
“Lucky for you, this one contains a bit of hope.” Her eyes sparkled. “Do you know St. Senara’s church? It stands on a green hill overlooking the sea. Once upon a time, St. Senara’s had a very impressive vicar. He preached against worldliness and wickedness, as vicars do. He thought his wisdom pulled in the people each Sunday, but it didn’t. They came to hear the choir’s angelic voices. Whether their songs of praise carried on the wind up to Heaven, I know not,” Letty said, falling into a storyteller’s cadence. “But their sweet voices fell upon the waves and drifted down to Neptune’s kingdom, where mermen rule and sailors sleep.