The Scandalous Life of Sasha Torte

by Lesley Truffle

  She laughed but still resisted me. ‘As that hypocrite Balcombe used to say, lips that touch alcohol shalt not touch mine.’

  I didn’t want Viola to know that I’d heard Adam’s revelations about her. But the devil was in me and I couldn’t resist teasing her about her naughty adolescent self.

  ‘You know, Viola, I do recall some strange rumours going around. But of course I didn’t believe any of it.’ I couldn’t suppress my smile. ‘Let me think . . . ah yes, it was something about thirteen-year-old Viola Taylor being discovered in a delicate situation behind the church pulpit. By the organ player.’

  She avoided my gaze. ‘I don’t know what you’re referring to.’

  ‘It was said that your skirts were up over your head and two choir boys were examining you with great interest. How terribly devious of you, sipping the sacristy wine while being kissed and fondled in the house of God.’

  Viola reared up. ‘Sasha Torte, don’t you dare mention that incident ever again.’

  I laughed. ‘I have you now! So it was true after all. I could be persuaded to forget about it. But in return I need you to become a tad more . . . adventurous.’

  She giggled and I sensed that naughty Viola Taylor was slowly displacing the terribly dull Lady Balcombe.

  Sensing her weakness, I proffered the angel croissant again. Viola’s nose twitched. Resistance was useless. She took a dainty nibble. ‘Oh my God, Sasha, it’s sublime.’

  I held the champagne glass close to her lips. ‘Here, have a sip of this to wash it down. For medicinal purposes, of course.’

  Viola winked, took a mouthful of champagne, seized the glass from my hand and drained it.

  Maggie smiled broadly as she topped up our glasses and exclaimed, ‘Ah, I can sees what good it’s doing you, Lady Balcombe. Your pretty colouring is coming back.’

  Slyly I pushed the croissant a tad closer. Viola hesitated only briefly before seizing it in both hands and wolfing it down. I got the distinct impression that her very soul was starving.

  ‘Viola, why don’t you stay for lunch? Then we can have a lovely long chat.’

  ‘Good idea.’ Viola glanced up at Maggie. ‘Maggie dear, I think Sasha and I have a bit of a thirst and will shortly be requiring more champagne on ice.’

  The Viola I remembered was back.

  Viola’s coachman was still waiting in the freezing cold outside the patisserie, so Viola handed Maggie some cash and said, ‘Please give this to Jimmy and tell him to pick up Hildegarde from Mrs O’Shea’s. The two of them can have lunch at the House of Blazes. They can then stay warm by the parlour fire until I’m ready to go home.’

  Maggie headed out the door.

  I glanced out the window and caught a glimpse of a well-favoured, athletic young man listening intently to Maggie. He then doffed his cap and leaped back up onto the driver’s box. It wasn’t the same coachman who used to pick up Viola’s orders from the patisserie. He’d been a surly old coot. Maggie beamed with pleasure as she watched the new coachman drive off down Main Street.

  That day Viola managed to tuck away five savoury pastries, some gateaux, several petits fours and heaven knows how many glasses of champagne. Not bad going for a teetotaller. After lunch I sent my kitchen apprentice, Elmo Pinkerton, on his bicycle down to the House of Blazes with a message for Viola’s coachman to come and collect her.

  Snuff had to carry Viola out to her carriage. Maggie brought up the rear, bearing Viola’s reticule, parasol and a beribboned box of four dozen chocolates. Hildegarde Dobbs, Viola’s personal maid, was perched up on the coachman’s box. She showed no surprise at seeing Snuff carrying Viola out to the carriage. The coachman sprang to the cobblestones and then lifted Hildegarde down. He handled Hildegarde as though she was feather light. She murmured flirtatiously, ‘Why thank you, Jimmy.’

  Cheeky little minx. I liked her.

  Jimmy ripped the carriage door open and doffed his cap at his mistress. I suspected he was laughing inwardly but his face showed nothing but the utmost respect. There was a bit of a wait because Viola refused to relinquish her champagne glass and insisted on getting a top up before she departed.

  We all stood around on the wet cobblestones while Dolores brought out another bottle of champagne and refilled her glass. Meantime Jimmy busied himself settling Viola and Hildegarde inside the carriage and draping a cashmere travel rug over Viola’s knees. I noticed that Jimmy’s flat cap sat at a jaunty angle, his trousers were daringly tight and his eyes missed nothing. The fact that Viola had recently employed a strapping young man indicated she was on the mend. She waved her glass around and managed to spill most of the champagne over Hildegarde and the carriage upholstery. ‘Home Jimmy, and don’t spare the horses.’

  Viola leant out the carriage window, looking sensationally wanton with her hair in disarray. She took another sip from her champagne glass, beckoned me over and whispered in my ear, ‘I’m so glad we’re friends again, Sasha. I really enjoyed myself today. Please come and have dinner with me. How about Wednesday? Yes? Shall we say seven o’clock? Lovely. The place is a bit grim but I’ve started spending that fucker’s money on extensive renovations. I earnt every damned penny of it on my back. The only thing he was lavish with was his own libido.’ She drank down the rest of the champagne and waved the glass around. ‘Lordy, you should see the rising damp and the cracks in the ceilings! But even as we speak the building plans are being drawn up by a very charming, highly skilled draftsman. He understands what ladies such as I require. Without my having to tell him.’

  She was speaking in code. It cheered me that Viola’s neglected sensual needs were being taken care of.

  ‘Viola, I’m really looking forward to dining with you and catching up on the gossip.’

  I stepped off the road and she leant further out the carriage window. ‘Sasha dear, here’s a thought. Why don’t you join me on a tour of the Continent? Think of the good times we could have, plundering Europe for antiquities. Or anything else we might fancy.’

  I kissed her cheek. ‘I’ll give it some serious thought.’

  The carriage was already in motion. Jimmy doffed his cap at me, Viola’s hand flapped wildly out the window and as they went off down Main Street, laughter floated back to us.

  I was madly in love with Captain Adam Dasher and wanted him all to myself. When he proposed I accepted with an open heart and counted myself blessed.

  Marietta Zendik no longer came into the patisserie. Kieren O’Shea swiftly took Adam’s place and became her patron but I heard on the grapevine that she was still trying to lure the captain back to her bed. By all accounts Marietta genuinely loved him. Miss Zendik often sent her maid to retrieve coeur de la crèmes and various other sweet things. I concluded that Marietta’s insomnia was out of control and her waistline was in danger. It was not generosity that made me slip a few extra cakes into her order. I should have been ashamed of myself but I wasn’t.

  Adam stuck with tradition and went to see Grandpa to ask for my hand in marriage. They got screwed as fiddlers and were thrown out of the Riff for drawing weapons and inciting a riot. Apparently Adam had refused to surrender the knife he kept tucked in his boot and his loyal crew had started a brawl. Any excuse would do, it was how they behaved once they were on shore leave and away from the tight discipline on board ship.

  Grandpa fought alongside Captain Dasher’s men. His excuse to me was, ‘I had to protect my future son-in-law. I had no choice. You know, for your sake I’ve been trying to curb my natural inclination to use my fists.’ I raised an eyebrow at him but he was shameless. ‘Come now, possum. You would never have forgiven me if I hadn’t intervened. We can’t have that handsome face rearranged by some drunken lout, can we?’

  Grandpa made no bones about his delight at my impending nuptials. The whole of Wolfftown heard him when he barged into the crowded patisserie and boomed, ‘Sasha, your captain is a gentleman and a great bloke. Thank God you picked the right Dasher. The mere thought of you breeding with the likes
of Roger Dasher gave me night sweats. I was really worried – given that your mother had such appalling taste in men – that she might have passed that genetic trait onto you.’

  So why did I promptly turn around, seize my happiness with both hands and throw it away? This question is one I never stop asking myself. It haunts me, follows me around and plagues me even while I sleep. There were several reasons. The Pharaoh’s elixir had burnt me and I needed more of it. I obsessed about tracking down the Egyptologist who knew the formula. Also, despite Adam’s reassurances, my fear of matrimony hadn’t diminished.

  My biggest single fear was that I was succumbing to the Kane curse. At the back of my mind I kept thinking, how do I know that I’m not turning into my mother? I’d always been wilful but increasingly I was finding that things I used to shrug off were now likely to cause volcanic rages. Such behaviour was uncomfortably close to the way Rose used to carry on.

  One day a uniformed British army officer had blown me a kiss as I went about my business on Main Street. I ignored him. It was broad daylight and I was just about to enter the bank.

  The portal was deserted and he followed me into the dark shadows and groped me. I smelt whisky on his breath when he stroked my breasts and whispered in my ear, ‘Hello, Ginger. How’d you like to earn some pin money without your husband finding out? Don’t be shy, just tell me what a fine lady like you would charge for a short dalliance, eh?’

  I shook him off and practically ran. I hoped he would leave me alone but he followed me into the bank. I lost all control. Dropping my reticule and parasol, I slammed my fist up under his chin. The officer staggered backwards before crashing down onto the marble floor. It was not a soft landing. The sound ricocheted around the domed building. It was a fighting move I’d learnt from observing fist fights at the Riff; smaller fighters can floor heavier opponents if they come in under the chin. It gives the smaller person added leverage.

  Everyone in the bank stopped what they were doing and stared. I picked up my belongings, stepped over the prone officer and repaired to the teller’s counter. I made a point of not looking to see if the filthy swine was back on deck or not.

  I felt dozens of eyes upon my person when I addressed the teller, ‘Good morning, Mr Wynyard. Isn’t it a lovely day? I have an eleven o’clock appointment with Mr Aloysius Clyde.’

  Mr Wynyard gaped at me before recovering his equanimity. ‘Yes, Miss Torte, indeed it is a splendid morning. Spring is in the air and it’s most agreeable.’

  I read laughter and approval in his eyes. Then without further ado, he glared at all the customers who were still staring at me, unlatched the wooden barrier with a flourish and tenderly ushered me through to the bank manager’s office.

  There were several reasons for my wanting to leave Adam behind and travel overseas. Viola and I felt we had to cut it in Europe. God knows why. In retrospect I suppose we were two young women with considerable funds and a burning desire to extinguish our small-town selves. I’m loath to admit it but I was determined to become as worldly and sophisticated as Marietta Zendik. My vanity demanded it. Adam was keen on sailing me around the globe but it was not enough. I had to discover the world on my own terms, simply because she’d already done so. I’d never been out of Tasmania but Miss Zendik had been everywhere and it gave her an aura of sophistication, a patina of knowingness. Having stolen Adam away from Miss Zendik was not enough, she had to be matched. Perversity was my natural habitat and logic held no charm.

  I yearned to smoke hashish in Arabia, lie back in a gondola in Venice, take a solitary carriage drive over the Pont Neuf on my way to the Paris Opera and listen to the wolves howling for their mates across the snow in Russia. I’d steeped myself in the literature and poetry of the greats: Lord Byron, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Victor Hugo, Louise Colet and others of their ilk. Late at night I curled up under my eiderdown and devoured their wild imaginings. My inner life has always been more vivid than my outer life because that was how I learnt to transcend my unfortunate childhood. The only time I lived firmly in the present was when I was with Adam. He grounded me and made me feel safe.

  But even my beloved could not stop me from yearning for distant shores. Adam Dasher was no fool, so he did the only thing possible. He made me his betrothed and then turned me loose upon the world. The agreement was for me to travel with Viola for a year and then return to Tasmania for our wedding.

  Captain Dasher held me in his arms, looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘Sasha my love, go as soon as possible so that you may swiftly come back to me. I fell in love with your independence, intelligence, wit and fighting spirit. So it would be hypocritical of me to expect you to become a conventional blushing bride. Besides, no matter whom we briefly indulge ourselves with, we are bound together for eternity.’

  In other words Adam was giving me tacit permission to behave like a man. But it stuck in my mind that he’d placed an emphasis on the word briefly. It was acceptable to Adam if I chose to comport myself as a free agent before we got married. However, his expectation was that any liaison I indulged in would be of short duration and leave no trace.

  Interestingly enough Roger had also recognised my untamed streak. One evening as I was fleeing Clare Dasher’s musical soirée, he followed me out, handed me into my carriage and murmured in my ear, ‘My sweet, you have outfoxed me yet again. But I shall never concede defeat. I came to the realisation tonight that you’re a quintessential woman but you think like a man.’

  Around the time of Lady Dasher’s ball, Roger had informed me that Dr Farrell – famous Egyptologist, explorer and renowned chemist – was the only person to successfully distil the secret formula.

  I’d kept Farrell’s address but made no mention to Adam that I fully intended to track down the doctor in Paris, with the express intention of making a bulk purchase of the elixir. I knew my captain, and despite his dedication to hard liquor, he had no patience with those who willingly succumbed to the devilry of drugs. So I lied by omission, giving Adam the impression that I’d only ever possessed a single bottle of elixir. I also implied that I’d got rid of it some time ago. I convinced myself that it was acceptable to lie to him because I’d be free of the elixir by the time I returned to Wolfftown.

  I was still naive enough to believe I could easily give up the elixir at any time. I assumed that once I took a well-earned break from my patisserie, I’d have the self-discipline to slowly wean myself off it.

  In the meantime, the Pharaoh’s elixir had to remain my own dirty little secret.

  18

  LONDON’S PUDDING À LA MODE

  I’d realised even before we left Tasmania that my moods were no longer governable. I could swing from hilarity and high humour to the depths of despair without a pause. Sometimes it only took one more glass of champagne to make the transition. It happened when I least expected it.

  Shortly before I left Wolfftown, Dolores, Maggie and I went to see a European travelling circus that had come to town. I watched in awe as a muscular French acrobat made his way, hand over hand, up a long rope that swayed in the breeze. His powerful thigh muscles aided his ascent and we applauded madly, delighted by his performance.

  When the acrobat was almost at the peak of the big top, he slowly removed a single feather from behind his ear. He held the feather for a moment before releasing it. Then as the feather slowly drifted downwards, the acrobat flipped upside down and slid down the rope – head first. Missing the ground by just a few inches, he leapt to his feet and caught the feather before it touched the sawdust.

  I was stunned. What if he hadn’t managed to break his fall? His skull would have split wide open and we would have had to bear witness to a horrific death. While the rest of the audience applauded his amazing skill, I was dwelling in the shadows of death. The sword swallower was up next and his act finished me completely. It really bothered me that circus folk were endangering their lives just to entertain Wolfftown’s citizens.

  It was as though I no longer had any contro
l over my emotions. The rest of the show passed in a blur of tears as I obsessed about the fragility of existence. It was not my finest hour and I wondered if it was the Kane curse rearing its ugly head.

  Viola and I willingly deferred to Captain Dasher’s professional expertise and he made arrangements for the first leg of our grand tour. But although I was keen to track down the Parisian keeper of the elixir, Viola’s financial dealings took precedence. She was the sole beneficiary of Lord Balcombe’s will and now commanded a financial empire spanning several continents. London had been the hub of Lord Balcombe’s financial dealings, so we needed to go there first.

  Our passage was booked with the Orient Steam Navigation Company, sailing from Sydney to Britain. We were going straight from an Australian summer to a European winter. Such an undertaking required warm clothes in premium velvets, worsteds, furs and woollens. I was keen not to appear gauche and unfashionable, so I plied my dressmaker and milliner with gazette pictures of Parisian women to base their patterns on. I also plotted ways of persuading Viola to abandon her matronly, conservative attire. The late Lord Balcombe had a lot to answer for.

  ‘Viola, it’s imperative we dress well onboard. No doubt we shall improve upon our attire in London and Paris but we must leave Tasmania well dressed. What if our ship sinks? When our bodies are washed up on the shore we must look our very best, in order for our remains to be treated with respect.’

  It was all the excuse Viola needed. She spared no expense in her desire for a dignified death and looked sensational. Obviously she hadn’t forgotten Lil’s lessons on the importance of simplicity and elegance.

  Viola outdid me with her luggage and took fifteen valises. Her personal maid, Hildegarde Dobbs, would be accompanying her and taking charge of Viola’s wardrobe essentials. I was travelling much lighter and without a maid but I had my heart set on acquiring European fashion.