Wendy slowly climbed the stairs up to the nursery, pushing open the champagne double doors that her mother had spent weeks fussing over. When she walked into the room, a wave of sound pushed its way out toward her. John, his eye covered with a black eye patch, leapt down from her dresser, a long stick in his hand. Michael, running as fast as he could on short little legs, careened into her waist.
“WENDY! We are pirates! Now you can be our captive!”
“Michael, not now,” she mumbled, pushing her way past him before thinking better of it and rustling his hair affectionately. “I’m sorry, Michael. I’m not feeling well. Could you play pirates in the sitting room perhaps, or maybe the library?” John looked up at her, his hazel eyes, the exact shade of hers, simmering with annoyance.
“We were here first. Maybe you can go lie down in the library instead.”
“John, please.” Wendy wandered over to the dresser that had just been a pirate ship and gently pushed John’s display of tiny wooden soldiers to the side. “I need to get dressed. Please, can you play somewhere else?”
Michael stomped across the room and plopped heavily down on his bed, pulling Giles, adorned with a red scarf around his neck, with him.
“But we were playing here, Wendy.”
She needed desperately to be alone, thoughts of Booth and Mr. Whitfield spinning through her mind. She was nauseated and elated all at once, thinking of her first kiss and Mrs. Tatterley’s judgmental expression. “I’m exhausted, Michael. I’m not asking again.”
John walked over to Wendy and, with a cold look, slapped the books out of her hands. “She’s not even sick. She’s sad.” He tilted his head so that he could peer at her face. “Are you sad about Booth? Does he have a little crush on someone else?” His voice was so cruel that Wendy recoiled. Before she realized what she was doing, her hand slapped his cheek with a sharp crack. John stepped back in shock, his hand on his face.
“You hit me!”
Wendy was mortified. What kind of girl slapped her brother? “John, I’m sorry, forgive me . . .”
A cruel sneer crossed his face, but she saw the tears clouding his eyes. “Poor Wendy. It’s not like it would have worked out. He’s a bookseller’s son. You might as well have fallen in love with a gutter rat.”
Unable to hold back her emotions anymore, Wendy let out a cry. “Get out! Get out right now! Please! Go away!” John’s face was smug as she turned away from him.
Michael wrapped himself around her leg. “Stop being mean, John! I don’t want to play with you anymore!”
“Fine.” John threw his eye patch to the ground. “I’m going to find Father. Perhaps he would like some enlightened conversation from one of his children.” With a final glance over his shoulder, John exited the nursery. Wendy threw herself onto the bed, laying her forehead against her arm as a single tear ran down her face. Michael climbed up into the bed and snuggled beside her. With a cry, she curled him against her side. His small hands reached for her face.
“Wendy, why you crying?”
“It’s nothing, Michael.” She wiped her face. “It’s nothing you’ve done. I promise.” Raising her head, she took in her youngest brother’s kind face, every inch lacking the sharpness that clouded John’s. “I will be perfectly fine, Michael. May I have just a few minutes alone? ”
Michael eyed her with suspicion. “Okaaay, Wendy. But Giles will stay with you. For comfort.” He ripped the red scarf off the teddy bear’s head. “See, now he’s just a teddy bear. He’s not a pirate, so you don’t have to be afraid.”
Wendy ran her hand over Giles’s worn fur. “Thank you, Michael.” She gave him a soft kiss on his satin cheek. He turned and scampered out the door, no doubt in search of brighter adventures, or to go annoy John. Arms shaking, she pulled her cream lace dress over her shoulders and untied her corset. She let her maroon stockings fall to the ground and slipped off her church shoes. She searched in her drawer for her favorite nightgown—a worn, light blue cotton one with a simple lace hem and a darker ribbon under the bust. She pulled her hair back into a ponytail, using the same blue ribbon that Booth had tugged on earlier, and climbed into bed. With a sigh, she pulled the covers over her head, wanting to disappear, wanting to forget the touch of his skin on her own, the look on Mr. Whitfield’s face, his dire warnings, the cruelty in John’s gaze. She wanted to forget all of it. She pulled out a book from under her mattress, losing herself in a tale of a girl and her secret garden. Eventually, her eyes pressed shut, and she dipped her head against the book pages. Wendy Darling fell asleep, her dreams crushing all around, pressing her into slumber.
Early evening had arrived. She awoke to the sound of rain clattering against the window. Rubbing her eyes, she stared at the ceiling, clutching her blanket to her chest. The rain pounded hard on the window, echoing through the entire room. She could hear her parents bustling around downstairs, probably having dinner with the boys. Perhaps . . . she paused. No, that sound wasn’t rain. She rushed over to the window, her nightgown swirling behind her. Pushing open the double windows, she looked down at the street, where Booth stood in the pouring rain, his hat in his hands. Wendy clutched the window latch, afraid of falling at the sight of his devastated face.
“Wendy! Can you come down?”
She shook her head. “I can’t. I just, I can’t. Not now while my parents are home.”
Booth’s eyes widened. “Wendy, why didn’t you wait for me? Have I done something to offend you? Was I too forward? Have I been improper? Tell me, and whatever it is, I’ll rectify it!” His long shadow cast itself out onto the street, pacing back and forth. She stared out at this boy who had kissed her hours ago, the boy who made her see stars. “Wendy, come down! I just need a minute, please!”
Wendy stared down at Booth, her heart hammering uncontrollably in her chest. She longed to throw herself into his arms, to disappear into the rainy night together, to tumble unburdened into his small, poor bed. Through the blur of her tears, she saw his handsome face, and in his face she saw the weathered lines of Mr. Whitfield’s brow, the concern on his face for his son, a lifetime of work, generations of Whitfields. Would she take his future? Would she tell her parents, something that terrified her? She shrank back a step.
“I . . . Booth, I can’t.”
Booth’s face seemed to dissolve in the rain. “I don’t understand. Why not? Wendy, I’ve come here to speak with your parents.”
“Booth, no! Please don’t.” The rain pelted down on his shoulders, his wide blue eyes looking up at her with suspicion.
“And why not?”
Wendy felt the shame of cowardice deep in her chest. Booth was everything to her, and yet, she couldn’t have him tell her parents, not yet. She wanted what he detested: a hushed love affair, kisses in attics and behind bookshelves, nothing public for now. She wanted him, more than a person had any right to desire another, and yet, she wouldn’t do this to her parents. Nor to him. She cared for Booth too much to have his name dragged through the mud by Mrs. Tatterley and the low likes of her. She leaned on the windowsill, her nightgown brushing her ankles.
“Booth! My parents will hear you! Please go!”
“I DON’T CARE IF THE WORLD HEARS ME!” he shouted back, and Wendy heard a sudden silence from downstairs, followed by the sound of a heavy chair moving.
“Go away! Get out of here! Go!”
“I won’t!”
“I will come to you later, but please leave! Go!” Even from the pavement, Wendy saw the disappointment in Booth’s face as he gazed up at her.
“You will come later?”
She nodded. “I’ll sneak out while my parents are at the party and meet you at the bookstore. Now go!” He slowly shook his head before clenching his pageboy hat angrily in his hands.
“Oh, Wendy,” he said quietly, just loud enough for her to hear, loud enough to shatter her heart, “I thought you so much braver than this.”
Wendy backed away from the window, her hands jerking back from the windows
ill as if it had singed her skin. She watched in the growing dusk as Booth stared up at the window for another moment before walking up the cobblestone street with a shake of his head. He had just passed the gaslight when a sliver of light beamed out from the doorway; Mr. Darling was poking his head out, seeing what all that silly noise was about. Wendy ducked behind the curtains. George Darling paused for a moment; she could hear his curt breaths before he headed back inside. Wendy slowly stepped back toward the window, but Booth was gone. She brushed a tear away from her eye. Was she forever ruined in his eyes? She looked around the nursery. Was she so weak that she would give him up for a few comforts? A warm bed, a stately house? Her hands ran over the bookcase near the window, searching for his letter. She pulled it out and unfolded it before her. At the sight of his scrawled letters, Wendy came undone, a sensible girl unraveled by the bookseller’s son.
“Oh, Booth,” she murmured. “Forgive me.” She clutched the letter to her chest, pretending it was him, remembering the way he had pulled her body against his, the sound of his heart through his thin shirt. She heard the thud of footsteps on the stairs and turned to climb back into bed. Her feet hit the tray of soup that Liza had left for her—When had she come in?—and Wendy tripped forward, her ankles snapping against the floor, her letter fluttering to the ground. The bedroom door flew open.
“Wendy, daughter, did you hear a ruckus out—” Her father stopped short, looking debonair in his black tuxedo and white cummerbund. “Wendy, what on earth are you doing?”
Wendy looked up at him with fear as his eyes came to rest on the letter lying face up on the rug. “Father, no . . .” Walking quickly, Mr. Darling scooped up the letter from the ground. His eyes went wide with concern as he read the words, Wendy slowly getting to her feet. The look of disappointment she had so feared crossed his drawn features as he looked over at his eldest child, next to an overturned tray with cold lemon soup seeping out from underneath. Then, to her surprise, a gentle smile crept across his face.
“Oh, my dear. Come with me.”
Wendy followed her father down the hallway, past the bathroom where Liza was giving Michael a bath, past her father’s study and her parents’ expansive bedroom, decorated in rich greens and filigree golds, their elaborate colors frozen under a crystal chandelier. George Darling made a right turn into the drawing room at the end of the hall, and once Wendy had entered, he clicked the small gold lock on the door. Wendy felt her body tense. She had never known her father to lock a door. The Darlings’ drawing room was lined in oak panels that made the small space feel even more closed in. The gold-framed paintings of horses hanging around the room had always been a source of amusement for John, who liked to point out that not one single member of the family knew anything about horses or particularly enjoyed them. Wendy took a step past one of the paintings and sat down on a hard blue velvet loveseat, her eyes trained on an antique Dutch vase of pink flowers. With a sigh, Mr. Darling sat down beside her on the loveseat, gently resting his hand upon her head. They sat in silence for a few moments, his hand absentmindedly stroking her light brown hair. His eyes came to rest on the small windows in the room, no doubt focused on the emerging stars outside.
“I remember my first heartbreak,” he said quietly. Wendy stayed silent, daring to hope that perhaps this would not be the lecture she was expecting. “Her name was Clara, and she was the most delicate creature I had ever seen.”
Wendy’s mouth dropped open. Her father had never spoken of his life before her mother. Mr. Darling looked over at her and laughed. “Don’t look so shocked, my dear. Your parents had rich lives long before you came along. Clara was a teacher. I loved her dearly, the true match for my soul. She shared my curiosity for the cosmos, and I saw a life with her stretch out before me, a beautiful existence filled with knowledge and compassionate listening. Our passion for learning was only outmatched by our passion for each other.”
“What happened to her, Papa?”
He looked away from his daughter, but not before she saw tears in his eyes. “She died of pneumonia. Too many afternoons in a cold classroom with no fire to warm her.”
Wendy looked down, thankful that Booth had a warm place to sleep. “I’m sorry, Papa.”
“So was I, my love. So was I. But, life marches cruelly on, even if you don’t think it will. I am sorry for her death, but I am also thankful that I met your mother. While she wasn’t a perfect match for me, my union with her brought us both to prosperity, both in income and many other ways. Without your mother, I wouldn’t have you, or John, or Michael. And what would my life be like without my children? It is something I daren’t think about. It is unfathomable.”
He tipped her face up to his, and Wendy saw a hardness in his eyes. “Booth is a good boy, a young man that I like very much, and by the sounds of this letter, he is very much in love with you.”
Wendy blushed. “Yes, Papa.”
“And you—do you love him as well?”
Wendy nodded, thinking of Booth’s incredible mind and the way he seemed to understand her with just a glance. “I do, Papa.”
His mouth gave a painful twist. Wendy’s stomach dropped.
“Ah, my poor girl.” He stood up abruptly. “Cry for him tonight. Mourn that love. And tomorrow, never see him again.”
Wendy let out a loud cry. “No!”
“You know it must be this way, dearest girl. I’m sorry for it, but this match cannot be. It would be disastrous for our family. Your mother and I have worked too hard to see this family brought low by a marriage to a bookseller’s son. You are never to see that boy again.”
“No! NO!”
Her father unlocked the door. “I will leave you to your grief. I will not share this with your mother, because God knows we would never hear the end of it. She would ship you off to boarding school by tomorrow, and I rather enjoy your company. I insist on just one sane woman residing somewhere in this house. But see him again, and I will tell her without hesitancy. This relationship is highly inappropriate for a woman of your standing.” He gave a tired sigh. “Your mother and I will be leaving soon for this blasted ball. Please be ready to put your brothers to bed in about an hour.” He looked down at his daughter, silently crying into her hands. “Tonight is the last night that our star is visible. Perhaps you and the boys could look for it later. John can usually find it. He’s good that way.”
Wendy turned away from her father, not wanting to see his face. He planted a quick kiss on her head before walking out of the drawing room. “I’m so sorry, my dear. You must believe that we have your best interest at heart. I know how the fire of young love can consume, and I ache for what you must be going through. Still, it’s time to be a grown-up, Wendy.”
“Please go away,” Wendy murmured softly.
“Indeed I will. Goodnight, my child.”
Wendy was left staring at the floor in the silent drawing room, feeling all her hope siphoned into this still vault of puffy furniture and equestrian art.
A few minutes later, when her mother crept into the nursery with Nana at her heels, Wendy could barely look at her. Mary Darling hustled around the room, her elegant black dress draped with white fox fur and her ears dripping with diamonds.
“Oh, clothes everywhere, soup on the floor, what have you been doing in here?”
“Nothing, Mother.” Wendy was staring out the window, her eyes trained on the dark summer night. The light afternoon rain had tapered off, and the resulting sky was as clear and sharp as glass. Starlight beamed through the window, casting light on her ruddy, tear-stained features.
“Oh my dear, have you been crying?”
Wendy sniffled. “No, mother. My nose has been running. I have a cold.”
“Well, it’s a good night to turn in early then.” John and Michael shuffled into the nursery, rifling through their dressers for night-shirts. After dressing, John picked a book off the bookshelf, put on his father’s top hat, and settled himself in the rocking chair.
“Oh, Joh
n, I do wish you would leave that silly hat off.”
“Oh, Mother, I do wish you would be quiet and let me read,” he imitated her in a mocking tone.
“John!”
“Sorry,” he mumbled without meaning it, and he turned away. With a whine, Nana settled herself near John, his long fingers affectionately rubbing her chin. Michael climbed into his bed, already sleepy. Wendy handed him Giles, and he turned over in his bed.
“Are you sad still, Wendy bird? About the boy?”
Mrs. Darling’s eyes widened. “He means about the pirates,” Wendy said quickly, making her way over to the reading seat near the door.
“Oh. Well, then, that is something to be sad about.” Wendy looked at Michael and raised her finger to her lips. He shut his eyes with a sleepy smile. Her mother drew the curtains over the large nursery window and turned down the lanterns. She kissed Michael and John, and patted Wendy’s head.
“Don’t stay up reading too late. Especially if you aren’t feeling well. Shall I have Liza bring up some tea with herbs and honey?”
Wendy shook her head, trying not to meet her mother’s eyes as she climbed into bed.
“All right then, but don’t be short tomorrow when you don’t feel better.”
Wendy tried her hardest not to look at her mother’s face, for she knew that if she did, she wouldn’t be able to hold back her tears.
“You look lovely, Mother,” she said in a flat voice, her face buried in the opening pages of North and South.
“Thank you, my dear. Do try and cheer up.” Her mother took a step toward the nursery door, and suddenly Michael bolted up from a dead sleep with a scream, his eyes wide and confused. The entire Darling family jumped at the sound. He let out another long scream and then began pawing at his blankets.
Wendy Darling Page 4