by Susan Green
I nodded.
“We will leave you two together, then.”
Mr Savinov came into my room slowly, like an old man, and sat heavily on the chair by the bed. He took my hand.
“Thank God,” was all he could say for a long time. Tears ran down his cheeks, and he ignored them. “Thank God.”
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry about Alexander.”
“He is better off where he is. He can be at peace,” said Mr Savinov. And then he told me the last of the tale.
“Alexander – Lyosha, I called him – was always different,” he said. “Perhaps it was because he never had a mother or a real home. Anna – my first wife, poor soul – also had a weak heart. She died when he was a baby. After that we led a wandering sort of life, just the two of us. I sometimes think he was happier when we were poor. He was always passionately attached to me. I knew he was not happy when Isabella and I married. But when you came, he spent hours hanging over your cradle and smiling, singing, making faces. Isabella and I were so relieved. He called you Veroschka – that means ‘little Vera’. I was in Amsterdam on business at the time of the fire. He was so distressed that he could not save Isabella and the baby.”
Oh. So Mr Savinov did not know that Alexander had started the fire.
“You remember Madame Dumas? You met her at the seance. Maxine is her name. She told me the truth the day after Alexander’s death. I thought Maxine was my friend, but it seems Alexander had hired her to … to keep an eye on me.” He sighed. Poor Mr Savinov. “By profession, Maxine is, like our Professor Plush, an investigator. But without the integrity of that fine gentleman, alas.
“This is the story that Alexander told Maxine. I don’t know if it is true or not, and now I will never know. It was well known that Victoire had the second sight. She must have had some kind of premonition, for on the night of the fire she took you to be looked after by a friend, without telling Alexander. After the fire, she told him you were saved, but then … her accident.
“Alexander was ill when I returned from abroad. Brain fever, they called it. I thought I would lose him too. It was a terrible time. He lost his memory for a while, and when at last he regained it, he did not want to distress me by raising false hopes about the baby being alive.” He shrugged his shoulders. “At least that is what he told Maxine. For years he had been searching for you. You see, he needed to find you because you were the rightful heiress to Isabella’s money.”
This was news to me. “Money?”
He sighed. “The Parker Pork fortune. Isabella’s family were in the meat-packing business in Canada. I was doing well enough when we married, but when Isabella died, her inheritance came to me and I became very, very rich. Everything I owned – my money, Isabella’s money – would have been Alexander’s when I died. Oh, Alexander … He knew that somewhere in the world Vera Savinov was alive and the Parker Pork millions were hers, all right and tight, as you British would say. It seems that the thought of it ate away at him. Greed? That old jealousy of his? I cannot tell. It seems I did not know my son.”
Should I tell him the truth? Now was the time to do it. But somehow I couldn’t. Mr Savinov already knew his son was wicked. Surely, he did not need to know everything.
The moment passed, and he began talking about his wife, Isabella. My mother.
“Beautiful, talented, temperamental …” He was lost in thought for a few seconds. “She could have lived a life of a lady of fashion. But she had a voice, such a voice. Her talent could not be denied. She went to Paris and later Milan – that was where she had her first success, in La Gioconda. By then she’d changed her name to Isabella Savage – a better name for a diva than Penny Parker, no? Always her old nurse, the faithful Victoire, went with her. Her brother insisted.”
“Brother? Surely she had sisters? Six sisters? Wasn’t she the seventh daughter?”
“No. There was one brother, Hiram. What makes you think she had sisters?”
“This,” I said. I slipped the silk cord from around my neck and handed him the lucky piece and the ring.
“My mother’s wedding ring! Isabella and I always meant you to have it when you yourself …” He stared at it. Where was it taking him, I wondered? To happy times, to love and weddings, a little baby girl … “And the amulette! The lucky stars.”
I could hold back no longer. “Don’t you know that it’s the sign of the seventh – of the septième étoile – the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter? I have the gift, you see. Miss Lillingsworth is sure I must be one.”
“It was Victoire’s,” he said in a puzzled voice.
“Victoire’s?” All my castles in the air vanished into nothing. No aunts, no sisters, no cousins. No explanation for my itchy fingers.
“Yes,” he said. “It was a ritual with Isabella and Victoire, that she should always wear it hidden beneath her costume on the first night of a new opera.”
“So Victoire was one of seven sisters?”
“I don’t know. Is it so important?”
I shook my head. “It’s nothing.”
Mrs Vic may indeed have been a septième étoile, but I wasn’t. Miss Lillingsworth was wrong. My gifts were lucky, that’s true, but the luck was mine alone.
“She must have left the charm and the ring with you when she took you to Mrs Sparks. Which one it was that kept you safe, I do not know.”
But I did. I silently thanked Mrs Vic for saving my life. Mr Savinov held the ring and the lucky piece in his large palm as if they were fairy gold and likely to melt away any second.
“Keep them,” I said. “They’re as much yours as mine.”
I was happy for him to have them. Although Isabella Savage had given birth to me, Ma was and ever would be my real mother. I had a fairy godmother too – Mrs Vic. But I didn’t need a token to remember her by. Because she smuggled me out of the house and gave me to Ma, I had my life.
“Something good has come from all this sorrow,” said Mr Savinov. “I have found you.”
My lovely, lovely lion, with tragedy after tragedy in his life. I put out my hand timidly, all of a sudden feeling shy. “I have found my father.”
Mr Savinov took my hand. “You know, Verity, in all my years of trying, I have never received one message, not one single message, from beyond the grave. From Isabella, who I loved so dearly, and who loved me … not a word. It was Maxine and Alexander who led me to you, and so I forgive them. There is a Russian saying, ‘After a storm comes fair weather; after sorrow comes joy.” He kissed my hand. “You are my joy, Verity.”
22
ENDINGS AND BEGINNINGS
It took me a few more weeks to get well. When I came downstairs for the first time, I realised that life had been going on without me. The Professor, Mrs Morcom, Judith and Daniel and SP were there, wearing paper hats and tinsel crowns. Toasts were being drunk. There was hugging and kissing and laughing all round.
“What is going on?” I asked.
“Daniel has proposed to Judith and she’s accepted,” said SP. “They are planning–”
“Well, I have plans too,” Mrs Morcom interrupted, thumping her glass of Madeira down so hard that the wine splashed the tablecloth. “This place bores me to tears.”
“Thank you, Almeria, and same to you,” said the Professor.
She glared at him. “Not Mulberry Hill, Saddy. England. So I have decided to travel to Australia on another painting tour.”
Suddenly, they were all talking at once. Australia. Somewhere new, somewhere fresh. Somewhere a young man like Daniel Opie could make his mark.
“It’s a young country,” said Judith. “Here, everyone is judged by their pedigree, as if we were prize cows. But in Australia, no one cares who your great-grandfather was.”
“No one dares tell,” said Mrs Morcom, dryly. “Half of them were convicts.”
“It just so happens,” said the Professor, “that I was approached by a firm of lawyers today. A firm of lawyers from Halifax in Yorkshire. The im
probably named Bustard, Hawk and Chaffinch. They have a client who wants the Confidential Agents to follow up a complex matter both here in London and in Australia. It could be a start for you, Daniel.”
“Father!” protested SP, taking off his crown and throwing it at the mantelpiece. “Am I to be left out?”
“You may go, my boy, if that’s what you want,” said the Professor. “Do you good to have a change.” He slapped his son on the shoulder, and SP grinned.
“But what about you, Professor?” I asked. “You’ll be all alone here.”
“Not at all,” he said, sounding almost pleased. “I have my club, and the SIPP, and plenty of friends, and of course, my research–”
“Waste of time,” commented Mrs Morcom.
“Happy endings all round,” said the Professor.
“No, happy beginnings,” said SP. “After all, it’s nearly 1879.” He turned to me and took my hand very gently, as if aware that I was not part of this excitement. They’d all been very careful of me, like I was a china doll, since I’d been sick. “What are your New Year’s plans, Verity?”
In the last year I’d been a milliner’s apprentice, and then an assistant confidential inquiry agent, and now the rich Mr Savinov’s long-lost daughter. I’d been stalked and nearly murdered. I’d thought I was a seventh star, and I’d found out I wasn’t. I’d discovered who my real parents were, which made me love Ma and Pa all the more. My itchy fingers had led me to lost objects and dead people, and helped me to find the truth about myself. As I looked around the table – at the Professor and SP, at Judith and Daniel in a glow of new love, and at Mrs Morcom in her pink paper hat, I felt a little lost. Lost and left out.
I dearly loved Papa Savinov, but somehow the Plushes had become my family. The Professor must have known what I was feeling, for he said, “You may always come and stay here with me, Verity. Whenever you wish.”
SP bounced to his feet. His eyes were sparkling. “Why don’t you, Verity?” he said, taking my hand.
“Why don’t I what?”
“Why don’t you come to Australia with us? Why not?”
My Parker Pork fortune was to be held in trust for me until I was twenty-five, but I was to have a generous allowance, and Papa Savinov wanted me to come and live with him.
“But not here,” he said. I was spending the day with him in his apartments at the Hotel Excalibur. “We will need a house somewhere very nice. Park Lane, Mayfair – too fashionable. Perhaps one of those so English leafy squares, Grosvenor or Chester,” he mused.
“What about St John’s Wood?” Then I could be near Mulberry Hill as well.
“No.” He frowned. “That is not at all respectable for a young English lady such as you will be. And we will need room for a chaperone or a companion, and a lady’s maid–”
“A chaperone? A companion? Whatever for?”
“I am away so often, in Paris or Moscow or Prague, and for months at a time, my dear. Of course you will need someone.”
“Can’t I come with you?”
“Sometimes, perhaps.”
I thought about what he’d said all day. I thought about it and thought about it, and eventually I knew what I must do.
“Papa Savinov,” I said. We were sitting together in front of the fire. The hotel waiter had just brought us afternoon tea, and a stand with three tiers of little sandwiches and iced cakes stood on the table between us. He looked so contented, drinking Assam tea and planning a London house and a country place and a companion and a piano teacher and riding lessons and the rest of it – and here I was about to spoil it.
“Yes, Veroschka?”
“I told you that Mrs Morcom and Daniel and Judith and SP are all going to Australia, didn’t I?”
“You did.”
“I want to go to Australia too.”
“Ah.” He looked at me, long and sad, and gave a great big sigh.
I felt my heart would break for him, and quickly I said, “I’m sorry, Papa Savinov. If you really don’t wish it, I won’t go.”
“You don’t think you can be happy with me?”
“It isn’t that. You’re kind and good and I know I will have everything I want, but – but I don’t like doing nothing, Papa. I can’t be a lady. I can’t sit around and pay calls and buy hats and embroider doilies.”
“But I’d like you to be a lady, Veroschka. A real English lady. And who knows, one day perhaps to marry a gentleman. Imagine yourself – Lady Vera! Wouldn’t you like that?”
“I’ll never be a lady, Papa. Don’t you see? It’s like Miss Judith says, they’ve all got pedigrees like prize cows. They won’t want me.”
“But with your Parker Pork inheritance, chérie.”
“Pooh to that,” I said, snapping my fingers. “I know all about fortune hunters. Cook told us. I don’t want someone to marry me just for my money. Papa, do you understand?”
He thought for a while, and finally said, “Yes. I do. There’s nothing tame about you, Veroschka. I think you are rather like me. Always seeking adventures. You know, I have businesses and investments all over the world, but none in Australia.” His eyes began to sparkle.
“You mean …?”
He nodded. “I would like very much to see this land so faraway and strange.”
I gasped with delight and took his hands.
“You do not mind your old Papa coming along?”
“Of course I don’t,” I kissed his grey lion’s head.
Then he handed me Mrs Vic’s lucky piece. “You’d better have this,” he said. “Somehow I think you might need it.”
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I was awarded a Varuna Fellowship to work on this project and I’d like to thank Peter Bishop, Creative Director of Varuna – the Writers’ House, for his encouragement. Thank you also to Mary Verney of Walker Books whose careful and enthusiastic editing made The Truth About Verity Sparks the best it could be.
And, as always, thanks to Howard and Lachie.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Susan Green lives in the historic gold-rush town of Castlemaine in Central Victoria with her husband, son and Gus the miniature schnauzer. She has been a teacher, radio producer, youth worker, cook and book seller, but she knew she wanted to be a writer by the time she was eight years old. She has written eleven books for children and young adults. Susan’s first novel for Walker Books, The Truth about Verity Sparks, was awarded Honour Book for Younger Readers at the CBCA Book of the Year Awards, 2012. Verity Sparks, Lost and Found is her second novel with Walker Books. To find out more about Susan and Verity, go to www.veritysparks.com
Published in 2011
by Walker Books Australia Pty Ltd
Locked Bag 22, Newtown
NSW 2042 Australia
www.walkerbooks.com.au
This ebook edition published in 2014
The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted.
Cover Illustration © 2011 Lisa Coutts
Text © 2011 Susan Green
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise – without the prior written permission of the publisher.
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:
Green, Susan, author.
The truth about Verity Sparks / Susan Green.
For primary school age.
Subjects: Orphans – Juvenile fiction
Detective and mystery stories.
London (England) – 19th century – Juvenile fiction.
A823.3
ISBN: 978-1-921977-11-4 (ePub)
ISBN: 978-1-921977-10-7 (e-PDF)
ISBN: 978-1-925081-52-7 (.PRC)
For Helen Green
(1924–2008)
who invented teleagtivism.
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