“How dare you insinuate that my roommate came from such a base union.”
“Helen . . .” I began, but she was already stomping out of the room. I followed her out and caught up to her in the foyer.
“I cannot stay in the same room with that . . . that . . . harridan! In fact,” she added, looking wildly around her, “I can’t stay in the same house. I’ve had it with this place! I’m going into the village!”
Helen stormed out the front door just as Daisy, clutching an armful of notes and her reticule, came out of the Commons Room. “But we’re not supposed to go to town without first asking permission! And we’re not even supposed to leave the house on Halloween!”
Just that morning Dame Beckwith had given us a long speech on how dangerous Halloween night was, with demons and fairies coming out of the woods to roam the grounds.
“What should we do?” Daisy asked, so agitated she was shredding Beatrice’s notes into ribbons.
“I’ll go with her,” I said. “I’ll make sure she’s back before nightfall. You can stay here if you like.”
“Oh no, I’d be too nervous!” she cried. She gave one anxious look at her pile of notes and abandoned them on the hall table, holding on to her reticule—a small, embroidered bag her mother had made for her and that Daisy carried everywhere but rarely opened. Helen and I had debated what essentials it might contain. She clutched it now as we followed Helen, who was striding down the drive kicking at leaves as she went.
“The nerve of her,” Helen said when we’d caught up to her. “She thinks that just because the Montmorencys are the richest family in New York she can treat the rest of us like dirt. The van Beeks are just as old, and a far nobler family. Papa says that Hugh Montmorency sold inferior lumber to the railroads and took over the lines when they failed. And Georgiana’s greatgrandfather was in trade!”
“It was my bloodline she was impugning,” I pointed out as we turned onto River Road. We were soon passing fields where reapers were gathering in the last of the hay and orchards and village boys were picking the last apples of the season, which filled the air with their scent. It felt good to be outside the castle and the gates of Blythewood, even if we were breaking the rules.
“What a lot of rubbish!” Helen cried. “As if we were brood mares to be bred. Of course our families want us to wed wisely. Mother is always talking about finding me a proper husband, but Papa says he won’t make me marry anyone I don’t like.”
“Which will no doubt be someone suitable since you’re a well-bred young woman who wouldn’t choose a crude laborer or mental patient.”
“Pish!” Helen cried. “Your mother would never pick a crude laborer. She was a Hall!”
“What does she mean by a crude laborer?” Daisy asked. “Some of the very nicest people I know are farmers, and come, harvest we all pitch in. Mr. Appleby milks his family’s cows before going to work at the bank. Does that make him a crude laborer?”
“My mother said all work is honorable work,” I said, wondering for the first time if she said it so often because my father had been a blacksmith or a farmer—perhaps one of these farmers pitching hay in these very fields. I found I didn’t really mind the idea. It was the other possibility that Georgiana had craftily tossed out—mental patient—that scared me.
“Don’t worry,” I reassured Daisy. “Mr. Appleby sounds very nice.”
“Yes, indeed,” Helen concurred. “And besides, it doesn’t matter so much for you since you’re not from the One Hundred. No one will care if you marry a country bumpkin.”
“What do you mean a country bumpkin?” Daisy asked, her brow creasing with confusion. Most of the time Daisy seemed not to notice Helen’s careless remarks. I had come to believe that she was so lacking in meanness herself that she hardly recognized it in other people. But she was very sensitive on the issue of Mr. Appleby. The last thing I wanted right now, though, was another argument. Fortunately I saw, as we came to the glass greenhouses on the outskirts of town, just the right thing to distract both girls.
“Isn’t that Mr. Bellows coming out of that greenhouse with a bouquet of violets?”
“Oh!” Daisy said, instantly forgetting the slight to Mr. Appleby. “Do you think they’re for Miss Sharp?”
“Well, I don’t think he’s buying them for Miss Frost,” Helen replied. “There’s one way to tell for sure, though. Let’s follow him.”
“Oh, my!” Daisy squeaked. “Do you think we should? I’d die of embarrassment if he saw us.”
“I don’t think there’s much chance of him seeing anyone,” Helen replied. “He doesn’t look like he’d notice an Arabian Desert foot-licker demon if it jumped out and seized him by the feet right now.”
I shivered, recalling that the demon, genus Palis, had been described by Miss Frost as a creature that attacked travelers at night in the desert and licked the soles of their feet until their blood was gone. Rupert Bellows, sauntering down the main street of Rhinebeck with a bouquet of violets in one hand, his head tilted up toward the clouds, and a carefree tune on his lips, did indeed look as though he could be prey to any number of the horrid creatures we had learned about in Miss Frost’s class. He certainly didn’t notice the drunken fellow who lurched out of the Wing & Clover tavern until he collided with him.
“Ho there, my good man!” Mr. Bellows exclaimed goodnaturedly. “Steady as she goes.”
The drunk belched in Mr. Bellows’s face and careened toward us. Daisy let out a yelp that attracted Mr. Bellows’s attention. He quickly inserted himself between the drunken man and us.
“Let’s steer clear of the young ladies, sir,” Mr. Bellows said, attempting to herd the man around us. But the man refused to be herded. Leering at the three of us he jutted out his grizzled jaw and shoved his face inches from mine. His eyes were bloodshot and watery, his breath smelled like gin.
“Young ladies, y’say? Witches more like! You can’t fool auld Silas Trumble. I know what goes on up there at that accursed school.”
“I sincerely doubt that, Mr. Trumble. If you did, I do not think you would trifle with me,” Mr. Bellows said ominously, “or insult my charges.”
Mr. Trumble’s rheumy eyes swiveled toward Mr. Bellows and raked him up and down dismissively. Although we all admired Mr. Bellows’s height and commanding presence in the classroom, I could see from the perspective of a rough character such as Mr. Trumble how he might not be much of an intimidating figure with his tweed jacket, gold-rimmed spectacles, and posy of violets in his hand. Mr. Trumble conveyed his opinion of Rupert Bellows by spitting on his polished brogues.
“Redirezam tibi-zibus!” Mr. Bellows muttered under his breath. Was that Latin? And wasn’t that the speculative tense combined with the transformative case, which Mrs. Calendar had told us was the correct way to form a spell? Even as I ran through the conjugations and declensions in my mind the glob of sputum was rising in the air in front of the widening eyes of Silas Trumble. It rose slowly at first, trembling in the bright sunshine like a soap bubble, but then at another command from Mr. Bellows it flew into Mr. Trumble’s right eye.
“Why you . . . !” I saw Mr. Trumble pull back his arm, his hand curled into a fist. Before he could swing his arm, though, I heard the sound of bells in my head. They tolled loud and clear, shattering the quiet of the sleepy town. Mr. Trumble’s arm fell limply to his side and he bent over, his other hand clapped over his ears.
“Make it stop!” he cried, looking up at me. But I didn’t know how to make it stop. The bells tolled twelve times and then, when they were done, Mr. Trumble gave me a wild look and ran across the street, nearly getting himself run over by a trolley.
“Well done, Miss Hall!” Mr. Bellows said, clapping me on the shoulder. “Strictly speaking we’re not supposed to use magic on civilians, but no one’s likely to believe a word Silas Trumble says.”
“I hope not,” I said, still shocked and a little horrified that the bells had worked so effectively. I’d never seen them cause anyone pain b
efore. “I didn’t mean to hurt him.”
“Oh, I’m sure Silas Trumble has hangovers worse than what you just gave him,” Mr. Bellows said, taking out a handkerchief to clean off the tip of his shoe. “But say, what are you girls doing out of school? Shouldn’t you be studying for exams? And isn’t it against rules to leave the school grounds on Halloween?”
We exchanged guilty looks. “Please don’t turn us in,” Daisy pleaded.
“It was all . . .” Helen began, but Daisy interrupted her.
“My idea,” Daisy interjected. “According to recent studies by . . . er . . . Dr. Freud, a change of scenery is stimulating to the brain cells. I thought a walk to the village would improve our memorization skills.”
“Ah,” Mr. Bellows said, pursing his lips and tapping his finger against them. “Does Dr. Freud saying anything about the effect of tea and scones on brain function?”
We all looked at him blankly.
“Because I’m headed right now to a very congenial tea party. Would you like to join me?”
Helen and I glanced at each other but Daisy answered for us without hesitation. “We’d love to.”
“Very well, then,” Mr. Bellows said, grinning. “Come along.”
He held out an arm for Daisy and she, blushing bright red, took it. Helen paused to adjust her hat in the window of the Wing & Clover.
“What exactly did you do to that man?” she asked.
“I have no idea,” I said truthfully. “I just didn’t want to see him hurt Mr. Bellows.”
“Hmph. Remind me not to get on your bad side. Come on now. Heaven only knows what boring function we’ve gotten ourselves committed to.” Sighing, Helen began to turn away from her reflection in the window. Something caught her attention, though. She gave a little start and quickly grabbed my arm and pulled me away. Before she did, though, I saw what had startled her. Nathan Beckwith was at the bar, drinking a tall pint of ale. That wasn’t what surprised me, though. Seated a few stools down was Miss Euphorbia Frost and, next to her, a man in an Inverness cape and Homburg hat.
19
IT COULD HAVE been any man wearing the same outfit as my pursuer in the city, I reasoned with myself as I followed Mr. Bellows and my roommates through the residential streets of Rhinebeck. Lots of men no doubt wore the Inverness cape, a style made popular by the illustrations in Mr. Conan Doyle’s detective stories. It was none of my business if Miss Frost chose to meet one at the tavern in the middle of the day. As for Nathan being there . . . although I’d like to ask if he’d noticed the man drinking with Miss Frost, he’d probably interpret the question as a criticism—and then ask me what I was doing in the village instead of studying.
Shaking off the gloom the sight of that Inverness cape had cast over me, I focused on my surroundings instead. The village streets of Rhinebeck were lined with regal maple trees, their last red and gold leaves drifting down into the gardens of pretty Victorian houses painted in cheerful colors. I noticed, too, that many of the houses had their own glass greenhouses. So many sparkling glass roofs made the village appear to be a crystal fairy-land.
“Many of the residents have taken up the cultivation of violets,” I heard Mr. Bellows explain to Helen and Daisy, “but none are so devoted as the Misses Sharp.”
“Sharp?” I asked, catching up with my companions. “Are they relations of our Miss Sharp?”
“Her aunts. That’s where I’ve been invited to tea . . . ah, and here we are. As you can see, they’re so enamored of the Viola odorata, commonly known as the sweet violet, that they have painted their house in its colors.”
Mr. Bellows waved his hand in a flourish toward a gabled Italianate house painted in a rich violet hue, its molding and verge board trim painted white and yellow like the center of a violet. Two black cast-iron urns overflowing with unseasonably blooming violets stood on either side of the front door. A glass conservatory on the side of the house sparkled in the sunshine.
“Come along,” Mr. Bellows said, opening up the front gate and leading us up a path bordered on both sides by banks of more violets blooming out of season. “Tea at Violet House is usually around four o’clock.”
“Won’t Miss Sharp’s aunts mind unexpected guests?” Helen asked in a worried tone, which I guessed had more to do with the fear that Miss Sharp would reprimand us for leaving the school than the impropriety of showing up unannounced for tea. I’d noticed that Miss Sharp was the only teacher whose opinion mattered to Helen.
“I don’t think so,” Mr. Bellows said, turning and frowning at Helen. “I rather get the idea that the household is run on . . . er . . . rather spontaneous principles.”
As if to illustrate that point, a gentleman in a rumpled cream-colored linen suit and broad-rimmed hat wandered out of the back garden at that moment, a book in one hand and a violet-patterned teacup in the other.
“Is it time for tea?” he inquired of Mr. Bellows. “I’m afraid my clock has stopped.” He removed a small brass-plated clock from his jacket pocket and shook it. “Blasted thing! I was waiting for the bells to set it—” Just then the church bells began to ring the hour. “Ah, there they are! Do you know the rhyme?
CAROL GOODMAN [ 227 “Oranges and lemons
Say the bells of St. Clement’s You owe me five farthings Say the bells of St. Martin’s.”
“When will you pay me? Say the bells of Old Bailey,” Mr. Bellows eagerly chimed in. The two men walked up the porch steps, trading verses of the rhyme as the church bells tolled.
“ When I grow rich
Say the bells of Shoreditch.”
“ When will that be? Say the bells of Stepney.”
“ I do not know, Says the great bell of Bow.”
“ Here comes a candle to light you to bed . . .” “‘And here comes a chopper to chop off your head’!” the gentleman in white concluded triumphantly just as the front door was opened by Vionetta Sharp.
“Uncle always has to have the last line,” Miss Sharp said. “Don’t you, Uncle Taddie?” She gave him the sort of indulgent smile one might give a child.
“I’ve brought my teacup,” Uncle Taddie said, handing Miss Sharp the violet-patterned cup. “Emmy says I can’t have any more tea if I don’t bring back the cups.”
“That’s perfectly right, Uncle, as we would soon run out of cups if they all remained in the tower with you, and then we wouldn’t be able to have these lovely young women for tea.”
“I found these three wandering the streets of the village being accosted by drunken sailors,” Mr. Bellows announced rather loudly. I guessed that he had been composing the speech while walking here. “I thought it best to bring them along. I brought these, too,” he added in a lower voice, thrusting the bouquet of violets toward Miss Sharp.
“Rather like bringing coals to Newcastle,” a female voice remarked. The door opened wider and Miss Corey appeared. She was wearing a white lace tea dress rather than her usual plain shirtwaist and skirt, and a straw hat rather than the heavy cloche she usually wore. Although she still wore a veil, it was a lighter one, a rose-colored net that cast only a faint shadow over her face.
“Oh, Miss Corey,” Mr. Bellows said in a subdued tone, “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Nor I you,” Miss Corey replied primly. “And I certainly didn’t expect to see any Blythewood girls. They’re not supposed to leave the school grounds without permission, and I’m quite sure no one would have given them permission on Halloween.”
“Well, now that they have they might as well have tea,” Miss Sharp said, smiling, and then, in a lower, more ominous tone, added, “It will be better if we walk them back.” Then she relieved Mr. Bellows of the bouquet as we stepped into a foyer paved with lilac and jonquil-yellow tiles and dominated by an enormous grandfather clock. She held the flowers to her nose and inhaled deeply.
“Ah, Parma violets, my favorite. Aunt Emmaline won’t grow them because of an unpleasant incident with an Italian prince that occurred in Naples on her grand tour. I shall
secrete them away until it is time to go.” She slipped the violets into a carpetbag that stood on a marble-topped table. “Come along. Tea is served in the conservatory.”
Miss Sharp led us to a glass-roofed room on the side of the house. Although it was a brisk fall day outside, the room was as warm as the tropics. Potted palms and aspidistras filled the corners of the room, ferns trailed from baskets hanging from the glass ceiling, and pots of violets stood on every available surface along with a great assortment of framed pictures and clocks. Brightly colored birds flitted inside wire cages or darted freely amongst the ferns and palm trees. Although the room was as cluttered as my grandmother’s parlor in New York City, it was a great deal cheerier—and the plump woman in lavender silk and mauve lace sitting in a high-backed wicker chair, although around the same age as my grandmother, was a great deal more welcoming.
“I knew there would be unexpected guests for tea,” she cried out at the sight of us. “Didn’t I say so, Hattie?” she asked a tiny birdlike woman perched on a footstool to her right. The tiny woman—she was so small I wondered if she wasn’t a species of fairy—looked up from her needlepoint and nodded. “You did, and I promptly told the cook to make extra sandwiches and Victoria sponge cake, as you are always right about such things.” She turned and looked over her beak-like nose at us.
“My sister Emmaline predicted the stock market crash of ninety-three and had father move all our holdings into gold. Come sit down, children. Doris will be in with the tea in a moment. We always have tea at four.”
She glanced up at an imposing grandfather clock, the kind that has a sun and a moon that move around with the hour. This one also had a dial painted with an apple tree in varying stages of foliage—bare, budding, fully leaved, and blazing red—to represent the seasons. According to the clock it was a quarter past two, in the middle of the night, in the summer. “Oh dear, that one’s wrong,” Aunt Harriet said, glancing at a smaller clock on the mantelpiece, which said that it was half past six. “Our father was an horologist, you see. He made beautiful, rather complicated clocks, but since he passed away we haven’t been able to figure out how to keep the clocks going right. But never mind—the church bells have just gone four o’clock. Doris will be in soon.”
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