Anyone but Ivy Pocket

by Caleb Krisp

  “Is this your first visit to Suffolk?” she asked not long into our journey.

  “Well . . .” I looked out the window, then back at Rebecca. “I was recently in Paris. You see, I travel the world a great deal. I’ve been so many places, it’s hard to keep track.”

  “How lucky you are, Ivy.” She looked positively dazzled. “I would love to see the world and travel across exotic lands. To go far away.”

  “Oh, yes, it’s terribly interesting.” I sighed. “Though sometimes I wish my life was slightly less thrilling, a little less astounding. It might be rather nice to be a perfectly ordinary, utterly unremarkable lump—like yourself, dear.”

  Rebecca looked slightly stunned. Clearly she hadn’t expected a junior lady’s maid to have such fine manners!

  “Do you live at Butterfield Park?” I asked.

  She nodded her head gravely. “I have nowhere else to go.”

  “You mustn’t look so glum,” I said. “I’ve only known you a short time, but already I can tell your skin gets awfully blotchy when you’re glum.”

  She gasped. “What did you say?”

  The poor creature was obviously hard of hearing.

  “Blotchy, dear,” I said, this time louder. “When you think gloomy thoughts, which I imagine is terribly often, your cheeks flare up like you’ve been hit in the face with a cricket ball.”

  Remarkably, this seemed to please the strange girl. For she grinned for the first time and said, “Where are you from, Ivy?” She shifted in her seat to face me, her hands clasped around the box in her lap. “Who are your parents?”

  “My parents?” I retied the ribbon in my hair, which gave me a moment to think. “My father is Polish. A painter. Mainly fruit. Occasionally flowers. Poor, but hauntingly gifted. My mother is defective. Has an obsession with the pan flute. She ran away to join an orchestra in Berlin when I was eight. She sends money when she can and writes every week. Her letters are in German, so I have no idea what she’s saying—but I’m certain they’re full of longing and heartbreak.”

  Rebecca Butterfield looked at me with a mixture of shock and envy. “But who takes care of you?”

  “I do,” I said brightly. “I’ve been in service for a year and a half, and it suits me very well. And just between you and me, I’m soon to come into a small fortune—on account of the diamond necklace I’m delivering to your cousin, Matilda.”

  “Oh.” Rebecca seemed to pale at the name. “Yes, of course. I suppose it is a gift for her birthday?”

  I nodded. “A special, one-of-a-kind present from the Duchess of Trinity. The Duchess is dead—stabbed through the heart, poor dear—but it was her dying wish that Matilda should have the necklace.”

  “Matilda has a great many jewels.” Rebecca was smiling but looked rather like she had swallowed a dung beetle. “Too many to count. Do you know why I was in London, Ivy?”

  “I think so, dear. London has the finest madhouses in all of England.”

  Rebecca shook her head. “I was in the city to be fitted for a new dress. Do I need a new dress? Do I want one? It doesn’t matter. Grandmother said I must have one for the birthday ball. No one will be looking at me, but everything must be perfect for Matilda.”

  “Is she a horrid sort of girl?” I asked.

  “Matilda is very pretty,” came the meek reply. And then she said no more.

  A lengthy silence settled in, and I had nearly been lulled to sleep by the train’s gentle rhythm when Rebecca offered me a slice of cherry cake. Which I took gladly. I asked if she was traveling with any potatoes. Or perhaps a pumpkin. Unfortunately, she wasn’t.

  “I’m the eldest,” she said between mouthfuls. “A full three hundred and seventy-six days older than Matilda.” She looked intently at me. “That’s nine thousand and twenty-four hours. You understand, Ivy?”

  I had no clue. “Perfectly, dear.”

  “Butterfield Park should go to me, being the eldest. But Grandmother says Matilda will be her heir.” Rebecca looked down at the parcel in her lap. “Mother wanted the estate to be mine—she loved it dearly, the gardens best of all. If she were here, she would never let Grandmother do such a thing.”

  “Your mother is dead?”

  Rebecca nodded her head. “Last year. Her heart.”

  “I’m awfully sorry, dear.”

  “Father has a new family in Italy,” she said faintly. “So it was just us—Mother and I.”

  “Now that she is gone, is the rest of your family shockingly cruel?” I said rather hopefully. “Do they beat you and starve you and lock you in the cellar?”

  She didn’t answer for a long while. Then she glanced out of the window and said, “They do not notice me most of the time. And when they do, it makes them uncomfortable. They think that I am strange.” She looked at me earnestly. “What do you think, Ivy?”

  “You’re not the prettiest of girls,” I said with heartbreaking tact, “and you seem slightly odd—but I like you very much. Besides, you seem awfully tortured, which is terribly interesting.”

  Rebecca was looking down again at the box she was clutching.

  As such, I pointed to it. “What’s inside?”

  The question seemed to stun her. She gulped. “Nothing. What I mean is—nothing special.”

  “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that? Come now, dear, I am dying to know.”

  Rebecca frowned. Looked slightly terrified. “Honestly, Ivy,” she said, “you would be very disappointed. It’s just a little something I picked up in London. It’s really very boring.”

  I sighed. “I won’t stop asking. I will drive you batty.”

  A great wave of defeat washed over her freckly face. She placed her hands around the package, holding it tenderly. “Very well, Ivy,” she said. “It is a present for Matilda’s birthday. Yes, that’s all it is, just a little present. Nothing more than a few ribbons for her hair and a sash. Matilda will think it terribly dull. So you see—it’s really not very interesting at all.”

  I didn’t believe her for a moment.

  6

  We stood outside the station, bags at our feet, and waited for the carriage to come and whisk us away to Butterfield Park. I’m usually an excellent waiter. I once waited for a miracle. It took seven and a half weeks. Yet I never gave up.

  But right now I was tired. And it was getting late.

  “Lady Amelia didn’t say she would send a carriage in her letter,” I said, swatting away an insufferable moth. “I just assumed on account of me being a welcomed guest. . . .”

  “Don’t be shocked, Ivy,” said Rebecca, still gazing with alarming fondness at the mysterious box in her hands. “I’m sure my aunt meant to send the carriage, but it’s easy to be forgotten at Butterfield Park—unless your name happens to be Matilda.”

  “Do you have any more cake, dear? I’m positively starving.”

  “You ate the last piece twenty minutes ago.” Rebecca sighed. “We’ll have to go on foot. I hope you’re a good walker, Ivy.”

  “Stupendous,” I said, picking up my bag. “When I was four, I walked across India with my father. He wanted to paint ashrams and elephants and whatnot. I hardly broke a sweat.”

  Rebecca frowned. “You’re lying.”

  “Who can say?” I pointed at the suitcase. “Shall we get started?”

  We mounted the crest of a small hill and headed down an avenue bordered by elm trees, through which Butterfield Park was revealed in all its glory. It was a fine building with marble columns and magnificent turrets and chimneys reaching towards the heavens. A clock tower crowned the east wing. Surrounding the main house was a tapestry of formal gardens full of roses and tulips, a wildflower meadow, an apple orchard, and a pretty summerhouse. The entire estate was circled by woodlands.

  “It’s perfectly lovely,” I declared.

  “Wickam took care of the gardens,” said Rebecca softly. “He loved them so. I think he was the only person around here Grandmother actually liked—well, apart from Matilda.”r />
  “Has he been gone long?”

  “He died last winter. We have a new gardener now.” Rebecca scratched her nose. “He’s young and clever and full of new ideas for the wildflower meadow. Everybody hates him.”

  “Quite right too,” I said.

  Rebecca giggled.

  We ambled up the gravel drive. “They are probably still packing up from the theatrical last night,” Rebecca said glumly. “My aunt fancies herself a writer. She loves to put on plays and recitals.” She must have noticed the ravishing smile upon my face because she said, “Do you act, Ivy?”

  “Brilliantly,” I said. “I toured America in a production of The Secret Garden. I played Mary Lennox, of course. The critics raved about me. Said I lit up the stage like a mid-sized house fire.”

  Rebecca was frowning. “You did no such thing.”

  “Of course I did.” I shrugged. “I’m practically positive.”

  We reached the large oak doors and were ushered into a great hall. I spun around, taking in my surroundings. The hall had dark paneled walls, a massive carved staircase, a large coat of arms above a marble fireplace, and a stupendous chandelier suspended from the vaulted ceiling. Rebecca told me the house had more than ninety rooms. A west wing and east wing. Servants’ quarters. A majestic library. Staircases everywhere you looked. Banks of stained-glass windows. More hallways and corridors than a hospital.

  “Where is my aunt?” Rebecca asked the butler.

  “She’s in the library, waiting for little Miss Pocket,” came a voice from behind us.

  “Blast!” hissed Rebecca. She pushed her mysterious box into my arms. “Pretend it’s yours,” she whispered. “Please.”

  Of course I played along—for I have all the natural instincts of a professional trickster. I turned and was rewarded with my first glimpse of Matilda Butterfield. She was a contrast to her fair cousin—dark hair, hazel eyes, the reddest lips I’d ever seen, and an olive complexion. She looked like a doll. Lovely, but somehow unreal.

  Rebecca introduced us and we exchanged a polite greeting, but the whole time Matilda’s eyes were fixed on the package I was holding.

  “Is that it?” she said eagerly. “Is that my diamond?”

  I looked down. “This? Of course not, dear.”

  “Then what is it?” asked Matilda.

  Rebecca gulped and looked at me with pleading eyes. I had no idea what was going on. But I knew she needed me. “Nothing,” I said. “Just something I picked up in London.”

  Matilda smiled coolly. “Is it nothing or something?” she said. “You seem confused, Pocket.”

  I sighed. “It is really rather personal, dear. My aunt Agnes is a fruitcake. Barking mad. She’s been locked away for years on account of her blowing up Mrs. Digby’s prize-winning dairy cow. Naturally, Aunt Agnes spends most of her time in a straitjacket. But once a week, for one precious hour, she is freed from her restraints. And in that one hour, my insane aunt likes to bake. Cupcakes. She’s very talented.” I looked down at the box with suitable affection. “I receive a package like this every week, containing a single vanilla cream cupcake. It’s really very sweet, don’t you think?”

  Matilda Butterfield didn’t say anything at first, her eyes moving back and forth between Rebecca and me. At last she said, “Can I try it?”

  “Try what, dear?” I said.

  “Your insane aunt’s cupcake, of course,” said Matilda, flicking her dark locks.

  Before I could answer, she snatched the box from my grasp. Then she did the strangest thing—she put the box up to her ear. I looked to Rebecca, but she just groaned wearily and stared at her feet.

  “I knew it!” Matilda declared. “You’ve done it again, haven’t you, cousin?”

  “Done what?” I asked.

  Now it was Rebecca’s turn to snatch the box away. “Mind your own business!” she hissed. Then she hurried away, practically running up the staircase.

  I looked back to Matilda for some sort of explanation.

  “Come on, Pocket,” she said, turning on her heel and striding from the hall. “My grandmother wants to see you.”

  “Where is Rebecca?” That was Lady Amelia’s first question after I set down my carpetbag and introduced myself with a breathtaking curtsy.

  “She’s gone to her room, Mother,” said Matilda sweetly. “Same as always.”

  Lady Amelia was a regal and slightly pudgy creature, in a yellow gown of the finest silk, perched before a writing table, a black cat at her feet. She had Matilda’s dark hair and features (apparently she descended from Italian royalty).

  “Did she . . . did she do it again?” she asked, looking anxiously at Matilda.

  “I’m afraid so, Mother.”

  “I don’t know what to do,” said Lady Amelia wearily. “We have tried everything to make her stop—but she will not.”

  I could only assume they were referring to the mysterious box. Now, while I had no idea what that was about, I was certain I could help. “Forgive me, Lady Amelia,” I said, pushing a bowl of grapes out of the way and sitting down on the edge of her writing table, “but I got to know Rebecca rather well on our train journey from London. It’s clear the poor girl is unhappy. Why is she unhappy? Well, I can’t say for sure, but I’m almost certain it’s all your fault. Not just you, dear. The whole family.”

  Lady Amelia was smiling now (strange woman). “I see. Go on . . .”

  I jumped off the writing table and plucked a grape from the bowl. “Well, if melancholia is her problem, I have an excellent remedy. All I need is a glass of cranberry juice and a hammer. It’s remarkably effective.”

  Lady Amelia’s laugh was rather musical. Why she was laughing, I hadn’t a clue.

  “She’s mental,” said Matilda with a huff. “She makes no sense at all.”

  I was outraged that she was talking about her cousin in that way. It was very rude. But before I could slap some sense into her, Rebecca appeared in the doorway. Rather sheepishly, she entered the library.

  “Welcome home, Rebecca,” said Lady Amelia. “Was London a success?”

  “If you mean did I get fitted for the dress, the answer is yes,” said Rebecca.

  Lady Amelia regarded her niece carefully. “And did you keep your promise?”

  Rebecca immediately looked at Matilda, who was smiling wickedly.

  “Of course she didn’t keep her promise,” came a brittle voice from somewhere across the room. I turned but could see no one. That corner of the library overlooked the rose garden, and in front of the windows stood a single winged back chair. An elderly woman dressed all in black began to rise up from behind it. She moved slowly, with the aid of a cane.

  “Foolish girl,” she hissed at Rebecca.

  “Lady Elizabeth, do not be too harsh,” said Lady Amelia. “I am sure Rebecca tried her very hardest. This is a complicated matter.”

  “Claptrap!” spat the old geezer. “She must stop, and she will. Or else. Is it any wonder I will not make her my heir?”

  Lady Elizabeth was not at all what I had expected. While she spoke with all the regality of Queen Victoria, she had a head like a walnut. Hands like claws. A body withered and thin as a rake. Her skin had seen more bad weather than a lighthouse. She was also rather mean.

  Rebecca mumbled something about being sorry and promising to try harder and whatnot. I was on the point of asking for a snack when Lady Elizabeth turned her wrinkled gaze on me.

  “Where is the necklace?” she said coldly. “That is why you are in this house, is it not?”

  “The diamond is somewhere safe,” I said, smiling at the old woman. “Now be a dear, and fetch me a dozen uncooked potatoes.”

  “Fetch you what?” she barked.

  “You must be famished after your journey, Ivy,” said Lady Amelia, hastily ringing the bell.

  “Starving,” I said. “Haven’t eaten in days.”

  “The necklace, Miss Pocket,” said old Walnut Head, eyeing me fiercely. “Bring it here this instant!” />
  “Not possible, dear,” I said, shaking my head. “The Duchess of Trinity gave me very strict instructions about the Clock Diamond. No one can see it until the birthday ball.”

  Just then, a pale woman with startling red hair pulled back in a tight bun entered the library.

  “Please excuse the interruption,” she said crisply. The poor creature had an accent. American, I think. “I am after a book of French poetry for my next lesson.”

  “Where are the smelling salts?” muttered Matilda. “I won’t survive another of her dreary lessons!”

  “Matilda, what an awful thing to say,” whispered Lady Amelia. “Miss Frost has only been here a few days. You must give your new governess a chance.”

  Miss Frost hurried over to the shelves by the spiral stairs and busied herself sorting through the books. All the while, she kept stealing glances at me. There was something vaguely familiar about her, but I couldn’t think what. Which was odd.

  “I demand you show me the diamond, Pocket,” snarled Matilda. “I have a right to see it! How else can I be certain it will complement my dress for the birthday ball?”

  “Fear not, Matilda,” I said brightly. “You are blessed with such a naturally weather-beaten complexion, I am certain the necklace will do wonders for your appearance.”

  A bitter smile creased the awful girl’s face as she glared at me. “I pity you, Pocket. You’ll never know what it’s like to wear a priceless jewel. To have every girl in England just wishing she was you.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” I said, unable to help myself. “Not the part about having every girl in England wishing she was me, of course. Although I was voted Girl Most Likely to Burn at the Stake two years running. But as for the Clock Diamond—I hate to burst your balloon, dear, but I’ve already worn it, and I looked heartbreakingly pretty.”

  A loud bang echoed through the great library. All eyes snapped to Miss Frost, whose book had tumbled to the floor. She looked frightfully pale as she bent down to pick it up.