Deception's Daughter (The Martha Beale Mysteries, 2)

by Cordelia Frances Biddle

  “You just told me, didn’t you?”

  The logic of these words only irks the boy further. “You’re a fine one, you are, to be wrinkling up your snooty nose at me.”

  “Go away,” Ella tells him.

  “I have as much right to stand here as you.”

  “Not near me, you don’t.”

  “I have. It’s a free country. Or that’s what the toffs say. Someone like your da or mam would spout a stupid thing like that. Freedom for who, that’s what I want to know.”

  Ella releases a noisy sigh. For the first time she notices that the boy smells. “You should bathe,” she says, although she doesn’t move away.

  “I’ll do as I see fit.”

  “Well, no lady will ‘favor’ you with her ‘wares’ if you stink. Which is why I doubt the truth of your claim.”

  “Ain’t you the grand one! With your smart speech and your elegant costume, ain’t you just a sight! ‘Doubt the truth of your claim.’ Who are you to doubt me? And if I’m a ‘child,’ then you’re one, too!”

  “At least I’m not a thief” is the lordly retort.

  “And who says I am?” the boy hisses.

  “I used to know boys like you. That’s how you work. You rob gentlemen of their wallets when their attention is distracted. You reach into ladies’ reticules while they’re gazing into a shop window or walking through the Shambles. You even steal from drunken beggars.”

  “That, I would never do!” The words are loud; the boy stands to his full height, which is taller than Ella by several inches.

  “Hah!” is her victorious answer. “I caught you.”

  Despite this heated exchange, neither moves away. Ella, because she recognizes the kind of rough-and-tumble companion of her previous existence, the type of person long since replaced by well-born, well-scrubbed girls; the boy, from loneliness. But something else pricks at his brain, a memory from some distant, happy time his thoughts can’t fully recapture.

  “You’ve got pretty hair,” he mutters under his breath, then adds a more assertive “I would never rob a drunken man, nor woman, neither. As for you, I could have picked your pockets in a second if I’d wanted.”

  “And been rewarded by a single stick of chalk,” Ella scoffs. “For that’s all I’m carrying about my person.”

  For all his bluster, the boy is instantly protective. “What sort of family lets you walk abroad without so much as a coin in your pocket?”

  “Never you mind about that!” In spite of this injunction, Ella’s eyes puddle with tears. “Never you mind about my family.”

  The boy studies her. “You rich people whimper and wail for no reason, don’t you? I’m tougher than that. A lot.”

  “You don’t know the first thing about me!” Ella fights back.

  “I know you don’t belong on this street.”

  “No …” is the halting answer, “but I did once. I lived here.”

  The boy cocks his head to one side, looking her up and down as he calculates every article of clothing, the scent of expensive soap, Ella’s obvious health, her rosy complexion and lovely, lustrous hair. “So, your mam labored hereabouts, did she, until she made good and repaired to nicer digs?”

  “No” is the still-hesitant reply. “No, she didn’t work in a bawdy house.” Even as Ella speaks the words, she’s not certain if they’re true. “I don’t know where she lived.” By now, Ella’s weeping openly and sniffling into her sleeve, which would certainly irk Miss Pettiman. “I wanted to find her. I ran away from school so I could hunt for her.” Ella’s chest heaves while the boy’s greasy face crumples in empathy.

  He reaches into his pocket, but the cloth he produces is no longer clean enough to masquerade as a handkerchief, and he quickly replaces it. “I made an escape, too,” he offers instead. “But I never returned. And never will. So since I’m on my own I could help you. With your hunt for your mam, I mean. I keep my ears to the ground, I do.”

  Ella stifles a hiccoughing sob. “Is that why they’re so oddly shaped?”

  The boy laughs. “There, now. I never thought of that. That’s a good one.”

  Ella returns a small and grateful smile. “Will whoever you ran away from catch you?”

  “Not if I see them coming first.” A knowing wink accompanies this statement, then builds to something bolder. He lifts himself up on his toes, momentarily towering over Ella. “I’ve got a daguerreian picture of a lady with pale curls like yours back in the hidey-hole where I sleep at night.”

  “Lying’s a mortal sin” is Ella’s sole reply to this clearly bogus claim.

  “Who says it’s a lie?”

  “Boys who keep themselves in hidey-holes don’t own ladies’ portraits.”

  “I do, too! And if you come here again tomorrow, I’ll prove it to you. A pretty lady, like an angel—”The words cease; and Ella turns to see what caused her companion’s sudden silence. At the corner is a uniformed member of the day watch making his regular patrol. When she glances back at the boy, the spot where he stood is empty.

  “You there, miss,” the day watch addresses her. “Where’s your parents at? Not in one of these dismal places, are they? And leaving you here by your lonesome?”

  “No, sir,” Ella tells him.

  The watch regards her. His face is broad and bewhiskered, and Ella decides he looks like a big dog: small eyes, thick snout, and hair. “Then how did you come to be in these unsavory parts?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” Ella says almost truthfully. “I suppose I got lost.”

  “And who was that urchin bothering you?”

  “Urchin, sir?”

  “The beggar lad.”

  Ella shakes her head. “A boy, is all.”

  “Well, miss, you must take care. Them boys have got sticky fingers, and don’t mind who they rob. And they can be dangerous. I’d best take you home.”

  This, however, is the last thing Ella wishes. “Oh, no, sir. I can find my way.”

  “No, miss. If you got lost before, you’ll get lost again. And I won’t have Mr. Thomas Kelman swearing at me if I should let a girl in nice clothes like yourself fall in harm’s way.”

  At this name, Ella brightens considerably. “But I know Mr. Kelman. He wouldn’t swear at anybody.”

  “I doubt it’s the same gentleman we’re discussing” is the blunt reply. “Now come along. You tell me where your parents live, and I’ll walk you home.”

  “YOU FOUND MY WARD WHERE?” Martha asks again, while the day watch provides the same answer he gave only a moment before. He might be misled into thinking the lady’s hard of hearing, but he knows it’s both disbelief and fright she’s experiencing. As well she should. If criminals can snatch a young person from her house in the middle of the night, how much easier to steal a child off roving alone?

  “The lass told me she got lost,” the watch concludes equably.

  “Yes” is all Martha answers, although she suspects the statement is untrue. Instead of voicing this opinion, she graces the watch with a grateful smile.” I’m indebted to you for your conscientiousness, sir.”

  “It were nothing, madam. Duty is all. And besides, I have a certain rigorous master who’d have my hide if another girl vanished.”

  “Well, your ‘rigorous master’ shall have my thanks if you mention his name to my footman before you leave. And for your pains, you’ll also be provided with a monetary token of my appreciation.”

  “Oh, madam, I cannot accept such a present.”

  “Will you take the gift to your family, then?”

  The watch considers the suggestion. “For the missus and little ones, madam, I would cart home Heaven and earth if they was offered.”

  “Good. Then it’s a gift from me to them. You are simply the messenger.”

  With the watch gone, Martha turns to Ella, but the child is now diligently examining an invisible object on the floor beside her shoes. The defeated line of her shoulders and her hunched stillness make her the picture of doom. “That w
as a naughty and thoughtless thing you did, Ella. And potentially dangerous, too. The school was in an uproar when they discovered you gone. One of your teachers came here hoping against hope she’d find you.” As Martha speaks, she keeps her gaze fixed on the child, but Ella scrupulously avoids this steady observation.

  “Weren’t you worried?” she finally asks; the tone is so quiet that it takes Martha a moment to decipher the words.

  “Of course I was! Do you think I wouldn’t be frightened for your safety?”

  Again silence is the answer; although Martha is beginning to recognize that it’s not sullenness dictating her ward’s recalcitrant behavior but distress.

  “Why did you run away from school, Ella? Are you unhappy there? Is a classmate teasing you, perhaps?”

  The response is a gloomy sigh.

  “Sometimes girls—and boys, too—can make remarks they don’t fully intend, or completely understand. But that doesn’t mean those schoolmates dislike you—”

  “I didn’t escape because I was sad.” Ella looks up only as long as it takes to deliver this declaration, then instantly returns her focus to the floor.

  “Perhaps you can explain what your reason was, then.”

  “I don’t know,” Ella states in a breathy rush. “I don’t. I just decided to go. And then I did.”

  “For an adventure?”

  Ella shakes her bent head. “No …”

  Martha stifles her rising frustration. “So, your motive wasn’t adventure, nor was it because you felt a classmate snubbed you. Let me list other excuses you may have had—”

  “I didn’t have an excuse. I just wanted to go out.”

  Rather than react in irritation, Martha walks across the room and gazes into the street. As she peruses the scene, a disquieting sight catches her attention. A boy dressed in rags loiters near one of the trees on the opposite side of the road as if he were scrutinizing the house. Her heart beats faster, and she begins to wish she hadn’t been so quick to dispatch the day watch. “Did you happen to meet a street child during your excursion, Ella?”

  “I saw a lot of people coming and going.”

  “But none that you remember, in particular?” Martha prods, for she’s all but certain her ward is concealing a secret.

  “No.” Ella pauses just a moment too long before answering, which increases Martha’s skepticism.

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes. I am. I’m certain.”

  There’s a newfound stubbornness in the tone; and Martha forsakes her sentry post in order to better scrutinize the child. “Ella, unpleasant things are afoot in our city. Not the usual pickpockets and cutpurses. I don’t wish to frighten you, but we must be vigilant. Now, I promise I won’t be upset by what you’re hiding from me. But I will be upset—and angry, too—if I find you’ve lied.”

  Ella looks up, although her expression remains stony. “I ran away because. I wanted an adventure. I’m sorry for the trouble I caused. I won’t do it again. And I didn’t meet anyone. Except for the gentleman who brought me home.”

  It’s several moments before Martha responds. “You may go to your room. When you decide you can be honest with me, we’ll continue our conversation.” Then she returns to the window and looks at the street, but the beggar boy is gone.

  OH, WHAT DREAMS TORTURE MARTHA that night! She envisions Ella when she first met her: freezing, nearly naked, hideously abused. Then she sees the beggar child dodging behind the tree. Another, smaller boy joins him, and another and another until the street fills with tense, gray bodies whose eyes burn yellow with malice. Martha must run to each window in order to bolt them against the onslaught of this small army. But as she rushes through the house, a boy slithers down one chimney while a second gains access through another flue, and a third appears in her upstairs chambers. Soot and dirt cling to these invaders, making them look as though they were covered in fur.

  Then the nightmare transports her to a cavernous interior space where a young woman calling herself Theodora Crowther beckons from the shadows. On approaching, however, Martha finds that it’s not blond and delicate Dora but a girl whose skin is black and chalky. The girl opens her mouth and it’s full of blood.

  Awakening, Martha sits bolt upright in bed, staring at the dusky room and the shapes of its familiar objects: the satinwood tables, the chaise and chairs, the armoire, the mantel with its china figurines and candelabra. Instead of solace what she feels is fear, as if the entire purpose of her interrupted sleep was to rise in terror.

  Then she becomes aware of raindrops spattering the window-panes. She throws aside the bedclothes and hurries across the room, closing the sashes against a storm that appears to be flying nearly sideways. Thoroughly wet, she gazes down at the deserted street and the rivulets of black water swelling over the cobbled stones. Her thoughts race with them: her visit to the Crowther household, Georgine’s grief and rage, the ambiguities of what Miss Lydia had or had not heard, Harrison’s connection to Erasmus Unger’s bank.

  Finally, she circles back to her awful dream, and to the boy she’s certain followed Ella home.

  A REQUEST

  DESPITE MISS PETTIMAN’S PROTESTS THAT misbehavior should be rewarded with punishment rather than prizes, Martha decides that the best recourse for Ella’s transgression is love—and a guarantee that it will never, ever be lacking. To this end, rather than being consigned to school the morning after her misadventure, Ella and Martha embark on an excursion whose purpose is solely pleasure.

  After considering expeditions that would appeal to an eleven-year-old—the exhibition of Hindoo Miracles performed by the Fakir of Ava at the Masonic Hall (over Miss Pettiman’s stringent objections), a visit to the natural history museum where the bones of a great mastodon are displayed, or even having a daguerreian portrait made—Martha chooses the recently opened Traveling Diorama of Monsieur Moissenet of Paris. After examining the diorama, they’ll have the opportunity to venture into Parkinson’s Ice Cream Palace, also new and the height of fashion and excitement, and sitting conveniently across the road on High Street.

  However, this happy project isn’t as easily accomplished as Martha envisioned. The diorama is an extraordinarily popular attraction. Outside the building, which resembles a circus house rather than a gallery of art, the demand for tickets is intense. Having purchased them, Martha and Ella must wait in a long line that inches slowly forward into the exhibition hall itself. After a full half hour spent in this fashion, they’re next forced to climb stairs so laden with legs and feet that it’s nearly impossible to move. When the pair eventually reaches the circular platform that replicates an open-air teahouse set atop the terraced steps of Montmartre, Martha finds that Ella is too short to see past the crowd oohing and aahing its astonishment.

  It does little good to say, “Oh, look, Ella, that must be the River Seine, and those caparisoned horses prancing through the park and the soldiers in their plumed helmets, they must be the cavalry” or “See the lady reading by the window, and the washerwoman hefting her basket, and the faraway church dome bathed in gold. Doesn’t it look as though genuine sunlight were striking it?” No, Martha must lift the child, which causes both discomfort in the tight space. Then she forces her way to the front of the platform in order to enable Ella to appreciate the wonders that surround them.

  Instead of rhapsodizing on the life-like birds lofting through the canvas sky, or the wooden steps wobbling down the hillside, or the barges bobbing along the painted quays, Ella’s reaction is a perturbed “It’s a trick, isn’t it? The straw hat on the park bench and the hoe and barrow and mound of earth: Those are real … But the little boy and the lady who holds his hand, and the gardener trimming vines, they’re merely picture people, aren’t they?”

  “Well,” Martha replies slowly, for she’s still enthralled with the artist’s illusion, “it’s not a trick as much as a fantasy. You and I are supposed to believe we’re in Paris while we stand here, just as we’re meant to envision ourselves in oth
er circumstances when we read a book or a tale in Mr. McGuffey’s Reader. But you’re correct, this isn’t really a French hillside. When we step outside of the enclosure, we’ll be back in Philadelphia.”

  “We’re in Philadelphia now,” Ella persists, and her face, so close to Martha’s, clouds in disappointment.

  “Would you like your ice cream?” Martha asks as she regards the unhappy girl.

  Ella nods, although her eyes remain fixed on the painted child and his beaming mother.

  Martha follows her ward’s longing glance. “Then you shall have it. And sugar biscuits, too. As many as you wish. And as much ice cream as you can hold. Now, I’ll set you back on the floor, but you must hold my hand like that boy in the diorama so we don’t become separated.”

  SO, IT WAS ON TO Parkinson’s ice cream palace with its floor inlaid with mosaic tiles, its ceiling painted by the famed Monachesi, depicting Roman gods and goddesses that appear to swoop down from above, its numerous divans and private alcoves, its air of Continental abandon. In a city where diners are accustomed to sup in cramped oyster cellars or at indifferent tables d’hôte, Parkinson’s is a palace, indeed.

  A waiter in a swallowtail coat escorts the pair to a table, then flourishes menus bordered in crimson and rose. Ella says not a word except to mumble her desire for currant ice cream and preserved morello cherries; nor does she speak when the sweet is delivered in a silver dish and tasted with a golden spoon. Instead, she stares at the elegant crowd: the ladies in their feather-tipped bonnets and silk mantillas, the gentlemen in cravats of Italian blue or solferino. Martha, in turn, studies the child.

  “I’m not going to ask you again why you ran away yesterday,” she begins at length, “because I know you’ll tell me your reasons eventually. But I will repeat that it was a very dangerous thing you did—”

  “Miss Pettiman said I could have been abducted and hidden in an evil place without room enough to breathe. And nothing wholesome to eat,” Ella announces before inserting a spoonful of currant and cherry into her mouth. She’s become the picture of unconcern, as if the girl who challenged Martha yesterday or displayed such woe an hour past weren’t the same child sitting in Parkinson’s Palace. “Like Miss Theodora Crowther, she said. Stolen away right under her parents’ noses.”