Martha’s jaw tightens. How like the nursery maid to attempt to terrify her charge with melodrama rather than setting forth simple rules. Instead of arguing against Miss Pettiman’s assertion, though, Martha answers with an even “Hopefully not the same as Miss Crowther, but these are not wise times for well-dressed young people to be out walking alone. Which is precisely the reason I and Miss Pettiman and Mr. Kelman and the gentleman who brought you home are so concerned—”
“The day watch is scared of Mr. Kelman,” Ella states in the same nonchalant fashion.
“Is he?”
“When I told him I knew Mr. Kelman, he didn’t believe me. He said it must have been a different person, but that couldn’t be, could it?”
“No …”
Ella helps herself to more ice cream, holding the spoon between her lips as if savoring all the syrupy fruits in the world while Martha suppresses a sigh of frustration. Who is this girl who can manifest defiance and sorrow one moment, and innocence the next? Or is it the way of all children? Martha tries to recall her own youthful behavior but can only attest that she never sat eating ice cream with her father.
“If you wish to visit Lombard Street, Ella, I’ll take you there. But I want you to understand that your history is no longer your future. My home—my homes—are yours. Yours to enjoy for all time. No one can alter that fact.”
“No one?” The voice posing the question is so quiet that Martha misinterprets the query as a need for reassurance.
“You’ll remain Ella Beale until the day you marry. And even after you’re wed you’ll still be my daughter.”
In answer, Ella frowns into her half-empty dish.
“Would you like more ice cream?”
“No. Thank you.” Despite the careful tone, Ella’s expression is full of yearning. “Did you have a mother?”
“Of course I did. But she died when I was very young, so I was raised by my father.”
“How young were you?”
“Five.”
“That’s how old Cai was when you adopted him.”
“That’s right.”
“And did your father beat you?”
Martha frowns a little as she weighs her words. “No. But he didn’t really love me, either.”
“He must have if he didn’t beat you. Or sell you.” This last is said in the faintest of whispers.
“Ella, you’ve experienced many, many hardships in your eleven years, more than enough for an entire lifetime, but I promise you’ll never endure those misfortunes again. I want you to be as happy as humanly possible, and to recognize that you’re free to speak to me, to express your worries and fears, what you most deeply desire, what hurts and angers you. Like the boy yesterday who I believe must have followed you home—”
“There wasn’t a boy.”
“Oh, Ella!”
If Martha had asked outright why her adoptive daughter was concealing the truth, Ella couldn’t have told her. The superficial answer would be that he offered to help find her real mother, although she realizes Martha would never permit such an association. The deeper motive is that the boy with the strange ears now belongs to some secret part of Ella’s heart and brain. Cunning and conniving though his ilk might be—and she knows precisely what sort he comes from—she inherently trusts him. “There wasn’t anyone!”
“Street children aren’t safe companions for you, Ella dear.”
“I know that, Mother.”
“If you spoke to a pauper child during your adventure yesterday, I’m afraid he may have designs upon you. Try to rob you when you’re outside playing, perhaps.” Martha hesitates. Not for the world does she wish to sound an alarmist like Miss Pettiman. “Or Cai.”
“He wouldn’t do that.”
“Ah, so there was a boy.”
“No.” Ella’s lips clamp shut, and she looks away as though to examine some distant part of the room while Martha continues to regard her.
“I want there to be trust between us, dear. As well as love.”
Ella maintains her faraway gaze.
“Are you listening to me?”
The response to this is a brief nod but no words.
“You may keep your mystery for now. However, I will reiterate that such acquaintances can be harmful. If not the boy himself, then perhaps some adult with whom he dwells. Beggar lads often work in unison with older children or men.”
Ella says nothing. The boy with the odd ears told her he lived alone in a private hidey-hole, and she has no reason to doubt him.
“Promise me you’ll tell me if you spot the lad again.”
Ella’s reply to this request is an indifferent shrug as if she’s forgotten both the encounter and her escape from school. “Why did your mother die?” she says instead, and Martha, taken by surprise, drops the previous topic.
“I don’t know the answer to that, I’m afraid.”
“Lots of mothers die when they’re having babies. Maybe you had an infant sister or brother, and that’s what killed her.”
Martha remains silent for a moment. Her eyes search Ella’s face as the child now turns her full concentration on her adoptive parent. “What I recall is a dark room and a number of people in it. I could only see the top of the bedclothes on my mother’s bed and one of her hands lying on the sheet. Her face was invisible, but her fingers were a bluish white. And chilly. I touched them, so I remember.”
“Who were the people?”
“I don’t know. I wish I did.”
“Did you hear ghosts at night afterwards? Her ghost wandering up and down through the chimney flue like Miss Pettiman says?”
“That story’s a fabrication, Ella. What we hear is the wind and nothing more.”
The girl sits back, skepticism stamped across her brow. “It sounds like ghosts. Howling and crying.”
“That’s your imagination at work. If we let our thoughts escape the real world, which we do when we’re dreaming or daydreaming, then we can invent a multitude of circumstances. The figures at the diorama, which you rightly identified as being painted, can become living people in our thoughts.”
Ella’s eyes survey the silver dish, the gold spoon, the immaculate white of the tablecloth, but Martha spots tears clinging to her lashes.
“Does that notion trouble you?”
The reply to the question is so subdued that Martha isn’t certain she’s heard correctly. “Can we find my mother? My real one?”
“Your—?”
“Can we ask Mr. Kelman? That’s his job, isn’t it? To find people who’ve been stolen like Miss Crowther, or escaped from prison, or committed a dangerous act.”
Whatever Martha is about to respond dies in her throat when Becky Grey enters the establishment. Heads turn as the former actress passes among the tables, the ladies’ lips pursing in dismay and the men’s eyes narrowing with covetous curiosity. “I thought she was under supervised care following her indisposition,” one woman confides to a companion, who answers a snide “The lower classes must be hard to kill. And their offspring, also.”
Either oblivious to the malicious chatter or stubbornly ignoring it, Becky proceeds into the space, but not a single table is available and no one seems to be awaiting her arrival. She pauses while the elite of Philadelphia close ranks, bending over their dishes or volubly talking with one another. Martha’s reaction to this communal show of reproof is immediate ire.
“Mrs. Taitt!” she calls with such forced pleasure that the same faces that had assiduously gazed into their ice cream bowls now swivel in her direction. “Join our table. Please do. I’m simply delighted to find you in improved health. You suffered a dreadful trial, I know.”
“Thank you” is the resolute reply. Despite a dangerously pale complexion and eyes that bear a feverish glint, Becky forces herself to stand erect.
“We can attest that the fruit creams are not only a novelty but delicious,” Martha continues in the same bright and artificial tone.
“So I surmise by your empty dis
hes, Miss Beale.” Becky drops heavily into the chair. “Parkinson’s is a popular spot, is it not?”
Here the effort at camaraderie grinds to a halt. The women have held no private conversation before this one. Martha can’t help but feel provincial and dowdy when she considers her companion’s illustrious former career, while Becky ponders how marvelous it would be to find herself an heiress. An heiress of such stature that society’s approval or disapproval would be of no importance.
“You’re quite well?” Martha asks after an awkward silence. “I had heard—”
“That the accoucheur confined me to my quarters” is the over-loud response. “I’ve now regained my strength, however. I simply couldn’t linger in an invalid state. I’m not a person intended to exist in a cocoon.” Like Ella’s eyes before, Becky’s swell with tears. “As you see, I’m still great with child. I’m told that I should be exceedingly thankful.” She sounds anything but, which inspires another gush of half-heard comments. Becky looks at the speakers; she appears to be about to rebuke them but instead returns her attention to the table. Sweat stands out on her brow; her lips are ashy. “Who is your delightful young companion?”
“Ella is my ward. My adoptive child.”
“We’re going to find my birth mother,” Ella offers. “Mr. Kelman will help us.”
“Ah” is the sole response. Becky appears to have already lost interest in the girl beside her.
Then the waiter presents himself, and the pregnant woman orders almost as many sweets as the menu affords. “Iced apple pudding,” she insists, “and preserved mulberries and nectarines, and tipsy cake, and French plums. Oh, and almond flowers and puits d’amour, and let us have a few gooseberry tartlets, as well, if you have them.”
Martha makes no attempt to reduce the extensive list. She intuits desperation in every syllable in her companion’s voice.
Thus the much-touted excursion to Parkinson’s limps forward: Ella consumed with her visions of lost and found parents, and Becky speaking only for the sake of being seen in animated conversation.
It’s only when the various desserts have been either enjoyed or dispensed with and the threesome is preparing to depart that the situation changes. For neither woman has money with which to pay.
“Oh, dear,” says Becky, and she releases a ragged laugh because she’s always been accustomed to having gentlemen pay her bills.
Martha’s reaction is the opposite. She scowls in indignation, for she suddenly realizes she’s been robbed. “I had my reticule with me when we visited the diorama—”
“Then, my dear Miss Beale, you’re the victim of a clever cut-purse who found you an ideal target.” Becky inclines her handsome head; some of her famed verve begins to return. “I was deprived of my pocketbook in the same manner, which led me to believe that Philadelphia is as dangerous as London. Perhaps one day the city will have equally compelling entertainments.”
Despite Becky’s growing smile, Martha’s expression remains aggrieved. “You’re very lighthearted considering everything you’ve experienced at the hands of criminals, Mrs. Taitt.”
“Such risks are the result of dwelling in a metropolis, are they not, Miss Beale? If we wish to avoid pickpockets, we should take ourselves away from these crowded streets and retire to the country with the oxen and sheep. I’m certain Mr. Parkinson will permit us to sign a chit or some such thing. It’s not as though the names Taitt and Beale were unknown in the town.”
“I should have kept my wits about me in that crowd—”
“Oh, bosh! Should have. Could have. Would have. What an odious trio. When I was forced to keep to my rooms these past days, I made a promise to ignore those gloomy villains. I suggest you do the same. And call me Becky. Please do. It was how I was known back in London.”
Becky Grey, even a weakened version, is a tonic; and Martha finally smiles in earnest, reaching across the table as though meeting her for the first time. “And I’m Martha.” There’s so much warmth in the exchange that the women’s fingers remain locked while Becky continues her breezy remarks:
“You’re a fortunate girl, Ella. You’ll have the world at your feet—even if your adoptive parent loses her purse on occasion. Better that than her heart, however.” Then she turns to the waiter, instructing him that they wish to sign for their meal.
“Oh, if we’re dining on credit, let me be the host and you the guest—”
But the jesting words are interrupted by a gentleman neither lady knows. “Excuse me, Miss Beale. I couldn’t help but overhear. It would be my pleasure to cover your small expenses.”
Martha looks up in surprise. She sees a man of medium height with soft brown eyes and hair that curls abundantly, like a portrait of a Renaissance prince. “I’m Nathan Weil,” he tells her. “I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion.”
“The publisher?” Becky interjects.
“The same.” The answer is addressed to Martha rather than to her companion, and Becky’s expression registers the slight.
“Mr. Weil is famous among literary circles,” she states in a tone that doesn’t disguise her pique. “He brought the works of our English artistes to an American audience.”
“My efforts are of a mechanical nature only. The creation of poetry and other masterpieces, I leave to those with gifts greater than mine. My vocation is to serve. Please, Miss Beale, say that I may help you.”
Unlike Becky, Martha finds the attention of unfamiliar gentlemen such a rare occurrence that she acquiesces without considering whether the decision is appropriate or not. “You may, Mr. Weil. If we agree to a loan rather than a gift.”
He smiles. It’s a relaxed and confident expression, and she can’t help but compare it to Thomas Kelman’s brooding gaze. “I’m not certain I should lend money to the Beale brokerage concern. I’m afraid you’ll have my few coins transferred into notes of credit and I’ll discover myself in debt rather than being a creditor.”
“Oh, you’ll find I’m not as exacting a financier as my father was, Mr. Weil.”
“And I’m not my brother.” As the reference eludes her, Weil continues. “My brother is chief director of Mr. Erasmus Unger’s bank. He was acquainted with your father. Zechariah is older than I by a decade, and most would agree he’s a good deal more consistent and solid.”
“Ah, consistency,” Becky announces. “Gardeners praise soil for that property, but it’s the roses we enjoy.”
Weil acknowledges the sally with a courteous nod but keeps his focus on Martha. “What say you, Miss Beale?”
“I accept, sir, and I thank you for your kindness.”
“Mine is the gratitude.”
As he walks away to settle the bill, Becky leans across the table. “Well, you’ve certainly made yourself a conquest.”
“Nonsense” is the reply, but Martha blushes all the same, then experiences immediate remorse, and her cheeks grow even pinker.
“And one of the city’s most desirable bachelors,” Becky blithely continues.
“He’s certainly polite.”
Becky laughs again. “If he were, he wouldn’t have spoken to you without a proper introduction, Mistress Beale.”
As the foursome of Nathan Weil, Becky Grey, Ella, and Martha depart the ice cream palace and enter into a circuitous conversation about who should escort whom home and how delighted Weil would be to accompany both ladies in turn, Ella shouts an elated “There’s Mr. Kelman.” Her voice rings out as if she’d magically conjured him up, but Martha’s reaction is something akin to shame.
“Thom—Mr. Kelman. What an unexpected surprise. May I introduce—”
“I called at your house and was informed you were here or visiting the diorama.” His black eyes bore into hers as though unaware of being in the company of strangers.
Becky glances at Martha, then not so covertly pinches her arm as proof that she recognizes the intimacy of the relationship. “My dear, you must share your handsome acquaintance with all of us.”
“This is Mr. Kelm
an” is Ella’s boastful reply. “He’s going to find my mother.”
Kelman receives the statement with the same pained astonishment that Martha did. He studies her face for a sign that perhaps he hasn’t heard correctly, but her response is a level “Ella believes you can find anyone.”
Kelman’s countenance darkens. In contrast with the gilded manner of Nathan Weil, he looks dour and forbidding. “I can try.” At these slow words, Ella takes his hand, swinging it as if she owned the man himself.
“Miss Pettiman says you’re capable of solving crimes because you’re so relentless in your pursuit, and that—”
“Ella! Mr. Kelman doesn’t wish to hear Miss Pettiman’s opinions at the moment.”
He smiles for the first time, but the pleased expression immediately disappears. “Can you come with me to the Crowthers’, Miss Beale? That is, as soon as Ella is safely delivered to Miss Pettiman? They’ve received a message regarding their daughter.”
IF YOU WISH TO SEE YOUR DAUGHTER
HARRISON CROWTHER’S HANDS ARE SHAKING SO vigorously that he can scarcely hold the letter. At Kelman’s silent urging, Martha reaches for it. “May I, Mr. Crowther?”
The man’s fingers can’t or won’t release the missive, and so Kelman walks to Crowther’s side, lifting a lamp in order to better study the sheet of paper. “You found this on your doorstep?” The tone in which the question is posed is firm, too harsh in Martha’s opinion, although she’s unfamiliar with the protocol demanded by such situations.
However, the authoritative manner seems to recall Theodora’s father from his trembling state. He places the letter on the table, then thrusts his hands into his pockets. “One of the under-housemaids did. When she went outside to polish the brass door-appurtenances. My wife had noticed marks upon them, you see, and insisted they be eradicated immediately. Mrs. Crowther and I and my aunt had just assembled for our luncheon when the missive was carried in to me.”
Deception's Daughter (The Martha Beale Mysteries, 2) Page 10