by Susan Green
“When I was ill, I often felt that she was here with me,” said Papa. “Sometimes I could even smell her perfume. I thought it was because I was going to die.”
“Papa! Please don’t.”
“But I didn’t die, and she is still here, near me. I wonder if I am getting some of your gift, Verity. Perhaps it has rubbed off on me.” He was silent for a few seconds. “That picture was painted the year we were married. She was thirty years old and as beautiful as a queen. I have looked at it every day since I lost her. But I don’t think I need it now. I would like you to have it, Verity.”
I looked at the mysterious smile, the shining eyes. Even though I would always think of Ma as my mother, Isabella had given me life. We were linked together forever by Papa’s love.
“Love,” said Papa, as if he had read my thoughts. “L’amour. We had the real thing, Isabella and I. I hope your Drucilla gets over her huff with poor SP and takes his ring.”
“So do I.” I kissed his silvery head. “Thank you, Papa.” Then I couldn’t help myself. “You don’t really want this, do you?” I said as I plucked the cigar out of his hand.
He gave a shout of laughter. “Such a bossy boots you are, chérie! Just like your mother.”
The little case opened to make a stand, so when I went up to my bedroom I set the miniature on my dressing table, next to my framed photograph of Papa. Seeing them side by side, I smiled. They belonged together, Papa and Isabella. Isabella. Suddenly it seemed wrong to call her by her first name. She was my mother.
“Mama.” As I said it out loud, tears came to my eyes. I’d resisted that word for a long time. It seemed disloyal to Ma and Pa, who’d adopted me when I was just a tiny baby. They had been simple working people, kind and honest and loving, with no money for fripperies like portraits or photographs. They were always in my heart. Loving Papa and Mama couldn’t diminish what I felt for them.
“Mama,” I whispered. “I don’t remember you, but I know you loved me.”
I studied her face carefully. Papa had often told me how strong-willed she’d been. She’d had to be. Her parents, the Parker Pork Packing millionaires of Swine Bay, Ontario, Canada, had forbidden her to go on the stage as an opera singer. But she’d been determined. I could be very determined too. Was that what Papa meant by bossy?
Was I like Mama in any other way? Mama had been a tall woman and Papa had told me she’d been so lovely that people turned to stare at her in the street. Mama’s eyes were large, heavily lashed and deep, deep brown. According to Papa, even from “the gods” – the highest, cheapest seats in a theatre – opera-goers could see those eyes.
“Flashing with anger,” Papa had said. “Or melting with love. She was the perfect romantic heroine.”
Short and slim with fine brown hair, a small pointed face and not one skerrick of musical talent, I’d be lucky to be the heroine’s maid, I thought.
My reverie was interrupted by noises coming from the hall. Thump-thump-thump. Thud! I opened the door to see Drucilla manoeuvring her trunk into her bedroom. She must have gone upstairs to the boxroom and dragged it down herself.
“What are you doing?” I asked, even though it was obvious. She was packing.
“I’ve already written a letter to Aunt Theodora in Hobart. I shall post it tomorrow. As soon as I get a reply, I’ll book my passage to Tasmania.”
“Aunt Theodora? But you can’t stand her.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers. She’s my nearest relative and I’ll only stay with her until I get another position.”
“But Drucilla, you’re being silly.”
She turned on me, eyes blazing. “I am not silly. You don’t understand. How can you? I simply cannot … I cannot …” She flung herself on the bed, weeping. I patted her back and made sympathetic noises, but I couldn’t for the life of me make out why she was acting this way. For a moment I thought about repeating Judith’s words – about Drucilla and SP being made for each other, and so on – but something stopped me. SP’s proposal had obviously taken her by surprise, and not in a good way. Perhaps she needed to get used to the idea of SP as a husband, not just a friend. Maybe some time away would change things. I sighed. Though according to Drucilla I couldn’t possibly understand, I knew that this was a case of l’amour gone very, very wrong.
I had thought Drucilla might stay in her room until she got a reply from Aunt Theodora, but the next morning she came downstairs for breakfast at eight o’clock as usual.
“Good morning, Kathleen. Good morning, girls,” she said. Apart from Kathleen, our maid, there was just Connie, Poppy and me in the breakfast room. Since his illness, Papa ate his breakfast in bed. It was doctor’s orders.
“Mornin’, miss.” Kathleen must have known about yesterday’s romantic debacle, but she tactfully ignored Drucilla’s red and swollen eyes. “Tea, miss?”
Drucilla took a tiny sip of her tea but made no move towards the toast rack or any of the covered dishes on the sideboard. Normally she had a hearty appetite. Was she going to go into a decline?
“Do eat something, Drucilla,” I said. “There’s bacon and eggs, or very nice sausages, or porridge–”
“May I be allowed to drink my tea in peace, Verity?”
“Of course. I’m sorry.”
After that I kept quiet, but I was pleased to note that she ate two boiled eggs and three pieces of toast.
When she was finished, Drucilla said, “I have to talk to Mr Savinov first, but I will see you three girls for lessons in the schoolroom shortly. Today we will be practising mental arithmetic. And then grammar.”
Arithmetic? Grammar? “Drucilla, have you forgotten? We’re all going into town this morning.”
“Oh, yes; now I remember.” She turned to Poppy. “You must be on your best behaviour,” she said in a stern voice. Poppy’s manners were getting better all the time, but there was still the occasional lapse. “And you must keep your voice down. No shouting.”
“Connie is teaching me how to momulate my levels,” said Poppy. “Connie says I am doing very well.”
In the week that Connie had been staying with us, Poppy had become her devoted slave. “Connie says” started every second sentence.
“Are you sure you want to go, Drucilla? I can ask Papa to take us if you’re not feeling up to it,” I said.
“I am quite well,” she said snappishly. “Go and get ready, girls. We will take the train from St Kilda, and then walk to Mr Brandywine’s shop.”
3
AT THE BOOK BAZAAR
Mr Henry Brandywine was famous, not only for his Book Bazaars in Sydney and Melbourne but for his outrageous publicity stunts. He kept half-a-dozen pet monkeys in his shop. He had advertised one of his books from a hot air balloon, and just last year, he’d painted two white horses to look like zebras and had them pull a carriage all around Melbourne. Well, my exciting news was that Mr Brandywine had read my book – and he wanted to publish it.
Last year I wrote a story about an apprentice milliner. She was a foundling with a mysterious talent. Sound familiar? I changed all the names and made up some new characters, but it was more or less my own tale. Everyone who read it was very encouraging – except Mrs Morcom.
“Take my advice, Verity, and start again. Don’t look like that, girl!” She rapped me across the knuckles. “To be a true artist, you have to take pains. You only need a flash of inspiration – the rest is determination. Hard work. How do you think I got where I am?”
Mrs Morcom was a famous botanical illustrator. There was even a special gallery devoted to her work at London’s Kew Gardens. If anyone knew about hard work, it was she.
So I struggled with my story – “taking pains” as Mrs Morcom recommended – until it turned out to be quite different. I concentrated on the life I knew so well from my days at Madame Louisette’s. My book was called Millie the Milliner.
It was funny and (so Mr Brandywine wrote to me) educational as well. I was visiting the Book Bazaar today so I could meet Mr Brandy
wine himself. I could hardly wait.
When I first came to live in Australia, I missed London terribly, but now I was almost a colonial. I thought Melbourne was grand. Collins and Bourke streets, with their churches, banks, offices, cafes, smart shops and arcades could compare with the most fashionable parts of London. But what makes a city are its people, and bustling down either side of the road that morning there was already quite a crowd. Not many ladies were about yet, but businesslike gentlemen strode along, hawkers yelled out their wares and errand boys jostled through. Poppy knew the city like the back of her hand, but Connie seemed overwhelmed. Which wasn’t surprising, since she’d just come from the peace and quiet of her home at Riverbend Station up on the river.
“Here, Connie,” I said, stopping and holding out my hand. Suddenly, I felt a prickling at the back of my neck. Someone was watching me.
“She won’t get lost, Verity,” said Poppy.
“What? I mean, I beg your pardon?”
“I’ve got ’er.” Poppy flashed her gappy smile. She had Connie’s hand tightly in hers.
“Hurry up, girls,” said Drucilla.
I realised I’d felt the same unsettling sensation earlier today, in the train from St Kilda. I’d put it down to nerves. Excitement. After all, I was about to become a published author, and that’s not something that happens every day. Now I wasn’t so sure. I looked up and down Collins Street. I could feel a pair of eyes boring into me. But whose? No one seemed to be looking my way.
“Here we are,” said Drucilla, stopping in front of the gigantic sign on the window:
BRANDYWINE’S BOOK BAZAAR
THE MARVEL OF MELBOURNE
“Oh my goodness,” breathed Connie.
And if it looked impressive from the outside, with its huge windows and gleaming golden doors, inside the bazaar was even more astonishing. It was huge. Arched iron girders and a glass-panelled roof soared three storeys above us. The ground floor was a maze of polished wood shelves, brass fittings, mirrors, potted palms and fancy cages filled with chattering birds. Not to mention the thousands of books. It was like a cross between a grand hotel, a railway station and a public library.
It was midmorning and the shop was beginning to fill up. We made our way among tables and shelves piled with books, past shop assistants and browsing customers. Two young women were placing new stock in gorgeous red-and-gold bindings on a counter and I thought that one day soon they would be displaying Millie the Milliner.
“We have an appointment with Mr Brandywine,” Drucilla told an assistant.
“This way,” said the young woman.
I was expecting a showman, flamboyant and flashy. But Mr Brandywine turned out to be a soft-spoken man with a slight stutter. He was plainly dressed in an ordinary grey suit and his hair and long beard were well groomed. He held out his hand almost shyly.
“P-p-please take a seat, ladies,” he said. He had armchairs and a tea table right there in the middle of the shop. “Mrs B will be here in a minute. She’s been baking.”
“Baking what?” said Poppy, pricking up her ears.
He turned to Poppy with a smile. “Currant buns, I think. Does that meet with your a-p-p-proval, my dear?” He was clearly used to indulging little girls. “Here she is.”
Mrs Brandywine was a short woman, almost as wide as she was high. In her striped green dress, she reminded me of an unripe gooseberry. Combined with her plump red cheeks and snub nose, she had a rather comical appearance, but Mr Brandywine clearly adored his dumpling of a wife. He took the plate of cakes, settled her in a chair, fussed over her footstool and shawl, and introduced her as if she were Queen Victoria herself.
Then it was down to business. Mr Brandywine took out a portfolio and showed us the sketches that were to illustrate my book. I’d been curious to see what the artist made of my Millie. Mrs Morcom had told me I was bound to be disappointed. She was wrong. The artist had captured Millie to the life.
“Oh, Verity,” whispered Connie. “She’s perfect.”
“What d-d-id you say, young lady?” asked Mr Brandywine.
Connie’s shyness got the better of her, but Poppy answered in a loud, clear voice. “She says it’s perfeck. An’ is it tea time?”
“Indeed it is.” Mr Brandywine closed the portfolio and gestured to the steaming pot.
“Please help yourselves,” said Mrs Brandywine.
I was just reaching for a bun when I froze. It was that feeling again. Someone was staring at me. I turned my head and there she was – a tall woman wearing a grey silk dress and an elegant lavender-coloured bonnet. A black hail-spot veil hid her face, but I could see her eyes glittering behind it. Who was she? Why was she gazing at me so intently? Slowly, she raised her veil, revealing a pale, beautiful face.
I’d seen that face before. It had looked out from its gold frame on my dressing table this morning.
4
MYSTERY WOMAN
I jumped to my feet. My cup and saucer clattered to the floor and for a second I was distracted by the spilt tea. When I looked up, she was gone.
I scanned the crowded shop. Too late – the stranger was now just a vanishing blur glimpsed through the plate-glass windows of the Book Bazaar.
“What is the matter, Verity? What’s wrong?” said Drucilla.
“She was staring at me, and she … she looked like …”
Mrs Brandywine’s voice brought me back to myself. “Sit down, dear,” she said. “Never mind the broken cup. Pour her another cup of tea, Henry. Put three lumps of sugar in it.”
I took a couple of deep breaths. “There was a lady, just over there.” I pointed. “Did nobody see her?” None of them had. “She was staring at me.”
“And did you recognise her?” asked Mrs Brandywine.
“Yes, but that’s impossible. The person … the one she resembles is …”
It couldn’t be my mother. Mama was dead. She’d died in a fire when I was a few months old. But now all sorts of crazy thoughts surged around in my mind. Had Mama somehow escaped the fire? Had she lost her memory? Had she gone on living, unaware of her real identity, forgetting completely her husband and child?
Or had I just seen a ghost?
“Verity.” Mrs Brandywine put her hand on my arm and I felt a sudden shock. I jumped. I think we were both startled.
“I see,” she murmured, and then placed her hand over mine. This time there were no sparks or shocks. She didn’t say anything, but calm seemed to flow from her touch. It was clear Mrs Brandywine had a gift of her own, and I wondered how I could have thought her ridiculous.
Everyone chatted tactfully while I drank my sweet tea. Eventually, I stopped shaking. Mrs Brandywine’s touch seemed to have restored my good sense, and I realised that it couldn’t have been Mama. Mama would be forty-five if she was still alive, and this woman was much younger than that. And I doubted that a ghost would wear the latest fashions. No, the resemblance was simply a strange coincidence. Strange and almost uncanny, but that was all.
We’d promised Mrs Reilly we’d be back in time for lunch so it was time to say goodbye. Mrs Brandywine herself walked me to the door.
“Come and see me again, dear,” she said, holding my hand while the others passed through the golden doors and out into the street. “I am here if you need me. Remember that.”
“I won’t forget,” I said.
After lunch, Drucilla sent us all to our rooms for an hour.
“You may read,” she said.
“I don’t know ’ow,” objected Poppy.
“Or look at pictures in the Illustrated Atlas. Silently, Poppy.”
I didn’t feel like reading. I couldn’t stop thinking about the lady in the grey dress. As far as I could tell from the miniature portrait, the resemblance to Mama was close. The same pale, oval face, the arched brows and large brown eyes, the dark hair …
Come on, Verity, I told myself. There must be many people in the world who look alike.
But what were the chances that Mama�
�s double would be in Brandywine’s Book Bazaar at the same time I was? And why had she stared at me like that? I tried to puzzle it out. Perhaps I looked like someone she knew, and that was why she’d been staring. I put the miniature back on my dressing table. I’d been looking at Mama’s picture too long. I was imagining things.
The hour was up. Poppy had fallen asleep over the map of India and Connie was still engrossed in her biography of Beethoven so I decided to leave them be. I was halfway down the stairs when I heard voices below me in the hall. One was Drucilla’s. But who was she talking to?
“I am so grateful,” she was saying. “As long as I won’t be a bother …”
“No, no, no. With our six children, you will be a great deal of help to Mrs Leviny, and she will enjoy your company, I assure you.”
So it was Mr Leviny. Neither Papa nor Drucilla had mentioned that he was calling on us. Was this why we’d been sent upstairs after lunch? If I understood rightly, Mr Leviny had invited Drucilla to visit.
“And, Ernö, we will see you very soon in Castlemaine as well,” said Papa.
So we were all invited? I moved down a few steps.
“Yes, indeed,” said Mr Leviny. Then he turned to Drucilla and shook her hand. “I shall meet you at Spencer Street Station tomorrow afternoon.” He clicked his heels as he gave an old-fashioned bow. “Until tomorrow, Miss Deane.”
The door closed behind him, and I ran down the stairs in a fever of curiosity.