by Adele Whitby
“You’re right,” I said when I finished reading. “It has to be them.”
“Now read this,” Beth said, turning to an earlier page in the journal.
It was the twins’ twelfth birthday today. After breakfast, Peacock presented Sparrow and Lark with Partridge’s last gifts to her girls. The twins’ faces were transformed by wonderment as they each opened a jewel box that contained a golden pendant. Lark’s necklace is bejeweled with the most beautiful blue sapphires—her favorite color—while Sparrow’s locket glitters with rubies. How well dear Partridge knew her girls! And how much she would’ve wanted to see their delight when they received this precious gift. That wasn’t all, though. To each girl, Partridge had written a final letter. As much as Sparrow and Lark love their necklaces, they cherish those letters above all else.
“So sad,” I whispered. It wasn’t something Great-Grandmother Katherine talked about much, but I knew that the death of their mother had been very hard for her and her sister.
“I know,” added Beth.
We sat quietly for a few moments. Then something occurred to me. “I’ve never heard about those letters before,” I said.
“Neither have I,” replied Beth. “Don’t you think that’s odd?”
“Yes,” I agreed. “It says right here that the letters were precious to them. The last words of their mother—”
“Almost as if she were speaking to them from beyond the grave,” Beth interrupted me.
I tried not to shudder. I didn’t want to think about that.
“Wouldn’t the letters become heirlooms, too?” I asked.
“I would think so,” Beth replied. “And, Kate, there’s something else that’s been puzzling me—the code names. I thought I had it all figured out—that Sparrow was Katherine and Lark was Elizabeth—but some things don’t make sense. Like this passage, here.”
Beth paused to turn back to the beginning of the journal, then read one of the entries aloud. “ ‘My girls thought to play a clever trick on me by switching their dresses and hair bows. But since Sparrow tied her red ribbon around Katherine’s wavy locks, I discovered their deception.’ ”
I sat up straight. “Wait. Did that say Katherine’s wavy locks?”
Beth nodded.
“So Essie slipped and used one of the twins’ real names,” I continued. “But everyone knows that Katherine has straight hair. And red is her favorite color, not Elizabeth’s. Which means . . . Katherine is Lark?”
“But Lark received the sapphire necklace,” Beth said. “So Lark must’ve been Elizabeth.”
“It doesn’t make any sense,” I said.
“Perhaps Essie was writing late at night and got the names—and the girls—confused. They were identical twins, after all.”
“You know, there’s one way to find out for certain,” I said. “Why don’t we ask Great-Grandmother Katherine? We could show her the journal—”
Beth held the journal to her chest protectively. “Oh, no, we mustn’t do that!” she exclaimed.
“Why, Beth, it’s been so many years,” I said. “Surely there’s no harm in her learning about it now.”
“It’s not that,” Beth explained. “It’s—ahem—how I found it. I was, ahh, how should I say this? I was someplace I should not have been.”
“Go on!”
Beth leaned forward and spoke in a whisper. “Chatswood Manor has a secret passage—perhaps more than one! Shannon showed it to me when I was investigating the disappearance of Cousin Gabby’s necklace. That’s where I found Essie’s journal, hidden away in a crevice. But if Great-Great-Aunt Katherine sees it, she’ll surely ask where I found it. And if word gets back to Mother and Father—”
“I understand completely. Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me,” I promised my cousin. “I still think we should talk to Great-Grandmother Katherine. We won’t mention the journal. But if she tells us what she and Elizabeth were like when they were young, maybe we can figure out which one of them really was Sparrow . . . and which one was Lark.”
Beth nodded slowly. “Yes, Kate,” she said. “Yes, I think that’s a very good idea.”
“Great-Grandmother Katherine always paints in the garden before tea,” I told Beth. “We’re sure to find her there. She loves talking about her sister . . . and I’m sure she’ll be happy to answer our questions.”
Shortly before it was time to start getting ready for dinner, I brought Beth to the garden nook where my great-grandmother liked to paint. Her easel and palette were set up in their usual spot, but Great-Grandmother Katherine was nowhere to be seen.
“Hmm,” I said. “Let’s go downstairs to see if Gladys, her lady’s maid, knows where she is.”
“Go downstairs?” Beth look scandalized. “Is that allowed?”
“Allowed? Of course it’s allowed,” I replied, giving her a funny look. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Back home, I’m never allowed downstairs,” Beth told me. “I’ve gotten ever so many lectures for sneaking down there. It’s practically written in stone: The family stays upstairs where we belong.”
“Really?” I asked. “But it’s your house—even the downstairs.”
“That’s what I thought, but everyone says differently.”
“Well, you’re in America now,” I said. “And here, there’s nothing wrong with going downstairs.”
I brought Beth down the servants’ staircase. I peeked in the servants’ common room, but I didn’t see Gladys, so I decided to check the kitchen.
“Hello, Mrs. Hastings,” I called out to our cook.
“Hello, Miss Kate,” she called without looking up from the piecrust she was rolling on the counter. But when Mrs. Hastings saw Beth standing beside me, she let go of the rolling pin, and her mouth turned into a perfect, round O.
“Is this the Lady Beth?” she asked in astonishment as she wiped her floury hands on her apron. She dropped into a deep curtsy. “It’s an honor to meet you, milady. An honor and a privilege. If there’s anything you need—”
“Actually, Mrs. Hastings, we were wondering if you’d seen Gladys,” I said.
She shook her head. “No, not since breakfast,” she replied. “But you might ask Mrs. Taylor.”
“Thank you. I think we will,” I said.
“Wait!” Mrs. Hastings called after us. She wrapped something in a napkin and hurried over to us. “These are for the picnic tomorrow, but you can have a few now. In case you feel peckish before dinner.”
“Chocolate cookies?” I guessed.
Mrs. Hastings winked at me, and that was all the answer I needed.
“Well, Beth, are you hungry?” I asked as we walked into the hall.
“What’s a cookie?” Beth said. “I do love chocolate.”
“You don’t know what a cookie is?” I asked in surprise. “They’re delicious, is what they are—sweet, you see, and chewy . . . or sometimes crunchy. . . .” I held one up to show her.
A look of recognition crossed Beth’s face. “Ohhh, so that’s a cookie. In England, we’d call it a biscuit.” She giggled.
“A biscuit? Really?” I asked. “That’s something entirely different here.”
When we finished eating our cookies, we crossed the hall to Mrs. Taylor’s office.
“Mrs. Taylor is our housekeeper,” I reminded Beth, just in case she had forgotten in the whirlwind of introductions. “She knows everything that happens at Vandermeer Manor.”
“How funny that your housekeeper and your butler have the same surname,” Beth mused.
“Funny? Not at all,” I replied. “They are married, after all.”
Beth stared at me in amazement. “Married? To each other?” she exclaimed.
“Of course! It’s really very sweet—they met here five years ago and fell in love. They were wed right here in our English garden, and we had a little party for them afterward. It was so much fun, even though Mother made me dance with Alfie and he stepped on my toes.”
“I don’t think that’s
ever happened at Chatswood,” Beth replied.
I put my finger to my lips as we approached Mrs. Taylor’s door. I knocked swiftly to get her attention.
“Good afternoon, Lady Beth and Miss Kate,” she said as she rose from her desk. “How may I help you?”
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Taylor,” I replied. “We’ve been looking for Great-Grandmother Katherine or Gladys. Do you know where they are?”
“Yes. Mrs. Vandermeer received an urgent message—something to do with preparations for the parade tomorrow. She left at once to attend to it, and Gladys accompanied her.”
“Oh, I see,” I replied. “When Gladys returns, would you let her know that we’d like to see Great-Grandmother Katherine?”
“Of course, Miss Kate,” Mrs. Taylor said.
Just then, Anton poked his head into the room. “Pardon the interruption,” he apologized, “but there is a delivery cart waiting outside, Mrs. Taylor. It has brought a large amount of lobsters.”
“No, no, no,” Mrs. Taylor said. “The lobsters are for Kate’s birthday party, and they’re not supposed to be delivered for three more days!”
Beth and I exchanged a glance, our eyes wide, as Mrs. Taylor hurried after Anton. “Excuse me for leaving so abruptly, but I’ve got to straighten this out at once,” she called over her shoulder.
“Of course, Mrs. Taylor, not to worry,” I called back. Then I turned to Beth. “We’ll talk to Great-Grandmother Katherine at dinner instead. I overheard her telling Mrs. Taylor that she wanted to sit next to you . . . and of course I’ll be on your other side.”
“Good,” Beth said firmly as she linked her arm through mine. “That’s exactly what I was hoping.”
As it turned out, though, we didn’t see my great-grandmother at dinner. Preparations for the parade kept her away from Chatswood until long after dessert had been served. And since she had been out so late, it was no wonder that she took breakfast in bed the next morning. The rest of us rushed through the meal so that we wouldn’t miss a moment of the parade.
We made quite a parade ourselves as we left Vandermeer Manor—Mother and Father, Aunt Katie and Great-Aunt Kathy, Alfie, and Beth, and me. Then came nearly every servant, from Mr. and Mrs. Taylor to the kitchen maids. No one who lived or worked at Vandermeer Manor would dream of missing Bridgeport’s Fourth of July parade!
Beth cast a worried glance over her shoulder. “What about Great-Great-Aunt Katherine? Isn’t she coming? Shouldn’t we wait for her?”
“Don’t worry about her,” I told her. “Hank already drove her to the start of the parade route this morning. She has an important role to play.”
“Really?” Beth asked curiously. “What do you mean?”
“Well, every year, the first float in the parade is called Great Moments in American History,” I explained. “Great-Grandmother Katherine always dresses up as Martha Washington—you know, President George Washington’s wife—and she sits on a velvet chair and waves to everyone in town.”
Beth’s mouth dropped open. “She does?”
“She loves it,” I said. “In fact, I’m not sure who enjoys it more—Great-Grandmother Katherine or the people of Bridgeport. Everyone always claps and cheers when she comes by. I think it’s because she’s done so much good for the town. I’ve heard the housemaids say that no one in Bridgeport has ever gone cold or hungry since my great-grandmother came to stay at Vandermeer Manor.”
“That’s a bit like it is in England,” Beth said thoughtfully. “Chatswood Manor is more than just a house. There’s a whole community of people who depend on it . . . and us.”
We soon arrived at Main Street, where crowds of people had gathered on the sidewalks to watch the parade. Bright swags of bunting in red, white, and blue decorated every storefront, and cheery red bows had been tied around the streetlamps. The gazebo had been roped off with red and blue ribbon for us. Beside it, Hank was saving spots for the servants beneath a shady sycamore. And he wasn’t alone.
“Shannon!” Beth said in surprise. “How did you get here before us?”
Shannon’s cheeks flushed pink. “I drove into town with Hank,” she explained. “And your great-grandmother, Miss Kate. In case—in case she needed anything.”
But attending to Great-Grandmother Katherine’s needs is Gladys’s job, I thought. I was about to ask if Gladys was all right when Mrs. Randolph rushed over to us.
“Where is she?” Mrs. Randolph cried. “Where is she?”
“Who?” I blurted out, forgetting my manners.
Mother leaned past me and asked, “Who are you looking for, Mrs. Randolph?”
“Mrs. Katherine Vandermeer, of course!” Mrs. Randolph exclaimed. “The parade’s about to begin, and we’ve lost our Martha Washington!”
Aunt Katie grasped Great-Aunt Kathy’s arm. “Heat stroke?” she whispered anxiously. I bit my lip from worry. I knew how dangerous heat stroke could be, especially for a person of my great-grandmother’s age.
“Hank,” Father called. “You brought my grandmother to the start of the parade route, correct?”
“Yes, sir,” Hank replied. “I left her there with Gladys.”
The concern melted away from Father’s face. “If she’s with Gladys, she’s fine,” he declared.
“But what about the parade?” Mrs. Randolph wailed. “We need our Martha Washington!”
“If the parade cannot be delayed, perhaps you could take her place,” Mother suggested. “I’m sure Katherine would understand.”
“Well . . . ,” Mrs. Randolph began. I could tell how much the idea appealed to her. Then her forehead creased with frustration. “But there’s no time to get into costume!”
Mother leaned up to whisper something in Father’s ear, then stepped out of the gazebo. Her lady’s maid, Ruthie, and Mrs. Taylor followed her. “Let’s see if we can’t all help you,” she said to Mrs. Randolph as she led her toward the start of the parade route.
Beth and I exchanged a glance.
“I do hope Great-Great-Aunt Katherine’s all right,” Beth said. “Where could she be?”
“I have no idea,” I said. Then I noticed Father speaking to Great-Aunt Kathy and Aunt Katie in a low voice. My aunts looked, suddenly, very relieved. What is going on? I wondered. But before I could ask, I heard a new sound: the bright, chipper notes of “Yankee Doodle.”
“Beth!” I exclaimed. “The parade is starting!”
She craned her neck to look down the street. “I see it!”
First came Edgar Mason and Vincent Cleary, who carried the Town of Bridgeport banner. As the crowd cheered, the Great Moments in American History float followed. Every year, I laughed to see Dr. Wilson dressed up in a powdered wig as President Washington, and Mr. Howard, the grocer, made a splendid President Lincoln. Normally Great-Grandmother Katherine was my favorite part of the float—but today, she was missing. Instead, Mrs. Randolph, the Martha Washington wig slightly askew on her head—waved to the crowd in her place.
But where was Great-Grandmother Katherine?
A brass band followed the float, their instruments flashing in the sun as they played patriotic music. Next came members of the Garden Club, tossing red, white, and blue flowers at the crowd. Then came . . .
I gasped and clutched Beth’s arm. “Do you see that?” I shrieked. “It’s—”
“It’s her!” Beth finished for me.
There she was, Great-Grandmother Katherine herself, walking proudly and gracefully behind a new banner, one that I’d never seen at the parade before.
It read: SUFFRAGETTE SISTERHOOD OF BRIDGEPORT.
My mouth dropped open. “But—how—” I stammered. “Beth—”
“She really is as wonderful as you said,” Beth said, watching with admiration.
“You don’t understand,” I said, still shocked. “They—they—Mrs. Randolph forbade the suffragettes from marching. But look at them now!”
“I’d wager that my grandmother has a bit more sway over popular opinion than Mrs. Randolph,” Father
chimed in. “She always has, and she always will.”
Just then, Great-Grandmother Katherine spotted us in the gazebo. “Come on, girls!” she called, waving us over as she walked past. “What are you waiting for? I’m doing this for you! For all of us!”
“Oh, Father, may I join her?” I cried.
“I suppose so,” he replied with an indulgent smile. “Your mother already has.”
That’s when I noticed that Mother was marching with the suffragettes too!
Beth and I grabbed hands and ran into the street. We stood on either side of Great-Grandmother Katherine behind the large banner.
“Great-Grandmother Katherine,” I began. “Didn’t Mrs. Randolph deny the Suffragette Sisterhood’s application?”
“Oh, that?” she said. “Yes, yes, she did. When word reached me, I knew that I’d missed the wrong meeting of the Bridgeport Beautification Society. The people of this town may not agree on every issue, my dear, but we don’t silence others’ opinions. Your great-grandfather wouldn’t have stood for that, and neither will I.”
“But how did—?”
“I called on the Suffragette Sisterhood and told the members that they had my full support, and if there was anything I could do for the cause, I was at their service. So when the ladies needed a few extra hands yesterday to finish sewing the banner, Gladys and I came right away.”
“You sewed it?” Beth asked in surprise.
“I certainly did,” Great-Grandmother Katherine said proudly. “I helped, at least. Pricked my finger three times but didn’t get a speck of blood on the banner. My lady’s maid at Chatswood Manor taught me well.”
Beth and I exchanged a glance behind Great-Grandmother Katherine’s back.
I looked up at my great-grandmother. “Your lady’s maid?” I asked, prodding her a bit.
“Oh, yes, Essie Bridges,” my great-grandmother replied. “A kinder soul I have yet to meet.”
From the other side of Great-Grandmother Katherine, I could see Beth nodding her head at the confirmation that the writer of the journal she found in Chatswood Manor was indeed lady’s maid to our great-grandmothers.