Dear Dr. Jennings,
Thank you for taking the time to forward your first article on the results of my mother’s trance sessions. While I cannot say my mother is entirely satisfied with your conclusions, none of us can have any doubt whatever of your scientific integrity.
We shall eagerly await the publication of your second article, and thank you again for your kindness.
Sincerely yours,
Josie Clifford
She addressed the envelope and waited while her mother read over the letter. Fortunately, she did not give it much consideration, as she viewed the matter of the thank-you note as an irritating distraction from her manuscript. Mrs. Clifford handed her a two-penny stamp before returning her attention to the typewriter.
The second letter was written and folded, biding its time in her pinafore pocket. Alone in the hall, she slipped both letters into the envelope and licked the seal before leaving it on the mail table for Mrs. Pike to give to the postman.
Back in the schoolroom, it occurred to her that she could put her mind at ease if she were to hand the letter to the postman herself. Generally he arrived while the family was sitting down to luncheon, so she planned to dally by a few minutes so she would be coming down the stairs as the doorbell rang. She carried off this plan, though her mother greeted her with sharp words when she finally sat down to the meal. What did that matter? It was accomplished.
The Beginning of Goodbye
34.
The dread crept up on him in ordinary moments, like when he glanced over his bookshelf and saw all the great novels he wouldn’t have time to read to them; or when he looked up that book by Henry Rider Haggard at the library—the Victorian adventure novel that was one of Josie’s favorites—and he knew he’d never try to explain to her why it was racist. He even felt the dread when he stood before the bathroom mirror brushing his teeth. It wasn’t the same mirror, but hadn’t she stood in this spot every night and done the same? “I found out,” he said that night, once Cass had burrowed into bed. “I know.”
His friend hesitated on the other side of the horn . . . Whose grave it is?
He answered quickly, because she had been left to worry long enough: “It isn’t yours and it isn’t Cassie’s.”
Then whose . . . whose . . . A momentary silence fell over her side of the phonograph. It’s Mother’s, isn’t it?
He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
You said there’s no date on the stone. But you found the date in the records?
“Yes.”
I won’t ask.
“Like you said, it’s better if you don’t know too much.”
When she spoke again her voice was thick with emotion. Yes, I suppose you’re right.
“Are you crying?”
He heard her sniffle. No.
“It’s okay if you are.”
I know I shouldn’t cry for her. I don’t want to cry for her.
“It doesn’t matter what she’s said or done,” Alec replied. “She’s your mom. Of course you’re going to feel sad.” He paused. “Are you going to tell Cassie?”
No, she said firmly. At least not for a long time.
Then he told her about going to the town hall records office, and the theatrical flyer they’d found hidden in the scrapbook, and how Cass was bound to become a Broadway actress, although he didn’t mention the name change. I certainly won’t tell her she’s going to be famous, Josie said. She’ll get a big head before she’s done anything to warrant it!
The Greatest of All Secrets
35.
The next two weeks were the longest of her life. Though Mr. Berringsley had taken the news of Othello’s fate with surprising tranquility—“how was the child to know, Lavinia? I warned only you”—Mrs. Clifford had not finished punishing her younger daughter for the poor parrot’s demise. Though she did not strike Cass again, their mother withheld even the meager love for which the girl so plainly yearned. Every dining-table conversation was a small agony of barbs and slights.
Josie’s sense of relief at having sent the secret letter gave way to doubts and fears as the days passed. What if Dr. Jennings did not forward it? What if Emily’s uncle did not approve of them asking her for aid? What if Emily herself was not in a position to help them? By the middle of the second week Josie was utterly convinced that their plan had failed, though she did not want to say as much to Alec. She and Cass made a little ceremony of placing the time capsule on the shelf in Emily’s old cupboard, but it didn’t cheer them much.
Faced with the prospect of remaining in the house on Sparrow Street for years to come, she felt the impulse to seek out her mother, to try to repair what she had played no part in rending. It made no sense, and yet she yielded to it, tiptoeing to the threshold of Mrs. Clifford’s bedroom one sunny Sunday morning before breakfast.
The children had never been allowed beyond the boudoir, but a long oval mirror on an ornate stand of turned wood offered a glimpse of the four-poster bed, and once or twice Josie had stood in the ante-room doorway gazing into the glass at the exotic treasures within: the embroidered coverlet on the high stately bed, the framed portraits of distinguished strangers, the mahogany chest carved with cherubs and flowering vines.
The morning light streamed across the crumpled coverlet where her mother lay in her dressing gown of sapphire silk. The robe had come loose around her neck, and Josie could see the scars along Lavinia’s collarbone. Merritt sat beside her at the foot of the bed. He wore no jacket, and her mother lifted a hand to finger the clip on his suspenders. “Oh, James,” she murmured. “I am so tired.”
James? It had never occurred to Josie that Merritt had a Christian name.
“I am so tired of this house. I am so tired of this life.” Her mother spoke wearily, and yet she seemed impossibly young all of a sudden, with her hair fallen loose across the lap of her manservant, and her pale eyes shining with unshed tears. “What if we went someplace . . . someplace far away from any war, or suffering, or discontent? Someplace where no one knows me, and no one would tug at my sleeve and ask for more, more, always more than I can give?”
It was impossible to think of her mother’s beautiful face hidden so deep in the earth, and yet it would be. The tiny headstone was as clear in Josie’s mind as if she’d traveled to the future to see it.
“You know I would follow you anywhere, Lavinia,” Merritt answered in that toneless way of his, and the words seemed all the more sincere for their lack of passion. He lifted a broad white hand and began to stroke her hair, and she closed her eyes and sighed with pleasure. Josie backed away slowly, away from the mirror and out of the doorway. She did not want to see or hear any more.
* * *
At last, one bright Thursday afternoon in the middle of July, Mrs. Pike came into the dining room to hand Mrs. Clifford the mail. “There’s a parcel for Miss Josephine.” Mrs. Pike passed the brown-paper package to Mrs. Clifford with raised eyebrows. This was indeed cause for surprise, for the girls never, ever got mail. Josie’s heart leapt into her throat.
Their mother inspected the return address. “That’s strange. It’s from Dr. Jennings.”
The doctor had helped them! He must have, otherwise why would he send her anything at all? Mrs. Clifford, of course, opened the slim package instead of handing it to her as she ought to have done. It was a book, and along with it a letter. Before reading the note, Mrs. Clifford slipped the book back into the paper packaging, so that the girls could not see the cover. She opened the letter and proceeded to read it aloud over the remains of their chicken salad.
Dear Miss Clifford,
I shall always look back upon my visits to Edwardstown as a most stimulating and peculiar epoch in my career. I have, of course, even more questions now than when I began, but this is the nature of all forms of research, even on such mundane topics as geophysics or lepidoptery. I count myself amon
g the most fortunate of men to have devoted my working days to a subject which is infinitely more interesting.
As a token of gratitude for your kindness and regard, I have enclosed a volume of stories for the enjoyment of yourself and your sister. The works of Mr. Andrew Lang are a favorite with my own niece and nephews.
Sincerely yours,
Henry Jennings
A book by their favorite author! How could it be a coincidence?
“A thank you for a thank you,” Mrs. Clifford mused as she replaced the letter in its envelope. “You must have made quite an impression on him, Josephine.”
By this stage, Josie was practically trembling with suspense. “You read the letter yourself, Mother. I don’t recall that I wrote him anything to warrant such a lovely gesture.”
Mrs. Clifford rolled her eyes as she poured herself a cup of tea. “I suppose now you must write him yet another thank you, and it will go on forever.”
“May I see the book?”
Mrs. Clifford slid the package across the table and applied her dagger-shaped letter opener to the next envelope. “Marvelous news! Mr. Berringsley has shown the first three chapters of my manuscript to his associate at Harper and Brothers, and he says they plan to offer me a contract!” Already, Dr. Jennings’s unexpected gift was stale news, and Josie couldn’t have been more relieved.
She closed the nursery door and sat at the table before she allowed herself to look inside the package. It was The Brown Fairy Book. Cass frowned when she recognized the cover. “But we’ve already got the brown one!”
“Shh! Let me think.” Josie opened the book and ran her fingers along the illustration on the title page. There must be a reason why Dr. Jennings had chosen it. The Brown Fairy Book was their favorite of the series, and Emily knew it.
She flipped through the pages until she reached “The Enchanted Head.” There again was the illustration they loved: of the princess beside the throne where sat the sultan, her father, both of them staring down at the head of a man, fully animated, on a silver platter resting on the intricately tiled floor. Josie squinted, and turned the book sideways. Someone had written in pale pencil along the gutter, to the side of the illustration. It was Emily’s hand. We shall come for you on the last morning of July, just before five. Pack lightly but thoroughly, for I mean to keep you.
Mrs. Dowd and Mrs. Pike were in the kitchen by half past five, even on Sundays, and the hall clock chimed on the hour, when her mother was most likely to be roused from sleep. Emily had thought of everything.
She handed the book to Cassie, and let her sound out the words herself. “If we leave Mother’s house, there can be no coming back,” Josie said. “Is this truly what you want, Cass?”
Her sister looked up from the book with shining eyes. “I knew we would be with Emily again. Mrs. Gubbins told me so.”
Josie regarded her sadly. Cass was too young yet to be thinking of her keep, and who would earn it, and how. In her eyes this was such a simple decision. “But remember, you mustn’t . . .”
“I know, I know. I mustn’t speak of it to anyone but Alec.”
It was the biggest secret they’d ever had to keep—bigger, even, than their friend from the future.
Not So Impossible After All
36.
The following night there was a knock at the door. Alec jumped, and whispered for the girls to be quiet as his mother was turning the knob. “I forgot to tell you, sweets—”
She frowned, listening through the hum and crackle of the rotating wax cylinder. Cass was saying, What is it? Who’s there? Are you still there, Alec?, and Josie was shushing her.
“That . . .” she began uncertainly. “That can’t be a record. Who is that?”
Please, please, please let her understand, he thought. He took a deep breath. “Josie.”
She opened the door wide, shaking her head. “Alec—”
“No, Mom. Just listen to me. This is real. I’m not making it up. Listen and see.” He turned back to the phonograph and said, “Josie, are you still there?”
Yes, Alec. We’re here. Are you . . . talking to your mother?
He could hear the hesitation in her voice. She was afraid his mom would take the phonograph away. “It’s all right,” he said. “I want Mom to hear you.”
Hello, Mrs. Frost.
“Please, Mom.” He beckoned her in. “Just say hello.”
Slowly she came in and knelt on the carpet beside him, giving him a look he couldn’t read. Then she leaned toward the mouth of the phonograph. “H-h-hello?”
It’s Alec’s mother! cried the first, younger voice. Hello! How do you do?
How do you do? echoed the other voice. My name is Josie Clifford, and this is my little sister, Cassie.
Cass, the first voice chirped. My name is Cass. It’s short for Cassandra, but I don’t like to be called Cassandra or Cassie anymore.
Sorry, said Josie. Sometimes I forget.
“It’s . . . it’s very nice to meet you.” Mrs. Frost took a deep breath to steady herself, and when Alec reached for her hand she gripped it hard. “How old are you girls?”
I’m twelve and—
And I just turned seven!
“Oh, isn’t that nice! Happy Birthday, Cass. Did you have a party?”
There was a brief silence, and, when the little girl spoke again, she was unusually reserved. Mother wouldn’t allow it.
Mrs. Frost glanced at her son, and the thought was written on her forehead: what kind of mother doesn’t celebrate her child’s birthday? “Oh, I’m very sorry to hear that, Cass.” She paused. “Josie, you said you’re twelve? You’re Alec’s age.”
Yes, ma’am. Alec turned twelve before I did, so he likes to think he’s older. Josie’s laughter came tinkling through the horn, and a smile cracked his mother’s mask of apprehension.
“Alec told me . . . you live in our house. I mean— that is—”
That’s true, Mrs. Frost, Josie said gently. Someday it will be your house. They heard Cass cough, and Josie went on: We’re using the phonograph in the same room. That’s how we can hear one another so clearly. Alec and I figured it out. Again his mother turned to look at him, her hand over her mouth. A light broke over her face. This room, her son’s bedroom—it had once belonged to the girls.
They could hear Cass chattering on in the background. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could invite Alec and his mother and Danny for tea tomorrow? And Emily, too? It would be you and me and Alec and Mrs. Frost and Emily and Danny, all of us drinking Mr. Berringsley’s tea that he had sent to us all the way from India in Mother’s best china cups, and, oh yes, we would have those little cucumber sandwiches Mrs. Dowd only makes for important company.
Yes, they heard Josie say to her sister. That would be awfully nice. I wish they could all join us for tea.
Alec’s mother looked at him, reached again for his hand and squeezed it. In the dim light of his bedside lamp he could see unshed tears gleaming in the corners of her eyes.
Mrs. Frost?
“Yes, Josie?”
They could hear the girl hesitating on the far side of the phonograph. Do you believe him now?
* * *
The morning was cool and rainy, so she made a pot of oatmeal with blueberries and maple syrup and coconut cream. Alec laid the rusted candy tin and shoebox of letters on the kitchen table, and she ran her finger down the stack of envelopes. “When you showed me that first letter, I couldn’t believe you.” She laid down her mug, crossed her arms over her chest and looked out the window at the gray morning. “That’s what it means, being a parent. You can’t believe in impossible things anymore. Everything is a matter of keeping you safe.”
“I am safe.”
“Not just safe in body, sweets. Safe and well in your mind, too. You showed me proof, but I couldn’t see it. It just seemed more important than
ever that you see Dr. D’Amato.” She read the look on his face, and sighed. “You’ll understand someday, if you have kids of your own. You can’t just trust that everything’s going to turn out all right. You have to make sure that it does.”
Alec looked out the window and shivered. His mom might have been talking about the Clifford girls.
Now he told her everything—about the letters under the window seat, and how Josie would lock all the things in the spare-room cabinet especially for him, and all about Emily and Dr. Jennings and Lavinia Clifford herself. His mother cried when he got to the part about Cass being locked in the linen closet. “But I think I’ve been able to help them, Mom. They’re . . .” He took a deep breath. “They’re leaving with Emily. Three nights from now, they’re leaving for good.”
Goodnight, Forever
37.
Three nights became two. After midnight, letter in hand, Josie went down to her mother’s study and switched on the desk lamp. Her heart thudded—anticipating another of Mrs. Clifford’s pounces—and yet she knew she would not be caught, because Alec had found the letter in the archive.
There was a filing cabinet in the corner, the top drawer labeled correspondence. She opened the drawer, found a file toward the back marked Clients, A-L, and slipped the envelope inside. It was that simple.
Two nights became one, and once more she felt an urge to speak to her mother. It was half past ten, but a light still shone beneath the study door. Josie knocked, and heard a pause in the typewriter’s clackety-clack. “Yes?”
“May I come in?”
“I suppose you’ll barge in no matter what I say,” her mother sighed, so she opened the door and went in.
“You’re up late,” Josie said.
“The editor at Harper and Brothers has asked me to make some changes to my manuscript,” her mother replied. “What is it, Josephine?”
“Must I have a reason? Can’t I simply wish you good night?” That dark image flashed in her mind, of the tiny gravestone in the cemetery on the hill. If she opened her arms to me now, could we fix this? Could we change it, together?
The Boy from Tomorrow Page 17