Lizzie Rose sat by the fire, mending a torn shirt for Fitzmorris Pinchbeck. She sewed with her nostrils quivering and her mouth screwed up, pulling the thread so taut that the cloth nearly gave way. The shirt reeked of hair oil, and the seams under the arms were yellow with perspiration. Lizzie Rose almost shuddered as she stitched, and Ruby, who lay close beside her, had a worried look on her furry face.
The detested Mr. Pinchbeck had come two weeks early to celebrate Christmas, and there was no prospect of him leaving anytime soon. His trade was selling artificial teeth, but he had recently lost his place, and he found Grisini’s old bedroom very comfortable. He would have liked the entire floor for his use, but when he said so, Mrs. Pinchbeck brandished a lace-edged handkerchief and swore that she could never, never be so cruel as to turn helpless little orphelings into the street. Mr. Pinchbeck responded by saying that he hoped the little orphelings were grateful for his stepmother’s charity. Every day, he thought of new ways for them to show their gratitude. Parsefall was to bring his shaving water, polish his boots, and run his errands; Lizzie Rose was to make his bed, tend his fires, and mend his clothes.
This was bad enough, but it was not all. To Lizzie Rose’s great disgust, she found favor in Mr. Pinchbeck’s eyes. He patted the sash of her pinafore, chucked her under the chin, and teased her with sucking noises that sounded like kisses. Lizzie Rose did everything she could to escape his attentions. She dressed herself in her shabbiest clothes and spoke to him as rudely as she dared. It was a wet December, but she spent much of her time out of doors, walking the dogs. During the worst downpours, she took shelter in the secondhand shops and hunted for winter clothing. She told herself she must spend as little as possible, but the money from Grisini’s pawned watch seemed to burn a hole in her pocket. She bought herself a servant’s dress, a red flannel petticoat, and a warm nightgown. For Parsefall, she bought two pairs of thick stockings, galoshes, and a heavy wool coat. The coat was a little too large for him, but that was an asset; he could wear his old jacket underneath.
She clipped the last thread on Mr. Pinchbeck’s shirt, set it aside, and wiped her hands on her apron. The mending basket was still full: Mr. Pinchbeck had given her five pairs of his horrid stockings to darn. Lizzie Rose reached instead for Parsefall’s old jacket. He’d complained that there were holes in his pockets, and she’d promised to patch them.
The right-hand pocket bulged. Lizzie Rose smiled a little. Parsefall was always picking up odds and ends and storing them in his coat. She fished inside and found a cache of rubbish caught between the jacket and the lining: two bills addressed to Mrs. Pinchbeck, an advertisement for Cooke’s traveling circus, an oyster shell, several hairpins, a large piece of coal, and a letter.
It was the letter that caught her attention. It was sealed with red wax and a single letter: S. Though the envelope was soiled and creased, the spiky writing was still readable. The letter was addressed to Gaspare Grisini at Danvers Street. Someone had written Urgent beneath Grisini’s name and underscored it in black ink.
Lizzie Rose drew her bottom lip between her teeth. No lady ever read a letter unless it was addressed to her. All the same, the letter was marked Urgent, and the date on the postmark was more than two weeks past. After a moment’s thought, she broke the seal, and unfolded the letter, slipping the envelope into her apron pocket.
My dear Gaspare,
It has been many weeks since I heard from you. If you were a different man, I should be anxious; as it is, I am impatient. Why have you not answered my letter? I have very little time left. The doctor tells me that I shall not live to see another spring.
I do not expect you to pity me. Nor do I pity myself. I have lived a long life and enjoyed more than my share of the world’s goods. Now I can hold on to nothing — not my fortune nor my jewels nor Strachan’s Ghyll. That is why I am asking you to come to me, and to bring your apprentices with you. You will think me an old woman in my dotage, but I tell you, my mind is fixed on those children.
You wrote me that they are orphans, without a penny in the world. I think of them, left to your tender mercies, and a strange fancy comes into my mind: why should they not inherit my wealth? I have no one of my blood to succeed me, and the prospect of playing fairy godmother amuses me. I think I should like to enrich your two hardworking orphans. But of course, before I arrange their legacies, I must first meet the children face-to-face and make sure that I like them.
Now for the journey. You must come north to Westmorland. Leave London from King’s Cross Station and take the train to Lancaster, from thence to Kendal and then Windermere. I believe first-class tickets are something like fifteen shillings, so I enclose five pounds for the journey. The sum should prove ample. At Windermere, the proprietor of the Black Bear will allow you the hire of a coach. You may come to Strachan’s Ghyll at any hour, day or night. I have told my housekeeper to prepare rooms for you and the children.
I pray you, come soon. I have no time to waste.
Yours most truly,
Cassandra Strachan Sagredo
Lizzie Rose reread the letter, first with astonishment, then with wonder. She could not doubt that she and Parsefall were the children referred to in the letter. It sounded as though the unknown woman was very rich; she had referred to jewels, and Strachan’s Ghyll must be the queer name of her house. I think I should like to enrich your two hardworking orphans. Lizzie Rose clasped the letter to her breast. She felt as if she were living in a play. In the theatre, legacies arrived during the fifth act, when everything was at its worst. Some offstage person would die, clearing the pathway for a happy ending. A legacy meant rescue, luxury, and the promise of happiness.
Lizzie Rose unfolded the five-pound note that had fallen into her lap. Lancaster, Windermere, Westmorland . . . She wished her father’s atlas had not been sold. She wasn’t quite sure where Westmorland was, but she thought it was almost as far north as Scotland. What if she and Parsefall made the long journey only to be turned away? Cassandra Sagredo was evidently a friend of Grisini’s, but Grisini had vanished without a trace. Would Grisini’s children be welcome without him? Perhaps Lizzie Rose should write Mrs. Sagredo and ask if it might be so.
It would be an awkward letter to write. Lizzie Rose could think of no delicate way to phrase it. She would have to begin by explaining why she had opened a letter that wasn’t addressed to her. Then she would have to find some way to hint that though Grisini had disappeared, she and Parsefall were still available to be enriched. She must sound grateful but not greedy — and then, if Mrs. Sagredo persisted in inviting them, Parsefall would have to be induced to make the journey. It was unlikely that he would want to abandon the puppet theatre during the holiday season. Only yesterday he had come home with two shillings ninepence halfpenny, and the joyful conviction that business was picking up.
The front door slammed. The parrot shouted, “Ruination! Wipe your boots!” and was told by a nasal voice to “Stow it!” There was the sound of Mr. Pinchbeck’s heavy tread on the stairs. Lizzie Rose’s smile faded. She reached down, picked up Ruby, and tiptoed into her makeshift bedchamber, drawing the spangled curtain across the doorway. If she kept still and made no sound, Mr. Pinchbeck might pass into the next room without suspecting she was at home. She cupped her fingers around Ruby’s muzzle and waited, scarcely daring to breathe.
Clara hung from the gallows in Parsefall’s wagon. It had been a wet week, and the clatter of the wheels was muffled by the sound of splashing. Parsefall slogged through an icy stew of mud and straw, horse manure, and urine. Inside the wagon, Clara was spared the worst of the mire, but she could not help remembering the days when she rode through London in her mother’s carriage. If she walked, it was in the park with her governess; if they had to cross a street, Miss Cameron paid to have a path swept clear. No crossing sweeper ever lifted a broom to sweep a path for Parsefall. It was only too clear that he had no halfpennies to waste on cleanliness. Parsefall cursed the sloppy streets, but only because they slowe
d him down. He had a show to give, and his mind was on his work.
In the past weeks, Clara had come to look forward to the puppet shows even more than Parsefall did. When he lifted the perch and pulled her strings, her bloodless body seemed to tingle, and she felt as if something quickened inside her. She could almost imagine that her limbs stretched and swayed by their own free will. It was not true, of course. But she wondered if one day it might be true — if somehow Parsefall might help her to cross the border between paralysis and life. With every touch, the bond between them grew stronger. When he played upon her strings, Clara glimpsed the splendors and glooms that haunted his mind. She shared his appetite for prodigies and wonders, for a world where spangles were stars and skeletons frolicked until their bones fell apart.
She knew his fears and his weaknesses. The specter of Grisini lurked in the darkest corners of Parsefall’s mind. Parsefall hated foggy days, not just because they were bad for business but because he was afraid that Grisini might be following him, masked by the fog. Hunger was another, lesser specter, and with hunger came guilt. Parsefall was shocked by how much money he spent on sausage rolls and penny buns. He lied to Lizzie Rose about his daily earnings and concealed from her the shameful fact that he’d bought something to eat. Now and again he bought two buns and put one in his pocket, but if it was his ambition to take the second bun home to Lizzie Rose, he never achieved it. Almost before he knew it, the treat was out of his pocket and between his teeth. He gobbled every crumb, sucked the sugar from his fingers, and despised himself for his greed. Lizzie Rose would scarcely have believed that her adopted brother possessed so tender a conscience: Clara knew better. She recognized guilt, even when it was only a shadow in someone else’s mind.
On that raw day in December, Clara was holding an arabesque, her profile to the audience, when a man strode toward the stage. Clara saw him only from the corner of her eye, but she knew him: a man with hair as dark as hers, broad shouldered and prosperous. She wanted to gasp, to cry out to him. Parsefall spun the perch, making Clara pivot en pointe. When she stopped spinning, she was facing her father.
He was as pale as death. She saw him elbow his way forward, close to the front of the stage. Her father, who never shoved, her father, who never shouted, was shouting: “Where did you get that puppet?”
Parsefall’s hand jerked, making Clara jump straight-legged into the air. He swung her offstage, around and behind the backdrop.
“Where did you get —?” Dr. Wintermute’s voice was thunderous. His hand reached under the backdrop and seized Clara’s legs.
Parsefall did not let go. Clara’s head strings went taut; she felt the screws grind against her temples. Her father gripped her so tightly that his arm shook. A thrill ran through her like an electric shock. Why, he loves me, she thought in amazement. The idea was new to her. If anyone had asked her, she would have said that of course her father loved her; good fathers must always love their children. But she had always known how deeply he mourned Charles Augustus. She was the twin who should have died. Now, feeling the tremor in her father’s hand, she understood that she was precious to him, and she wanted to weep for joy.
One of her head strings snapped. Parsefall shouted, “Leggo!” The audience was murmuring, upset that the show had been interrupted. Parsefall shrilled, “Gimme back my puppet!” and the bystanders backed him up: “That’s right!” “Give ’im ’is puppet and get out of the way!”
“Come on, guv’nor!” shouted a boy from the back of the crowd. “Give it up and let the show go on!”
“It isn’t right to steal a poor boy’s puppet,” said an elderly woman. “That’s his living.”
Dr. Wintermute didn’t seem to have heard. “I know you!” he cried out. “You’re Grisini’s boy! I saw you the day my daughter was kidnapped. Grisini made that puppet, didn’t he? He kidnapped her. He took my Clara.” His voice broke. “Tell me what he did with her.”
“Grisini’s gone,” Parsefall shot back. He corrected himself. “’E’s dead. Bashed ’is brains in. Leggo-a-me!” His voice rose, enlisting the help of the audience. “Leggo-a-me puppet, sir! Don’ ’urt me! I ain’t done nuffink!”
His ploy was effective. Clara heard a rustle from the other side of the curtain. A man said, “Bloomin’ shame.”
The elderly woman quavered, “Stop, sir! If you hurt that boy, I shall call a constable!”
Parsefall squealed like a pig. Dr. Wintermute released Clara and came around the side of the wagon. He seized Parsefall’s collar, holding him prisoner. “What do you mean, he’s dead? He can’t be dead. How can he be dead?”
Parsefall shook himself like a wet cat. He twisted and squirmed. In the scuffle, Clara fell from his hand, landing faceup on the cobblestones.
Two hands reached for her. One hand was large, clean, and strong, a hand that she had loved all her life. The other hand was small and filthy, with one finger missing. In an instant, Clara knew which hand she wanted to capture her. Please! she begged. As if he heard her thoughts, Parsefall snatched her up and crammed her inside his jacket.
Run! thought Clara. She wanted beyond everything to get away. If her father, who loved her, wrested her from Parsefall, he would take her back home again. Her mother would weep over the puppet that resembled her lost daughter. Clara would hang on the wall, next to the death masks of the Others. She would never dance again; she would lose all hope of coming back to life.
She felt Parsefall leap sideways. There was a scuffle. She heard the rattle of the coins in the money box and a series of thumping sounds. Parsefall was packing up the wagon.
“Stop! Thief !” Dr. Wintermute was shouting, but Parsefall leaped forward. The wagon wheels swashed over the cobbles. He can’t get away, Clara thought despairingly. He can’t go fast enough if he has the wagon, and he’ll never abandon the wagon —
A horse whinnied. A man shouted, “Bloody ’ell!” Parsefall fell headlong, sprawling. Men were shouting, and a woman was screaming.
A gruff voice spoke. “Whoa, now! Steady, now!”
Her father was entreating everyone to remain calm. He said, “Let me help; I’m a doctor —” In an instant, Parsefall was back on his feet and running full speed, one arm around Clara and the other towing the wagon.
He veered to the right. There was a scraping noise: the wagon catching on the corner of a brick building. Parsefall dragged it free. He was panting now, and Clara could hear his heart beat double time. The music box was still tinkling.
Little by little, his pace slowed. His gasps turned to wheezing sounds. When at last he came to a stop, he opened his jacket. Clara’s head fell back. She found herself staring at a single pair of wet trousers, pegged to a clothesline. A cat mewed nearby. Parsefall had brought her to an empty courtyard.
Parsefall took Clara from his jacket and examined her with narrowed eyes. Her head flopped so that her ear touched her shoulder, and her right elbow faced forward. Her left knee bent the wrong way. Parsefall frowned and wiped her sodden skirt against his coat sleeve, an act that did no favors either to Clara or the coat. Then he set her back on the gallows, knelt down on the pavement, and began to unravel her strings.
Grisini’s boy had provoked an accident. His flight through the streets had caused a collision between a closed carriage and a hansom cab. The cabbie had been thrown from his seat, and the woman inside the carriage was sobbing hysterically. The accident gave the boy an advantage; he found a gap in the snarled traffic, forced the wagon through it, and disappeared like an eel into its burrow. Dr. Wintermute saw that further pursuit was futile. He was bound both by conscience and by training to tend to anyone who was hurt. Nevertheless, it cost him dearly to abandon the chase.
He helped the cabbie to his feet, made sure that there was no head injury, and turned his attention to the woman. She was heavily pregnant and panic-stricken. Dr. Wintermute examined her and assured her that all was well. He advised her to return home, loosen her corsets, and spend the rest of the day in bed. Once she had pr
omised to follow his orders, he returned to the cabbie, who was nursing his arm to his chest. Dr. Wintermute diagnosed a sprained wrist. He wrapped it tightly, using his own muffler as a bandage.
After the cabbie drove off, Dr. Wintermute made his way to the curb. He felt shaken. The puppet’s face swam before his mind’s eye: heart shaped, pink cheeked, with Clara’s smile frozen on its lips. Why had Grisini created a puppet in the image of his daughter? How — and when — and what hideous thing did it mean? Dr. Wintermute’s first impulse — to go to the police station — seemed futile. The existence of the puppet proved nothing. He could not tell a police constable how the sight of it had pierced his heart.
He began to walk, not knowing where he was going. He realized after a time that he had missed the cross street that would have taken him home. In the weeks since Clara’s disappearance, Dr. Wintermute had come to dread the house in Chester Square. The atmosphere of grief was stifling, as if the walls had thickened, blocking every breath of air and ray of light. He knew it was his duty to be strong for his wife, but he could not help Ada. In his worst moments he shrank from her. Her anguish increased his own.
He had resumed work in early December. It comforted him to be of use again. When he was with patients, he was himself once more: calm, skilled, compassionate. When he returned home, he changed back into a man he could not respect: a husband too heartsick to ease his wife’s pain, a father who had failed to save even one of his five children.
He became aware that he had wandered into Chelsea. It was a poor section of town, and the narrow houses looked bleak and cheerless. Rubbish lay thick underfoot, and the stink of the polluted river made him wish that he could pull his muffler over his nose. Then it struck him: Professor Grisini lived in Chelsea. He recalled the letter he had written, arranging for the showman to perform at Clara’s party. He remembered the address, even the house number.
Splendors and Glooms Page 14