Splendors and Glooms

by Laura Amy Schlitz

  Lizzie Rose said pointedly, “Good evening, ma’am.”

  Cassandra fondled the dog’s ears. “I suppose you think ‘Outlandish’ is a poor way to begin a conversation?”

  “I didn’t say so, ma’am.”

  “No, you didn’t. Polite child. Polite-child-in-a-tiger-skin. You like furs, do you?”

  “No, ma’am. I don’t think I do.”

  “Why ever not?”

  Lizzie Rose thought a little. The old woman sounded almost friendly, and it occurred to her that talking to Cassandra Sagredo was rather like talking to Parsefall: manners were not strictly necessary. “I think it must be very agreeable to be a tiger. I don’t know much about India, but I believe it’s warm, and there are jasmine flowers. . . . To live in the sun and be fierce, and then to die because someone wants your skin . . . I think that’s sad. If I were a gentleman, I wouldn’t shoot tigers.”

  “Then why did you take the skin? Don’t you like it? Didn’t you want it?”

  “I didn’t take it,” answered Lizzie Rose. “Not to keep. I only borrowed it, because the house is so cold —” She stopped. Madama’s room wasn’t cold at all. No matter how drafty the rest of the house might be, the sickroom was stifling and pungent.

  “That dress of yours isn’t very warm, is it?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Or very pretty, for that matter. I thought Fettle burned it.”

  Lizzie Rose’s chin came up. “I don’t think Mrs. Fettle had any right to take my clothes. I paid sixpence halfpenny for this dress.”

  “A fortune.”

  Lizzie Rose bit her tongue. She was tempted to tell this pampered woman that sixpence halfpenny was a fortune. One could buy six penny loaves for sixpence: six frugal suppers for Parsefall and herself. Remembering just how frugal some of those suppers had been, Lizzie Rose was seized with the impulse to tell Mrs. Sagredo even more. She wanted to throw her problems in the old woman’s face. She wanted to tell someone how frightened she was of hunger and poverty and ending up on the streets.

  Instead she defended herself. “You said I might explore the whole house and have anything I liked. I found my clothes in the ragbag belowstairs. I had nothing to wear, so I took them back.”

  “The White Room wardrobe is full of things to wear,” argued Cassandra. “Beautiful things. Didn’t you even look at them? Didn’t you want them?”

  Lizzie Rose blushed. She had, in fact, looked at the gowns. There was one — a gown of creamy silk, embroidered with butterflies and wild pansies — that she had not been able to resist trying on. It was thirty years out of fashion and several sizes too big for her, but she had stood transfixed before the mirror, astonished that anything could make her look so pretty. If she had known how to make it fit her, she wouldn’t have been able to resist it. But the silk was so exquisite that she couldn’t bear the thought of ruining it — and that meant asking for help from the servants. The thought of Mrs. Fettle’s disapproval had settled the matter.

  “Well? Cat got your tongue?”

  “I did look at them,” admitted Lizzie Rose, “and I like pretty things, but I couldn’t — I didn’t —” She sighed. “My own things are best.”

  Cassandra snorted disagreement. “Your things are hideous. It’s a shame — you’re not a bad-looking girl. Fetch one of the candlesticks from the mantel. I want to look at you properly.”

  Lizzie Rose set her books on the dressing table and returned with a three-branched candelabrum. Candlelight flashed across the face of the brass monkey. Like Madama, the monkey seemed to be sneering.

  “What a nose you have!” exclaimed Cassandra. “A nose like a vixen’s — but that’s what will make you a beauty when you grow up. If it weren’t for your red hair and long nose, you’d only be pretty — but with that nose, you’ll do better. The great actress Siddons had a nose like that. Men will stare at you and think that your nose is too long, but they’ll go on staring. Haven’t you started to think about that sort of thing — gentlemen and gowns and admirers?”

  The word admirer reminded Lizzie Rose of Fitzmorris Pinchbeck. Her lip curled. “No, ma’am.”

  “Just as well. Lud, what a waste of time! When I was young, I was always in love with some man. Not that I was a beauty. ‘A big girl’ — that was what they used to call me. Hateful phrase. I was too big and I could never endure tight lacing, but I knew how to make men look at me. I had many admirers in my heyday. One man put a bullet through his head for love of me — though I admit he was inordinately stupid. You don’t believe me, do you?”

  Lizzie Rose took a moment to consider. She recalled the glass case with its hairy relics, and it suddenly seemed less macabre than pathetic. She stared at the old woman, trying to catch a glimpse of the coquettish girl who had craved the attentions of men. It was difficult to imagine. No wonder Mrs. Sagredo needed her souvenirs. They were proof of an impossible past.

  “I do believe you, ma’am. I saw the cabinet downstairs. The one with the little portraits of all your admirers.”

  “Oh, that,” Cassandra said fretfully. “That was . . . Well. It was all so long ago.”

  Silence fell between them. Lizzie Rose returned the candlestick to the mantel. Cassandra settled back against the pillows. Ruby sighed deeply and stretched out flat.

  Cassandra broke the silence. “If you don’t want dresses and you don’t want men, what do you want? Tell me that. Don’t stop and think — just tell me, quick as ever you can. I want to know.”

  A swarm of images darted through Lizzie Rose’s mind. She wondered if she dared broach the subject of the legacy. Even a fraction of Madama’s wealth would make such a difference! She envisaged herself and Parsefall living a whole new life, and in less than a second, she had conceived of a home for them: a cottage by the lake, complete with honeysuckle, and deep, cozy chairs covered with flowered chintz. She pictured Parsefall sitting at a desk while she helped him with his schoolwork. Because she was in charge of constructing the scene, he didn’t pull away when she put her arm around his shoulders; he didn’t tell her she wasn’t his true sister. She saw herself in the cream silk dress, reading fairy stories before the fire, or skating on the frozen lake with her hands kept warm in a dear little muff. She thought of feeding Ruby a mutton chop every evening, and there being meat enough for all three of them.

  She caught herself up. These were selfish wishes. The youngest daughter in a fairy story should have a mind above mutton chops and silk dresses. The youngest daughter would think only about the people she loved. Dutifully Lizzie Rose thought of her own beloved, and all at once she knew what she longed for more than anything in the world. “I want the people I love not to have died.”

  The old woman uttered an exasperated noise, something between a snort and a growl. “That’s no good; that’s impossible. You must want something other than that. Your brother took half the house — what did you take?”

  Lizzie Rose set the books on the bed. Cassandra frowned. “What’s this? Shakespeare in three volumes? Faugh!” She flipped the covers open and shut. “Do you really want Shakespeare? I’ve always found him dull.”

  “My father loved Shakespeare,” Lizzie Rose explained. “He used to say you could read Shakespeare your whole life long and never grow weary of it.”

  “I’d be weary by the end of the first page,” Cassandra said acidly. She shoved the books away. “What’s this? Ah, something livelier!” A look of mischief passed over her face. “Tom Jones! Gracious, child, what made you choose that? It’s”— her mouth twisted mockingly —“not suitable for a young lady.”

  “It must be suitable,” Lizzie Rose said stoutly. “It was Father’s favorite novel.”

  “Have you read it?”

  “No, but I shall.”

  Cassandra nodded. “Good. It will open those innocent eyes of yours. What else? Two books, a borrowed tiger skin, and —?”

  “A seashell,” Lizzie Rose said, reaching into her apron pocket. “I thought it was the best one in the case.
It reminded me of Brighton. Father and Mother took me to Brighton once.”

  Cassandra Sagredo took the seashell on her palm. It was a miracle of loveliness: a milky spiral with a heart of orange pink. “Is that all? No jewels?”

  Lizzie Rose thought wistfully of the emerald necklace she had turned down. “I don’t need jewels.”

  “Fiddlesticks! Every woman needs jewels! What else is in your pocket?”

  Lizzie Rose set down her final and favorite choice: the portrait in the ivory frame. “I found this in the library. I think it’s ever so pretty —” Her voice faltered.

  The witch’s hand darted out, fingers curled. “Give me that.”

  Lizzie Rose surrendered it. Cassandra sat stark still, gazing at the portrait in her hand. Her mouth worked. She raised her head and looked straight at Lizzie Rose. “You little bitch.”

  Lizzie Rose’s head came up sharply. She had spent most of her life in the theatre, and she was familiar with foul words. But she was not used to being sworn at. David Fawr had shielded his wife and child from such disrespect. Even Grisini, who had beaten her, had not insulted her with such language. Her eyes filled with tears. “How dare you?” Her voice shook with outrage. “How dare you speak to me that way? I don’t want your books — or your pictures — or your horrid money! I won’t be spoken to like that!”

  She spun on her heel and started for the door. But to her astonishment, Cassandra cried out to her. “Come back!” the old woman commanded. “Come back! If I insulted you, I beg your pardon!”

  Lizzie Rose stopped with her hands on the doorknobs. She had never found it easy to hold out against an apology. She felt that this was a dreadful weakness in her nature, but she couldn’t help it.

  “I beg your pardon,” Cassandra said again. She was panting, as if the apology had taken a physical toll on her. “You couldn’t have known. No one knows.”

  Lizzie Rose asked, “Knows what?”

  Cassandra evaded the question. She stared at Lizzie Rose as if she’d never seen her before. Abruptly she said, “Give me your hand.”

  Lizzie Rose said, “Why?” but Cassandra held out her own hand, palm up. After a moment, Lizzie Rose slipped her work-roughened hand into the old woman’s fat claw.

  Cassandra bent her head. Her eyebrows drew together, and her eyes narrowed until they were almost shut. She was so still that Lizzie Rose wondered if she was falling asleep. Then the old woman opened her eyes. “You’re good,” she said flatly. It was not a compliment but an accusation. “Gaspare lied. He said you were deceitful. You’re good, God help you, and God help me. Horribly, inconveniently good.”

  Lizzie Rose didn’t know what to say. She had never been able to make up her mind whether she was a good person or not. From books, she had gathered that if you thought you were good, you probably weren’t, because thinking you were good was conceited. On the other hand, she knew how hard she tried to be good, and she couldn’t help thinking that Madama’s word inconvenient was entirely apropos. It had not escaped her notice that being good was often very inconvenient. “Ma’am —”

  “Well? Don’t stand there twisting your hands. If you want to ask me something, ask! And call me Madama, not ma’am.”

  “Madama — when did you speak to Mr. Grisini about me?”

  The old woman’s face was suddenly guarded. “Months ago. I don’t remember the exact date.” She dismissed the subject with an imperious wave of her hand. “I’m sorry I insulted you. If you want the painting, take it. It’s an insipid thing, and I have no use for it.”

  Lizzie Rose looked from the old woman to the girl in the picture. “Did you know her, ma’am? Was she your daughter?”

  “No. I had no children.”

  “She was dear to you?” Lizzie Rose suggested, but Cassandra answered vehemently.

  “No. She was a girl I knew at school. When she died, she left me her portrait — I can’t think why. It’s been seventy years since I saw her.”

  Lizzie Rose fetched the cushioned stool by the dressing table. She sat down, folding her hands in her lap. “Tell me about her,” she coaxed. To her surprise, the old woman gazed off into the distance and began to speak.

  “Her name was Marguerite Tremblay. I met her in the convent at Venice — but no, I must begin earlier than that.

  “When I was eleven years old, my mother ran away from home. She was a great beauty, and she caused a great scandal. For a long time, no one would tell me what had become of her. The servants told me she was dead, but we didn’t put on black and there was no funeral. I eavesdropped until I found out the secret. My mother had chosen to abandon my father and me so that she could disgrace herself with a man.

  “Her disgrace spread to all of us. We were no longer received in society. No one came to the house. My father — who had once been fond of me, I believe — was afraid I would grow up to be like my mother — foolish and faithless. It was an intolerable time for him, and he decided to leave England. My father was a scholar of the natural sciences, and he had friends in Padua.

  “So we set off to Italy. The journey was a long one, and we were both bad travelers. My father scarcely spoke to me. But at last we reached Venice. I’d been sick on the road — foreign food disagreed with me — but I was not seasick in Venice. When we glided down the Grand Canal, I lifted my head to gaze about me.

  “You have never seen Venice, I suppose? I tell you that there is nowhere on earth more beautiful. We floated between two rows of palaces: flesh pink or fawn colored or pale green or tawny . . . and the world was drenched with light. The light of Venice was unlike anything I’d ever seen. So soft, like candle flames shining through a seashell . . . The water was glassy green, and everywhere you looked there were rippling shadows and reflections. Beauty like that can break the heart. I ached with longing — and I began to hope. I had a strange fancy that in Venice, I would find everything I’d lost: even my father’s affection.

  “Of course I was wrong. My father had brought me there to be rid of me. He enrolled me in a convent school of Santa Maria dei Servi. The Venetians greatly disliked foreigners, and I cannot think how he persuaded the nuns to accept me. But take me they did, and my father moved on to Padua. I begged him to write, and he promised that he would. But he didn’t.

  “To say that I was unhappy doesn’t begin to tell you the state of my feelings. The convent was a prison to me. The other girls despised me. My father had taught me only a little Italian — and it was not Venetian but pure Tuscan. The Venetian girls slurred their words, so I couldn’t understand them. They laughed at me. I was a foreigner, a big clumsy girl. My clothes didn’t fit — I was growing too fast, and everything was tight. There was not a single soul that I liked or who liked me. I seemed to grind my way through each day, longing for nighttime so that I could weep.

  “Then Marguerite came to the convent. She came from New France, in North America. She spoke no Italian, only French and English. Because I spoke English, she attached herself to me. I did not seek her friendship. She sought mine. I thought the other girls would shun her, as they had shunned me. But when they mimicked her bad Venetian, she laughed with them, and in time she became everyone’s pet. You must understand that she had many things that I had not. Her papa had a fortune from the fur trade. She was very pretty, and her gowns had been made in Paris. She always had the best of everything, from ribbons to lapdogs.

  “You asked if she was dear to me. The shoe was on the other foot: she cared for me. Her nature was affectionate, and she was as eager to please as her own lapdog. When I had headaches — I had dreadful headaches in those days — she used to sit by me and bathe my forehead with lavender water. She had many friends, but I was her first, and, she used to say, her dearest. She always called me that: her dearest friend.

  “I thought she was a fool, to love me so much when I cared so little for her. But there was a reckless streak in her that I admired. We used to slip out of the convent, especially when it was Carnival and the streets were full of people
making merry. None of the other girls dared. Those were my happiest times in Venice — those times when we escaped together. It was then, and only then, that Venice kept her promise to me. The city was so gay and so beautiful. . . . And we were never caught.

  “There was one way in which Marguerite and I were alike. She was motherless, too, and there was a shadow over her mother’s name. When Marguerite was six years old, the house caught fire, and her mother perished in the flames. Marguerite had been told that it was a tragic accident. But Marguerite believed — and I have no doubt she was right — that Madame Tremblay set the fire herself: she died by her own hand. Her father denied it. But though Marguerite was a silly child, she was a child, and a child has a special instinct for what is being hidden. Marguerite remembered her mother’s fits of rage and melancholy, and she was quite certain that her mother had been mad. I have told you that Marguerite was not dear to me; I envied her too much to be fond of her. But I pitied her, too, because of her mother.

  “I remember the day I hated her most. It was her birthday — our birthday — because that was the curious thing: Marguerite was a year younger than I, but we shared the same birthday. The year that I was thirteen and Marguerite was twelve, Monsieur Tremblay asked the nuns for permission to give his daughter a birthday party. The sixth of November fell during Carnival time —”

  Lizzie Rose’s head jerked up. “The sixth of November!” she repeated. “But that’s Clara’s birthday!”

  Cassandra Sagredo flinched as if someone had thrown a glass of water in her face. Lizzie Rose realized that the old woman was in a vulnerable state, stranded somewhere between the present and the past.

  “I’m sorry.” Lizzie Rose laid a hand on the coverlet. “I shouldn’t have interrupted. But there’s a girl I used to know, and November the sixth was her birthday —”

  Cassandra didn’t ask who Clara was. “November the sixth?” she repeated. “November the sixth? Are you sure?”