Splendors and Glooms (19 page)

F
our days later, Clara was packed inside the new wagon and hauled off to perform her first show.

She was swathed in a muslin bag, so she couldn’t see. As the wagon rattled through the streets, she hung from the puppet gallows, swaying back and forth with every bump and jerk. She heard the din of the crowded city: the scraping of wheels against cobblestones, the clip-clop of hooves, the shouts of coachmen and costermongers. The wagon’s progress was fitful: Parsefall was too small to make anyone give way to him, and he was forced to travel in zigzags, dodging foot traffic and coaches alike. Once or twice, Clara heard someone swear at him. A woman shouted, “’Ere, now!” and a man bellowed, “D’you
want
to end up under the ’ooves?” Undaunted, Parsefall answered with oaths of his own.

The wagon swerved and jolted for more than an hour. The streets grew quieter; they were entering a less crowded part of the city. Clara felt the wagon back up and strike something hard. A moment later, the gallows rose into the air; Parsefall was lifting it. His hands fumbled for Clara’s bag, loosening the drawstring. He drew her out, and at last she could see.

They had come to a square in Pimlico. There was a large rectangle of garden surrounded by iron palings, and the houses around the square were white columned and prosperous looking. It was very like Chester Square, and Clara felt a wave of homesickness.

Parsefall set to work at once. He pushed the wagon close to the iron palings, so that the fence would be at his back. Clara understood why. Performing alone, he had no one to guard his puppets. He reached into the wagon and unpacked the drum, the music box, and a toy horn. He shoved the horn into his mouth. As he prepared the theatre for the show, he blew a series of earsplitting blasts. Between the blasts, Clara heard childish voices from the other side of the fence. There were children playing in the garden. Parsefall was hoping to attract them.

He set the gallows at right angles to the stage, pinned back the curtains, and unrolled the backdrop. He arranged a black cloth over his head and mounted the wagon. Picking up the drum, he began to play.

Clara listened with misgivings. Who would come? The day was raw; the sounds of the horn and drum were faint; the wagon was gimcrack and rickety and small. But luck was with Parsefall. The children’s voices grew louder. They had heard the horn and followed the sound. The gallows vibrated as Parsefall reached for one of the
fantoccini.

The show began. Clara could not see the audience, but she heard ripples of laughter and gasps of delight. After a quarter of an hour, she heard the staccato whirr of machinery: the winding up of the music box. It was her cue. She felt herself being lifted off the gallows and flown through the air. She ended up center stage, in front of the painted backdrop.

She was surprised by the size of the audience. A governess with three children, a nursemaid carrying a baby, a red-faced clergyman, an errand boy with his hands full of envelopes . . . So far, so good — but beyond this crowd of respectable-looking people was a sprinkling of paupers. She saw a chimney sweep and two ragged girls, evidently sisters. There was an ancient man with black teeth and an idiot grin, and a drunkard in a red kerchief.

It was the drunkard who stood closest to the stage, close enough to touch her if he chose. Clara quailed at the sight of him. He was thickset and unshaven. He seemed fascinated by the puppet show. He stood head cocked, hands dangling, rocking back and forth in time to the music.

Clara was afraid of him. She wished she could close her eyes and shut out the faces of the crowd. But her eyes were wide open and the music box was tinkling. Parsefall was tugging at her strings.

She rose on the tips of her toes, her arms coming together, her wrists crossing. One of the ragged girls gave a coo of admiration. Clara stretched out her left foot, toe pointed, and lifted her arms to pose. The perch raised her, and she floated into a leap. She obeyed every motion of the strings; her limbs were as light as flower stems and as smooth as water. The crowd was silent, held in thrall by the silvery music and the little dancer in the white frock.

A thrill of joy ran through Clara. She was moving with such lightness and sureness that she almost fancied that she moved by herself. The drunken man jerked his thumb at her and said, “Look at that!” and she wanted to smile at him. Why, he was — she searched for the right word and found it —
innocent.
He might be coarse and dirty and drunk, but he was as hungry for enchantment as she had been at her birthday party.

The music was slowing down. Clara kept time. She gave one final cat leap, lowered her arms, and sank into a curtsy. The old man with the black teeth clapped like a child, elbows out. The others joined in, and there was a round of excited applause. Clara wanted to laugh with happiness. She felt Parsefall’s triumph ripple through his hands and down her strings. She wanted to dance again. But the perch was yanking her away, swinging her past the curtain; she felt the hook at the top clamp over the gallows rack. It was time for the skeleton to dance. Clara swayed back and forth, her strings still quivering. Little by little, the swaying stopped, and her body hung slack and still.

L
izzie 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.

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.