The Marvelous Magic of Miss Mabel (2 page)

Madame Lena Sweeny appeared not to hear. She beckoned to Mabel, who climbed into the chair opposite. Madame Sweeny reached for Mabel's left hand, clasping it between both of hers. Stretching out her swanlike neck, she bent over and gazed into Mabel's palm. Nora watched nervously as the fortune-teller studied the little hand without blinking. Then she sat up and beckoned to Nora. “Please, show me yours.”

“I really didn't come in for a reading,” Nora said, but she nevertheless picked up Mabel and placed the child squarely on her knees, holding out her own hand. Once again, Madame Sweeny extended her neck and gracefully lowered her head, contemplating Nora's palm. Suddenly nervous about what she might be told, Nora Ratcliff could feel her heart pounding as Madame Sweeny ran her fingers lightly across her skin.

“Does your husband have a history of magic in his family?” she murmured.

“Good heavens, no.” Nora laughed nervously. “None whatsoever.”

“Then this child is not yours.”

“What on earth do you mean? Of course Mabel belongs to me.”

Madame Sweeny lifted her gaze. “This child has magic running in her veins.”

“Magic?” Nora swallowed, feeling her heart palpitations speed up.

“Strong magic,” Madame Sweeny replied. “You say it doesn't come from your husband's side, and yet your palm reveals that you have not a drop of magical blood. It often skips generations, many generations, but there is no trace of witchcraft in your family line.”

“My father always said we were a practical lot,” Nora confirmed, “had our feet planted firmly on the ground. . . . I probably have soil running in my veins,” she added, trying to make light of the conversation.

Madame Sweeny didn't smile. “Sometime in the next few years,” she continued, “this little girl will show signs of her gift.” She leaned forward, tapping her long pointed nails on the table. “Be aware that magic is often triggered by a keen passion, when the child is doing something she loves and feels excited about. She may start to lift off the ground,” Madame Sweeny warned. “Or send objects floating around the room. Things may spark when she touches them, or change color. Magic in children is extremely unstable until they have learned to control it.”

“So what do I do?” Nora questioned rather anxiously. “Having no experience with witchcraft myself.”

“Watch her closely,” Madame Sweeny advised in a somber voice. “She has an inquisitive nature to go with her magic, and that can be a dangerous combination.”

I
T IS TIME WE HIRED
a nanny,” Nora informed Daisy that afternoon. Nora wasn't sure how she felt about Madame Sweeny's prediction, but the fortune-tellers' guild was a respectable organization, and it couldn't hurt to be prepared.

“A nanny?” Daisy said indignantly, picking up the tea tray. “Don't I do a good enough job, mam, looking after Miss Mabel? I keep her out of the greenhouse so she doesn't disturb your roses.” Nora spent many hours in her greenhouse, planting and grafting and tending to her flowers. She was a keen gardener and a member of the Rose Growers' Association.

“You do a wonderful job, Daisy, but it's too much work, and Mabel is going to need watching closely from now on.”

“Magic!” Daisy marveled when she heard. “That's a rare and special thing to have, mam.” She glanced over at Mabel, who was sitting on the floor, dropping currants in her milk to see if they floated. Her hair ribbons had come untied, and there was sugared bun around her mouth. Daisy had a strong suspicion that the fortune-teller might perhaps have gotten it wrong. Not that Daisy had seen many witches in her life, but they did occasionally fly over Melton Bay, swooping past on their broomsticks in long, purple cloaks. They always looked so elegant and graceful, which were not words you would use in connection with Mabel.

“I shall advertise in the
Ladies' Home Journal,
” Nora decided. “That will attract a suitable nanny. Someone with a great deal of experience and excellent references.” And ten days later, much to Mabel's horror and Daisy's dismay, Nanny Grimshaw arrived, clutching a brown leather case and a tightly wrapped umbrella. She was thin as a fire poker. Her frizzled gray hair poked out of a crisp, white bonnet, and when she smiled, Mabel hid behind Nora's skirts because Nanny Grimshaw's eyes refused to join in.

“I keep my charges on a tight leash, Mrs. Ratcliff,” Nanny Grimshaw announced, her umbrella hooked over her arm. “Mabel will be instructed in all the skills necessary to a young lady—embroidery, darning, et cetera.”

“Of course,” Nora agreed, deciding not to mention the possibility of Mabel being a witch. There was no need to concern Nanny about something that might never happen.

And so a new routine began in the Ratcliff residence. While Nora worked in her greenhouse, Mabel was no longer allowed to drop her shoes and handkerchiefs through the stairway banisters, seeing what landed in the hall first. She wasn't allowed to roll Daisy's pastry scraps into balls and discover if they bounced. Her hands were rubbed raw with carbolic soap because Nanny Grimshaw had a fear of germs, and her curiosity was smothered like a candle.

On the first warm afternoon, Nora suggested Nanny Grimshaw take Mabel down to the beach, insisting that the sea air was better for Mabel than a stroll in the park. Nanny Grimshaw agreed, smiling, but as they left the house her smile slipped away, and Mabel could hear her muttering, “Gritty sticky sand.”

“It's fun,” Mabel said, trying to get the smile to return.

“Children do not speak unless they are spoken to,” Nanny Grimshaw replied.

The Cranford and Fitzwilliam children were already there, and it wasn't long before Nanny Grimshaw was deep in conversation with their nannies. She seemed to have forgotten all about Mabel, who crouched by the water, looking wistfully over at the other children as she made driftwood rafts and feather boats and sailed them out to sea. By the time Nanny Grimshaw called to her, Mabel's sunbonnet had slipped off and her petticoats and dress were soaked.

“Look at you,” Nanny snapped, tying her bonnet on far too tight. “You're a disgrace, Mabel Ratcliff. Playing with dirty sticks and feathers. Your clothes are soaked. Your skin is burnt.” Nanny Grimshaw pulled her roughly down the beach. “Not that I'm surprised,” she hissed softly. “Now I know where you came from.”

They were walking so fast, Mabel almost had to run to keep up. But as soon as they got home, Nanny Grimshaw's smile returned, the way it always did around Mabel's mother. It was like having two different Nannies in the same body, Mabel thought, except Nora always got the nice one.

“I'm afraid we're going to have to work on better listening,” Nanny Grimshaw reported with a sigh. “Mabel was rather out of control.”

“Oh, Mabel,” Nora sighed in disappointment. “You must pay attention to Nanny.”

“Sorry, Mama,” Mabel whispered, wrapping her arms around Nora's legs. “I'll try harder.” And Mabel did try, but it was so difficult to please Nanny Grimshaw.

One rainy day when Mabel was almost five, she sat on the sofa, practicing her embroidery. Although Mabel attempted to follow Nanny Grimshaw's directions, her fingers felt like slippery pork sausages. She kept pricking herself and tangling the thread, but Nanny Grimshaw made her sit there for two whole hours, embroidering the letter
M
.

After Mabel lost the needle down the back of the sofa, Nanny gave an exhausted sigh and declared she had one of her headaches coming on. “I am going to my room to rest, Mabel, and you will do the same.” But Mabel had been sitting for so long it was difficult to lie quietly on her bed. What she wanted to do was go down to the beach and build sand castles, a tall one and a wide one, and see which the waves knocked over first. The rain pattered against the windows, and Mabel wondered if she could make a sand castle out of flour. Perhaps while Nanny napped she could try? Her mother was out in the greenhouse as usual, and
Daisy had gone into town to buy lamb chops. If Mabel cleaned up the kitchen afterward, she was sure Daisy wouldn't mind.

Being careful not to spill, Mabel dumped flour on the kitchen table. She dribbled water over it, but the mixture wouldn't stick together. Maybe she should mix sugar with water instead, Mabel thought, curious to see what would happen. Sugar felt grainy like sand, but that just made a slushy, sticky mess. By the time Daisy got back from the butcher, every surface in the kitchen was covered in white, crusty goop. And so, much to Daisy's horror, was Mabel. “If Nanny sees you like this, you are going to be in so much trouble, Miss Mabel.”

“Indeed she is,” Nanny Grimshaw said, standing in the doorway, her eyes narrowed and her mouth screwed into a tight knot. She made Mabel clean the table and the floor, then put her in the big tin bathtub and scrubbed her skin so hard it hurt. “No supper,” Nanny pronounced, sending Mabel straight upstairs to bed. “This is not how a young lady behaves.”

To stop herself from crying, Mabel thought about digging a big hole on the beach and burying Nanny in it. But the lump in her throat came back when Daisy smuggled her in some bread and jam. “Oh, Daisy, you're so nice,” Mabel choked. And it grew even larger
when her mother, smelling of roses and kindness, sat on the edge of Mabel's bed and gave her an extra-long good-night hug.

“Mama, Nanny is mean,” Mabel whispered, burying her head against Nora's shoulder. “She holds my hand too tight and she scrubs me too hard.”

“Oh, Mabel.” Nora kissed her daughter on the forehead. “She holds your hand tight because she doesn't want to lose you, and you needed a good scrubbing today.”

“I don't like her smile. It's not a proper one,” Mabel added, which made Nora laugh.

“My nanny never smiled much when I was a little girl. Most nannies don't. That's not their job. And they have to be tough because they want us to grow up properly. It wasn't until I left the nursery that I realized I loved my nanny.”

“Well, I don't love Nanny Grimshaw,” Mabel whispered as Nora left the room.

A few weeks after Mabel's fifth birthday, on a hot August Saturday, Nora insisted on a trip to the beach. “I need to collect some seaweed,” she told Nanny. “It's meant to be an excellent fertilizer for roses, and we can all enjoy the sea breeze.”

When they arrived at the shore, the Cranford and
Fitzwilliam children were busy building a huge sand castle with turrets and a driftwood drawbridge. They had dug a deep moat around it. “To keep Mabel out!” Eliza murmured spitefully, noticing Mabel standing nearby.

“That's a nice castle,” Mabel said, watching them. “I could help build it if you like. We could make it the tallest castle on the beach.”

Eliza whispered something to Hettie Fitzwilliam, and the girls started giggling. “You're being a nuisance,” Eliza said, swatting her shovel in Mabel's direction as if she were an annoying fly. “Go away. Nobody invited you to join in.”

Mabel blinked hard to stop tears from welling up and peeled a flake of burnt skin off her nose. “Why can't I play?” she asked, unable to hide the longing in her voice.

“Because you're weird, Mabel, that's why. Licking shells, making things out of rubbish. And your mother was an earthworm.” Eliza giggled. “She lived in a flowerpot!”

“My mother is not an earthworm,” Mabel replied, pointing along the beach. “She's right there.”

“Go away,” Thomas Cranford said, copying his older sister and waving his shovel in Mabel's face. “You can't play.”

Mabel looked over at Nanny Grimshaw, but she was huddled with the other nannies, talking. “I don't mind if you want to help me,” Mabel said, her lip quivering. She started to dig, wondering how tall you could build a sand castle before it fell over, and decided to make her creation more of a sand tower than a castle. Mabel ran back and forth to the sea, remembering to hold up her petticoats as she filled her bucket with water. The wetter the sand the easier it was to work with, Mabel discovered, forgetting the other children. Her tower got taller and taller and began to tilt slightly to the left. It looked a bit like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, which she had seen a photograph of in one of the big encyclopedias at home. A great swell of excitement rose inside Mabel.