Verity Sparks and the Scarlet Hand (5 page)

We wish to inform you that your late wife’s brother, Mr Hiram Parker, has died. Mr Parker, a bachelor, has left his entire fortune to his nearest remaining relative.

“Which is you,” said Papa.

“Me?”

“Yes. I wrote to Hiram when I found you last year. I wanted your only uncle to know you were alive. There was no reply. Perhaps he was already ill. But now, this news. Veroschka, you are a very, very rich girl.”

I sat back in my armchair and pondered. I would inherit Mama’s fortune when I turned twenty-five. And Papa’s too, eventually – though I didn’t want to think about
that
. So I was rich enough already. I didn’t need Uncle Hiram’s money and to tell you the truth, I felt odd about inheriting it.

“Has he truly no other relations?”

Papa shook his head. “There was another brother, Waldo. Isabella loved him dearly, but he died young. Hiram, she detested. Her parents and this Hiram, they had no understanding of art or music or beauty. Their world was pork, pork and more pork.” Papa gave a wry smile. “Isabella was grateful their hard work had given her a comfortable life. But she hated their ignorance and narrow-mindedness. Isabella …”

“Yes, Papa?”

“Ah, Isabella …”

Papa had gone into a sort of dream. I tiptoed out.

Papa decided to leave for Castlemaine at the end of the week. The night before we were due to travel, he arranged an outing to the opera. The famous soprano Marie Chartreuse was performing at the Princess Theatre.

“I saw her in this role in Paris in ’72. She was stupendous.” Papa smiled and stretched his arms wide. “Grand opera – there’s nothing like it, eh?”

“No,” I said. Nothing else consists of two or three hours of wobbly high-pitched singing and bad acting in Italian or German or French. It was sad, but I just couldn’t share Papa’s passion. I wondered if, secretly, I was a disappointment to him. What with Mama being a famous diva, opera should have been in my blood, but to tell you the truth, I preferred a play.

Never mind. I could enjoy Papa’s enjoyment.

We had an early dinner and at around half past seven our coachman Albert stopped the carriage outside the theatre. There’d been a brief shower just before we set out and the blazing gas lamps made glittering reflections in every raindrop. The theatre, too, was lit up like a fairy palace. A street orchestra nearby was playing a waltz. My heart lifted. Opera or no opera, Melbourne at night was a thrilling place.

Poppy hopped out first with a squeal of delight. She held Papa’s hand and looked around. Connie held Papa’s other hand. She loved music more than anything except her father, and tonight she was beside herself with anticipation.

The audience was milling around in the brightly lit foyer and on the pavement outside and I felt another surge of excitement as we joined the throng. Top hats, silk evening cloaks, sparkling jewels, rustling skirts … the mingled smells of perfume, hair pomade and cigars … chatter and laughter and breathless excitement. To think that when I first arrived, I’d expected to see kangaroos in the streets of Melbourne!

The bell started to ring. It was time to take our seats. I tried to follow close behind Papa and the two girls, but we were separated in the crowd. A large man in a brown coat rudely pushed in front of me, knocking me sideways. I would have fallen had not a hand at my elbow kept me upright. I turned to thank my unseen helper.

“Oh,” I gasped. “It’s you.”

She was wearing grey again; a pale silvery grey dress and a darker cape. Her skin was startlingly white against the black fur collar. As I stared up at her face, I began to tremble. She was so like Mama’s portrait that I felt a strange impulse to reach out and stroke her cheek. It was as if I was being drawn towards her.

“Who are you?” I whispered.

“My name is Della Parker.” She spoke in an urgent, husky voice with a strong accent. Was it American? Canadian? I couldn’t tell. “I am your cousin.”

“My cousin?” I didn’t have any cousins. Instantly, the puzzle pieces inside my head formed a suspicious picture. Somehow this woman had heard of Uncle Hiram’s death. She knew I was rich. She wanted money and was masquerading as a relative.

“My father was Waldo Parker,” she said.

Now I knew she was lying. I stepped away from her. “Waldo died when he was young,” I said. “Now go away and stop bothering me, or I’ll–”

“No, it’s true.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Believe this, then.” She thrust a small oblong package into my hand and then vanished into the crowd.

“Veroschka, there you are.”

It was Papa, come back to find me. He took me by the arm. “What are you waiting for,
chérie
? We don’t want to miss a minute of the first act.”

Actually, I missed most of it.

My mind was on Della’s package. What was in it? Twice the length of my hand, slightly wedge-shaped, it was light yet hard. Trying to be discreet, I slipped the wrappings off. It was a fan. There was a tiny clicking sound as I unfurled it, then my fingers tingled briefly. The darkened balcony seats, the footlights and the orchestra disappeared …

I was in a small room. There were flowers everywhere, in vases and in bunches strewn on the furniture. Their perfume was overpowering. A woman was sitting on a stool and gazing intently at her own reflection in the mirror. It was Mama. An old lady with grey hair and a hooked nose was fussing with my mother’s hair. I recognised her. It was Victoire – Mrs Vic – Mama’s nurse.

“What do you think?” asked Mama.

It was only then that I saw the gentleman sitting in the corner. He was tall and rather fat, with red hair. His face was red too. He was scowling as he opened and shut a delicate lace and ivory fan.

“Honestly, Penny–”

“I have changed my name, remember? It is Isabella now.”

“If you’ll just come back with me … You’ll have everything you want – flowers and jewels and pretty dresses. You can sing. No one will stop you–”

“We’ve been through all this before. I’m sorry. The answer is no.”

There were footsteps and a knock at the door. “It’s time, Miss Savage,” said a voice, and then the footsteps went away again.

“I must go. But at least stay and hear me sing,” said Mama.

The man nodded, and Mrs Vic beckoned to him.

“Come this way,” she said. I seemed to follow as she led him through a maze of corridors, up some dark stairs and onto a small balcony that jutted out from the side wall. A great wave of clapping and shouting boomed around the theatre. Mama walked through the chorus to the edge of the stage. She looked out at the audience, her gaze moving from the stalls to the dress circle and the balconies all the way up to the impoverished music lovers sitting in the gods. Her eyes, large and dark and shining, seemed to find each and every person there. A hush fell. It was as if the whole theatre was holding its breath.

Then she began to sing.

Applause rose and fell in waves of sound around me. Clapping, stamping, shouting. Dazed and bewildered, I looked down at the stage.

Papa stood up and thumped his hands together. “Bravo!” he cried.

Where had Mama gone? Who was that plump lady in the purple robe? Why was the skinny little man holding her hand? Only when the house lights were turned up did I realise where I was: back in the Princess Theatre in Melbourne. In the real world.

But I didn’t want to be, not yet. I wanted to keep Mama in my mind’s eye. She’d held me and loved me when I was a tiny baby, yet I had no memory of her. Now, magically, I’d heard her voice, pure and clear as birdsong. I’d seen her smile, her eyes, the way she moved. As if she were real. As if she were here … My heart swelled with grief and longing for all I’d missed. Oh, Mama!

“Verity, it’s interval. Would you like to come and take some refreshments?” asked Papa.

I blew my nose and tried to stop my voice from shaking. “No, thank you, Papa; I will just sit here.”

“Will I bring you a lemonade?” said Poppy. “’Cos you look a bit wore out. Opera is ’ard work, don’t you think?”

“I do. Thank you, Poppy,” I said.

Gradually, my feelings calmed and I was able to examine the fan. It was made of cream-coloured lace scattered with tiny red sequins. The sticks were ivory and the ends were wrapped with red silk cord and finished off with a tassel. In the dim light I could see that a name was carved into the ivory. I traced the letters with my finger.
Isabella Savage
. It was identical to the one in my vision. Why had Della given it to me? Did she somehow know about my gift?

“Here’s your drink, Verity.”

I shoved the fan into my pocket and took the glass from Poppy.

“What do you think of Madame Chartreuse?” asked Papa. “She is marvellous, no?”

“And funny too,” said Poppy.

“She’s not meant to be funny,” said Papa. “This is a very serious story. It is tragic.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Very, very sad.”

Poppy shrugged. “I don’t think it’s sad. I think it’s quite humourious, ’specially when the fat lady–”

“Enough, Poppy. Do not call her fat or I will call you a philistine.”

“Phyllis Stein?” asked Poppy, confused. “Who’s she?”

Poor Poppy. I remembered my early days with the Plush family, and how hard it had been to understand what they were talking about until I got myself a vocabulary.

Papa tried to explain. “Once, in Bible days, there was a tribe of people called the Philistines. They were so uncouth and uncultured that even thousands of years later we still give their name to people who don’t appreciate Grand Opera. And now,
shhh
. The second half begins.”

I’m afraid I didn’t pay much attention to the second half of the opera either. In the end, the tenor stabbed himself, Madame Chartreuse went mad with an all-male chorus and everyone fell down dead. The audience went wild with deafening applause. The singers came back to life and bobbed and bowed with smiles all over their faces. The backstage crew began toting masses of flowers out to the cast.

Madame Chartreuse, piled high with roses, cried, “Melbourne,
je t’aime
!” and the crowd went even wilder.

Papa and Connie were in raptures, but Poppy sneaked a look at me and rolled her eyes. When it came to opera, Poppy and I were both philistines. Eventually the lights came on. The show was over.

I was impatient to see if Della Parker was still waiting for me, but there was no way I could hurry out of the theatre. The audience moved like cold treacle along the corridors and staircases, into the foyer and out onto the footpath where they clogged up the works by lingering and chatting. Nearby there was a coffee stall, a pie cart and a man with a brazier selling hot nuts. The street orchestra had moved on, but a juggler and a lady with performing poodles entertained the crowd while a few urchins turned somersaults and ran about asking for pennies. I felt sure Della would try to speak to me again and I peered up and down the street, trying to make out that distinctive grey dress.

“Who are you looking for, Verity?” asked Connie. “Albert’s up this way.”