Alexander Graham Bell: Master of Sound #7 (11 page)

Maisie could tell she was smiling behind her packages.

Another woman had stopped and was indeed buying one of Amelia’s oranges.

But Maisie’s woman had stepped to the street and hailed a taxi. Maisie hurried to open the door before the little boys lurking about did it, and then helped the woman and her packages into it. Without hesitating, Maisie got in, too. She didn’t want the woman to change her mind.

“I love when I have a brilliant idea,” the woman said happily, leaning back in the seat.

“So do I,” Maisie said softly.

“Thank you for your help,” the woman said. “I’m Mrs. William Duckberry.”

She said this as if it might mean something to Maisie, but of course it didn’t.

“Maisie Pickworth,” Maisie introduced herself, deciding the name Pickworth sounded more
impressive than Robbins. “Pleased to meet you.”

The woman frowned. “Why, are you
American
?” she asked in disbelief.

Maisie nodded.

“Whatever is an
American
doing selling oranges on the streets of London?” she asked.

Maisie couldn’t tell if this was a rhetorical question, but she decided to answer it.

“I came here with my brother and my friends, and we got separated and the police put me in a workhouse—”

“But where are your parents?” Mrs. Duckberry asked, horrified.

“Back in America,” Maisie answered truthfully.

“This is most confusing,” Mrs. Duckberry said, wrinkling her little button nose. “And most distressing! American children in a workhouse? Why, if President Lincoln ever heard we’d done such a thing he…he might start another war with us!”

Mrs. Duckberry, Maisie decided, might have been the prettiest woman she’d ever seen. Her skin was creamy and white. Her lips were pouty and pink. She had that button nose and dark brown ringlets and those mismatched eyes with long curly eyelashes.

“I must have another brilliant idea,” Mrs. Duckberry said. She sighed, as if trying to conjure one.

After a few minutes of silence, Mrs. Duckberry brightened. “Aha!” she said. “You can stay with me until we straighten out this terrible mess. I’ll wire your parents. Where did you say they were?”

“Um. Newport?”

“Rhode Island?” Mrs. Duckberry said. “Wait a minute…Pickworth? Is Phinneas Pickworth your father?”

Luckily, Mrs. Duckberry didn’t wait for Maisie to answer, because Maisie was too shocked to say anything.

“I met him when I was there last summer,” Mrs. Duckberry said. “What a character!” She shook her head fondly. “Well, I will wire him immediately and until he sends me instructions you will stay with me.”

Satisfied, Mrs. Duckberry flashed a lovely smile at Maisie. But that smile turned quickly to a look of anxiety.

“We’ll need to get you a bath and clothes, won’t we? A workhouse! How absolutely terrible, you poor, poor girl.”

With that, Mrs. Duckberry pulled Maisie to her bosom and hugged her hard. She smelled like perfume, but beneath the perfume she smelled kind of stinky. Maisie squirmed free.

“Mrs. Duckberry?” Maisie asked. “You’re being so kind, but I wonder if I might ask a favor?”

“Anything!” Mrs. Duckberry said passionately. “Anything at all!”

“Can you help me find my brother and our friends?”

“Yes!” Mrs. Duckberry said triumphantly. “I can!”

There was a great deal of commotion on Mrs. Duckberry’s street. Police huddled down at one end, where two men were carrying someone out of a house.

“What’s the trouble?” Mrs. Duckberry asked one of the policemen as the cab slowed.

The policeman tipped his hat in her direction. “No trouble. A climbing boy fell, that’s all.”

“Poor, poor lad,” Mrs. Duckberry said, motioning for the driver to continue. “I hope he’s not dead,” she added under her breath. “These poor suffering children.”

Mrs. Duckberry’s block was even fancier than
Grandfather Bell’s. The houses stood taller and prettier and in front of them, behind ornate wrought iron gates, flowers bloomed.

“I’m so happy you’re here,” Mrs. Duckberry said to Maisie. “We’re having a party tonight, and I just know you’ll have a wonderful time.”

Maisie made a move to start gathering the packages, but Mrs. Duckberry stopped her.

“Let that boy over there do it,” she said, pointing to a little raggedy boy who was running toward the cab to open the door. “You’re saved from labor now, Maisie.”

Relieved, Maisie let the boy open the door for her and help her out. A look of confusion swept across his face when he saw Maisie in her own filthy clothes and bare feet.

“Don’t stare,” Mrs. Duckberry told him. “It’s rude.”

“Yes’m,” the boy mumbled.

Maisie followed Mrs. Duckberry and her enormous bobbing skirt through the gate and up the stairs and into the house. Immediately a maid appeared, stopping short when she saw Maisie.

“This is Maisie Pickworth,” Mrs. Duckberry said.
“An
American
lost in our terrible system, forced to work on the streets. Forced to walk
barefoot!
I’ll wire her father immediately and until we get instructions you’re to draw her a bath and find her suitable clothes.”

As she spoke, Mrs. Duckberry removed her gloves and hat and deposited them in the maid’s waiting hands.

Behind them came a clatter as the boy brought in the packages.

“Please get this boy a half penny,” Mrs. Duckberry said to the maid.

She paused and looked at Maisie.

“Now Margaret will take very good care of you.”

“Thank you,” Maisie said.

Mrs. Duckworth headed for the winding staircase, but Maisie called to her.

“My brother?” Maisie reminded her. “Felix?”

Mrs. Duckworth slapped her forehead. “Of course, of course. And your friends. Tell me when you last saw them.”

“Well, Felix was in the workhouse with me. I think he went off with a group called the sweeps?” Maisie offered.

“Oh no!” Mrs. Duckworth cried. “This is going to become an international incident! The sweeps? Are you sure, darling?”

“Pretty sure,” Maisie said.

“Oh dear,
oh dear
, OH DEAR!”

“What are they?” Maisie asked. “The sweeps?”

“The queen herself will get involved if President Lincoln hears of this. An
American
sent off to be a sweep.” Mrs. Duckberry shook her pretty head. “Dare I ask about the friends?”

“Hadley and Rayne Ziff,” Maisie said. “The police were hauling us all off to that workhouse and…and…”

All of a sudden, Maisie realized just how terrible the situation was. Hadley and Rayne had vanished last night. And there were hundreds of children on the streets of London. Maybe thousands. How would anyone find Felix or the Ziff twins?

“Yes?” Mrs. Duckberry said gently.

“And they disappeared in the fog.”

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Duckberry said. “I have my work cut out for me. But don’t you worry. I’ll get a brilliant idea. I always do.”

M
aisie could not believe how much she appreciated the pleasure of that hot bath. There had certainly been times, like after a softball game or an especially messy arts and crafts class, when a bath had been needed. But she had never been as dirty as she got in just twenty-four hours on the streets of London. Twice she had to get out of the oversize claw-foot tub, drain the water, and refill it because the bathwater had turned brown with mud.

Afterward, Maisie helped herself to some of Mrs. Duckberry’s lavender water, which sat in a glass bottle on a shelf in the bathroom. The label on the bottle looked handwritten in black ink, the letters all curlicues and swirls. With such fancy scrolls, she
could barely read what it said. But after she squinted at it long enough, she finally made out the words
LAVENDER WATER
and
GIBSON’S APOTHECARY
. Clearly that was where the stuff had come from, but Maisie still made a mental note to look up the word
apothecary
when she got home.

The maid had left out a long green dress with tiny mother-of-pearl buttons all the way down the front. Maisie ran her hands over the fine silk and smiled. She liked Mrs. Duckberry’s fancy taste, Maisie decided. But then she saw the strange birdcage-like thing sitting beside it, and realized she was looking at the kind of device that made Mrs. Duckberry’s skirt swing like a bell when she walked.

She picked the thing up.
Why in the world do women have to wear such ridiculous garments?
Maisie thought. All the men here strutted around in those tight pants and boots, like they were about to go off horseback riding. Their hair grew bushy and long, and they didn’t even have to shave. But all day she’d stood on that street corner trying to sell oranges, and every woman who passed had on one of these ridiculous things, not to mention hats and gloves.
It certainly was better to be a man in Victorian England
, Maisie thought as she tentatively stepped into the birdcage. In no time, she too swayed like a bell when she walked, feeling more ridiculous with every step she took.

With the bathing and the dressing and the considering of Victorian fashion, Maisie forgot for a while that she was alone and everyone else was lost on the streets of London. But as soon as she saw Mrs. Duckberry’s worried face in the drawing room, she remembered her terrible predicament.

“Oh, darling, I am so sorry,” Mrs. Duckberry said, wringing her lovely, soft hands. “It seems practically impossible to locate children out there. We simply have too many wandering about, poor things. One would think
American
children would be easier to find.”

“You mean, they’re lost for good?” Maisie said, horrified.

“We won’t give up,” Mrs. Duckberry said.

That was the kind of answer people gave when there was bad news, Maisie knew, and she felt tears spring to her eyes at the sound of Mrs. Duckberry’s words.

“And brace yourself, Maisie,” Mrs. Duckberry continued, “but it seems your father is traveling down the Nile and won’t return for several weeks.”

It took a moment for Maisie to realize that Mrs. Duckberry was talking about Phinneas Pickworth, and despite herself she smiled at the idea that he was her father.

“But we shan’t give up,” Mrs. Duckberry said again, patting Maisie’s hand. “We’ll find your brother and the Ziff sisters, and we’ll get everyone back to Newport.”

“Thank you,” Maisie managed.

“In the meantime, we’ll have a marvelous dinner party.”

Mrs. Duckberry was interrupted by the maid coming in and handing her a silver tray with an envelope on it.

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Duckberry said as she read the letter inside. “One of our guests is delayed. Seems he’s had some unexpected guests of his own arrive and he’s involved in his own practicalities.”

Maisie watched as Mrs. Duckberry went to the small desk across the room, take out some paper and a fountain pen, dip the pen in an inkwell, and
write a letter of her own.
How funny
, Maisie thought.
Before there were telephones, people who lived across town from each other had to communicate by writing letters.
No sooner did she have the thought, then her predicament came crashing back to her. Aleck was the person who was going to invent the telephone someday, and he was the person she needed to find again.

Felix had been right, Maisie thought. She never should have brought the Ziff twins into The Treasure Chest. Now she’d lost them. And Felix. And Aleck. So impossible did her situation seem at that instant that Maisie let out the biggest sigh of her life. She needed a brilliant idea, too. Fast.