Nooks & Crannies (2 page)

She'd been seven when her mother had made the comparison of love and irritable itching. Tabitha remembered the statement quite well because it was the same year children at school had suddenly gotten it in their heads that she had a case of head lice. That had been a difficult time and nobody had gotten close to Tabitha since. Of course, with the addition of a pet mouse over the last year, her lack of friendship could perhaps be further explained by the misapprehension that she spoke to herself. Pemberley was a most excellent consultant in all matters, but he tended to stay out of sight, so Tabitha could somewhat understand the slanderous comments.

Or it might have been the unfortunate, uneven, unattractive, blunt-scissored haircut her mother was so fond of giving her.

Or it could have been the simple truth that making friends can be an awkward and a difficult thing when it's a one-sided endeavor and you've a pet mouse and you've been painted as odd and quiet and shy, when really you're just a bit misunderstood.

In any case, nobody at St. John's seemed lacking for companionship except her. But Tabitha reminded herself that there were far worse things than not having friends. In fact, she often made a game of listing far worse things:

• eating the contents of a sneeze

• creatures crawling into her ear holes

• losing a body part (Though that one was debatable, depending on the part. An ear or small toe might be worth a friend or two.)

While Tabitha stopped to stare at fresh scones piled in the window of Puddles Tea & Confectionery and speculated whether the envelope's contents would outdo last year's Christmas box of used tights, two passing men knocked her to the ground, as though she wasn't worth moving for.

“Two more are floating around somewhere!” one of them said, stabbing a finger at his newspaper and not noticing her in the slightest. “It's simply
unfathomable
. After all this time? That place has got to be like heaven above! Gilded soaking tubs and secret rooms filled with money and the like. And to ask
children
, of all people. I say, Rupert, life is simply beyond unfair . . . .”

Tabitha picked herself up, slightly rattled. She sighed at the careless bumpers and at the memory of Barnaby Trundle's last words. Under normal, unsprayed circumstances she wasn't filthy, but she was skinny and knobby-kneed and wearing a uniform far too small for someone who'd grown several inches in the last six months. And apparently those elements combined to make her the sort of person who was prone to being callously clipped down without notice or apology.

“Oh, Pemberley,” she said aloud, rounding the final corner before reaching her home and tugging on the end bits of her hair, wishing
it
would grow several inches, “if only life were like a book, and I could choose precisely what part I played.” She ignored the puzzled glance from her neighbor, Mrs. Dullingham, who was leaning out of her door to fetch a grocery delivery. “If only the envelope contained a—”

And at precisely half past three, Tabitha stopped musing and walking, having spotted a curious sight outside her modest brown brick home: her father's briefcase, her parents' traveling trunks, and a jewelry case crowded together at the front entrance.

None of her things were among the pile.

The trouble with disagreeable people, Tibbs, is that the majority of them seem to be either one's direct relations or part of one's daily job. Present company excluded, of course.

—Inspector Percival Pensive,

The Case of the Haughty Housemaid

T
abitha opened the door. “Hullo,” she called. “I'm home.” Mr. Tickles was the only one immediately visible, and he didn't bother to acknowledge her entrance or presence with so much as a meow or yawn. Even so, Tabitha found him to be the most agreeable member of the household. He was lazy and well fed enough to cuddle in her lap on occasion, and though he sometimes seemed to smirk in the manner of a favored sibling, Mr. Tickles left Pemberley alone and had a lovely purr.

She sidestepped a box full of new blue-and-white-swirled teacups and saucers. As far as Tabitha knew, the whole of her mum's existence was divided between eavesdropping on wealthy women at shops, buying things at shops in front of wealthy women, returning things to shops when the wealthy women were not around, and taking finishing classes.
There's nothing more desperately wretched than being stuck firmly in the middle class,
she often told Tabitha.

Peeking into the kitchen, she saw that her mother had done the weekly food shopping: ingredients for Tabitha to make a standard (and very boring) hash, wilty vegetables, a round of cheese, tinned ham, and a small settlement of cheap candies. Tabitha snatched a licorice whip from the pile for Pemberley's sweet tooth and placed her satchel in the wooden bin labeled
TABITHA'S THINGS—DON'T GO LEAVING THEM ANYWHERE ELSE OR YOU'LL GET DISH DUTY
. Mrs. Crum didn't allow clutter in the first-floor living area, on the off chance an important guest might drop by. It was a pointless note, as she had little to clutter with and she did the washing up every evening regardless of her things. And the only one who Tabitha had ever seen drop by was Mrs. Dullingham, who was looking to borrow an egg or two.

“Hullo? Mum? Daddy? Are you both well? Why are all of your things piled at the—”

“Tabitha!” Mrs. Crum screeched from upstairs. “Get up here and don't you touch those teacups, for goodness' sake! That Sapphire Delight pattern is the height of fashion! I heard Mrs. Davies-Hildebrande herself say so just the other day.”

“Yes, Mother.” Making sure Pemberley was firmly under her collar flap, Tabitha climbed the narrow set of wooden stairs and stood in the bedroom's doorway, watching her parents. She stared at the unusual packing going on, momentarily disregarding the envelope.

Her mother stood in front of a mirrored bureau, plucking items from another jewelry case. Some pieces were thrown on the floor in disgust and others were stuffed into a deep-blue bag of velveteen. Shoes and hosiery were flung everywhere, and pieces of white paper lay strewn across a small desk in the corner, spilling over to the floor.

Mr. Crum scowled. “What is she doing home already? Was she sick again?”

“I'm never sick, Daddy,” said Tabitha.
And if I am, Mum makes me go to school anyway.

“Oh?” Mr. Crum raised a thick eyebrow. “Then why don't you eat the liverwurst I leave on your plate each Sunday?”

Tabitha considered the question. “That's Mr. Tickles you give the liverwurst to, Daddy. Not me.”

“Ungrateful, either way,” he muttered back. Mr. Crum stopped struggling with a suitcase's fasteners and studied Tabitha. “Your mother and I have something to discuss with you.
Do
move your spindly little legs and get in here. We're in a bit of a hurry.” He yanked on his pocket watch. “The hansom cab should be here at four o'clock.”

“Are we going somewhere?” The winter break wasn't for another three weeks. Tabitha bent to examine a fallen pin. “This is pretty.”

Mrs. Crum bumped Tabitha to the floor with her hip. “What have you got there? What are you taking?” Her angry eyes relaxed when she saw the small brass bird in Tabitha's hand. In a rare moment of charity, instead of administering a shrewish lecture, she nodded her head and patted Tabitha's shoulder.

“You can keep that ugly thing,” Mrs. Crum said. “I'd completely forgotten I still had it. The only thing I remember is that the bird is called a bittern. It's bad luck to carry bitterness around, that's what I say, but I daresay it suits you. Pins are so out of fashion these days—all the store ladies say so.” She moved back across the room, trying on a feathered hat. “And
you're
not going anywhere,” her mother said, peering out the window. “Your father and I have decided to travel. We've been terribly full of stress lately, and a holiday will be just what we need. You'll be staying at Augustus Home. It's been arranged.”

“Augustus Home?
But that's an orphanage.” It was, in fact, the orphanage directly across from her school, St. John's. Drab and grayish-brownish and full of peculiar-shaped windows, the Home leaned to one side and loomed into the street. “How long will you be gone?”

“A year. There's been a misunderstanding at the bank. We're getting a bit of distance.”

“A year!”

Mr. Crum jerked toward her so quickly that his toupee shifted. It was time to reapply his hair glue. “Yes, a
year
. Maybe longer. I told your mother you were old enough to stay home alone. You must be nine or ten by now.”

“Nearly twelve, Daddy. What about Mr. Tickles?” For a moment, Tabitha hoped that he would be coming with her to the Home.

Mr. Crum stepped over to the window, peering out. “Mr. Tickles is coming with us, of course. Listen to me. Your mother has insisted we leave you with someone, and the only place that would have you is Augustus Home. They need extra kitchen help during the days and evenings. We told them you would do nicely.”

“Day and evening work? But what about school?” she asked, jumping out of her mother's way.

Bending over with a grunt, Mrs. Crum seized the final scarf from her bottom dresser drawer. “You've been taken out. As of today, actually. Oh, Tabitha, please don't look at me that way. It's for the best. You'll build character at the orphanage, and I've arranged for you to have every third Thursday off from duties.
You're welcome
for that. Besides, nobody likes a spoiled child. Lady Worthington-Silva was quoted as saying that just the other day. Apparently some horrid urchin tried to beg money from her.”

Despite Tabitha's best efforts, a surge of something hot and painful flowed from her chest to her stomach to her toes and back up. She blinked furiously and took a step toward her mother. “I don't understand.” She shut her eyes tightly for a moment, trying to halt any naughty tears of shock from spilling out. Emotion of any kind upset her parents, and at home she had trained herself to be
un
spoken rather than
out
spoken, but it was hard not to protest this. Everyone would know she'd been abandoned, which was many times worse than simply being a daughter of unloving, neglectful parents.

Being permanently rejected by those who were supposed to hold her dear was, in fact, on her list of
far worse things
, though she may not have admitted that particular item to herself.

“What have I done?”

“Oh,
stop
. The orphanage is the perfect place for you. We won't have to pay a thing,” Mr. Crum bragged. “That's after
three
letters on your mother's part, so do try to be grateful.”

Mrs. Crum patted her hair in agreement. “Speaking of letters, I need to write one to cancel my finishing class. Shame, really, as we were supposed to do the ‘Dining with Dukes' unit next week. What's that envelope in your hand, Tabitha?”

Tabitha had nearly forgotten about the letter. Deflated, she placed the envelope on the bed's edge. “From school. They gave it to two of us and said for you to open it.”

Mr. Crum snorted. “Been kicked out for insolence, have you? That's convenient. No need to open it, with you already taken out. Beat them to the punch, didn't we?”

“I haven't been kicked out, Daddy,” Tabitha said. She let her finger trace the swans on the envelope's flap. “The seal's quite nice.”

The envelope remained untouched.

“And Barnaby Trundle seemed to think it could be something fancy,” she added. “He got one too.”

Mrs. Crum reddened. “Oh! You
know
how I hate Mrs. Trundle! Horrible woman. She had the nerve to say I certainly filled my dress out well at that dreadful school function last year. And not a single family with connections or money was there, so it was a total waste of time.” She grabbed the envelope from Tabitha, feeling the paper. Her eyes widened at the wax. “I've seen that seal recently. A lake scene and swans.” She squinted and frowned. “Turn on another oil lamp, for God's sake, Tabitha! We're not in the Dark Ages anymore. I swear, it's a wonder you even remember to keep them filled. Really, I don't know where our money goes, but we ought to have at least a few electric lights by now. It's nearly 1907.”

Mr. Crum took out his watch, as if to check the year. “What's in the bloody envelope, then? We're on a deadline.”

Carefully, with a bleat of anticipation as the seal broke neatly at the seam, Mrs. Crum lifted and unfolded a single sheet of pale-yellow stationery. “Oh!” She fanned herself while reading the contents. “Oh!”

“Don't say ‘oh' like an idiot, just tell us what it is. If we owe money for something, she'll work to pay it off.” Mr. Crum shook a fist in Tabitha's direction.

“Shut up, Mortimer. Just shut up and listen to this. I knew it! I absolutely knew something like this would happen to me.” She continued fanning. “It's an invitation! I saw the same seal in the
Times
this morning.”