Silhouette of a Sparrow (12 page)

(
Sturnus vulgaris
)

“I sent Charlotte to fetch you at the library when we heard on the radio that a nasty storm was blowing in. She said you weren’t there—the woman at the desk told Charlotte she hadn’t seen you today.”

“Hannah, I—”

“I saw you with her, Garnet. That harlot from the dance hall. I looked out and saw you in that boat with her out on the bay.”

I’d been so worried about getting to shore safely that I hadn’t even realized how visible we were out there—in the only boat on the water during the storm. So she knew where I’d been and whom I’d been with. Not good.

But then there was the deeper fear: had I done anything, anything at all, that would make Hannah guess what had happened between me and Isabella? I thought back. No. I hadn’t kissed her or held her on the dock. She’d just
held my hand. The good-bye had been harmless enough. We’d been under the boat on the island, hidden from the world, when the rest had happened. My heart fluttered, remembering, and heat rose into my cheeks.

“She’s my friend, Hannah. I met her at the hat shop a few weeks ago, and we’ve spent some time together since then. Her name is Isabella. She’s a wonderful person and she’s become quite a good friend to me. Please don’t tell?”

“I don’t know . . . I can’t imagine what Mother would think if she knew you were spending time with that, that wild girl. The job is one thing, but you really shouldn’t be socializing with such a common, low-class”—her voice dropped to a whisper—“slut.”

The words stung. I could hardly believe the cruelty in them. How could she be so harsh, so unfeeling? “Oh, Hannah, please? Isn’t there anything I can do for you in return for some discretion on your part?”

The girl’s pointed face lost all its malice then, and I was taken aback by how quickly she could shift her look from mean-spirited sharpness to simple seriousness. Clearly she wanted to negotiate—this was her aim from the beginning. But what could she want from me?

“Yes. There is something you could do.” She looked up, and she allowed her face to soften further, into what almost looked like pleading. “I need help, Garnet. With schoolwork.”

I sat down next to her, stunned. I didn’t even know Hannah
had
schoolwork to do. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t . . . read well. And my math and science are atrocious too, but that doesn’t worry me so much. It’s the
reading, see.” Tears came into her eyes then, and she blotted at them with the corner of a perfectly embroidered handkerchief. She looked sincere, and yet she was clearly watching my reactions and tailoring her performance to get what she wanted from me.

“Go on,” I said, kindly, eager to take the bait. “Tell me.”

“Mother doesn’t think it’s all that important. I’m good at the music and painting and needlework and all those things, and she thinks that’s enough to make a good match, but I’m afraid that no one will want to marry a . . . a . . . simpleton.” All cunning went out of her at that word. She burst into genuine tears and buried her face in the hanky.

“Oh, Hannah,” I said, reaching out to pat her back and trying to hide my bewildered expression. “I’m sure it will all work out fine.”

“That’s not all,” she said after blowing her nose. She looked at me with honest-to-God fear shading her face. “We’re not actually very rich. Not anymore.”

I blinked, no longer able to hide my astonishment. I’d guessed that they were living beyond their means, but Hannah’s expression told me the situation was more dire than that.

“It’s all credit. All of it. We still own the estate, but Mother refuses to live on what the land actually brings in, for fear of looking poor. So we’re dreadfully in debt. She’s expecting what little we still have invested to keep growing, and she’s got a plan to develop some land in Florida, but mostly she’s just hoping that I’ll marry well and save us all from ruin.”

Hannah’s shoulders hunched under this burden as she
spoke of it. Mine seemed so light in comparison—I was expected to marry Teddy, and the match would bring joy and comfort to my family, but the decision ultimately changed little other than my own future. After a moment Hannah went on. “What Mother doesn’t realize is that men today want more than just a pretty doily maker. I can’t rely on my flute or my paintbrush to win a husband. I need to be smart. Interesting. I need to be able to read. My tutors have given up, and Mother told them not to bother about it.”

“I’ll help in any way I can, Hannah. I promise. We can start today if you want. All I’ve got are bird books, but they’d be as good as anything I suppose.”

“Yes. Okay, thank you. And I won’t tell about the dancing girl if you don’t tell Mother that I’ve said all this. She won’t mind that you’re trying to teach me—even though she’ll think it’s silly, she won’t stop us—but she would mind tremendously if she knew I’d blabbed about the money trouble.”

“Deal.”

She looked nervous but grateful.

“Let me clean up first, and then we’ll begin.”

 

In my room, I sat on the bed a moment and tried to figure out what had just happened. Who was this girl, Hannah Harrington? I didn’t know her at all. I’d dismissed her as an irritating mama’s girl, when really she was both a conniving manipulator and a fearful child with very real troubles. I still did not like her. In fact, her wicked insults to Isabella and the revelation of the true depths of her cunning made me dislike her even more than before. But at least now there
was an interesting complexity to her character and her situation. And now, like it or not, we were allies of a sort.

Then the exciting truth dawned on me: with Hannah in on the secret, I could see Isabella as often as I wished. I penned a note to her immediately: “Off from work tomorrow—can I meet you first thing in the morning? I will come to your place if you tell me where to find you. It’s safer now. Love, Garnet.”

Then I picked up the bird book with the most illustrations and rejoined my cousin in the sitting room. The book fell open to the European starling, a common little blackbird known for the way its plumage changes from black with white spots to an oily rainbow of green and purple during breeding season. I laughed. Do we all change when we try to attract a lover? Do we all try to be more beautiful, or more bold, or more intelligent, or just more brilliantly ourselves?

“What’s funny?”

“Nothing, nothing. Okay, show me how much you can read on your own.”

I had no idea how to teach reading, but I was more than willing to give it a go, both for Hannah’s sake, and for my own.

(
Icterus galbula)

“Pick one,” Isabella said. “Anything you want. My treat.”

But there were so many choices, too many choices.

The rolls and sweet buns and cookies stood like soldiers, lined up in the case in neat rows. The air in the shop was warm from the ovens and hung thick with cinnamon. I stood with Isabella in the middle of the bright, clean bakery, gaping like a child at the loaves of fresh bread heaped in baskets along the sidewall and the gleaming pastry cases filled with treats.

A man in an apron dusted with flour crashed through the swinging door with a tray of fresh croissants balanced on one hand. The buttery little crescent moons shone golden beneath their snow of powdered sugar. My choice was made. I turned my pleading eyes to Isabella and she nodded. “Done,” she said.

“She’d like one of those please,” she called to the
man, who had begun to arrange them on a platter on the counter. He looked up at her, his eyes softening with recognition as they landed on her pretty face. Then he looked to me.

“A croissant for the young lady,” he said kindly, choosing one with a thick coating of sugar and tucking it into a paper bag.

“No, make that two,” she said, winking at me. “Two.”

Isabella paid with coins from her beaded purse, and we settled on a bench outside the bakery to eat. We watched people going about their morning business while we savored the flaky rolls that made our fingers greasy and left crumbs on our laps. Some of the townspeople nodded to Isabella as they walked past us, and some saw her and looked away quickly, hurrying past, not bothering to hide their disapproval. Everyone, friendly or unfriendly, seemed to know her. And yet not one of them approached her as a friend.

I’d excused myself after Sunday breakfast in the dining room, telling Mrs. Harrington I was off to wander the town for the morning. “My legs need a good stretch,” I’d said. Hannah cast me a knowing look as I left but I knew she’d keep her word. I made my way to Isabella’s apartment, which was situated above the bakery on Main Street. Following the directions on her note, I climbed the back stairway and knocked at number four. As I waited for her to answer, I wondered what was behind that door. What would her apartment look like—a young woman living alone? Then she bustled out the door and closed it behind her, not giving me a chance to find out, and I didn’t want to snoop. Another time.

Since she’d worked late the night before and was slow getting started that morning, she suggested we pop down to the bakery for a treat before heading out. So there we sat, presiding over Main Street and finishing off two warm croissants.

“Your note said, ‘It’s safer now.’ Whatever did you mean by that? Did Mrs. Harrington die or something?”

“No, no.” I crumpled the empty bag in my hands and I told her, in hushed tones, about my conversation with Hannah.

“Well, how’s that for a juicy bit of drama!” She licked the crumbs off her lips.

“She called you some terrible names.”

“Oh, never mind about that. Hannah Harrington can call me whatever she wishes. And if these people want to snub me,” she gestured into the street and called out, “so be it!”

“It must be marvelous. I mean, how wonderful not to care what anyone thinks of you.”

“But I do care, don’t you see? The uptight people are
supposed
to think I’m a threat, just like the crowd at the dance hall is supposed to think I’m . . .”

“Beautiful? And carefree and youthful and—sexy?”

“Yes. See? It’s all about what people think of me. Sometimes, to tell you the truth, I lose track of myself under all the makeup and the glittery costumes. It’s an act. I love the dancing, but the rest of it kind of wears me out. That’s why I like to be with you.”

She must’ve seen the question in my eyes. I’d been wondering for ages why she enjoyed my company.

“With you,” she said, “I know who I am. Or at least, I know who I want to be.”

I couldn’t kiss her there, in the middle of town, so we sat in silence a moment as the grocer across the street watered his flowerpots and a group of vacationers passed us, chattering, on the sidewalk.

“Would you like to see the dance hall in the daytime?”

“Oh, please take me,” I said, leaping up.

I tossed the bag in the trash can next to the bench as Isabella brushed crumbs from her skirt. Then she stood up and offered me her arm, like a gentleman would offer his arm to a lady. I giggled, took it, and marched off down Main Street at her side.

If people gawked,
so be it!

 

The dance hall was dark and ghostly during the day. Our footsteps echoed as we walked through the empty space, and a musty smell of dust and sweat lingered in the air. When Isabella spoke, she whispered, as though we were in a church.

“Would you like to see my dressing room?”

I nodded. I followed her through a door to the side of the stage and down a dark hallway. She pushed open a door at the end and motioned me inside.

Racks and racks of bright costumes stood against the walls of the close little cubby. Hats rested on head-shaped stands that stood on high shelves, and a mess of makeup covered the top of a scratched-up vanity at the far end. Mirrors bounced all the colors back, making the tiny room seem twice as vibrant as it was, and twice as crammed.

“What do you think?” Isabella asked, her voice returning to its normal tone. She picked a filmy scarf up off the floor and hung it on a hook behind the door.

“It’s fabulous. It’s just like the show was that night: bright and loud and dazzling.” I ran my hand along the rack of fringed and beaded costumes.

“Do you want to try one on? Here, how about this?” She pulled a black and orange one off the rack and held it up. It was shimmery and bold, like an oriole’s stunning feathered breast, and it would seem ridiculous on me.

“Oh, I couldn’t,” I said, feeling heat jump to my face.

“Why not?”

“That’s a dress for an oriole, Isabella, not a sparrow like me.”

As soon as I said it, I remembered the nuthatch. I remembered Mary Elizabeth. And I wondered—

“Oh, come on, just put it on.”

Then her hands were on me, lifting up my dress. I inhaled sharply, surprised, embarrassed, realizing too late that I’d scared her off. Her hands were gone.