The Aviary (13 page)
Clara blanched. “Mama! You and Mr. Merritt-Blenney?”
“Hush, Ruby,” her mother said, turning scarlet. “Absolutely not, Clara.”
“Oops,” said Ruby, covering over a gentle hiccup. “Sorry.”
“If I may continue,” said Harriet with dignity.
“Go on.”
“I’ve learned that there is someone interested in the house. Mr. Merritt-Blenney has been approached by representatives.”
“Representatives of who?” Ruby asked.
“We don’t know. Someone who prefers to remain anonymous.”
“Someone of means, you’re saying?”
“Of ample means,” said Harriet.
Clara did not know what she thought of this exchange. She was conscious only of growing cold and heavy in the limbs.
Ruby, cheeks aflame, fanned herself again. “And has an offer been made?”
“None that I’ve accepted,” she said. “But this party is quite persistent.”
Clara tried to speak, but her tongue was now stuck to the roof of her mouth.
“We couldn’t possibly sell until our agreed time is up,” said her mother.
Ruby stroked her chin. “Ah. But after that?”
Harriet shrugged. “I cannot rule it out,” she said.
Now Clara’s entire body went stiff. She was unable to flinch when the kitchen door swung open so hard that a glass vase on the buffet came down with a crash, sending the flowers jetting across the floor. Again the candles on the table blew out as a cold, sickly stream of air passed over.
In the lamplight, Clara could see the white smoke rise from the wicks and curl as if someone were trying to scribble
on the air. Her mother found the candlesnuffer and suffocated the tapers one by one. But when she was done, the room was filled with such a singed, acrid odor they could no longer continue dining.
Ruby had to be helped out of her chair.
“On my life,” she said as Clara and her mother each supported an arm, “we must go check the birds.”
“Why the birds, Ruby?” Clara asked.
“It’s burning feathers!” Ruby declared. “Can’t you smell ’em? Burning feathers!”
Clara stood numbly as her mother took a shambling Ruby out to the aviary. She heard the birds waking and chattering and the soothing sounds of her mother’s voice assuring Ruby that no birds had been burned.
The leaden sensations in Clara’s limbs had lifted, but her mind was clouded. She pressed her fingers to both sides of her temples, determined to think straight; but when she caught her reflection in the kitchen window, she jumped, sure that the girl with the pinned-up hair and the diaphanous white dress was a ghost!
It was all she could do to undress and take off her shoes. In bed she went over the evening’s extraordinary events. If the house had been haunted before Cenelia Glendoveer’s death, Clara had never felt it. But even sensible Harriet would have to realize that the incident with the candles was deeply unsettling.
In the morning, Ruby was not her usual talkative self. When Clara tried to engage her, Ruby would only say, “I’ll not be going back to that dining room again. And that’s that.”
Her mother was no more forthcoming. She put all her attention on making sure the leftovers from last night’s dinner would not go to waste. “Peach pudding for breakfast,” she said, handing Clara a bowl. “There’s enough food here for another half dozen, so please have seconds. And thirds, for that matter.”
All Clara wanted to do was get to Daphne; but just as she feared, when she checked the mudroom, the winged key for the room upstairs had been taken from the ring.
Ruby must have it
, Clara thought,
since it’s for the aviary too
. After looking everywhere from under doormats to Ruby’s cloak pockets, however, she concluded that the key might now always be carried on her person.
And so she waited for days, checking under the boiler room door when she could for news from her friend. Sometimes she took to her bedroom and talked to Citrine, allowing her to fly freely about.
“At least you’re here inside with me, stretching your wings,” she told the bird. “I can’t suppose you miss that horrid old iron cage.”
Citrine lit on the footboard and said, “Tsip-tsip!”
“You mean you
do
miss your iron cage?”
“Tsip-tsip!”
“Don’t you like being here with me?”
“Tsip-tsip!”
“Oh, Citrine, I’m afraid I don’t understand you,” Clara said. At that, Citrine went to her little cage and turned her back as the church bell gonged three o’clock.
Leaving the bird to sulk, Clara decided to go outdoors and check under the boiler room door from the outside to see if this was the day that Daphne had left something for her.
The aviary erupted as soon as Clara entered the yard.
“Shhhh!” Clara said. “Please!”
To her surprise, the noise stopped. The shrill grackle shut his beak. The kiskadee sat still. The birds clung to the front of the bars as if magnetized. And then, in a marvelous display, the cockatoo spread his wings wide and fluffed the feathers out over his nose until his eyes were eclipsed. “Please?” he said.
Clara was sure that he said it, though he had never spoken before. His voice was soft and rich—nothing like the mynah’s. She felt strangely moved.
“Did you speak to me?” she asked, taking a few cautious steps forward.
“Please,” said the cockatoo in the same soothing tone.
“I … I like it when you say ‘please,’ ” Clara said. “What can I do for you?” The cockatoo held her with his shining eyes. She was going to speak to him again, but the mynah, seeing Clara approach, could no longer contain himself and sprang forward, slapping and flapping.
“Elliot!
Statim!
Elliot!”
And then the grackle shrieked, setting off the kiskadee, who streaked from ceiling to floor.
“Skeeee! Skeee!”
They fluttered back and forth in their customary mayhem, and Clara covered her ears and retreated to the back stairs of the boiler room, muttering under her breath, “Oily bird.”
Looking under the door, she saw no evidence of an envelope. Deflated, she proceeded to break off a twig from a bush and poked around beneath the door. When her stick met something solid, she worked furiously to bring out whatever lay there on the other side.
When she saw the lovely violet ink on the cream paper, she almost cried out. She could not get back to her room quickly enough. The letter was fat and contained yet another envelope. Clara read the return address:
MR. WOODRUFF BOOTH
“Ah! Good work, Daphne!” she said. First she opened the accompanying note from her friend.
Clara dear,
You do not send for me anymore, and I worry. Here I have the most remarkable reply from Mr. Booth. I can only hope that you receive this and are well. If you can, please find a way to let me know. Otherwise, I’ll have to take desperate measures—perhaps
climb that old trellis to an open window? Do not make me try it!
Your faithful friend,
DA
Clara unfolded Mr. Booth’s letter and found it covered all over in tightly spaced black type.
Dear Miss Aspinal:
I hope you will not be offended at the lack of a handwritten reply. I am arthritic and rely on my secretary. I found your letter charming and am happy to answer your questions regarding my esteemed friend and colleague, George Glendoveer.
First, George was an exceptionally talented and inventive man. I got on well with him, and he gave me a coveted place on his program. My “act,” as they called it, was nothing magical, I can assure you. My specialty, neurypnology, is what the medical community now refers to as hypnotism. It was George who astounded us with his feats of the unexplainable. We were all in awe.
I suspect that he trusted me almost as much as his wife, Cenelia. A magician of that caliber is understandably jealous of his secrets—they are the fruit of his
genius, and he has a right to them solely. But he did share a few with me.
Cenelia, I believe, was comforted that I, like she, came from a prominent family who disapproved of our taking to the stage. The difference between us was that my people eventually relented and took me back into the fold. Such a loss for her family that they did not do the same.
As for the children, it pains me even now to see their faces in my memory. The eldest, George William, resembled his mother in manner and his father in ability. I believe he would have been a distinguished inventor. He took apart clocks and disassembled doorbells when he was but knee-high. What a young gentleman he was and how mild-mannered, as well as exceedingly handsome.
His sister Frances was given free rein to read and say whatever she would—which she did often. She was a discriminating girl who had not time in her short life to learn the rewards that sweetness of temper and amiability might win her. But George adored her, and she was bright.
Arthur was noisy and high-spirited. He would not believe anything unless he found
the sense in it himself. Cenelia worried about him burning through his meals so he could get himself outside. It was not uncommon to find him perched in a tree.
Peter was Arthur’s little pet. He was also very pretty and knew it. He loved his velvets and his polished boots. It was difficult for him to keep up with Arthur and maintain the perfection of his appearance, so he was always changing clothes. He once asked for a tiny mahogany valet for Christmas!
Helen, in my opinion, was the dearest girl who ever lived. She wanted to be a dancer. She loved sweets. She was by turns shy and mischievous. A coquette, even at four.
And baby Elliot. He had yet to reveal himself to us. Such a great loss!
The story of what happened to them has now been repeated and exaggerated, and the trail leading back to the kidnappers grown cold. The nanny was thought to be involved. Some say only the nanny knew when the staff was to be off duty, where the various valuables were hidden, et cetera. Her disappearance with the children does seem suspicious, though she too was drowned in Lockhaven Bay
when the boat carrying them off was dashed to pieces in a storm. When there were no demands for ransom, all of us were puzzled—until the bodies of the children were found. But none of the Glendoveers’ stolen property was recovered, which made it hard on the family when some evil-tongued gentry speculated that George might have conceived of the kidnapping for his own gain.
This was a blow to George Glendoveer’s career. Unscrupulous people spread the rumor that his European tour was failing and that theaters were going to be less than half full. This was a lie. As the Glendoveers’ chosen spokesman, I told the papers so, but the rumor continued. Even the police theorized that the Great Glendoveer had originally planned the kidnapping as a prank to garner publicity, but with disastrous consequences.
In their grief and disgust, the Glendoveers shut themselves off from everyone, which only made the gossips bolder. Even I was discouraged from visiting, which still causes me much distress after all these years.
When I was informed of Cenelia’s recent death, I could only hope that she found the
peace that long evaded her and that she is in heaven reunited with her family. For what is more sacred, more comforting, than our bonds with our own blood kin?
When George left the stage, so did I. Since, I have been compensated with a virtuous wife (much my superior and now departed) and two fine sons of my own. It is for them alone that I live now. How Cenelia held on so long into old age is baffling to me.
So, Miss Aspinal, if you have the opportunity to set things right in Lockhaven, you will have done me a great service. Please use any information enclosed here. Do not let the scoundrels further blacken my friends’ legacy, and surely you will be blessed.
With respect and gratitude for your efforts,
WOODRUFF T. BOOTH
Clara sat on the edge of her bed and read the letter through again. So the children had drowned. Picturing them helpless and flailing in the bay’s cold gray water sent a tremor through her body.
Yet how lucky anyone would have been to have a friend like Woodruff Booth
, she thought. If only Mrs. Glendoveer had had the strength to cling to his friendship, despite the
memories it called up, she might have been a much less lonely person.
With the mystery of the Glendoveers explained, Clara wondered whether she shouldn’t now confront her mother with what she knew. There was no longer any worry that the unsettling nature of the story would trouble Clara’s heart. Perhaps even the restless soul of Mrs. Glendoveer would be soothed if the silence were broken in her home and the true story of her innocence were to be told?
“All we need around here, Citrine,” Clara said, “is a little sunlight, and the shadows will retreat of themselves. When I think of the unnecessary misery this secrecy has caused us all …”
Citrine seemed to agree. She jumped from her swing and fluttered, singing without stopping. It was a cheering performance, for a while. But after a full minute of the racket, Clara grew concerned.
“Citrine, rest. You’ll wear yourself out!” said Clara.
But Citrine remained agitated as ever. Clara bent over the cage until she was distracted by rapping on the window. Fully expecting to see her mother there with a rag and bucket, she turned around.
