The Aviary (23 page)

“I’ll listen to any proof you have,” her mother said. “I’m not averse to facts.”

Facts, Clara knew, were not her strong suit in this matter, and her mother was not going to like where the conversation was going. Yet she felt she had no choice.

“Ruby,” Clara asked, “do you remember the evening when Mama first brought up selling the house? Our night in the dining room?”

Ruby, who had been absorbed in mending a pillowcase, stitched more slowly. “I do.”

“The candles blew out,” Clara said. “Not once, but twice. It was quite remarkable.”

Ruby dropped her mending in her lap and looked warily at Harriet. “She’s right, you know; it was after you spoke about selling. I’ve never got that evening out of my head, though some of the details are, er, blurry.”

“I’m sure they are,” murmured Harriet.

“So tell me honestly,” continued Clara. “Don’t you believe it was Mrs. Glendoveer, Ruby? Giving us a sign?”

“For goodness’ sake,” Ruby said, letting out a breath. “And all this time I’ve been frightened to go back in that room for fear of something evil. Who knows what might haunt that room where the family gathered, what with all
the tragedy that befell them. But if it is Mrs. Glendoveer? Clara, you have eased my mind.”

“You aren’t suggesting that Mrs. Glendoveer lurks here as a ghost,” said Clara’s mother.

“I don’t see why not,” Ruby answered, puffing out her chest. “Elderly people hang on, don’t they? It’s common knowledge where I come from. Especially if they have unfinished business.”

“You see, Mama?” cried Clara. “Ruby agrees, and she’s completely sound.”

“Well, I’m certainly not barmy,” said Ruby, her finger circling her temple, “if that’s what you’re getting at.”

Harriet caught Clara’s eye and blushed. “It isn’t
that
I’m worried about. I simply will not listen to either of you if you go on about the spirits. It’s pure nonsense.”

“I don’t tell you that you’re full of nonsense,” Ruby mumbled, obviously hurt.

“Forgive me,” Harriet said. “I should have said that you have a gift for the fanciful. I am not similarly gifted. Is that better?”

“Not much,” said Ruby.

While Harriet gathered up the Glendoveers’ things, she came across Clara’s hankie tied in a wad. “Clara, what is this, I ask you?” she said, dangling the bundle.

“It’s only the bits left over from some flowers Mrs. Glendoveer had pressed inside. I didn’t want to throw them away, because I thought they must have meant something to her. I’ll take them.”

Her mother placed the filled hankie on the table. “Very well,” she said. “But I’m storing the rest in my own cedar chest—out of sight, out of mind, one hopes.”

Clara kept quiet until she was sure her mother couldn’t hear. “Ruby!” she burst out. “You believe.”

“It’s nothing more than common sense,” Ruby said.

“Then perhaps I can also convince you to reconsider selling the house to Woodruff Booth. Mama can’t sell without your consent, can she?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, little girl. We don’t even know it’s him who wants it.”

“I do,” Clara said. “Who else in the small state of Rhode Island would be so intensely interested in getting hold of this old place? Who would even know it was possibly for sale? Why would anyone offer to buy it all, down to the boxes in the boiler room?”

Ruby paused and considered, then quickly held up her hands as if to push this subject away. “Clara, the disposition of the house is a legal thing with all sorts of papers filled with mumbo jumbo. Harriet has handled it all, and that is fine with me.”

“But, Ruby dear, this has nothing to do with the law. It has to do with … Oh, how can I say this?” Clara searched for a word until she found one. “It has to do with
loyalty.
”

As Ruby thought this over, Clara could see she’d made an impression.

“I’d say,” continued Clara, “that turning over Mrs. Glendoveer’s home and everything in it to the man she
feels betrayed her family is the worst sort of disloyalty. So let’s make Mrs. Glendoveer a promise.”

She cleared her throat and aimed her words at the ceiling. “Mrs. Glendoveer, I hereby promise to do everything in my power to prevent Mr. Woodruff Booth from taking possession of your house or anything in it. So help me God.”

Ruby clutched at her chest. “No, no, Clara. You shouldn’ta done that.”

“Now your turn, Ruby.”

“I can only say this: I promise to help Clara Dooley, poor fool that she is for making such a promise. And may Mrs. Glendoveer treat her lightly if she should fail.”

“Good enough,” said Clara. “Thank you, Ruby. I’m sure Mrs. Glendoveer is pleased anyway.”

“Pshaw,” answered Ruby. “The dead who hang about are rarely pleased. That’s why they stay. And it is fine to have the dear old lady still with us, but I told you not to make an oath. Did I tell you not to make an oath?”

Clara gasped and pointed to the little milk-glass vase with three yellow rosebuds on the table.

“Glory,” Ruby said. “In all my days …”

One at a time, the buds opened their petals until they were full as cabbages. Their scent intensified as Ruby took Clara’s hand.

“If that isn’t Mrs. Glendoveer giving us her blessing,” whispered Clara, “what else could it be?”

Ruby stared at the flowers, awestruck.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Ruby said softly. “But please, if you don’t mind, I’d like to sit here alone for a while. Let it settle, if you will.”

“I understand,” Clara told her, for she had already been drawn into the supernatural realm of the Glendoveers by degrees.

Clara felt grateful that Ruby was not as bound to the concrete world as her mother was. With Ruby’s help, she might tip the balance in the fight against Mr. Woodruff Booth. As far as finding her father was concerned, though, she would have to work on that herself.

So she took up a lantern and went out to the aviary with her books to read to the birds, but they were so concerned about her injuries that she spent most of her time pulling up her sleeves, showing them her elbows with the iodine on them.

“See? They’re scratched, is all. I was clumsy.”

She tried distracting them with several stories from her Hans Christian Andersen book before bidding them good night. Frances, however, was too clever to be kept in the dark.

“Mr. Booth,” Frances said.

“Why, yes,” Clara said. “I supposed you would ask about him.”

“Don’t like Mr. Booth,” said George. Arthur cackled his agreement and lit next to Frances while Peter and Helen huddled together in the shadows and listened.

“I think your mother had reason to suspect him. What do you know about him?”

“Mother suspected Booth,” Frances said. “But not the
girl.
”

“Until too late!” said George sadly. “Too late.”

“The girl,” repeated Clara. “You mean the nanny? Oh, what was her name …? Nelly?”

“Nel-ly,” said Frances. “Nel-ly.” Then, shaking her head sadly, “Cold.”

“Co-o-o-old,” said George, drawing out the word. “Cold eyes.”

The description made Clara shiver. “Do you know why Mrs. Glendoveer hired her? I would have thought she was a good judge of character.…”

“It was Mr. Booth!” Frances said. “Mother didn’t know.”

“I don’t understand,” Clara said. “Unless you’re saying that Nelly was working with Mr. Booth.”

“Tsip-tsip!” cried Helen, jostling her brother.

“Mother didn’t know,” said George. “And Nelly didn’t know.”

“Nelly didn’t know!” repeated Frances. “
He
made her sleep.
He
made her eyes cold. I won’t forget her eyes.
I
saw her white, white petticoat around her face in the cold water. Falling …”

Clara felt sick in the pit of her stomach at this vivid picture of Nelly’s drowning. The birds’ heads drooped. But how could Mr. Booth make her eyes cold? “Did … did
Mr. Booth hypnotize her? Before he and your mother and father went to Berlin?”

“Yes,” George said.

“He killed Nelly!” stated Frances. “He made her cold!” And above her, George began to make a low huffing sound as he swayed side to side.

“Huh-huh-huh …”

Clara recognized the sound; it was a soft sob. Helen, Peter, and Arthur flew to George’s perch and rubbed their heads against his snowy feathers.

“Please don’t cry, George,” Clara pleaded.

“The boat broke,” said Frances. “We all fell. A shoe dropped past me. Peter’s shoe.”

“Skee!” shrieked Peter.

“And Helen fell past me. The weeds got her.…”

“Tsip-tsip …”

“Arthur and George. Their boots kicking above me. I saw them by lightning. Then my eyes went out.”

Frances stared straight ahead when she had finished, but George continued to weep on Arthur’s shoulder.

“My darlings,” said Clara, too shocked to cry. “You remember it all so vividly. It’s too much to bear.”

“I broke the boat,” said George. “Me!”

“Stop!” said Frances. “You tried.”

“My fault!” he replied.

“Frances,” Clara said, “tell me what he means.”

“The man with Nelly,” Frances said. “Oh, George bit him deep in the hand! George, red in the teeth. I shoved
with my boots. The oar? He dropped it in the storm. We hit rocks.”

Clara grasped the bars. “Who was the man? Tell me who it was.”

Frances extended her wings and shook her shoulders. “Young, tall, skin and bones. Mean. Chipped tooth. Big knife.”

“Did you know him?”

“No! But the poor crying baby …” Frances trailed off as Arthur and Peter keened near the roof. Helen looked as if she had shrunk to half her size, and George sat with his eyes shut.

“What happened to Elliot?” Clara asked softly. “Can you tell me?”

Frances cocked her head as if listening for the memory. “Tied with linen under the heavy coat. Tied to the man’s chest. Shivering. Poor cold baby …”

“Oh, Frances!”

“Too cold! The baby cried until the man tied him under his coat! With a storm coming on. And Nelly asleep with her eyes open. She did not dress us warm. She stopped nothing.”

Clara could see it all in her mind. George, the eldest, turning on the man in the boat as the summer storm threw its lightning on the water. The children huddled with the hollow-eyed nanny, who sat in eerie calm; the boat dashing in the foam, hurling the children in odd directions—with only Arthur and George able to tread water.

“But the man,” Clara said. “Do you think he survived with Elliot?”

“George says he floated on a box. Floated with Elliot, and let us all go under.”

Clara leaned her forehead against the bars. “Why did it take you so long to tell me the whole story?”

“Little by little, we remember,” said Frances, her slash of yellow mask shining in the lamplight. “Slow. Because of you, every day we have more words, more memories.”

George, who had gone silent, raised his sulfur-colored crown and lifted a claw. “But we need Elliot,” he stated.

“Please tell me, where were Nelly and the man taking you on the boat? Did they say?”

“Islands …,” said Frances. “To hide.”

“The Pincushions? Do you know which one?”

“No,” said George. “No, but—”

“He lives!” exclaimed Frances, and the birds warbled their assent. “We believe! Do you?”

Clara stretched her arm inside the cage and reached out to all of them. “I do believe my father lives. And I shall bring him back somehow. I need him too!”

She gazed up at the brothers and sisters perched together, crying back at her. And Helen flew to Clara’s open hand, dancing and bowing in what could only be a heartfelt show of gratitude.

Clara hoped that if her mother saw more of Daphne, she might understand what a good influence she was. That morning, she brought strawberries from her garden as a gift and would not retire to Clara’s room to share secrets until she had chatted politely with her mother and Ruby.

When Clara finally did get Daphne alone, her mother’s desire to move was the first thing she told her about. Daphne’s fishbowl-blue eyes immediately dampened, even as her manner became more determined.

“It won’t happen if I can stop it,” Daphne said. “And if we are parted, I can write as well as you, and we could insist on trading off, spending summers together. I won’t let you go.”

“My feelings exactly,” said Clara. “Though there is
more to my predicament than simply selling the house. I haven’t told you who is trying to buy.”

“Who?”

“Woodruff Booth!”

“The villain!” Daphne exclaimed. Then, uncertainly, “He
is
a villain, isn’t he?”

Clara grimaced. “I am convinced of it. Now that the birds have spoken.”

When Clara had finished telling Daphne all her suspicions in detail, including Miss Lentham’s hint that Mr. Booth feared there might be incriminating evidence stored in the house, Daphne bit her thumb and brooded.

“This is serious, Clara. If it was he who plotted to rob the Glendoveers, the man is no one to be trifled with.”

“That is true,” said Clara. “My knees shake when I think of meeting him face to face. But he is the only one who might know the fate of baby Elliot.… And, Daphne, this you won’t believe—”

“My dear, I think I’ve already demonstrated that I believe anything you say,” Daphne told her.