The Penny Dreadful Curse (22 page)

“Your timing
is excellent, Countess Varvara. You don’t mind me addressing you in
the Odessan fashion? You have caught me in the middle of afternoon
tea. It will be so agreeable to have company, especially female
company.” She turned to the butler who was seeing to the Countess’s
fur cloak and fur muff. “An extra plate, Abram, and a fresh pot of
Darjeeling. And ask cook for some crustless sandwiches, cress and
anchovies, and some blintze with caviar, the black caviar from the
Caspian, not the red rubbish from the Azov, with clotted cream and
dill.” She turned back to the Countess. “Please take a seat, this
chair facing the window, if you will. The view is agreeable, is it
not?”

The Countess
nodded as Mrs Ashkenazy prattled on in the sing-song voice of an
eager soprano keen to score a starring role in an operetta at the
Mariinsky Theatre, though the Countess got the impression the
oratorical prattling was not prompted by nerves as most prattling
was, but from the sheer pleasure of having company, female company,
and the sheer desperation of not wanting to see it fly out the door
before hearing it sing for its supper.

“We have a
mutual acquaintance, I believe,” her hostess beamed. “My esteemed
neighbour in London, Mrs Waldegrave, is the sister-in-law of the
second cousin of Viscount Otterbrooke, who is the godchild of your
late step-father’s uncle-by-marriage, Count Viktor Chernobyl, at
whose seaside villa in Yalta you summered regularly with your late
step-aunt, Countess Zoya.”

The Countess
was still trying to work out
who
the mutual acquaintance
might be and decided it was probably the villa in Yalta. Mrs
Ashkenazy’s conversation moved seamlessly to several other mutual
acquaintances who were all third cousins twice removed of someone
she had once summered or wintered with during her travels with her
step-aunt.

“I have heard
so many lovely things about you for so long now from so many
esteemed friends, dear Countess Varvara, that I have positively
yearned to meet you for myself and here you are! I can scarce
believe you have come to my father’s door of your own accord. Mrs
Waldegrave will never believe me when I tell her I had the rare
privilege of sharing afternoon tea with you at Fosse Bank House.
Oh, there goes my father with little Rebecca in the perambulator!
Fresh air coupled with a circumlocution of a garden does wonders
for putting babies to sleep. I think that is his third circuit. By
the time he comes in he will be ready for a nap and Rebecca will
wake for her next feed!”

The butler
returned with a fresh pot of tea and extra provisions. Mrs
Ashkenazy did the honours. They talked about Ukraine, where the
young Jewess’s father spent his formative years before being forced
to flee for his life to escape the Odessa pogroms.

“Ah, yes, the
storms in the negev,” said the Countess to show she was cognisant
of the history of the time and understood the madness.

“I don’t think
my father ever got over the fear of being hunted like a wild beast.
He saw many of his friends hacked to death, not just men, but women
and children too. He changed his name when he came to York. He
thought it might be safer that way and he guards his privacy
zealously. Jews can never be too careful.”

“Being a
successful publisher of popular books with a stable of famous
authors is possibly the best protection he could have,” suggested
the Countess pragmatically, “and I believe Panglossian Publishing
is the most successful publisher in York.”

“Is that why
you have come here? To speak to my father about publishing?”

“You could say
that,” replied the Countess evasively before veering in a different
direction altogether. “Will your husband be joining you in
York?”

Mrs Ashkenazy
shook her glossy dark head and her wide welcoming smile shrank back
into itself. “At the risk of shocking you and humiliating myself I
will be honest. My faithless husband has returned to live in the
Levant with his Turkish mistress. I have not had contact with him
for several years. I cannot even say with certainty whether he is
dead or alive or whether he thinks of me at all.” She waited for
that candid admission to sink in. “I can see you are not easily
shocked. You are a lady of the world and a Slav. You understand
that such things happen. You are now wondering about my little
Rebecca. How is it that I have a baby daughter? Where did she
spring from? The simple answer is that she is adopted. But rest
assured, Countess Varvara, my little girl is cherished, just as
you, yourself, were cherished by Count Volodya and his sister,
Countess Zoya.”

“Your English
acquaintances believe the child was fathered by your husband?”

Mrs Ashkenazy
gave an affirmative nod. “I went to live for twelve months in a
private villa on the Bosphorus and came home with a child, no one
the wiser except for my old nursemaid who would never betray
me.”

“Rebecca is
twelve months old?”

“Thirteen
months.”

“Rest assured,
Mrs Ashkenazy, I will not breathe a word to anyone.”

The two women
locked eyes and smiled at each other the way women do who share a
great secret just as the door opened and Mr Panglossian appeared,
his wide girth filling the frame. His lack of surprise conveyed the
fact he had been informed by the butler that they had a visitor.
The rictus smile told them he was not pleased to see it was the
Countess. In contrast, Mrs Ashkenazy’s radiant smile lit up her
entire face.

“Papa, look
who has graced our humble home here in York with her presence!
Countess Varvara Volodymyrovna! We have been having the most
delightful conversation whilst sharing afternoon tea!”

“Conversation?”

“We have so
much in common!”

“Such as?”

“Mutual
acquaintances,” interposed in the Countess. She watched the titan
cross the Aubusson and was reminded of Moses crossing the Red Sea.
She could have sworn the furniture parted to make way for him.

He popped a
blintze with caviar into his cavernous mouth. “Pour your papa a cup
of tea,” he directed with forced pleasantness. “I am in need of
liquid refreshment after all that exertion,” he attempted to
jest.

“How is my
little angel?” replied the dutiful daughter.

“Sleeping
soundly,” he asserted proudly, glancing at the Countess from the
corner of his wily eye. “I gave her over to Madame LaSalle who was
pacing the conservatory like a tigress, waiting for the return of
her precious little charge. She has taken her upstairs to the
nursery,” he added somewhat unnecessarily, perhaps to nip in the
bud any proposal for a baby parade.

Mrs Ashkenazy
passed her father a cup of tea. “Oh,” she sighed. “I was hoping to
show her off to Countess Varvara. Rebecca really is an angel. She
is so beautiful. I know all mothers say as much but she really is
the sweetest little seraphim. Isn’t she papa?”

His stern face
softened momentarily. “A seraphim,” he echoed dotingly. “Now, why
don’t you run upstairs and check on your little seraphim while the
Countess and I talk business.” He turned his hawk-like gaze from
his devoted daughter to the uninvited guest and his paternal dotage
altered accordingly.

Mrs Ashkenazy
picked up on her father’s business-like tone and bid the Countess a
gushing
au revoir
. Mr Panglossian waited until the door was
fully closed and he could hear the patter of footsteps tripping
gracefully up the stairs.

“I trust you
did not come all the way to Jewbury for blintze and caviar,” he
said sarcastically, popping another tasty titbit into his mouth.
“So I will pre-empt you and tell you that if you came for a list of
noms de plume you will leave empty-handed and disappointed. As I
have said before, no such list exists, and even if it did, the only
way you would obtain a copy is over my dead body.”

The Countess
contrived a luminous lie. “That is not what brought me to Foss Bank
House. I decided to pay a visit…”

He forestalled
her with an abrupt gesture of his sausage hand. “Pay a visit!” he
mocked sneeringly. “I suppose you managed to pry out of Thrypp
during your snooping that my daughter had accompanied me from
London and you thought you would pretend to share mutual friends in
London. Let me spare you the trouble of concocting further
falsehoods. My daughter does
not
have any friends in London,
mutual or otherwise. She is a Jewess of moderate wealth, not great
enough to be accepted with open arms into the English bosom, not
beautiful enough to be invited to a gala ball or musical soiree
hosted by the beau monde of Mayfair, and she has no husband to
speak of, only the hint of one, who lives abroad - fodder for
gossipmongers and Jew haters, Mrs Waldegrave, chief among them. My
daughter is naïve. She has led a sheltered life. She knows nothing
of pogroms. To her they are like fairy tales or ckazkas peopled by
black princes and baba yagas; wicked deeds with the inevitable
happy endings. That is my fault. I accept the blame. As my wife lay
on her deathbed I vowed to protect our daughter from the hate that
is in men’s hearts, the inquisitors who would once again see us
tortured on the rack and burnt at the stake, stripped of our wealth
and property and sent into exile to starve to death, the women
raped, the men hacked to pieces, the babes thrown to the dogs. The
storms of the negev follow us wherever we go. They never leave us.
There is no promised land for us. Spare me your sympathy. Save your
platitudes for those who know no better. Do not come into my home
and befriend my daughter with your gentile fakery in the hope of
wheedling out of me something I do not possess.”

Neither Mr
Panglossian nor Countess Volodymyrovna heard when the door opened.
They did not know how long Mrs Ashkenazy had been standing with her
hand resting on the brass door knob, waiting to speak.

“Papa,” she
said with a smile that did not quite stretch to a convincing mile.
“I came to ask Countess Varvara if she would care to take a walk in
the garden until Rebecca wakes from her nap and I can show my angel
off to her.”

“I’m afraid
Countess Varvara Volodymyrovna was just leaving,” he said, fixing
on the full formal title of her name and brooking no argument from
either feminine party. “The Countess has a previous engagement. I
will be in my study until dinner. I do not wish to be
disturbed.”

Mrs Ashkenazy,
perhaps attempting to make up for her father’s harshness, offered
her father’s landau to the Countess when she learnt that her
visitor had come to Foss Bank House in a hired hansom. She would
not take no for an answer and since it was starting to cloud over
she would not have her visitor waiting on the corner of Jewbury for
a hire, spurned by coachmen who might mistake her for a Jewess. The
Countess thanked her hostess most sincerely and, mindful of what Mr
Panglossian had said, scribbled her London address on a page torn
from her notebook and gave it to Mrs Ashkenazy, telling her she was
not often in London but if they should both find themselves in the
city at the same time to be sure to pay a call. Before she climbed
into the landau Mrs Ashkenazy took hold of her shoulders and kissed
her on both cheeks; the dark eyes were pricked with tears.

All the way
back to the Mousehole the Countess felt uncharacteristically
deflated. Nothing had gone to plan. She had arrived at Foss Bank
House with high hopes of attaining a list of noms de plume and left
feeling not merely empty-handed and disappointed but totally
defeated. Moreover, she felt the collective guilt of every gentile
who ever existed weighing on her conscience. She felt as if she had
lit the faggot that sparked the fire that burnt every Jew at the
stake since time immemorial.

“Where have
you been all day?” interrogated her own personal inquisitor.

“Before I
attempt to answer that I need a drink. I need to wash the taste of
ashes out of my mouth.”

“What?”

“Never mind.
Some champagne, doctor, French and fizzy.”

“We don’t have
time for champagne. We have been invited to dine at Mallebisse
Terrace, the town address of Sir Marmaduke.” He glanced tetchily at
his pocket watch. “You will have just enough time for a quick
change of clothes. Xenia is upstairs. She has prepared whatever it
is you might require for the evening. You can enlighten me
regarding your day some other time. Sir Marmaduke has kindly taken
it upon himself to send his own brougham for transportation with
strict instructions to collect Reverend Finchley and Miss Isabelle
Flyte en route. The coachman awaits us at the end of the Shambles.
Try not to take too long. We have been invited for half past five
and Mallebisse Terrace is on the other side of the city walls just
past the Museum Gardens.”

“
Sacre
Bleu
! He has invited his friend’s mistress to dinner? I did not
realize the big game hunter was that game! He does like to live
dangerously!
Il a le culotte
!”

“
Taisez-vous
and get dressed!” She wasn’t the only one who
could speak French!

Laughing, she
mounted the stairs, calling back over her shoulder. “Have the
Dicksen’s been invited?”

“I’ll tell you
when you come down dressed for dinner! Hurry up!”

The evening
called for something colourful to lift her spirits. She waved away
the pale grey silk and instructed Xenia to make ready the burnished
copper taffeta while she had a quick sponge bath. What was Sir
Marmaduke up to? Was he planning to set a cat among the pigeons in
the Dicksen coop or was he planning to steal the lovebird from
under Dicksen’s nose?

As the
Countess and Dr Watson hurried up the Shambles to where the
brougham was stationed, he brought her up to speed on what had
transpired when Mrs Henrietta Dicksen paid a surprise visit to Ye
Olde Mousehole Inne that afternoon. He talked quickly between sharp
intakes of breath, making clear the following monologue was his
interpretation of a shared conversation: Mr Charles Dicksen would
not be attending the dinner party at Mallebisse Terrace. He had
embarked that morning on a tour of readings in Leeds, Sheffield and
Lancaster. Mrs Dicksen would be attending, despite her husband’s
protestations, and it was she who had suggested that Sir Marmaduke
invite Reverend Finchley and Miss Flyte to make up the numbers. She
did not say so directly but the doctor got the impression Sir
Marmaduke, conscious of his high standing, demurred at inviting a
Catholic deacon and an unknown young lady of dubious connections to
dine at his noble table, but Mrs Dicksen had reminded the baronet
that the good deacon was her cousin and that he always shared a
private box with Miss Flyte at the Theatre Royal when her husband
gave a reading. What the baronet made of that fact was anyone’s
guess. Did he know that Miss Flyte was Mr Dicksen’s mistress? Did
he care? Did he have an ulterior motive? Was he a pawn? Or was he
about to call checkmate! Whatever the answer to those questions
might be, the baronet issued dinner invitations that same day and
Mrs Dicksen offered to deliver them personally while she was out in
her carriage, hence the short notice.