Verity Sparks, Lost and Found (23 page)

Just a few feet away were the rails and wooden sleepers. I stared at the pattern they made. It was like an endless ladder stretching backwards and forwards to somewhere far, far away. How smooth and gleaming the metal looked against the rough wood. And the gravel – how amazing the gravel was. So many shades of grey and brown and black, and look – there was one chip of stone with little specks that glinted gold in the sunlight. If I could just reach out and pick it up …

“Verity!”

Someone yanked my arm, hard, and spun me round so that I sprawled backwards onto the platform. Then I saw a small white face staring down into mine. Rough hands were shaking my shoulders. There was smoke, and a deafening noise as the great metal monster roared past.

“Poppy?”

“Wotcher do that for? Yer nearly fell.” She gave me another shake and I thought she was going to slap me. “Yer nearly got decrepitated!” she scolded.

“That’s enough, Poppy,” said Miss Deane. And then she was angry at me as well. “What were you thinking of, going so close to the edge?” she snapped. Her face was the colour of skim milk. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

I felt for the lucky piece. Yes, I still had it around my neck.

“And you’re lucky Poppy was so quick. No ifs or buts, Verity. You
will
see a doctor.” Miss Deane looked so fierce, I didn’t try to argue.

“Yes,” I said meekly.

The train whistle blasted through the air, and I looked around. The station master and his assistant and the porter were hovering. The conductor and the guard had got out of the train to see what was happening. The driver was leaning his head out of the window of his cabin and all the passengers were staring. I was holding up the Melbourne train.

Miss Deane bundled me into our compartment and almost shoved me down into my seat. She sat opposite.

“Wave goodbye to Poppy,” she said. “After all, she’s just saved your life.”

I turned and looked out of the window. There was Poppy, hopping up and down on the platform and blowing kisses to me. I blew one back and waved feebly. The bell rang, the whistle blew, and we were on our way home.

Alhambra – with its acres of Persian carpets and fancy tiles, the grand staircases, stained-glass windows, over-stuffed upholstery and furniture and knick-knacks all shiny with polish – wasn’t what I’d call homelike. And without Papa, I had wondered if it would feel desolate and sad. So I was surprised at how glad I was to walk in through its massive doors.

“It’s good to have you back with us, Miss Verity, Miss Deane,” said Kathleen as she took our hats and travelling cloaks. “What with the master missin’, we’ve all been at sixes and sevens. Oh, the poor dear man! But he’ll be back with us, you mark my words, miss. I’ve been praying to St Anthony every day.”

“Oh, Kathleen,” I said, squeezing her hand. “Thank you.”

“Well, now, look at the pair of you, all grubby from the train.” She was back to her bossy self again. “Go upstairs and have a wash and change. Then if you go into the sitting room, I’ll bring some tea.” She bustled away.

I was downstairs before Miss Deane, and there was another surprise waiting for me in the sitting room. It was Mrs Morcom and Judith.

“My dear, my dear,” said Mrs Morcom, holding out her arms. She wasn’t a cuddly person at the best of times, so her hug was more of a quick squeeze. But I knew it meant she was thinking tenderly of me. Judith was now looking like an egg on legs, and she didn’t get up. I bent down and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

“You don’t mind?” she whispered.

“Mind what?”

“No need to pussyfoot, Judith,” said Mrs Morcom. She turned to me. “Verity, I got back from my Tasmanian tour to find this silly girl moping in that hot little house in Richmond. Come with me to the palace, I said to her. Not without Daniel, she said to me. So I invited the lot of us to stay. I knew it would be all right with …” She stopped.

“With Papa? Of course,” I said. “You know that.”

“We were so sorry to hear about Pierre’s ship,” said Mrs Morcom. “Do you think he’s still alive?” Her beady eyes bored into me for a few seconds.

“Aunt Almeria,” protested Judith.

“I’m just asking her,” said Mrs Morcom. “A great many people are assuming Pierre is drowned, if all those letters and cards and flowers are anything to go by.”

“Letters, cards – whatever do you mean?”

“Condolences, Verity,” said Judith. “Sympathy for your loss.”

“Oh no,” I said. “I haven’t given up hope.” Soon – very soon – I thought, I’m sure Papa will be back, wandering around the corridors of this ridiculous mansion, grumbling at me about my writing, fussing over Judith, putting a gardenia in his buttonhole …

“Good girl,” said Mrs Morcom, and her eyes looked suspiciously bright. “After all, sometimes hope is all you have left.”

Miss Deane came downstairs, we had our tea and then Daniel arrived home.

I jumped to my feet and ran over to him as soon as he came through the door. “Have you heard from SP?”

“Hello would be nice,” he said with a laugh in his voice. He greeted Miss Deane and Mrs Morcom, kissed his wife and finally gave me a hug.

“How are you, Verity?”

“I’m … I’m still hoping, Daniel.”

He nodded. “That’s all we can do now.” He went on briskly, “There’s no news from SP. A list of those missing, believed drowned, has been published in the
Mercury
.” He paused. “Pierre’s name was on it.”

“That explains the letters and flowers.”

Most of them were from acquaintances of Papa’s I’d never met, but there’d been a handful from my classmates at Hightop House – even one from Jessie – and a kind and loving note from Mrs Rowland, penned just before she left to join her husband.

“Here’s another one for you, Verity,” said Daniel, handing me a rather crumpled and smudged envelope. I opened it. Misspelled and ink-spotted, the letter was from Connie. She and her Papa had read about the shipwreck in the
Mercury
.

I know how much you love your father. Don’t give up hope, Verity
, she wrote.
You know the cymbal for hope?
And she’d drawn a picture of an anchor at the bottom of the page, with
Hope is an ancher. It will hold you safe
next to it.

“Dear Connie,” I said, with a chuckle at her spelling mistakes. “How sweet of her.” I folded her letter and went to put it with the others, but I changed my mind and tucked it into my bodice. I supposed I would have to answer all those other ones. What would I write? Thank you very much, but he’s still alive?

“Verity, are you all right?” asked Miss Deane.

“Just tired,” I said. “I think I’ll go and have a rest before dinner.”

I closed the door behind me, and listened for a few seconds. A hum of talk and even some laughter arose in the sitting room and I felt lonelier than ever.

Oh, I thought, if Papa had really drowned, wouldn’t I know it? I’d
feel
it. Wouldn’t I?

Hesitantly, I picked up Papa’s second-best cane from the hallstand. Then his umbrella with the ivory handle. Just hoping. But no, there was nothing. Miss Lillingsworth was right. Once I’d been able to pierce through time and space. Now those powers were gone. They’d all been used up in my quest to find the truth about myself.

I opened the dining room door. The maids had already laid the dinner table with silver flatware and snowy white linen and two big vases of full-blown roses. There, on the far wall, was Papa’s portrait. Mr Tissot had captured him so well. He’d painted Papa wearing a fur-lined cloak and standing with his back to a snowy field. It was meant to make you think of Russia, Papa told me, even though it had been painted in Mr Tissot’s London studio. Still, you could almost feel the softness of the fur, the frost on the trees and the chill in the air. It was so cold that I could see my breath forming mist in the air.

But how could that be? It was early summer. I looked around for a door opening, a window left ajar. Then the gas dimmed suddenly. I stood very still, scarcely breathing, staring at Papa’s portrait. A wave of goosebumps passed over my entire body and I shivered. My fingers were tingling ever so slightly as I dragged a chair over to the sideboard and shoved the silver tray out of the way. A wineglass fell to the floor and smashed, but I had no time to worry about that. I climbed from the chair onto the sideboard. Now I was so close to the painting that I could see Mr Tissot’s brushstrokes underneath the varnish. There were Papa’s massive shoulders with the furry cloak around them and his hair, as white as the snow behind him. But that wasn’t right. Papa’s hair was grey, only lightly streaked with silver. And what was that? A big, ugly gash, seeping blood, had appeared on his forehead.

Was I seeing things? I ran my finger across the surface of the canvas. There was no scar. Papa’s picture was just as Mr Tissot painted it. The gas lamps were bright; the room was warm and stuffy. I was light-headed and weak, as Miss Deane had said. I was overtired.

I climbed down from the sideboard and sat, trembling, on one of the chairs. Your imagination is playing tricks, I told myself. But in my heart I knew it was not my imagination. It was a vision, and I’d had them before. I’d seen things in faraway places. I’d seen into the past. Now I’d seen Papa, wherever he was, and he was hurt.

I seemed to hear Alexander’s words in my ear. “He’s on his way home. Don’t doubt that, little one. Don’t you remember what Papa always said?”

I whispered Papa’s proverb to myself. “After a storm comes fair weather, after sorrow comes joy.”

I slept badly, tossing and turning and thinking about Papa. My dreams of Alexander, my vision of Papa – could I trust them? Were they real? If Papa was on his way back to me, where was he? And how long would it be before he was back here, at Alhambra, safe and sound? There were no answers to any of these questions, and by the time I woke up, I needed to go to bed again.

“No lessons today,” said Miss Deane when I finally came down to the breakfast room.

“Lessons?”

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it? We will resume your studies when … when we can. In the meantime, why don’t you do some writing? Perhaps you could start another story. An authoress must practise her art, you know.”

I’d confided my dream of being an authoress to Miss Deane when she first came to Alhambra, but it was a long time since I’d even thought about writing, let alone putting pen to paper.

“I will try,” I said. Slowly, I went up to my room and got as far as unstoppering my ink bottle, but that was it. I’d been able to turn my London adventure into a story because it ended happily. But not ever after, I thought. I put the ink away. I didn’t want to write today.

I wandered up the stairs to the little tower that was my favourite place in Alhambra. Today the sea was a bright sparkling blue crossed with white-capped waves. There were a few yachts, zipping here and there, and I could see a large ship heading out into the middle of the bay. Was it heading back to England? I sighed. If we’d never left England, then Papa wouldn’t have set foot on the
Battenberg
. If only I hadn’t insisted on having my own way!

Stop it, I told myself. You can’t remake the past …

“Verity?”

I turned.

“Lottie! And Emily–”

Emily took off her glasses and wiped them. “Miss Deane thought you might need your friends,” she said.

For a few seconds their arms encircled me, their cheeks were against mine.

Miss Deane was right.