Splendors and Glooms (22 page)

“P
arse!”

Parsefall halted in the middle of the street. Lizzie Rose spoke to him from a narrow space between two shops. Parsefall glowered at her. He was tired, cold, and footsore; he wanted to go home, not stand in the streets talking to Lizzie Rose. “Wot is it?”

Lizzie Rose caught hold of his sleeve. “I have something to tell you.”

She reached for the wagon handle and dragged the wagon into the alley where she had been hiding. Parsefall followed. He saw that she was looking purposeful and unusually tidy; she wore her new black dress and had pinned up her hair, so that she looked older than she was. Parsefall eyed her with distrust. It wasn’t like her to come to meet him, unless she was walking the dogs, and for once there were no dogs. “Wot is it? Wot’re you doin’ here?”

“I’ve been waiting to warn you. You mustn’t come home.”

Parsefall’s face fell. He’d been afraid to perform in his usual haunts after Dr. Wintermute accosted him, and he'd hauled the wagon clear over to Brompton Road. It was unfamiliar territory, and he had only earned sixpence. He was looking forward to the dubious comforts of Mrs. Pinchbeck’s house: to taking off his boots and making a nest of blankets before the fire. “Why not?”

“Because we’re in trouble. Dr. Wintermute — you remember, he’s Clara’s father —”

Parsefall made a face. “Ol’ Wintermute,” he said bitterly. “I seen ’im. Strike me dead if ’e didn’t try to yank Clara off the stage! I ’ad to make a run for it — he’d a prigged her if —”

“That’s not the worst of it,” Lizzie Rose interrupted. “Listen to me, Parse! After Dr. Wintermute saw you, he came to Mrs. Pinchbeck’s to question me —”

“Damn ’is eyes,” interjected Parsefall.

Lizzie Rose frowned. “Don’t use such vulgar language! It isn’t his fault, poor man! It was a dreadful shock for him, seeing Clara like that — and oh, Parsefall, when he was about to leave, he saw the photograph on the mantel —”

“Wot photograph?” demanded Parsefall. He had honestly forgotten that he had taken anything from the Wintermute house.

“The photograph of his dead son. The photograph you
stole,
” snapped Lizzie Rose. “It would have been all right if he hadn’t seen that. He’s a kind man, really — he caught that horrid Fitzmorris trying to kiss me and pitched into him — but when he saw that photograph, he spoke as if he hated me. He thought I robbed him. I said I didn’t —”

“You peached on me,” Parsefall accused her. He didn’t quite believe it, but he watched her narrowly. She drew herself up, eyes flashing.

“I never! I told him Grisini stole it. Only he didn’t believe me, and oh, Parse —”

“Oh, never mind,” Parsefall said irritably. He was vastly relieved; she hadn’t betrayed him. “You didn’t peach on me, but you botched the lie. I mighta known. You’re no good at lyin’. You’re never goin’ to make your way in the world if —”

“Be quiet!” hissed Lizzie Rose. “Don’t you hear what I’m trying to tell you? Dr. Wintermute saw that photograph, and he thinks one of us stole it. He’s going to the coppers to tell them. They’ll come to the house and question us again. That’s why I came to warn you.”

The knot in Parsefall’s stomach tightened. If the coppers were looking for him, he dared not go home. He tried to imagine where else he could go. It was too cold to spend the night in the streets, and he’d rather freeze to death than go to the workhouse. “Where’m I to go?”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” Lizzie Rose took a deep breath. “You must give me the wagon, so I can take it back to Mrs. Pinchbeck’s. Then you must go to the coach stand on the King’s Road and wait for me. I’ll bring our things — I can haul the wicker trunk by myself if I put it on the wagon — and we’ll take a hackney coach to King’s Cross Station.”

Parsefall gaped. “King’s Cross? That’s ’alfway across the bloomin’ city!”

Lizzie Rose hissed at his language. “That’s why we’re taking a hackney coach. Only we must be quick — to catch the train.” She reached into her muff and pressed a coin into his hand. “You try to get us a coach. I shan’t be long — I’ve packed the trunk, so I need only go home and take the puppet stage off the wagon and strap on the trunk —”

“The
train
?” Parsefall echoed. He had never been on a train.

“We’re going to Westmorland. To Windermere,” Lizzie Rose corrected herself, but the correction was wasted: Parsefall had never heard of either place. “It’ll be all right, Parse. I haven’t told you, but there’s a kind lady there that wants to take care of us —”

Parsefall’s hackles rose. “Wot kind lady? Wot’s she want wiv us?”

“She’s dying,” Lizzie Rose answered, sidestepping his question. “I don’t have time to tell you just now. I’ll explain it in the coach.” She tugged at the wagon, which stuck in the mud. Parsefall dodged around her, planting himself in her path.

“Who is she? I ain’t goin’ unless you tell me.”

“Her name is Cassandra Sagredo. She’s someone who knows Grisini —”

“Grisini!” Parsefall caught hold of the wagon handle and jerked it away from her. “If that ain’t just like you! Thinkin’ some old woman’s goin’ to
take care
of us!” He spoke the words with savage mimicry. “Wot’s she want wiv us?”

“She wants to give us a legacy. She wrote and invited us to come. I started to write back, but I couldn’t think of the right words — but it’s all right: she said we could come anytime. A legacy’s
money,
Parsefall. She’s dying and she’s rich and she wants to give away her money —”

“People don’t give away money,” Parsefall pointed out.

“They do when they’re dying and don’t need it anymore.”

“They don’t give it to us,” Parsefall countered. He clenched his fists and shoved them into his pockets. “Sounds to me like a take-in. I’m not goin’ ’alfway round the world to be taken in by a friend of Grisini’s —”

“Yes, you are,” Lizzie Rose contradicted him. “The coppers are going to come after us — don’t you understand? If they find out you took that photograph, they’ll send you to prison — or Australia. I don’t know which. Only I won’t let them.” She looked suddenly fierce. “I won’t lose you. So we must go away, and we must go tonight, before the coppers come.”

Parsefall hunched his shoulders. Everything was happening too fast. He did not want to leave London, and the prospect of taking a train was daunting. The chance of inheriting money was too slight to outweigh his fear. Parsefall knew about money. It could be found in the streets, if one were very lucky; it could be stolen; or it could be earned. No one gave it away. “I ain’t goin’,” he said, but there was a note of uncertainty in his voice.

“Yes, you are,” Lizzie Rose said grimly. “I’m not letting the coppers take you. I’ve planned everything — I pawned the bracelets and the snuffboxes — and I packed, and I found out about the trains. This may be our chance, Parsefall.” Her voice was shaky but resolute. “I want that money. I’m tired of working like a slave, and I want to get away from that horrid Fitzmorris. So we’re going, and you needn’t say one more word, because if you argue with me, I’ll
drag
you.” She bared her teeth at him; for a split second she looked like a mad dog. He was so taken aback that he forgot to hold on to the wagon, and she yanked the handle away from him. She was six paces away before he came to his senses.

He ran to catch up with her. “What about the puppets?”

“What about them?”

“I need ’em,” Parsefall said. “You’ll pack ’em, won’t you?”

“Parse, there isn’t room —”

“You ’ave to,” Parsefall insisted. “If this old lady cheats us, ’ow are we to earn our living? Besides, there’s Clara.”

Lizzie Rose winced at the sound of Clara’s name. “I’ll pack Clara,” she conceded. “But there isn’t much room in the trunk, Parse. I couldn’t tell Mrs. Pinchbeck that we’re leaving, but I shouldn’t think she’d throw away the puppets; heavens, she never throws anything away! After a little time, we’ll come back to London and sort things out —”

“I need ’em.” Parsefall heard the panic in his own voice and amplified it, knowing that Lizzie Rose was always tender toward him when he acted like a little boy. “I don’t want no clothes — I can wear what I ’ave on — but I must ’ave the puppets. I
need
’em.”

Lizzie Rose sighed. “Very well. I’ll pack as many as I can wedge in.”

“And the backdrops,” persisted Parsefall. “You can roll ’em up — they won’t take much room. I can’t paint like Grisini — we got to ’ave the backdrops.”

Lizzie Rose looked a little desperate, but she nodded. “Very well! I’ll pack the backdrops — only you must go
now,
Parsefall — to the cabstand in the King’s Road. I’ll come as soon as I can — it’ll be safest if we catch the night train.”

Parsefall jerked his head in acknowledgment. He shoved his hands in his pockets and watched until she disappeared into the dusk.

I
t was fully dark by the time the children met at the coach stand in the King’s Road. The cabbie unstrapped the wicker trunk from the wagon and loaded it into his coach. To Parsefall’s anguish, the wagon was left behind; there was no time to return it to Mrs. Pinchbeck’s if they were to catch the night train.

The journey began easily enough. The driver of the hackney coach navigated the London traffic with surprising ease. It was only when he brought them to King’s Cross Station that he named his fee, a price so high that even Lizzie Rose, who wished to think well of him, knew they were being cheated. She could think of no other way to punish the cabbie than to refuse his help with the luggage. She raised her chin haughtily and nodded to Parsefall to take one handle of the wicker trunk. She gripped the other handle, shifted the burlap sack in her arms, and descended the steps of the coach. Together they hauled the luggage into the railway station.

Inside the station, all was confusion: crowds of hurrying people, pyramids of luggage, and great clouds of smoke. Parsefall inhaled the sulphurous air in short puffs, like a nervous horse. Lizzie Rose steered him toward the booking clerk. Bravely she took out her purse and requested two first-class tickets.

The booking clerk looked startled. He knew his passengers at a glance, and it was clear to him that Lizzie Rose and Parsefall belonged in a third-class carriage. But he sold them the tickets and summoned a guard to take charge of their luggage. The guard led the children down a long platform, opened the coach doors, and hoisted the trunk into the luggage rack. He reached for the burlap sack, but Lizzie Rose told him that she preferred to hold it in her lap.

Parsefall whispered, “Is that Ru —?” but Lizzie Rose shushed him. She waited until the guard had gone before admitting that Ruby was inside the sack. No, she hadn’t told Mrs. Pinchbeck, but that didn’t mean she was stealing. No, she didn’t know if animals were allowed inside the coaches. She had drugged the dog with a large saucer of rum and milk and hoped that Ruby would sleep through the journey.

Parsefall was impressed. According to his lights, Lizzie Rose had stolen a dog and was defrauding the railway, two things of which he approved. He lolled back against the leather upholstery, admiring the first-class coach.

The coach door opened. A cross-looking man in a clerical collar sat down on the far end of Parsefall’s seat. When the door opened a second time, it admitted a stout man, his peevish wife, and a nursemaid with a crying baby. The man frowned at the children and stepped back outside the coach, where he held a low-voiced argument with the guard. Lizzie Rose caught the words
paupers, dirty,
and
most improper.
The nursemaid with the baby settled down between Parsefall and the clergyman, to the disgust of both. When the stout man returned and took his seat, the carriage was full.

The baby’s sobs rose to a scream. The nursemaid bounced and patted it, but the baby refused all comfort and shrieked as if it were being disemboweled. Parsefall rolled his eyes. The coach began to vibrate. There was a blast from a trumpet — a series of rumbles — and the train surged into the darkness of the December night.

Parsefall peered out the window. They were traveling in a cloud of coal smoke and red cinders. The baby’s screams sank to an incessant wail, less piercing than its screams, but no less irritating. Parsefall’s eyes met Lizzie Rose’s. He placed his fists together and gave a vicious little twist of one hand. Lizzie Rose nodded, her eyes thoughtful.

Several hours passed. Then a whistle blew, and lights appeared in the darkness. Doors opened and slammed. Lizzie Rose heard a man bellow, “Soup!” and saw passengers hurry out of the train, intent on purchasing supper. In less than a quarter of an hour, the trumpet blew and the train started up again. Lizzie Rose closed her eyes, wondering if she might sleep through the remaining hours. Before she had time to grow drowsy, the stout man drew a hamper out from under his seat. Lizzie Rose’s nostrils twitched. She smelled chicken-and-leek pie, ripe cheese, and oranges. Parsefall leaned forward, eyes glistening, hoping to partake of the feast. But the husband, the wife, and the nursemaid behaved as if there were no other people in the coach. When they finished eating, they wrapped the leftovers in napkins and returned them to the hamper.