Splendors and Glooms (41 page)

“I opened the box and saw the fire opal. It had a different setting in those days; it was a simple pendant. The colors so dazzled me that I gasped, and the other girls flocked around me, asking me to let them see. I felt as if the necklace were mine. All of us were astonished by its beauty; none of us had ever seen anything like it. But Marguerite showed no desire to try it on.

“We passed the jewel from hand to hand. I fancied that it smarted and stung my palm — a feverish tingle that I found first painful and then agreeable. I tried not to let anyone see how much I longed for it to be mine.

“That night I could not sleep. The image of the fire opal so teased me that I slipped out of bed and crept on tiptoe to Marguerite’s cubicle. Leaving our beds at night was strictly forbidden, but the dormitory partitions were only curtains, made of rough cloth. There were no locks to pick, no doors to rattle, and in fact Marguerite and I often crept into each other’s beds after dark. So I went to her cubicle and asked in a whisper if she were awake.

“She lifted her blanket so that I could slide into bed with her. She said she had been unable to sleep, thinking of me. She asked me if I hated her for having so many presents when I had only her ivory fan. I lied, of course. I said I loved her dearly. She believed me. Then I asked her about the stone.

“She said she had a horror of it. She knew it was foolish of her, but the jewel was a fire opal, and her mamma had died by fire. Madame Tremblay had been oddly superstitious about the gem, even obsessed with it. She used to call it her wishing stone.

“A wishing stone! How those words excited me! I thought of all the things I wished for: that my mother might return; that my father might love me; that I might shrink and become delicate and fairylike, as Marguerite was. I wanted to marry a nobleman; I wanted to live in a palazzo. . . . But of course I confided none of these things to Marguerite. I changed the subject and we talked about the party. Then Marguerite fell asleep — she could fall asleep quite suddenly and deeply, like a child — and I slid out from under the blankets and crept to the trunk at the foot of her bed.

“The moon was full that night. When I opened the trunk, I could see the pale color of Marguerite’s birthday shawl. Underneath was the pasteboard carton. A subtle warmth seemed to come from it. I opened it and found the stone. I gripped it in my fist and wished that my father would remember my birthday. I think when I opened the trunk, I meant only to wish on the stone, not to take it. But of course I did take it. That night I hid it under my mattress. The next day, I sewed a tiny pocket for it in the bodice of my chemise. I wore it there like a second heart — hotter and stronger than my own.

“My father’s birthday parcel arrived within the week. It contained a workbox for my sewing — I detested sewing — and a book of essays, entitled
Christian Thoughts.
I looked for a letter, but there was only a single sheet of paper with the hastily scrawled inscription:
To Cassandra, for her twelfth birthday.
I read it and began to cry. There was nothing in the parcel that showed that my father had any acquaintance with me. He had forgotten my age, he had given me the kind of book I most disliked, and his letter could not have been less affectionate. Since that day, I have had better reasons to weep. I have known betrayal; I have known cruelty. But nothing has broken my heart more than the package my father sent for my thirteenth birthday.

“It was nine weeks before Marguerite found out that something was missing from her trunk. She was perfectly bewildered, because only the six of us — her dearest friends — had seen the necklace. No thief had broken into the convent. Her precious pearls were untouched. But her mother’s favorite necklace was missing, and that meant that one of her friends had betrayed her. Of course we were searched — our trunks, our cubicles. Sister Beata took me into an empty room and told me to remove my clothes.

“I was horribly embarrassed. I was ashamed of my figure, which was too well developed for a girl my age. I pressed my hand against my second heart and wished that I might be spared the search. I shall never forget the queer look that came over Sister Beata’s face. ‘Of course it was not you,’ she said. ‘You are Marguerite’s dearest friend. You have said that you are innocent and I believe you. You may return to your room.’

“So my secret was never discovered. As for Marguerite, she was heartbroken. One of her dearest friends had proved an enemy, and she didn’t know which one. ‘The only thing I know for certain,’ she used to say, ‘is that it wasn’t you.’ I couldn’t imagine how she could be so stupid. Had she forgotten the night of her birthday, when she told me it was a wishing stone? Why didn’t she remember? I think perhaps it was sheer obstinacy. She was determined to trust me in the very teeth of the evidence. Indeed, she treated me with greater affection than before. Sometimes when she brushed my hair, I had to leave the room, so that I could be sick — but I couldn’t vomit up the lie. There were times when I almost confessed — except I knew that if I told the truth, I would have to give back the stone. I couldn’t give it up.

“So I kept my secret, and in time Marguerite went back to New France. For years she wrote to me. I never answered. Before she died, she sent me the little portrait that you found in the library.
In remembrance.
She wrote that on the back. I’ve wondered what she meant by it. Perhaps, years later, she came to understand that I was the thief; perhaps she wanted to remind me how I’d wronged her. Or perhaps it was a token of forgiveness. I’ll never know. That she should hate me, that she should forgive me: either one is a torment. For seventy years, she has haunted me.”

“You loved her,” said Lizzie Rose.

“Did I?” asked Cassandra. “I don’t know. She loved me. She was the last person who ever loved me. I never had another friend. I had admirers, of course; with the power of the fire opal, I could make men fawn on me. But their affection was neither lasting nor true, and I quickly tired of them. It’s queer, isn’t it? When I look back over my long life, there were only two people who mattered. One was Gaspare and the other was Marguerite. He betrayed me and I betrayed her.” She moved restlessly. “You look as if you pity me. Don’t. Remember, I brought you to Strachan’s Ghyll to steal the fire opal. Any of you might have inherited its curse: you, or your brother, or Clara, if she hadn’t been so strong. I knew what I was passing on. A wasted life, a fiery death. I didn’t care. I’m telling you the truth:
I didn’t care.
”

Cassandra’s voice did not falter. She risked a glance at Lizzie Rose and read the shock in the young girl’s eyes. Cassandra twisted away from her, dragging the bedclothes over her shoulder to signal that she was too tired to talk anymore.

Ruby gave a little grunt of irritation. She got up, stretched, and made her way to Cassandra’s pillow. Carefully, systematically, she began to lick the tears from the witch’s face.

W
hen Parsefall opened his eyes, he was in Madama’s room. He sat up and used his fingernails to scrape the grit from his eyelids. Then he kicked off the blankets and reached for his clothes, only to recall that he had left them in the White Room.

A ray of sunshine streamed through the crimson curtains. It was full daylight. Lizzie Rose was not there, and neither was Ruby; they must have gone for their morning walk. Parsefall wondered why none of the servants had come in with breakfast. At the thought, his stomach growled, and he got to his feet.

He had forgotten Clara. She was asleep in the chair, curled as tight as a fist. To an adult, she might have appeared small. To her former puppet master, she looked enormous. Parsefall felt a pang of regret. She was no longer his. He recalled the thrill of making her dance and the queer un-loneliness he felt when he cradled her in his lap. Now she was separate from him, a thing he had lost.

She stirred and her eyes opened. One cheek was red from the arm of the chair. “Is there any hot water?”

Parsefall shrugged. He had a vague knowledge that the servants at Strachan’s Ghyll brought water for washing every morning, but the matter had never much interested him. It occurred to him that Clara was probably going to be like Lizzie Rose, always wanting to clean herself. She tiptoed to the washstand, dipped her fingers into the water pitcher, and frowned. Then she came back and picked up her slippers. He followed her into the hallway.

She spoke in a low voice. “I’m hungry. Do you suppose there’ll be anything to eat?”

“There usually is,” Parsefall said. He sniffed hopefully, but he lacked Lizzie Rose’s acute sense of smell, and he could pick up no scent of bacon or frying ham. “Let’s go and see.”

They fell into step. When they came to the staircase, Clara sat down on the top stair to put on her slippers. It reminded Parsefall that he was still in his nightshirt. “Wait ’ere,” he directed her, and went back to the White Room to change. He threw on his clothes, shoved his feet into his boots, and clomped back down the hall to Clara.

He found her waiting with her hands in her lap. In his absence, she had tidied herself, reknotting her sash and finger-combing her hair. It hadn’t done much good. Her curls were snarled, and the skirt of her dress was torn. “Do you suppose Mrs. Fettle will be at breakfast?” she asked.

He shrugged. Then he understood. “She’s going to start askin’ you questions, in’t she? Wot are you goin’ to tell ’er?”

“I don’t know.” Clara clasped her knees. “I suppose I shall have to say that Mr. Grisini kidnapped me and held me prisoner. It’s what happened, after all. Only as soon as I say
kidnapped,
everyone will want to know where I’ve been, and I can’t tell the truth, because no one will believe me. I suppose I might describe an empty building — I’m sure there
are
empty buildings about, shepherd’s huts and so forth — but I’ve never been in a shepherd’s hut, and I don’t know what it’s like.” She pinched her skirt between her fingers and added petulantly, “I’m ever so tired of this dress.”

Parsefall sat down next to her. He didn’t care about dresses, but he was always interested in the construction of a plausible lie. “Tell ’em it woz dark. Tell ’em it woz so dark you can’t say what it looked like. Then one night, you found a rusty nail and pried open a loose board and crawled outside, and come ’ere. And then Grisini come after you.”

Clara gazed at him admiringly. “That’s a good story.” She bent her head, hugging her knees tighter. “But whatever story I tell, someone will send a telegram to London, so my parents will know I’m safe. And then I shall have to go home.”

“Why?” demanded Parsefall.

“Because I must. I
want
to go home,” she corrected herself. She got to her feet and started down the stairs.

Parsefall trailed after her. He saw that her back looked stiff and that she moved like a clockwork figure. He supposed that was what thinking about her family did to her. “Wot if you don’t go back?”

Clara turned to face him. “I must.”

“You don’t want to.”

Clara shook her head in unconscious agreement. “I know Papa and Mamma have been dreadfully worried,” she said, her forehead puckering. “It makes me ache, to think of the pain I’ve caused. Of course, it isn’t all my fault; I didn’t ask Grisini to kidnap me. Our home isn’t a very happy one, but that isn’t why I mind going. It’s leaving you and Lizzie Rose. I never had friends before. I never met anyone —” She stopped to compose herself. “I never met anyone like you in my life.”

Parsefall was immensely flattered. He wondered if “you” meant just himself or himself and Lizzie Rose. He hoped it meant only him. But Clara was still speaking. “I wish we needn’t part. I could bear it if we could go on being friends. But of course, I
will
bear it. It’s only that I shall miss you. That’s all.”

Parsefall shoved his hands in his pockets. “It ain’t as if we’re going to stay ’ere forever. Lizzie Rose’ll want to stay till the old lady dies, ’cos she feels sorry for ’er. She’s always feelin’ sorry for people,” he added resentfully. “But after the old lady dies, we’ll go back to London.”

Clara shook her head. “Madama’s going to give you Strachan’s Ghyll. I heard her say so this morning. I was half asleep, but I heard quite clearly. She’s leaving the house to both of you.”

“I don’t want the blinkin’ ’ouse,” Parsefall said testily. He swept his hand through the air, dismissing the carved staircase, the gold-framed portraits, the melancholy stags with their branching antlers. “It’s ’andsome enough, but I can’t make a livin’ ’ere. There ain’t no audience. Once the old lady dies, I’ll come back to London an’ live at Mrs. Pinchbeck’s. Only thing is, the coppers is after me.”

“Why?”

“Because I prigged a photograph of your bruvver in ’is coffin.”

“What do you mean — prigged?”

Parsefall wrinkled his nose. “Stole,” he said, as if experimenting with the word. “The frame woz silver. Lizzie Rose wouldn’t let me hock it at the pawnshop, an’ your father went to see Lizzie Rose and saw it on the mantelpiece.”

“Oh,” said Clara. “Well, never mind. I’ll tell Papa you saved my life, and he’ll make the coppers leave you alone.”