The Aviary (12 page)

Harriet and Ruby were surprised to see Clara awake and washed up, stoking the fire in the oven, before the sun rose.

“I’m making breakfast for you,” she said. “I decided it’s time I stopped being the baby of the family and helped out.” In truth, Clara couldn’t lie in bed any longer, so excited was she about the possibility of seeing Daphne. But she did think helping out was a good step forward in allowing her mother to see her less as a child.

“That is quite thoughtful of you,” said her mother, “but I don’t like you carrying in the wood. It’s heavy. And may I warn you that you are
never
to chop wood?”

“Yes, Mama,” Clara said.

“Because I know how it is. You’re my daughter after all. It is tempting to overexert, but you don’t have the luxury. You must take care.”

Clara tried to hide her irritation. “Most people consider it a luxury to lay about with a book and listen to the clock tick—which I’ve done more days than I can count.”

“It is a bit inside out,” agreed Ruby.

“We bend to circumstance and necessity,” said her mother. “Heaven forbid …” She trailed off. “Never mind.”

Lately, Clara had been wandering up and down stairs more than ever before. The excitement of uncovering clues, scurrying, and then controlling her breathing so as not to betray her increased activity had actually increased her energy. If her heart pounded, it seemed to be from passion rather than a defect in that organ.

“Mama,” Clara said as she set the table, “do you think it’s time I saw a doctor?”

“Unless you feel particularly ill, I don’t see why.”

“Because I’m thinking that maybe my heart has healed. I’m rarely bothered by it. Maybe I had some childhood ailment I’ve outgrown.”

Her mother crossed her arms. “Clara?”

“What? I think it’s reasonable to ask. To wonder.”

“The next thing you know, you’ll be wanting to go to school,” said her mother.

Clara handed her mother the teapot and did not speak for fear of losing her temper.

Ruby rubbed her hands together and put on a bright face. “Well, what shall we do today? I’m marketing
this morning and have been thinking it’s time for me to blow the dust off some of these elegant old cooking books.”

Clara’s mother appeared glad to change the subject. “Yes! Clara, would you like that? We could set the table in the dining room. Put a cloth on.”

“I think there is still a silver candlestick or two left around here. We could be ladies for the evening,” Ruby added.

The idea immediately appealed to Clara. “How long do you think it has been since that dining room was used?”

“Let’s see,” said her mother. “Mrs. Glendoveer used to take her dinner there when I first arrived, didn’t she, Ruby?”

“She did, and for years before that. But I can’t say she always enjoyed it. It was often she’d ask me to fix a meal and want to sit at the kitchen table.”

“It’s too lonely to eat by oneself,” Clara said. “Especially at a long, grand table like that.”

“I think she used to picture her family there. Truly, I do,” said Ruby.

Clara watched her mother’s smile disappear. “What family, Ruby?” she rushed to ask.

“Her childhood family, is what Ruby meant,” said her mother, stepping forward. “Mrs. Glendoveer came from a large brood, a wealthy one—the Newsoms. And they weren’t pleased with her running away with a person of the theater.”

“They cut her off,” said Ruby. “She used to grieve about it.”

“They mustn’t have been very nice people,” Clara said.

“That’s the way it was in those days,” said her mother. “Magic shows were filled with riffraff, and pickpockets worked the crowd. The Newsoms couldn’t accept that George Glendoveer was a different kind of entertainer. It was a disgrace to the family.”

“I didn’t know that,” Clara said. “She told me she had regrets, but in a roundabout way.” Clara was piecing together a fuller view of the depths of Mrs. Glendoveer’s sadness.

“So, Harriet, after I make my shopping list, would you like to come with me?” asked Ruby.

“Hmm. I could use some seeds. I think that in the next week or two, it’ll be safe to plant radishes …”

Clara did her best to hide her sublime excitement.

“… but then, the ground could use preparing,” her mother continued. “And it won’t do to have seeds and no decent bed to plant them in.”

Clara stirred herself to speak. “But it is so lovely this morning. We haven’t had an early blue sky like this in ages.”

“Which makes it a perfect day for gardening,” her mother concluded.

Clara felt absolutely punctured. She stumbled over to the icebox, took out some eggs, and began cracking them
into a bowl. It was all she could do not to start sobbing. But she kept a straight face and made eggs and toast. And when Ruby left and her mother was out shoveling earth, Clara went upstairs to further investigate the bedroom with all the Glendoveers’ things.

But this time, the knob would not move.

She rattled it, and then shook the door.

Locked!

It could not be. Clara went over the last two days in her mind and wondered what had changed. Then she remembered: the stocking. That antique stocking had made her mother suspicious.

And what must her mother have thought when she found the door unlocked? No wonder she was reluctant to leave Clara alone today.

So this is how it is to be
, Clara thought. No direct questioning or accusations, no punishments; just a silent tit for tat, like a chess game.

And so Clara determined that she would betray no disappointment today. Tonight at dinner, she would be as enthusiastic and gay as she could be. For if she showed any sign of indignation at being thwarted, her mother would make doubly sure there was nothing further to be discovered.

“I can be patient,” she said to herself. And, smoothing her skirts, she headed downstairs to the library, where she would lose herself for hours, as expected, in the pages of a book.

• • •

By six o’clock, the Glendoveer household was fragrant with intoxicating aromas: roasting meat and buttery sauces, and baking bread had never smelled quite this heady before, and Clara knew she was in for something special. There had been much banging and hubbub with both women in the kitchen the whole day. Rooms all the way from the foyer to the dining room were bathed in the warm glow of fireplaces and candles—an unusual sight, for her mother was strict with her resources and usually lit and heated only the kitchen at night.

What’s more, Harriet and Ruby insisted that Clara stay clear during their preparations, making this early-May occasion seem more like December 24 than a cloudless evening in spring.

An hour before dinner was to be served, Clara was called to her mother’s room. Even that chamber had a changed aura. Harriet had laid out her few pieces of jewelry: jet beads and matching earrings. A cut-glass vase of mignonettes stood on her dressing table, giving off a spicy perfume.

“Ruby brought me the flowers,” she said, almost embarrassed. “They’re from a hothouse. I told her once how I loved the scent, long ago. And I do—but the
hothouse
?”

“I hope you didn’t scold her,” Clara said. “It’s not like
Ruby to be extravagant. She only wanted to make you happy.”

“No, dear, I thanked her. I know that the pleasure was hers as much as mine.” Her mother smiled and opened her wardrobe, where hung, between worn gray gowns, a dress as white as a cloud. She took it from its hanger and held it up to Clara’s shoulders. “It should fit, I think.”

Clara sputtered. “It’s a gown. A real gown.” She took it and examined it front and back. There were finely sewn buttonholes for the twelve mother-of-pearl buttons. Lace insets were sewn at angles in the muslin above the ankle-length hem. And, most significantly, there was no pinafore to speak of.

“It’s not quite a gown, but it is more grown-up. I found the pattern in
Godey’s
and decided I must make it for you. I put in a tucked princess waist, so there’s a shape to it. It will make a fine day dress for when the weather grows warm.” Her mother hung back. “Well, are you going to try it on?”

Clara grasped her mother’s hand. “I can’t wait!”

Harriet helped Clara off with her old collared poplin and slipped the gown over her head. Watching the dress take shape as her mother did up the line of buttons along her back, Clara felt she was being transformed. She stood as her mother undid her braids and brushed.

“We could pin all this up at the neck,” she said. “Would you like to try?”

“Please,” Clara said.

When Harriet was done, she stood behind her daughter and lingered on their reflection in the mirror. “I see a young lady there,” she said. “And a lovely one.”

Clara saw it too, but her joy was not complete. The contrast of her mother’s tired dress, her raw red hand on Clara’s pristine sleeve, made her wish that she could perform the same transformation for her mother.

“If I could,” she said, “I’d fill your entire room with mignonettes and tuberose and lilies of the Nile.”

“All those flowers,” her mother laughed, “and I’d have to be revived with spirits of ammonia.” She thrust her hands in her hair. “Now off with you while I do what I can with this bird’s nest.”

Clara sat on the divan in the parlor as she waited for her mother and Ruby. This too was a room rarely used, but tonight the exquisite chandelier with the hanging crystals was lit. Each cup in the lamp showed shadows of women in Greek togas bearing jugs of water on their shoulders. The gilding on the ceiling shimmered, and the glass panels on the pocket doors glittered with their roundels in gemlike colors. It was easy to believe that this was a house where magic was practiced.

With the tinkling of a bell, Ruby summoned everyone to dinner. Clara saw the buffet laid out, capped on each end with towering vases of gladioli and calla lilies. The candelabrum was draped with ivy, and the china plates shimmered like pearl.

Ruby and Harriet came in with the final dishes and
urged Clara to have a seat. On a little placard near her plate, her mother had written out the menu in her fine hand:

“Where am I?” Clara asked.

“You are dining at the Glendoveers’, milady,” said Ruby, who, Clara noticed, had tucked a lily into her chignon. “Unfortunately, the help have the night off, so we are forced to serve ourselves.”

“We’ll make do,” said her mother. “In the meantime, I’ll take the liberty of fetching my daughter a plate.”

When the ladies were at their places, Harriet proposed a toast. “To Cenelia Glendoveer,” she said, “and our great good fortune in having her as our patroness.”

“Hear! Hear!” said Ruby, and the three raised their glasses in the air. As the crystal clinked, however, an extraordinary thing happened: the door to the kitchen swung open and shut on a gust of wind, and the candles blew out.

“Mercy,” said Ruby. Clara looked to her mother, who sat still and composed.

“Shall we try again?” Harriet asked. She struck a match and relit the candles.

Clara knew that her mother, who wasn’t easily rattled, was being deliberately calm. It took some minutes for them to resume normal conversation. But the delicious dishes soon won out and put everyone at her ease.

“This is the most savory veal roast I’ve ever tasted,” said Harriet.

“Me too!” said Clara, who had never actually had veal roast but could easily believe her mother’s sentiment.

Ruby stifled a grin, took up a napkin, and fanned herself, chuckling.

“Oh, Ruby,” said Clara’s mother, “what is it?”

“I’ll tell you my secret,” she said. And then, covering her face with her napkin, she chirped, “Madeira!”

“You didn’t!”

“Oh yes, I did! A little for the veal, and a little for the cook!”

Clara marveled at Ruby, giggling into her napkin like a girl. And at her mother, trying to stare daggers at her but not succeeding.

“What’s Madeira?” Clara asked.

“A group of islands off the coast of Morocco,” said her mother, trying to reclaim a straight face.

“It’s spirits, isn’t it?” said Clara. “Oh, Ruby, you are wicked.”

“And what do you know about spirits?”

“I started reading Thackeray once, and Mrs. Glendoveer confiscated it. But not before I read about Madeira,” Clara said.

Her mother’s eyes widened. “Well, we’re all full of surprises tonight, aren’t we?”

“Everyone but you, Harriet,” said Ruby. “I’ve yet to hear a surprise out of you this evening.”

“This dress was a surprise,” Clara said. “It took my breath away.”

“As was intended.” Harriet set down her knife and fork. “But it just might be that I have another surprise in store.”

“Another?” asked Clara.

Her mother folded her hands and placed them on the table. “I’ve been at Fitzmorris Blenney often of late, as you know.…”

“Ah! I knew it!” Ruby said, interrupting with a pound of her fist. “Mr. Clayton Merritt-Blenney. I’ve thought all along that he’d be a silly bachelor indeed if he didn’t take notice of our Harriet.…”