Verity Sparks and the Scarlet Hand (11 page)

Helen came back, leaned over and kissed her husband on the forehead. “Goodnight, dear. Goodnight, everyone.”

As we ate our supper, the reflected light from the flames flickered and danced on the brass trays and vases. The elephants cast shadows onto the wall and on the mantelpiece; the peacock feathers gleamed blue and gold.

“They really do look like eyes, don’t they?” said Papa, settling back with his glass of brandy. “They are looking at us.”

“The evil eye, more like,” said Hannah as she brought in hot milk. “Mr Petrov knows full well it’s bad luck to have peacock feathers in the house.”

“Is that an old superstition?” asked Papa when she’d left the room.

“Apparently so,” said Mr Petrov. “But my bad luck began long before I’d even seen a peacock. It started in St Petersburg.”

“What did, Nicky?”

Mr Petrov didn’t answer Papa’s question. He seemed to be talking to himself, the way older people often did. “My poor wife Natalya said it was a curse. Perhaps she was right. I’m glad she wasn’t there to see her grandchildren die.”

There was a brief silence and again I was uncomfortably aware of the chess set on its carved table.

“Did you ever hear of the Hand of Hope, Pierre?”

“It was a political group, was it not?”

“Yes. They were idealists who wanted to bring justice to the workers and peasants. I printed some pamphlets and posters for them, much to Natalya’s horror. And she was right, after all. Nothing was the same after …”

“After what, Uncle?”

Mr Petrov looked at Harold and me as if he’d forgotten we were there. Now he roused himself. “No, no, that is past history and not for your young ears. Now, off to bed. At your age, you need your sleep.”

As I shut the door behind me, I looked back into the room. Papa was right. The feathers did look like eyes.

Blood-red satin. Mama was wearing a red evening dress with an old-fashioned bell-shaped skirt that swayed as she walked. The earrings were rubies; so was the glittering necklace. A fan, made of cream-coloured lace and dotted with tiny red sequins, hung from one wrist, and her other hand rested on Papa’s arm. He was dark-haired and very handsome. They seemed to be in some kind of park. Was that a ruin? Among the trees I could see columns choked in ivy and what looked like a marble statue. Wherever they were, they were happy to be together. As she looked at Papa, Mama’s eyes shone. They laughed and chatted as if they were off to a party or a ball. Then they fell silent. A man stood in front of them. Tall, rather portly, red-headed.

“Come back,” he said. “I will forgive you.”

Mama shook her head.

And then I realised where they were. It was a cemetery.

I woke, trembling. Just a dream, I told myself.

Just a dream? That was no comfort. Last year, I’d had the same nightmare over and over again and it had turned out to be a premonition. Sometimes, dreams were messages from the past. Or from the future …

I heard a clock strike somewhere in the house. It was only three o’clock. I tried to snuggle down under the covers and go back to sleep but I kept seeing Mama and Papa and the red-headed man. Who was he? Why was he in my dream? You see, I recognised him. He’d been in my vision at the theatre, in Mama’s dressing-room, playing with her fan. He’d asked her to come back with him and he’d called her Penny. This man must have known Mama since she was a child, because later she used the stage name Isabella Savage. Perhaps they were sweethearts … No. Whether it was his small pale-lashed eyes, upturned nose or the fat belly that even his well-cut suit could not disguise, there was something horribly piggy about him.

Sleep was now just wishful thinking. I looked over at the other bed. Poppy was curled up like a kitten, but Connie had sprawled sideways and pushed the bedclothes off. I got up and pulled them over her again. Looking down at her face, I saw that she was smiling and I’m ashamed to say that something like jealousy shot through me. Connie had a gift. Oh, I knew I had one too, but mine was a tricky kind of talent and I couldn’t help wondering what I was meant to do with it. Connie’s gift was her destiny. She was a musician. With Madame Fodor as her teacher, perhaps she would have her chance to shine with recitals and concerts, even overseas travel to Paris or Rome. I pulled myself up short. Connie’s home was Riverbend Station. Could she bear to be parted from her father? How I wished I had a crystal ball.

My mind wandered. I thought of
Millie the Milliner
. Though it would be fun to see it in Mr Brandywine’s shop, I didn’t think I’d write another book. Writing wasn’t my passion. Mrs Morcom, trudging through jungles and swamps to paint rare plants, had a passion. And so did Harold. So had Mama. Sighing, I rolled over and tried to get comfortable. I turned fifteen this year; I was nearly grown up. What would life hold?

I must have gone back to sleep soon after that, because I had another dream.

Papa and Mama again. They were still young and happy, but this time there was no red-headed man with them. They were walking together along a country road. They hadn’t seen me yet, for they were taking their time, talking quietly to each other, hand in hand. Mama looked up. Recognition seemed to light her face. She waved. It was then that I realised that I wasn’t alone. Someone was standing next to me. It was Della Parker.

Della took my hand in hers. “Come on,” she said. “It’s time …”

Della’s face, so like Mama’s, hovered in my mind when I woke. My hand in hers … I could almost feel the warm pressure of her fingers. And instead of alarm, I felt a strange feeling of peace. Della, I thought. Della Parker … You’ve come into my life for a reason. There was no fear as I pondered that thought, only curiosity. Why?

In the morning, after breakfast, we visited the Levinys. I was longing to talk to Drucilla. Had her feelings towards SP changed? Was she still angry, or was she beginning to miss him? But what with all those children and the important business of morning tea, we managed only a dozen words and none of them were about Saddington Plush. Never mind, I told myself. Though I wanted to know if there was any hope for SP, there was no hurry. We were staying in Castlemaine for two whole weeks.

After lunch, Connie was going off for her first lesson with Madame Fodor. Poppy planned to accompany her. Helen was busy with a meeting of her sewing circle, and Mr Petrov always rested in the afternoon. What was I going to do?

“Do you need to rest too, Mr Savinov?” asked Harold.

“Me? Not at all. I am enjoying the country air. I find it most invigorating.”

“Then perhaps I could take you and Verity for a drive.”

“Why don’t you go out to Paulina’s farm?” said Hannah, coming into the room. “We need apples and pears, and a few more bottles of wine.”

“What do you say?”

“I say it would be delightful,” said Papa.

The farm was at Barker’s Creek, only ten minutes or so out of Castlemaine. We turned off the Bendigo road onto a smaller one lined with orchards and rows of vines. All the leaves were turning yellow and gold and the rosebushes planted at the end of each row were covered in bright red hips.

Harold pulled up the horse and the buggy slowed to a halt. “We’re here.”

We got out in front of a large sign at the entrance. It read:

BLUMBERG PLEASURE GARDENS – WINES, PLANTS, FRUIT AND FLOWERS

Up ahead was a farmhouse surrounded by gardens and orchards.

“Ah!” said Papa, stopping still and looking delightedly around him. “What peace.”

“Peace,” I echoed. Yes, he was right. The honey-coloured stone walls, the trees with their autumn leaves, the brick paths and garden beds seemed to breathe serenity. Bees hummed over the flowers and herbs; brown butterflies chased each other in and out of the sunlight. Everything was warm and mellow in the afternoon light.

Papa took a couple of deep breaths and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were moist. Was Papa crying? I reached for his hand.

“Papa, what has upset you?”

“Nothing, Veroschka,” he said, bending down and kissing my cheek. “Your papa is not upset. How could I be, in such a place?” He wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. “I am growing sentimental in my old age. You see, I am reminded of my grandmother’s farm.”

Papa had never mentioned a farm before. In fact, he’d hardly talked to me about his childhood in Russia at all. He seemed such a citified gentleman, and I tried to imagine him as a little boy walking up such a path as this. He squeezed my hand. “Happy memories,
chérie
. So long ago …”

Harold, who’d been tactfully looking the other way, now gestured for us to climb the front steps onto the verandah. It was screened by a twining grapevine, and only when we reached the top of the steps did we see the elderly gentleman sitting on a bench in the shade. A collie dog, old like its owner, sat next to him. The pair of them got up on stiff legs.

“Ah, Harold!” said the old man, walking forwards using a stick. He launched into a flood of greetings but his accent was so thick and strange that I only understood one word in ten.

However, Papa understood. He greeted the old fellow in German (Papa, being a man of the world, spoke German, Polish, French, Russian and English) and in a trice the two of them were chatting away like old friends.

“Come with me,” whispered Harold, and we left them on the bench in the shade.

We went together into the house. Halfway down the hall, I sniffed. A delicious smell composed of honey, cinnamon and nutmeg, new-baked bread and buttery cake led us by our noses to the kitchen. Standing at the table, a middle-aged woman with a flushed, pretty face was beating eggwhites in a copper bowl. She looked up and her blue eyes widened with delight.

“Harold, my boy, how good to see you again!” She put down her whisk and hugged him. She turned to me. “You must be the young lady Hannah was telling me about. I am Paulina Dohnt. Welcome to Blumberg. It means ‘flower hill’. It was the name of our village in the old country.”

“I brought Verity’s father as well,” said Harold. “He’s sitting on the verandah with your father.”

“Then I will make some tea for us. I have just baked a cake.”

“When have you not just baked a cake?” said Harold, and Paulina laughed. “Hannah sent us to pick up some wine, Paulina. May we go and get it?”

“Yes, go ahead. You know the way.”

Harold took me through a courtyard towards a building completely covered in ivy. All around it was a strong, fruity, yeasty smell. The door was open and a bright strip of sunlight lay across the brick floor. As we walked inside, the smell became sharper, vinegary, and almost overpowering. One side of the room was lined with wooden barrels, and a man with his back to us was doing something to a tap.

“Stay where you are for a minute, Verity,” said Harold in a low voice, and then he strode forwards, making a lot of noise with his boots on the flagged stone floor.

“Hermann!” he called. “It’s me – Harold.”

The man lurched to his feet and turned around. I gasped. I couldn’t stop myself, but at least I didn’t cry out. You see, the whole right side of Hermann’s face was a welter of old scars and his eye had disappeared into a pucker of skin. The poor man must have met with some terrible accident.