Laura Schlitz - Splendors and Glooms

She had scarcely had time to tell the girl how much she had enjoyed the show before the puppet master sidled over. He bowed before Clara, a florid showman’s bow: knee bent, wrists cocked, toe flexed. A dirty handbill materialized between his fingertips. He stayed frozen in his jester’s position until Clara ventured forward and took the handbill. There was something unnerving about the fixed grin on his face. Clara felt that in drawing near to him, she was being a little bit brave.

That night, she gave the handbill to her father and begged to have the puppets at her birthday party.

Dr. Wintermute refused. Professor Grisini was a foreigner; foreigners were invariably dirty and often ill. Clara pleaded. Dr. Wintermute said that the whole thing was out of the question. Clara, accepting defeat, did not argue, but she wept. That settled matters. Spoiled or not, Clara did not cry often. When she did, she generally got her way.

Thinking about the children coming made Clara forget to be as steady as a rock. She twitched, shifting her weight to the balls of her feet.

“Hold still, Miss Clara!” snapped Agnes.

Clara stiffened. She lowered her lashes and raised the corners of her mouth, so that she didn’t look sullen. Neither Agnes nor her governess had any patience with sulking. Clara had, in fact, practiced her present expression in the mirror. It was a neutral expression, a coy mask of a smile. Over the years, it had served her well.

“Your mother wants you dressed and ready to go by nine o’clock,” Agnes said after completing another ringlet. “She said you should wear the blue cashmere and your sealskins. It’ll be cold at Kensal Green.”

“Thank you, Agnes,” said Clara. The expression on her face was sweetly placid. No one must ever guess how much she hated going to Kensal Green.

“Cook’s been busy all morning, decorating your birthday cake”— Agnes brushed another ringlet around her finger —“and your mother had so many presents to wrap, she asked the maids to help her. I don’t know what a little girl can want with so many presents.”

Clara hesitated. “Agnes, do you know —?”

The words hung fire. Agnes gave one shoulder a shove. “Out with it.”

“If she bought presents for the Others?”

Agnes took in her breath and let it out again. “If you mean your brothers and sisters, yes, she did, Miss Clara, and there’s no point in you staring down at the floor and pouting.”

“I’m not pouting,” Clara protested softly. She lifted her chin and resumed her doll-like smile. Her cheeks burned. She didn’t want the Others to be part of her birthday. She was ashamed, but she couldn’t help herself.

“You know how your mother is, Miss Clara,” Agnes said firmly. “It’s like that going to Kensal Green. It don’t change, and it won’t change.”

Clara lowered her eyes to the prayer book. For a moment or two, she was silent, apparently reading. Then she raised her head. “Agnes,” she said tremulously, “there’s something I want you to help me with. Something I want dreadfully.”

Agnes exchanged the comb for the brush. “I’m sure I don’t know what it could be, miss. I don’t suppose Princess Victoria had as many frocks as you have, nor such toys, neither.”

Clara’s stomach tightened. Once Agnes got started on how lucky she was, she was likely to go on a long time. There wasn’t time to waste. She spun around. “Please,” she begged, “please —”

Agnes dropped the brush. Clara dove for it and held it out to her.

“What is it?” demanded Agnes.

“I want to give tea to the children,” Clara answered. “Professor Grisini’s children. You see, Agnes, that’s why I wanted the puppet show so much — because of the children. There’s a girl and a boy. The boy works the fantoccini, and the girl can play the flute and the fiddle. She was ever so nice.” She caught hold of Agnes’s hands. “I want to talk to them — just them — with no one else about; no grown-ups. They’re so clever — they must know so many things I don’t. Think of it, Agnes. They earn their own living!”

Agnes’s mouth twisted. At Clara’s age, Agnes had been a scullery maid. She saw no romance in earning a living. “You know that’s wrong, miss. Your mother wouldn’t like it a bit. And what would your little friends think, having to take tea with common children like those Greaseenies?”

Clara shook her head. “Oh, I don’t mean that! Of course it wouldn’t do to have them with the other children! But we could have tea before the party, if you’ll help. You see, Professor Grisini will be here to set up the stage at two, and the guests won’t come till three. I thought perhaps — if the professor was given a hot drink in the kitchen, I could have a tray for the children.” She tugged at Agnes’s hands. “Please, Agnes! Just toast — and tea — and jam. And then, I’ve made them both a little parcel to take home — oranges and sweets. Please, Agnes!”

Agnes jerked her hands out of Clara’s. “I don’t know what you’ll take a fancy for next, Miss Clara. Taking tea with dirty foreigners?”

Clara sidestepped the question. “They’re not dirty,” she pleaded, which wasn’t true; the girl had looked clean, but the man and the boy were very dirty. “And they’re not foreigners. The professor is, but the girl is as English as I am, and she talks like a lady. Please, Agnes.”

“Miss Cameron won’t allow it,” Agnes said. She expected this argument to clinch the matter — there was no chance that Clara’s governess would approve of Clara’s mingling with common children — but Clara was ready for her.

“Mamma gave Miss Cameron a half day,” she answered. “She’s going to visit her sister in Islington and won’t be back until three.”

Agnes tried another tack. “You know how your father feels about people tracking dirt into the nursery —”

Clara interrupted her. “They needn’t come up to the nursery. We could take tea in the drawing room, where they set up the stage. I could watch them set up. Oh, please, Agnes!”

Agnes snorted. “You’re stagestruck, that’s what you are.”

Clara switched tactics. “If you’re too busy,” she said daringly, “I could carry the tea tray myself. I could put my pinafore over my birthday frock and creep down the back staircase and ask Cook —”

“You, miss!” exclaimed Agnes. “Carrying trays! I’d like to see you, going up them steep steps with your hands full! Why, you’d drop the tray — and ruin your dress — and tumble downstairs!”

“I shouldn’t mind if I did,” Clara said recklessly. “I shouldn’t — not one bit — if I could have tea with the children. Oh, Agnes, please help me!” She caught the maidservant’s hands in hers. “It’s the thing I want most in all the world! And it’s my birthday!”

Agnes pulled her hands free.

“Now, that’s enough, Miss Clara. I suppose I can manage a tray around quarter after two — only it’ll be for you, mind you, not for them. If you choose to share your tea with ’em, that’s none of my business — and you’re not to say more than you have to, if anybody should ask.” She put her hands on Clara’s shoulders, checking Clara’s embrace. “I said, that’s enough. You know your mother wouldn’t like you hugging and kissing the servants.”

Clara didn’t answer. Her ears had caught the sound of footsteps on the front stairs. The nursery door opened. “Clara, dearest!”

Clara went to her mother. Mrs. Wintermute was tall, shapely, and dressed in black. Her face was youthful, though her light-brown hair was turning white. Clara embraced her tenderly, careful not to crush her mother’s dress.

“Clara, dear, aren’t you dressed yet?”