Laura Schlitz - Splendors and Glooms

Clara rolled to one side, trying to slip the end of the rope under her sash. Her fingers shook. “I broke the fire opal,” she said. She crossed one end of the rope under the other and pulled, making the first half of a double knot. She jerked her head at a small mound of snow. “It’s there.”

Parsefall reached down and scooped up the snow. He peered at the remains of the gemstone. Then he clapped the snowball back together and tossed it over his shoulder.

Clara heard a faint splash.

“I’ll pull you,” Parsefall said. He was backing up. Already his voice sounded far away. “Just ’old on. I’ll pull you.”

Clara lay flat. She felt the tension of the rope as she began to move, the ridges in the ice scraping her skin. She heard her skirt tear. She thought, Parsefall is pulling my strings, and in spite of the danger and the piercing cold, she laughed.

Lizzie Rose stood at the edge of the lake and prayed. She heard the squeal and crackle of the ice, and she strained to see through the darkness to the place where Parsefall was trying to rescue Clara. The children had come to the lake just in time to witness Grisini’s fall. It was Parsefall, with his cat-keen eyes, who spotted Clara; she was fifty-some paces farther from the shore than Grisini had been. Lizzie Rose had been forced to think rapidly, to direct Clara to lie down, to remember the rope that served as Ruby’s tether, to agree — too quickly — that Parsefall would be safer on the ice than she would. Now she held herself rigid and prayed that no one else would drown.

She heard footsteps behind her, crunching through the snow. She looked over her shoulder and saw two bundled-up shapes: Mrs. Fettle and her son, Mark. Mrs. Fettle was carrying a lantern. Lizzie Rose turned back to the lake and resumed her prayers.

She watched as Parsefall, bent like a plow horse, towed Clara across the jagged ice. He was swearing, but almost cheerfully; Lizzie Rose had heard him swear like that backstage. Clara half crawled, half skidded toward the shore.

Mark Fettle took off his coat and handed it to Lizzie Rose. “Give my coat to the girl. I’ll carry the boy.” He went to the lake’s edge and held out his arms. “Come here, lad. I’ll carry you back to the house — save those bare feet of yours.”

Parsefall looked startled but did not protest. As soon as he came within arm’s length, Mark Fettle swept him up, one arm around his shoulders and the other under his knees. Lizzie Rose went to Clara and draped Mark’s coat over the girl’s shoulders.

“Inside,” Mrs. Fettle said curtly.

She lit their way up the path. Mark Fettle followed, carrying Parsefall, then Lizzie Rose, and Clara, with the rope dragging behind her like a tail. They were halfway up the hill before they saw the house. Lizzie Rose halted, staring. She heard Mark Fettle say, “God!”

“The tower,” said Parsefall.

“It’s fallen,” gasped Mrs. Fettle.

The shape of the house had changed. The great tower had collapsed. The remains resembled a hand with the three tallest fingers drawn together. There was a trio of uneven peaks where the tower wall adjoined the house. Near the bottom, where the hollow of the hand might be, was a great mound of rubble: stone, plaster, shingles, and timber.

“I told Madama it was unsafe,” said Mrs. Fettle. “I warned her, but she wouldn’t listen to me.”

“That must’ve been what we heard,” Mark Fettle said in wonder. “We came out into the garden and I felt the ground shake. I thought it was an earthquake.”

“It was an earthquake,” declared Mrs. Fettle. “What else could make the tower fall and the ice crack? Someone might’ve been killed.” She rounded on the children. “What were you doing out on the lake past midnight? And what was the meaning of all that screeching? And who’s this girl, and what’s she doing here?”

Lizzie Rose said imploringly, “Oh, please, ma’am! It’s dreadfully cold, and we haven’t any proper clothes on! Mayn’t we go inside?”

Mrs. Fettle sniffed. “You may and you will,” the housekeeper said grimly, “but once you’re inside, you’re going to tell me the whole story.”

Lizzie Rose quailed at the prospect. She followed Mrs. Fettle up the path, trying to think how to explain the events of the evening to a grown-up. Her mind was still blank when they reached the house.

The kitchen door was ajar. Clara hastened to the stove and knelt down, her teeth chattering. Parsefall squatted an arm’s length away. Lizzie Rose took the poker and stirred the coals, clouding the air with smoke and coal ash. “Might we have a basin of cold water, Mrs. Fettle? I’m afraid of frostbite — Parsefall hasn’t any shoes on and Clara’s slippers are wet.”

Mrs. Fettle filled a basin with water and banged it down before Parsefall. “There. Stand in that and let your feet thaw.”

Parsefall dipped one foot in the water and jerked it back again. “It’s bloody ’ot!” he said, outraged.

“It isn’t,” snapped Mrs. Fettle. “It’s cold water; it only feels hot because you’re half frozen. And I’ll thank you not to use that language in this house.” She darted a sharp look at Clara. “I’d like to know who you are and what you’re doing here. Where did you come from?”

Clara sidestepped the first two questions, fastening on the third. “From London, ma’am.”

Mrs. Fettle’s eyebrows rose. “If you live in London, why are you here? When did you come, and where are your parents? Why were you out on the lake in the middle of the night, without any coat on?”

Clara hesitated. She fumbled with the buttons on the borrowed coat, playing for time.

Lizzie Rose spoke up. “Grisini was chasing her.”

“Chasing her!” exclaimed Mrs. Fettle. “Mr. Grisini’s down at the gatehouse. He’s too weak to chase anyone. Why on earth —?”

Parsefall interrupted her. “He ain’t down the gatehouse. He’s dead. ’E fell in the lake.”

“Do you mean just now?” Mrs. Fettle stared at him as if he had lost his mind. “Tonight? Do you mean he’s out there —?” She turned to her son. “Mark,” she said urgently.

Mark Fettle shook his head, dumbfounded.

Parsefall stopped chafing his toes. “He drownded,” he explained. “I saw it. The ice cracked and ’e slid down between the pieces. His ’ands was snatching at the edge, but he couldn’t catch ’old, ’cos the ice broke off. Then he sank, an’ he never come back up. We both saw, didn’t we, Lizzie Rose? And Clara, too.”

Lizzie Rose looked pleadingly at Mrs. Fettle. “We couldn’t help it, Mrs. Fettle, indeed we couldn’t. There wasn’t time.”

“You might have told me,” Mrs. Fettle said resentfully. She picked up the kettle as if to refill it, then set it down again. “We’ll have to send for the doctor —”

“’E’s dead, ” Parsefall insisted.

Mrs. Fettle frowned at the ceiling, calculating. “There’ll have to be a death certificate. And the constable had better come. You’ll have to go, Mark.”

“Aye, I’ll go.” Mark Fettle looked uncertainly at Clara. She stood up and took off his coat, holding it out to him. He touched the rim of his cap. “Thank you, miss.”

“Thank you,” Clara said courteously, and he shrugged himself into his coat and went outdoors.

The jangling of a bell made them all jump. “Dear heavens!” breathed Mrs. Fettle. “Madama.” She raked her fingers through her hair and rushed out of the kitchen.

Once she was gone, Lizzie Rose breathed a sigh of relief. For a little while at least, there would be no more questions. She felt a sudden weakness in her knees and realized she was trembling. So much had happened: the attempted escape, the torture of Grisini, Parsefall’s nightmare, Grisini’s death . . . and Clara. Lizzie Rose stared at Clara as if she were a ghost.