Somebody Stop Ivy Pocket (30 page)

The driver gave his horses the signal and the wagon took off. ‘Not lately,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘Looks like we’ll be travelling together a spell, so I suppose we should swap names – Jonah Flint, pleased to meet you.’

Being well versed in manners and whatnot, I said, ‘My name’s Esmeralda Cabbage.’

Mr Flint looked at me sideways with a half smile but made no further comment. Instinctively, I went to cover the gashes on my arms – but when I looked down, the wounds had healed. All that remained were the rips upon my sleeves and skirt.

The wagon jolted about a great deal and the seat was agony on the buttocks, but we were making good ground and I began to relax.

‘I’d duck down, if I were you,’ announced Mr Flint suddenly.

I looked back and saw a dark carriage barrelling towards us. It was Miss Always! I jumped down and crouched under the seat. The roar of the carriage filled my ears. But it didn’t slow. Instead, it went around us and thundered down the road.

I did not get up until Mr Flint gave the word. And when I did, the woodcutter did not ask me a single thing about who they were or why they might be looking for me.

‘I reckon we might take the back road – what do you say, Esmeralda?’

‘I think that’s a fine idea,’ I replied. I was about to compliment Mr Flint on not being nearly as stupid as he looked. But as he didn’t look at
all
stupid, I held my tongue.

The wagon slowed at a cross section and then veered off to the left. Mr Flint urged the horses on and the carriage rolled swiftly beneath a canopy of elm trees, which arched above us like a cathedral. The moonlight splintered down through a web of branches, piercing the black night like shards of luminous ice. Despite its strange beauty, I shut my eyes tight. Praying that Miss Frost was still alive. And that I would find her at journey’s end.

‘Do you know where I might find the Rambler Inn?’

‘Who wants to know?’ The baker eyed me with considerable suspicion.

‘That would be me, you chinless buffoon.’ I said this brightly so as not to cause offence. ‘I am looking for a friend and she told me to meet her there.’

‘Who did?’

‘My friend.’

‘What’s your friend’s
name,
you cheeky imp?’

Mr Flint had dropped me on the edge of Hammersmith, directing me to follow the main road into the village, where I was to locate Oscar Bonson’s Baked Delights – he seemed certain that the baker would be awake at this unseemly hour (it was a quarter to four in the morning) and would help me find the place I was looking for.

‘My friend’s name is none of your concern,’ I declared. ‘Our business is of a clandestine nature.’

Strangely, this seemed to satisfy the gangly fellow. ‘There’s a
bank across the road,’ he said, kneading a great ball of dough with ease. ‘Go around the side and you’ll see a little green inn at the back – that’s the place you’re looking for.’

I found it easily enough. Even in the fading moonlight I could see that it was a ghastly dwelling. Peeling green paint. Broken eaves. Two of the five steps leading up to the front door were missing.

A jolly woman with wispy grey hair and the roundest face I’d ever seen opened the door – inviting me in without so much as a hello.

‘I’m Mrs Spragg,’ she said, stepping over a pile of books in the middle of the narrow hall. ‘Excuse the mess – my husband is a great reader though the dear man is burying us alive.’ She pointed to the unspeakably narrow stairs. ‘You go on up, it’s the first door on the left.’

My throat dried up as I knocked gently on the door.

Next, I heard rapid footsteps. The door opened just a crack. I couldn’t see anything inside. But I heard a voice. ‘I knew you’d make it, chatterbox.’

When the door flew open, I was rather startled to see Jago standing before me. He had changed into a fine tan suit and his dark hair was combed in a most pleasing fashion.

‘But … ?’ was my only question.

Jago shut the door gently and said, ‘I’ve worked for Miss
Frost on and off since I was just a wee boy. It was her who sent me into Lashwood to get you out.’

‘Blimey,’ I muttered for the first time in my life.

We were standing in a poorly furnished sitting room. A doorway led off to another room that appeared to be dimly lit.

‘Miss Frost?’ I said urgently.

The boy’s brown face looked utterly grim as he nodded. ‘Come on.’

I followed Jago quickly into the next room. The window was drawn shut. Miss Frost lay upon the bed, her hands crossed over her stomach. Her dazzling red hair fanned out around the pillow. Her eyes were closed and her skin had the colour of death upon it.

‘She won’t let me send for the doctor,’ said Jago. ‘I’ve been using the cloth to cool her head, but seems to me she’s only getting hotter.’

‘Fetch some more water,’ I said, as I sat down on the bed and picked up the damp cloth.

Jago took the bowl and hurried off downstairs.

‘Can you hear me, dear?’ I said softly. I unbuttoned the top of her dress, which was damp with perspiration, and applied the cool cloth to her neck.

‘Yes, Miss Pocket,’ came her faint reply. ‘I am pleased … that you could join us.’

The poor creature’s forehead was dripping from heat. ‘You are positively burning up.’

‘That is the poison doing its job,’ she whispered, her eyes opening.

I laid the cloth across her forehead. ‘What can I do, Miss Frost? Please tell me what to do.’

‘I am … afraid … there is nothing to be done,’ came her monstrous reply.

‘Stuff and nonsense. There must be
something
.’

Miss Frost gulped and took a shallow breath. ‘There is a …’ She shuddered with pain. ‘In my pocket … an address of a cottage near Weymouth … in Dorset … go there with Jago … stay until … until you hear from …’

‘I will do no such thing,’ I said firmly. ‘Now I really must insist that you stop this dying business and snap out of it.’

A smile crept on to her face. ‘Excellent advice, Miss Pocket.’ She closed her eyes. ‘But I fear … Miss Always has won the day … but hopefully not the war.’

I pulled the cloth from her forehead. Set it aside. Used the edge of my apron (the only part not covered in grime and dust) to dab her face and neck. Though her freckled flesh was a ghostly white, dark circles smudged her eyes like bruises.

‘Tell me … about Anastasia and her child.’ Each word
seemed to be pushed from her mouth with great effort. ‘Where did they go?’

For the briefest of moments I considered lying to her. But if there was ever a time for the plain truth, it was now. So I told Miss Frost all about the wicked conspiracy that had ensnared Anastasia. About how mother and child were cruelly separated. About the woman in the madhouse humming her endless lullaby and about how that sad creature was none other than Anastasia Radcliff.

Miss Frost listened, her eyes fluttering open then closing again. Her brow knotting and unclenching as I spoke. When I paused to dab her forehead again she said, ‘I knew they were hiding something awful.’ She faintly shook her head. ‘But not
that …
not such malice.’

‘Estelle’s mother was without pity,’ I said softly, ‘and she has bred that same hatred in her daughter. When I think of Anastasia rotting in that horrid cell while –’

‘The baby …’ Miss Frost struggled for breath. ‘What became of the baby?’

‘A maid was paid two hundred pounds to take it away – they went to Wales apparently, though Estelle claims they left there years ago and left no forwarding address.’ I walked quickly across the room, drew back the curtains and opened the small window. ‘When you are well again, we must return to London
and liberate Anastasia from Lashwood. I have a perfectly brilliant plan in mind.’

‘What do you know of the maid?’ said Miss Frost.

I shrugged. ‘Her name was McSomething-or-other, but they called her McCloud because she had a birthmark under her eye shaped like a cloud.’

Miss Frost cried out suddenly. And though it didn’t seem possible, she paled even further. For a moment I worried that another poisoned dart had struck her.

‘Could it be … ?’ she whispered.

‘What is it?’

‘Miss Pocket, are you
sure
of what you are saying?’ Her dull eyes were fixed on my face.

‘About what, dear?’

‘The maid who took Anastasia’s child … and the mark on her face.’

‘Yes, quite sure. Do you know her?’

A faint, sad smile pulled at her pale lips. Then she called me close.

‘I haven’t much time, Miss Pocket, but I have …’ Her eyes shut. She gulped. ‘I have something to tell you …’

‘Is it a deathbed confession?’ I folded my arms. ‘Because if it is, I do not wish to hear it. You are not going to die. I simply will not allow it.’

‘Listen to me … hear what I have to say …’ Amongst the beads of perspiration tracking down her face, a vale of tears bubbled up. I had never seen her shed a tear. I didn’t know she could! Her hand flew up to cover her eyes, as if in shame.

I reached over, pulling her hand away and holding it tight. With my other hand, I stroked her cheek.

‘Cry if you need to, dear,’ I said softly. ‘There’s no harm in it, is there? But do not fret about the past. I’m almost certain you’ve done some awful things – most pretend governesses are devious by nature – but I feel that despite all the times you have lied to me and been unforgivably stern, you are good at heart. You are good, Miss Frost.’

The Mistress of the Clock was frowning. Then her eyes opened wide. And a gasp flew from her lips.

‘Miss Frost?’ I said.

Her pale skin began to glow, the colour returning to her cheeks as if she were blushing furiously. Her lips were suddenly red and bright. But it was her eyes that told the tale – they were clear and attentive and intense. I could feel her hand, which had been limp, tighten inside my own.

‘Miss Frost?’ I said again.

She lifted her head off the pillow and looked about the room. She peered up at me with something like wonder on her face. ‘I feel much improved. In fact, I feel remarkably well.’

Miss Frost managed to sit up, then carefully swung her legs around and sat on the edge of the bed next to me. She tucked her long hair behind her ears. Then she nudged my shoulder with her own. ‘It seems I owe Miss Always an apology.’

I was still rather befuddled by Miss Frost’s remarkable return to health. But in no time the penny dropped. ‘When I touched your hand, did I heal you as I did Miss Always at Butterfield Park?’

‘So it would seem,’ said Miss Frost crisply. She rose to her feet. Swooned slightly, reaching out and grabbing the wall. But she soon steadied herself. ‘We must prepare to leave – Miss Always is probably on our heels and we have far to travel.’

Feeling it was only proper, I told Miss Frost the treacherous tale of Miss Carnage and the great disguise. Miss Frost showed a begrudging respect for Miss Always’ abilities. Though she did look at me as if I were some kind of village idiot for not seeing through her disguise. The nerve!

By then Jago had returned with fresh water – and the poor boy was rather gobsmacked by Miss Frost’s return to health.

‘Blimey,’ he muttered.

Miss Frost invented a perfectly plausible explanation for her recovery. Then she ordered the boy to pack up their things for our departure. Without saying it directly, it was clear that Jago would be travelling with us.

‘Here,’ said Miss Frost, pulling a perfectly dull auburn dress from the closet, ‘this should be satisfactory for the journey ahead – there are several others waiting for you at our destination.’

‘Do you think we will be back in the city by tomorrow?’ I said, shooing Jago from the room so I could change.

‘We are not going there,’ declared Miss Frost, knotting her hair in a bun before the mirror.

I buttoned up my dress and scowled. ‘Anastasia needs our help – surely you do not wish to leave her a moment longer in Lashwood? We must break her out!’

‘
We
will do no such thing,’ said Miss Frost, turning to face me. ‘I will see to Anastasia and in time we will find her lost child, but not now – Miss Always will be on your trail, and with Lady Elizabeth and Estelle Dumbleby both baying for your blood, London is no longer a safe haven for you.’

I would have offered a sharp rebuke, but Jago came flying back into the room, followed by Mrs Spragg.

‘There’s a woman downstairs asking about a girl, and the description sounds an awful lot like that one,’ announced Mrs Spragg, pointing to me. ‘I told her I would come up and ask Mr Spragg, as he sees to all the guests.’

‘How did she find me?’ I said, turning to Miss Frost in a shameful display of the jitters.

‘What does this woman look like?’ asked Miss Frost.

‘Short and fat,’ declared Mrs Spragg.

‘Then it’s
not
Miss Always.’ I said this calmly, with no sign of stupendous relief.

‘Miss Always would no doubt have minions scouring the countryside,’ said Miss Frost. ‘Mrs Spragg, tell her that the girl was here, but she received a note shortly after arriving, then asked for directions to the Chester Tavern. And here is something for all your trouble.’

Mrs Spragg took the coins from Miss Frost’s hand and hurried out.