Verity Sparks and the Scarlet Hand (12 page)

“Hermann, it’s good to see you. How are you?”

His reply was so soft I couldn’t hear it.

“Hannah sent me to get some wine from you. And some apples and pears as well.”

Hermann gestured towards a box on the floor and mumbled something in a hoarse whisper. His eyes flicked towards me.

“This is Miss Verity, Hermann. She’s visiting Uncle Nicholas. Would you like to meet her?”

I saw the hesitation. It must have been hard to have strangers looking at him, but after a few seconds the old man hobbled forwards, smiling. At least, he meant to smile, but all his damaged face could manage was twisted lips and bared teeth. He held out his hand. I winced inwardly. Hermann’s hand, too, was horribly scarred and misshapen, but I made myself take it in mine. It was bad enough, I thought, to be so disfigured and scarred. I must not make it any worse by shying away from him.

“From town?” he asked.

“Melbourne? Yes, I live in Melbourne,” I said. “St Kilda, by the sea.”

“The sea?”

“Yes. Do you like the sea?”

I was only trying to make conversation but he seemed confused by my question. An odd, hunted look appeared on his face.

“Busy,” he said, gesturing to the wine barrels.

“Yes, we can see that,” said Harold, picking up the box of bottles. “Will you come and have tea with us? Paulina’s made a cake.”

“Busy.” Shaking his head, Hermann backed into the shadows.

On our way back to join the others, Harold answered my questions before I asked them. “His name is Hermann Schroeder. He’s some kind of cousin, I think. I believe he fell into a fire.”

That explained the terrible scarring. I sighed. “Did I upset him, do you think, asking questions? I’m sorry if I did. Now he will miss out on afternoon tea.”

“You didn’t upset him, Verity. After the accident, he lost his memory. And there is always plenty of cake at Blumberg.”

Harold was right. There was gingerbread, apple slice and spiced plum cake with syrup and rich cream.

“This cake,” I said. “It’s exactly like one that Hannah made. Though …” I had to be honest, and Hannah wasn’t here to be offended. “Yours is even better.”

Paulina laughed. “That’s because she got the recipe from me. She is my sister-in-law. She was married to my brother Gottfried – God rest his soul. Ah, Hermann.”

The old man appeared around the corner of the verandah carrying a large wicker basket full of fruit.

“Forgot,” he said.

“So I did. Thank you, Hermann.” Harold stood up and took the basket from him. “Hermann, this gentleman is Verity’s father, Mr Savinov.”

Papa stood up, held out his hand and greeted Hermann in German. That hunted expression reappeared on Hermann’s face. His eyes flicked towards Paulina and Mr Dohnt and then back to Papa. He seemed almost panic-stricken.

“Much … to do,” he whispered, and without shaking Papa’s hand, he hobbled away.

“Our Hermann, he is very shy,” said Paulina.

That seemed to mark the end of our afternoon tea. We said our goodbyes, took our wine and fruit and returned to the phaeton. On the journey home, I noticed that Papa seemed tired but very happy. A smile kept playing at the corners of his mouth and twitching his moustache.

“There is a German word, my child –
Gemütlichkeit
. I think it may not translate into English, for the English they have no idea of this thing. It means cosy, unhurried, peaceful, at home. Good company, friends …” He stroked my hand. “There at Blumberg …”

“
Gemütlichkeit
,” I said.

He laughed. “I must teach Poppy that word. She would enjoy it, no?”

In the happy days that followed there were picnics in the Botanical Gardens, visits with Drucilla, a shopping expedition to Bendigo (the nearest large town), and walks around Castlemaine with Harold. We strolled along, arm in arm, sometimes talking but often in companionable silence. With some special people, I thought, you can just skip the stage of polite acquaintanceship by becoming friends straightaway. I was beginning to have a few second thoughts about politeness, anyway. Sometimes those correct manners felt like wearing a stiff, starchy collar.

Harold’s arrival had made both Helen and Mr Petrov happier, and when we were invited to a family dinner at the Levinys’, to my surprise Mr Petrov said he felt well enough to go.

The Levinys were not only musical, but artistic as well. I hadn’t realised that before Mr Leviny was a rich businessman in the colonies, he’d been a famous jeweller and silversmith in Paris and London. That explained Mrs Leviny’s magnificent bracelet.

Mr Petrov coaxed Mr Leviny into showing us some of his designs.

“You made them?” asked Poppy, looking at the drawings with wide eyes. “Out of silver an’ gold?” She was most impressed when he said that he had. She pointed to an especially ornate design. “What’s that for?”

“To look at, mainly. We call that a standing presentation cup,” said Mr Leviny.

“It’s an eggcup,” said Poppy, and laughed at her own joke. Mr Leviny had in fact drawn a very large egg on a stand, decorated at the base with tiny Australian animals.

“A splendid piece, Ernö,” said Papa. “The egg, I take it, is an emu’s egg?”

Mr Leviny nodded and he put his folio of drawings away. Rather sadly, I thought. For all he enjoyed his life as a gentleman here in Castlemaine, I wondered if perhaps sometimes he missed creating beautiful things.

The one small cloud on my horizon was Della Parker. Strange, isn’t it? I’d gone from worrying that Della was going to hurt me or Papa to being anxious about her. I was relieved when, a week after my conversation with Papa, he showed me a letter he’d received in the morning’s mail. It was addressed in SP’s sprawling curly script.

“SP has seen Della Parker. He took her to lunch at the Ladies’ Annexe of the Antechinus Club and they had a most interesting conversation. Here, read what he says.”

Miss Parker was very polite and seemed entirely rational. She told me a great deal about herself. She has indeed had a most difficult life, beginning with her mother’s death and then many years in orphanages and foster homes. Her most fervent desire seems to be for some family connection and to that end, she seeks an interview with you and Verity.

I scanned the letter to the end. “SP is convinced that she truly believes Waldo Parker is her father. Will we meet her?”

“I have decided – yes. She has some urgent business to attend to, but …” Papa took the letter from me and referred to SP’s scrawl. “She will be back in Melbourne by the end of the month. She invites us to visit her at her hotel. This is good, no?”

“Very good, Papa.”

“And we shall see if …” His hands trembled slightly as he re-folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. “We shall see if she looks like your mother.”

On Saturday, Connie and Poppy left Castlemaine. They travelled down to Melbourne on the train with Madame Fodor. Judith was going to meet them at the station and then take them back to stay with her in Richmond. Why? Well, that was the exciting part. Connie was going to be part of the International Exhibition.

Last year, Drucilla and I had watched the progress of the Royal Exhibition Building with its massive dome and fine gardens. The exhibition was due to open in October this year, and people from all over Australia – and from other countries as well – would visit. As part of the celebrations, the Musical Society was planning a series of concerts. And Madame Fodor wanted Connie – our Connie – to perform.

It was a wonderful opportunity – but one that would require hours of practice every day. Madame Fodor had agreed to tutor her. But what about the cost? Connie’s father ran a huge sheep station up along the Murray River but he wasn’t a rich man.

“Pooh!” said Papa. “Never mind about money. I think I will create the Isabella Savage Musical Scholarship for Young Colonials. How does that sound,
chérie
?”

“Splendid, Papa.” I was sure that Mama would approve.

It was our last day with the Petrovs, Helen planned to go for a drive with Mrs Leviny and I was going to spend the morning with Drucilla. The phaeton was harnessed and waiting in the driveway. Helen, with her ever-present bag of embroidery under one arm, was about to climb in when who should arrive but Drucilla in a bright pink dress that did nothing for her. Redheads should never wear that shade, I thought. Helen was also wearing pink that day, but it was a pale rose colour, very flattering to a blonde. However, fashion went right out of my head as I looked at Drucilla more closely. Even before she spoke I could tell there was something wrong.

“I have a message from Mrs Leviny. She can’t go with you, after all,” she said. “Kate has a temperature.”

“But we planned it weeks ago. It’s all arranged. Mrs Rossiter is expecting us.” Helen seemed quite put out. “Is Kate very ill? Perhaps
you
could stay with her.”

Drucilla raised her eyebrows. Kate was only three. “Naturally Mrs Leviny doesn’t want to leave her.”

Helen was so agitated that she dropped her bag of sewing. “Oh, yes, yes! Your’re right. It’s just …”

“You could go by yourself,” I suggested, picking up her bag and handing it to her.

“No, no, that won’t do. Can you come with me, Verity?”

Why was she so insistent? It was only a morning call. Was it really that important?

She said in a pleading voice, “Please, Verity.”

Inwardly, I sighed. Good manners dictated a “yes”, even though it was our last day in Castlemaine and I didn’t want to go out driving with Helen when I could be with Drucilla instead. Then I had what I thought was a brilliant idea. “Why don’t we all go? You and me and Drucilla?”

“It … it will be too much of a crush.”

Why would she say that? “We’ll all fit in easily,” I said.

“I would enjoy a country drive,” added Drucilla.

We both looked expectantly at Helen. “I … I suppose so. All right. Yes, yes, we will all go. But first, I must … I must say goodbye to Nicholas. Poor Nicholas …” Her voice suddenly trembled. I must have shown my surprise, for she said, “He’s so ill, you see. We bought the buggy so we could drive out together but he’s never been well enough …”

She broke off and ran to the side verandah, where Mr Petrov was sitting with Harold. When she returned a few minutes later, pulling on her gloves, her pale face had that marble statue look again.