Verity Sparks and the Scarlet Hand (7 page)

Castlemaine Station was a handsome brick building. As we walked from the platform past the ticket office and waiting rooms and out into the yard, I saw a wide street leading up a hill. It was lined with houses, shops, hotels and churches, and I have to confess my spirits rose. I’m a city girl, born and bred, and after Papa’s talk about tents and goldmines, I didn’t know what to expect. To be sure there was almost nobody about, but I put that down to the heat. It was much warmer than in Melbourne.

Mr Petrov had ordered the livery stables to send a driver with a wagonette to pick us up. The stationmaster followed us out.

“There’s something else to take up to Mr Petrov,” he said, and a couple of men followed him carrying a large crate. A small white head with a beak and watchful blue eyes poked out through the wooden slats.

“Ooh, it’s a bird,” said Poppy, backing away. Though she loved animals, Poppy wasn’t keen on birds. Lucifer was the only exception.

“It’s just a hen, Poppy,” said Connie, taking her hand.

“No, it’s a peacock,” said the stationmaster. “You’ll find a whole flock of them up at Mr Petrov’s. He’s quite a bird fancier.”

“Well, I don’t fancy ’em,” said Poppy. She poked out her tongue at the peacock. “Not one bit.”

A few blocks from the station, the driver turned in from the main road and drove up a steepish hill. The houses that lined this street were neat and modern, surrounded by pretty gardens. The sun was shining and a stray breeze ruffled the ribbons on my hat. The shadow of Della Parker faded to nothing. I sighed happily as I breathed in a lungful of fresh country air.

“Nice, ain’t it?” said the driver. “Champagne air, I always says. Not all dirty and full o’ smoke and smells like the city. And here we are.”

He turned down the gravelled driveway of a large, low house with a verandah all the way round and stopped at the entrance. Mr Petrov, leaning on a cane, was standing in the doorway and he came forwards to greet us. How stiffly he walked, how frail and sick he seemed. It was hard to believe that he and Papa were the same age.

“We’re here!” yelled Poppy.

Mr Petrov winced at the volume of her voice but he spoke kindly. “So you are, my dear,” he said. “Welcome to our home.” Turning his head, Mr Petrov added, “This is my wife, Helen.”

A woman emerged from the shadowy hallway and Poppy dropped a curtsey that would have done for a duchess. Amid the flurry of introductions that followed, I exchanged a quick glance with Papa. He was just as astonished as I was. You see, when Papa had told me Mr Petrov had married his grandchildren’s nanny, I expected the lady to be middle-aged or older, and, well –
nanny
-like.

Mrs Petrov was a stunner. She had grey eyes and wheat-coloured hair done up high on her head. Her face was beautiful and so pale that she reminded me of one of those white marble statues (they were Classical, according to Papa, so their lack of clothes wasn’t rude) dotted around Alhambra’s conservatory. Holding herself as stiff as a poker, she offered her hand to Papa. Papa took off his hat and, bowing from the waist, kissed her hand.

“My dear lady,” he said. “What a pleasure to meet you at last.”

“I’m glad you were able to come.”

She sounded more like a schoolgirl reciting a lesson than a rich man’s wife. I felt a quick rush of sympathy. Having married her employer and gone up in the world, she must sometimes feel like a fish out of water. It was that way for me too when I first went to live with the Plushes. I was never quite sure what to do and say. It was a while before I felt I belonged upstairs with the family instead of below stairs with the servants.

“Here’s George to get your bags,” she said, motioning to a wizened elderly fellow, as small as a jockey, who appeared from around the side of the house. “And I hope you will enjoy your stay with us at Shantigar.”

“Shanti-what?” said Poppy.

“Shantigar is a word in an ancient Indian language,” said Mr Petrov. “It means ‘peaceful home’.”

The peace was shattered when, with a shriek and a flash of blue and brown feathers, two large fowl came around the corner, shot past us and disappeared into the shrubbery.

“Bloody ’ell!” yelped Poppy.

“My peacocks,” said Mr Petrov. “Peafowl, I should say; the brown bird was a hen. It is the male that has the fine feathers.”

Mrs Petrov bobbed down, put her arm around Poppy’s waist and drew her close. “They won’t hurt you, dear.”

Poppy looked at her and smiled. As she’d lost her front teeth her smile was rather gummy at present, but somehow that made her very appealing. Mrs Petrov seemed to think so, anyway, for her cheeks turned a faint pink. Suddenly she sounded warm and friendly. “I’ve been so looking forward to having children around the house. Come with me, girls, and I’ll show you to your room.”

She led us to a large room furnished with a double and a single bed, a wardrobe, a dressing table and a bureau. George, the Petrovs’ odd-job man, had already brought our bags in. I looked around, noticing how bright and dainty everything was. The pillowcases were embroidered with pink roses, and so were the hand towels that sat on the washstand. A posy in a jug stood on the mantelpiece and there was a pile of picture books, a rubber ball and a doll on the end of one of the beds. Something told me that Helen had gone to all this trouble herself.

“It’s lovely,” I said.

“Thank you, Mrs Petrov,” added Connie.

“Mrs Petrov – that sounds so stuffy! You must call me Helen,” she said.

“Helen!” Poppy had scrambled up onto the double bed. Now she was bouncing up and down. Why did she have to mislay her manners right now? She bounced higher. “Look at me, Helen! Look at me!”

I thought Helen might tell her off but instead she swept Poppy into her arms. “Oh, you little darling!”

Now, Poppy could dish out the hugs and kisses, but she didn’t always like to be on the receiving end. Would she try to wriggle out of Helen’s arms? Not this time. She submitted patiently, but eventually she said, “Only, could you ease up a bit now? I can’t ’ardly breathe.”

“And you must all be hungry,” said Helen with a laugh. “You can unpack later. Let’s go out onto the verandah and see what Hannah has for us.”

Hannah, the cook-housekeeper, was what I’d imagined Mr Petrov’s wife would be. She was sixtyish and sturdily built with white hair and a no-nonsense manner. Her dark eyes, as bright as a robin’s, darted here and there and gave us all the once-over as she poured tea for Papa and Mr Petrov. They were already settled on the verandah among the potted palms. Tiny green birds hopped and chirruped in a cage and I hoped Poppy wasn’t going to be upset by them. But she scarcely gave them a glance.

Poppy’s eyes widened when she saw what was set on a stand in the middle of the table.

“Cor,” she said. “That’s a cake what’s died and gone to ’eaven.” Everyone laughed, and Poppy seemed a bit miffed. “I jus’ meant to say it’s a splendrous cake.”

“It is indeed. And Hannah is a splendrous cook,” said Mr Petrov. “We are spoiled. It’s a wonder I don’t get fat.”

“I wish you
would
get fat, Nicholas,” said Helen. She turned to Papa. “I worry about him so. His health broke down completely in India and–”

“That’s enough, Helen.” Mr Petrov interrupted his wife in a harsh, grating voice. “Our guests don’t want to hear about my illness.”

He could have been reprimanding a child or a servant. Everyone felt it, even Poppy. The atmosphere was a bit uncomfortable until we started on the cups of tea and cake. That cake! I’d never tasted anything so delicious. Even Connie, who wasn’t a big eater, got stuck in.

Inside the house a clock chimed, and almost noiselessly Mohan Singh appeared with a mug on a tray.

“What is that, Nicky?” asked Papa.

“Goat’s milk. It’s just about the only thing I can digest these days, isn’t it, Mohan?”

“It is very nourishing,” said Mohan. “But I think your visitors will do you just as much good, sir.” He bowed again and was turning to leave us when Helen called him back. She pointed towards the birdcage.

“Do take those birds away,” she said. “Put the cage on the back verandah.”

As soon as Mohan was out of earshot, Mr Petrov said to his wife, “Please speak more politely to him, Helen. Mohan is not just a servant, whatever you may think.”

Here he was again, correcting Helen as if
she
were a servant. It must be humiliating, and I felt sorry for her. She bit her lip and reached for her sewing basket. She took out a piece of embroidery, and Papa, bless him, turned the conversation.

“You are an exquisite needlewoman, Helen. You made this beautifully decorated tablecloth too, I think?”

“Yes, I did.” She held out her work. It was a linen tray cover, and she was edging it with pink roses.

“Just like the ones in our room,” said Connie. “You’re so clever, Helen.”

“Isn’t she? Helen must always be stitching or she isn’t happy,” said Mr Petrov.

“It is for the charity bazaar, Nicholas. Besides, I must have a hobby. You have your birds.”

“Yes, my birds. You must come down and see the new peacock.”

She shook her head. “No, thank you, Nicholas. You know how I dislike caged birds.”

“But this one is special. White ones are very rare.”

Helen said something under her breath, and I didn’t quite catch what it was, but Mr Petrov replied, “Oh, I know you don’t like them, but they remind me of India.”

“India! Oh–” Abruptly, Helen got to her feet. “Please excuse me,” she said. “I have a headache.”

“Dear lady,” began Papa, but she was already gone.

“Helen doesn’t share my passion for collecting birds,” said Mr Petrov.

They didn’t seem to share very much at all, I thought. Though Shantigar meant “peaceful home”, it seemed anything but.

With Helen gone, Papa and Mr Petrov settled in to talk about old times. Poppy, Connie and I went back to our room. After unpacking our things, we wondered what we were supposed to do next.

“I saw a piano in the drawing room,” said Connie, longingly. “Do you suppose I could play?”

“Better not,” said Poppy. Once again she surprised me with her good sense. “Not while Helen’s asleep. You don’t want to go distrobing her.”

We decided to explore instead. Though the front garden was laid out with box hedges, flowerbeds and gravel paths, all the land on the eastern side was a thicket of shrubs and creepers. Something rustled. I thought of snakes but Connie, who was a real country girl, told me not to worry.

“It’s more likely the peafowl,” she said. “See?” She pointed to a couple of feathers. They glimmered green, iridescent blue and gold in the dry grass.

“Can I keep them? Can I put them in my hat?” asked Poppy.

In my millinery career I’d observed that, despite their beautiful colours, peacock feathers aren’t often used as a trim. It’s the eyes, I suppose. Some people feel funny about them. But I said to Poppy that I didn’t see why not, and she stuck them in her hatband.

We moved on and found a horse and a goat cropping grass in a small paddock. Poppy called for the horse, but it was the goat that came over. She was a nanny goat with shaggy white hair and yellow eyes. Poppy happily scratched her neck and allowed her to nuzzle her hands.

“Come on, Poppy, let’s keep exploring,” I said after a few minutes. No offence to the goat, but she was rather smelly.

Heading down to the far side of the house, we found the aviary. It was more like a house than a birdcage. One section was full of small bright birds and the other was empty except for the white peacock. He was perched high up on a post with his long tail, like a swag of dusty lace, sweeping down to the ground. He looked rather dejected.

Beyond the aviary was a low stone fence marking the boundary of the property. Shantigar was set high on a hill, and now, facing west, we could see the sun sinking like a bright golden ball on the horizon. Layers of crimson, pink and orange clouds spread across the sky. Everything glowed with warm sunset light.

“It’s just astoundishing,” said Poppy.

“Astonishing, Poppy. Or do you mean astounding?” said a voice behind us.

“Drucilla!” I cried, but Poppy got to her first. She tackled her around the waist and hugged her so fiercely that Drucilla nearly fell over. To tell you the truth, I felt like doing the same.