Authors: The Finer Things
Brenda Joyce (2 page)
“Sssh,” Ralph began, but too late.
The coachman cried out, “What’s this?” Craning to look down from his perch far above them, his eyes widened when he saw the two dirty urchins hanging onto his immaculate, gleaming coach. “Get down!” he shouted, raising his horsewhip and shaking it. “Get down from my lord’s coach!”
Violet and Ralph let go, jumping to the street simultaneously. The coachman flicked his reins, urging his team into a faster pace. Violet picked herself up from where she had fallen, watching the beautiful rig disappear as it turned the corner. Her buttocks burned. Closer inspection revealed another hole in the seat of her pants. She sighed.
“Yew awright?” Ralph asked, walking over to her.
“Just hurt me bum.” Violet gazed past Ralph. “I can ’ear the music,” she said. “I niver ’eard music like that before.”
They fell silent. The strains of an orchestra drifted through the night, soft but audible, lively yet serene, peaceful yet gay. Violet sighed again. “Looks like a castle, don’t it?”
“Ain’t no castle. It’s ’Arding ’Ouse. An earl lives there.” Ralph scowled and spat into the street.
“Betcha ’e’s never ’ungry,” Violet said, staring. The mansion looked like it had been comprised of several different buildings, all of different heights. It was made of pale, shimmering
stone, and it boasted three high square towers, one at each end and one in the middle. There were turrets and spires everywhere. Gargoyles clung to the roof. Violet wondered why anyone would want monsters on their house, especially when it would have been so very lovely without them.
stone, and it boasted three high square towers, one at each end and one in the middle. There were turrets and spires everywhere. Gargoyles clung to the roof. Violet wondered why anyone would want monsters on their house, especially when it would have been so very lovely without them.
“Betcha they’ve got lots of food fer two ’uns like us.” Ralph grinned.
Violet’s eyes widened. “Yer mad!”
He shrugged. “I didn’t eat nuthin’ today.” He took her hand.
“Wait,” Violet said, pulling Ralph into the shadows cast by one of the street’s huge elm trees. A gleaming black lacquer carriage was rolling past them. A silver crest graced each door. It slowed and stopped directly in front of the steps leading up to the mansion. As the coachman, liveried in silver and blue, stepped to the ground, the carriage door opened without his help. Violet watched a dark-haired young man step out, clad in black evening clothes. His shirt was snowy white, and somehow the effect was spectacular.
Ralph spat. “Another nob thinks ’e’s better than the rest o’ us.”
“Yeah,” Violet agreed. She watched the man say something to his driver and step onto the sidewalk. He bounded up the wide stone steps of Harding House. He moved as if he owned the world, or at least the mansion in this part of it.
“C’mon,” Ralph said. They ran from the shelter of the tree across the sidewalk and pressed their bodies against the iron gate that separated the mansion from another luxurious residence. When they were certain that no one was watching, they quickly shimmied up the tree. From an upper branch, they took turns jumping down onto the emerald green lawns surrounding the house.
Ralph smiled at Violet, took her hand, and, avoiding the pools of yellow-white light spilling from the house, they ran toward the back, where experience had long taught them the kitchens would be.
But gardens and terraces were in their way. They stumbled to a halt. The tiled terrace in front of them led not to the kitchens but to a huge ballroom. They stood in the shadows of one huge hedge sculpted like a trio of oversized deer, and from there they could just make out the glittering swirl of dancers inside and the brilliant shimmer of gold and crystal chandeliers. “Gawd,” Violet said in awe.
Ralph, for once, did not reply.
“Let’s go take a peek,” Violet suddenly begged.
“Yew lost yer mind?” Ralph gasped.
Violet pulled her hand abruptly free, and with a defiant glance she was off like a shot. Sighing, Ralph followed her.
A moment later they were crouched beneath one window, the terrace and the open doors to the ballroom directly on their right. More hedges, potted plants, and the blooms of a dozen different varieties of flowers separated the two children from the terrace. Just above their heads was a small stone casement.
Violet could not wait. Slowly she straightened her body and lifted her head, to peer inside the glass window at the ballroom.
Ralph did the same.
This time, Violet was at a loss for words. She blinked, but the fairy world in front of her did not disappear, and it did not change. She did not realize that her nose was pressed flat against the glass windowpane.
She had never seen so much beauty before. Or so many rich people in one place.
Violet had eyes only for the ladies. The ladies wore fantastic jewel-colored gowns in velvets and silks, taffetas and satins. Their skirts, sleeves, and bodices dripped decorations the likes of which Violet had never before seen: white lace, black lace, fur trim, colorful embroidery, seed pearls, even creeping vines and budding flowers that were so skillfully made they appeared to be real. Every now and then Violet would see tiny colored satin shoes with a small heels appearing from beneath the swirling, bell-like skirts and underskirts as the ladies danced. Every single lady wore white gloves. Jewels glittered from their necks and ears. Rubies, emeralds, sapphires, pearls. And diamonds, glittering with hot, shimmering light.
But perhaps the most shocking thing was that everyone was so white.
Violet knew that the ladies used powder, but powder would never make Violet’s own skin that white. And not only were their faces pale, like ivory, so were their necks and chests and their exposed upper arms. Violet wondered how a body could be so pale. She had not looked at her face in years, but her hands were usually black, except when it rained. Then they turned gray, with odd little streaks and stripes.
Violet’s heart was pounding. She wondered what it must be like to wear such fine clothes, such beautiful jewels, to dance the night away in such a castle-like place.
She stiffened. A dark-haired man was emerging from the
crowd, walking toward her. Although she hadn’t seen him up close, she recognized the way he moved, as if he owned the world, as if he were a prince. It was the same dark-haired young man she had seen alighting from the coach a few moments ago. She stared. He was probably a prince, she decided. He was rich and handsome and smiling as if he didn’t have a single care in the entire world.
crowd, walking toward her. Although she hadn’t seen him up close, she recognized the way he moved, as if he owned the world, as if he were a prince. It was the same dark-haired young man she had seen alighting from the coach a few moments ago. She stared. He was probably a prince, she decided. He was rich and handsome and smiling as if he didn’t have a single care in the entire world.
Violet couldn’t imagine being so happy, much less having nothing to worry about. An image of her father, followed by that Farminger, flitted through her head, while a gnawing hunger made her stomach hurt.
A woman appeared. She seemed to float, not walk—her pink gown belling out about her—to his side. She was a dark blonde with slightly golden skin, and she was so very beautiful. Violet saw the two exchange smiles. The woman was older than he was—Violet could see that—quite a bit older, but they were gazing at each other as if they were in love. Violet scowled through the thick glass at them.
“Duck,” Ralph ordered.
Violet glanced through the window one last time to see the dark-haired man and the golden lady exit the ballroom—and emerge onto the terrace just to her right. She dropped to her knees, alarmed. If she and Ralph were caught now, trespassing, they would be in trouble for sure.
And Violet heard the man murmur. His tone was different, low, yet warm, somehow strange. She had never heard a man’s voice sound quite like that before, and when the woman laughed quietly, gazing up at him with shining eyes, Violet realized that she had never heard two people talk and laugh like this. But why should she? In St. Giles, the men shouted and the women cried. Laughter belonged to the drunk.
The man murmured, “Shall we dance, Gabriella? Here in the moonlight?”
But the woman was already in his arms. “How I have missed you, Blake. And it has only been a few days.”
He held her tightly, gazing down at her, his smile fading. “How I have missed you,” he whispered.
The couple seemed to fuse together as naturally as ice melting into water, and suddenly they were swirling across the terrace, which was cast in beams of mellow light from the ballroom inside and the stars and moon overhead. They danced and danced, a man and woman who seemed to belong together,
until they were at the opposite end of the terrace, where they suddenly halted.
until they were at the opposite end of the terrace, where they suddenly halted.
Violet stared, her stomach in knots. She watched the man kiss the woman. Deeply. Hungrily. So this was love. She scowled and looked at Ralph. “Let’s do wot we came fer. I’m starved now, too.” And oddly enough, she was jealous and she was angry. She hated the dark-haired man and his lady love, and she hated everyone inside the ballroom, too. She hated this other world, a world she could never belong to, no matter how she might wish differently.
They ran around the house, widely skirting the terrace where the couple was locked in a passionate embrace. She and Ralph turned the corner and were assaulted by the smell of roasting meats and baking pies.
Her stomach groaned loudly. Gawd. Violet licked her lips, salivating, thinking about roast beef and chicken, apple pies, and hot, sweet bread.
Ralph gripped her arm. From where they stood pressed against the cold stone wall they could see through the tall windows into the kitchens. And the back doors were wide ajar—it would be easy to slip inside. But the kitchens were full of servants scurrying about. A white-coated chef stood in their midst, red-faced and shouting. Apparently preparations to serve a ballroom full of guests were underway.
“Let’s do it,” Ralph said. “Wot’s yer choice?”
Violet looked inside and espied a plum pudding big enough for eight on the counter besides a platter of roasted lamb. It was so very hard to decide. She licked her lips again while her stomach growled. “Puddin’,” she said.
“I’ll take the meat,” Ralph said, his eyes gleaming.
They ran.
Skidding into the midst of servants, all of whom, for a long moment, did not notice the invasion of their domain. Violet grabbed the bowl of plum pudding. Ralph clutched the platter of lamb.
“Mon Dieu!”
the chef screamed. “Thieves! Thieves! They are stealing my lamb! My pudding!”
the chef screamed. “Thieves! Thieves! They are stealing my lamb! My pudding!”
But Ralph and Violet were already racing out of the door, clutching the stolen food to their chests. They skidded across the lawns. Behind them, they heard the chef screaming, his cries following them as he pursued them himself.
Violet glanced back and saw the white-coated figure chasing them, a huge knife in hand. He was furious. And on his heels
were three manservants, and two maids, all looking determined to catch them. “Gawd,’e’s gonna kill us,” she panted.
were three manservants, and two maids, all looking determined to catch them. “Gawd,’e’s gonna kill us,” she panted.
“Faster,” Ralph shouted, but suddenly they realized their dilemma. Ahead of them was the high iron fence that enclosed Harding House from the outside world.
Violet stopped behind Ralph so abruptly she almost collided into him. She looked worriedly behind her. Their pursuers also realized their predicament and had slowed, now walking deliberately toward them.
“Call the constable,” a black-suited servant said.
One of the liveried servants turned and ran back to the house.
“Put down the food,” the chef said carefully.
Violet and Ralph hesitated. Then Ralph said, “Toss it,” throwing the platter of roasted lamb into the grass. “An’ jump!”
Violet held onto the plum pudding hard as Ralph leaped up and began a mad scramble to climb up the slippery iron fence. The chef cried out. She stared at the cook, knowing she could not part with the pudding. Nothing had ever tempted her more. How could she throw it aside? And into the dirt, at that? Tears filled her eyes.
“Violet!” Ralph shouted at her.
Violet looked up and saw he was lying on a low branch of the tree, one arm extended down to her. Violet clutched the pudding more tightly. The chef and the servants had formed a semicircle behind her. Someone was asking her for the pudding. Ralph shouted at her again, with urgency. With a sob, Violet flung the pudding on the ground and leapt upwards. Ralph caught her hand and dragged her into the tree. There they collapsed in one another’s arms.
“Let’s get out of ’ere,” Ralph said. Together he and Violet shimmied down the other side of the tree. But just a few feet from the ground they both stopped. Violet’s heart lurched hard.
Two uniformed bobbies carrying big wodden bats were rushing toward them. “Gawd,” Violet whispered. Tears still streaked her face.
“Run, Violet, fer yer life!” Ralph screamed.
They dropped to the ground, running, Violet on Ralph’s heels. She did not have to look back to know that the police were right behind them. The constables shouted at them to halt. Violet ran harder, terrified. But Ralph began to outdistance her. “Wait!” she panted.
He did not hear her. They cut across the wide street. A coach
was coming toward them. Violet screamed when she realized that she and Ralph were about to be run down. She skidded to a halt. Ralph, however, did not stop. With a sudden burst of speed, he managed to dive in front of the coach, missing being run over just by a hair. He rolled and rolled, and, like a cat, was on his feet and running again.
was coming toward them. Violet screamed when she realized that she and Ralph were about to be run down. She skidded to a halt. Ralph, however, did not stop. With a sudden burst of speed, he managed to dive in front of the coach, missing being run over just by a hair. He rolled and rolled, and, like a cat, was on his feet and running again.
But Violet could not follow him. A huge, hard hand was clamped on her shoulder, so hard that she cried out. She fought, twisting like a maddened creature, trying to sink her teeth into the bobbie’s hand, struggling to jerk free, but to no avail. And the policeman, cursing, struck her with his big stick.
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