Shades of Neverland (5 page)

As the curtain rose, Peter looked to Wendy in the audience. Putting his hand on his heart, he sighed heavily. “Look how she leans forward in anticipation.”

Actors began taking the stage while Peter listened anxiously for his cue. His hand slipped automatically into his right pocket searching for his good luck charm. Superstitiously, he lifted it to his mouth and kissed it.
“Oh love, do not fail me nor forsake me.”
His cue. Tucking the talisman safely away, he took up his destiny center stage.

Three hours later, he returned to the same spot to consult Griffin. He’d been so greatly heartened by his brother’s reports between scenes that during the curtain call he had openly held Wendy’s celestial gaze. His bows had been for her alone.
 

Although responsive throughout the play, his Wendy now seemed distraught. She did not stand with the house, in fact she hardly moved. Instead, she examined him with such intensity that Peter felt she was trying to see into his very soul.

Even after the curtain closed, Peter continued to watch Wendy from the shadows trying to guess the meaning of her reserved, unexpected reaction. “Why does she not move? She did seem to enjoy the play, did she not, Griffin?”

“Aye, Peter, she did.”

“And did she not laugh, smile, cry, and cheer in earnest?”

“In truth, as I have told you, she did all those things.”

“Then why does she yet sit there so pale? Oh Griffin, perhaps she is ill.”

“Peter!” Mr. Boucicault’s booming voice resounded from backstage. “Peter! Where are you? Everyone is waiting to congratulate you!”

Peter bit his cheek in agitation. “Griffin, will you please go tell everyone that I will be there presently?”

“Aye, Peter.”

In the stillness, Peter watched, astounded, as a subdued Wendy was led away by her companion and the head of ushers. Her departure left him feeling unsettled and vaguely bereft, as if his life had been placed on pause.

Completely alone, he slipped his good luck charm out of his right pocket and lifted it to his lips. When he awoke on the doorstep of Smythe and Sons, it was the sole possession on his person and he was never without it. Like him, it was a mystery. To Peter, the talisman was what he wished on—where he stored his hopes and dreams—but to others it was just a little broken half of a porcelain thimble.

As had happened many times before, Peter’s dream guide came to him in his sleep. She was a tiny, beautiful winged creature illuminated from within and the size of his fist. Though she spoke to Peter in musical tones that had no speech, Peter understood her all the same. “Take me to Wendy,” he commanded and the bright spirit took off in flight with Peter following close behind. They sailed over London and into the night sky. To Peter, it seemed like years that they flew, over oceans and strange lands, following stars. Finally, they approached a lone island rising from the sea. That wild, primitive land seemed a strange place to encounter Wendy.

As the guide led him across a sparkling lagoon and into the dense jungle, her pace quickened. Dodging branches and giant leaves, Peter struggled to keep up. The spirit was getting too far ahead and he could barely make out her glow in the distance.

“Please slow down!” he shouted in vain.

As she vanished from view, it occurred to him that the guide had purposely taken him to this place to lose him, and that his dear Wendy was still back in London asleep in her bed. The spiteful creature had led Peter to the opposite end of the earth and meant for him to never return…

That night was the first time Wendy dreamt of the little pixie. Wendy stood alone on the darkened stage when an illuminating glow appeared before her. She was exceedingly happy to be rescued from darkness and by such an exotic and lovely creature. Although she did not understand what the beautiful creature was saying, she did understand that the pixie was offering to take her to Peter.

Without hesitation, she followed as her glowing guide led her down into the bowels of the theatre. They seemed to go for hours through an unending labyrinth of damp corridors and dusty staircases. The further down they went, the faster the pixie seemed to go. Running, Wendy barely made it to each corner in time to seem where the glowing guide turned next.

“Please wait!” she begged.

Stumbling, she was again in darkness. It then occurred to her that the delicate creature had intended for this all along. Peter was probably on the stage this very moment looking for her. Lost and alone, Wendy knew beyond certainty she was never meant to make it back…

CHAPTER 6

A Knock at the Door

Nothing horrid was visible in the air, yet Peter’s progress had become slow and labored, exactly as if her were pushing his way through hostile forces. Sometimes he hung in the air until he had to beat on it with his fist.

They don’t want me to land, Peter thought. But he could not say who “they” were. With great effort, he touched down in a glade. At his feet, lay Wendy, a mass of blonde curls in a nightdress and as still as the grave.

“She is dead,” he said uncomfortably. “Perhaps she is frightened at being dead.”

He started to turn away but Wendy’s arm stayed him (for indeed she was not dead, but merely very ill and in peril of dying). “If she lies here,” Peter bemoaned, “she will die.”

Then Peter had a wonderful idea. He would build a little house round her that would protect her until she recovered. Kneeling, Peter declared to Wendy, “I am your servant. If only you could tell me which type of house you like best?”

Wendy stirred in her sleep. Her lovely mouth opened into a perfect ‘O’ and without opening her eyes, she began to sing:

 
“I wish I had a pretty house,

Gay windows all about.

With roses peeping in, you know,

And babies peeping out.”

A tiny house with red walls and a mossy green roof appeared around her. The house was quite beautiful, and no doubt Wendy was very
cosy
within, though, of course, Peter could no longer see her. He desired more than anything to go inside and watch over Wendy, but as he approached the door, he realized there was no knocker. “However am I to enter,” Peter lamented, “if I cannot knock?”

He scoured the glade until he found the discarded heel of a shoe, which had the makings of an excellent knocker. Triumphant, he turned back to the little house only to find it gone—and Wendy with it. Both had been carried of by the elusive “they.” Blinking at the empty glade before him, Peter wondered if he would ever see his Wendy again.

For nearly a week, Peter could not shake the image of an ailing Wendy being led from the theatre. Worry that she was unwell gripped his heart, casting a pall over the joy that should have been his successful theatre debut. He needed to know she was in good health before his grip on sanity became lost to all-consuming fear.

The Thursday before the following Saturday matinee, Mr. Frohman announced his intention to throw a grand ball for theatre patrons.
 
The event, to be held in a month’s time, would serve dual purposes: an endeavor to increase private donations and an opportunity to celebrate the successful run of The Three Musketeers with the triumphant debut of their very own stage mouse, Peter. For Peter the news meant an even greater purpose, the very excuse needed to ascertain Wendy Darling’s state of being.

Pacing back and forth in the front office of Smythe and Sons Accounting Firm the next morning, Peter anxiously awaited the arrival of his elder brother. When Griffin entered, he had scarcely had a moment to remove his muffler and greatcoat before being set upon.

“Peter,” Griffin reprimanded. For he knew the source of his younger brother’s worry as well as he knew himself. “You must calm yourself. On the ‘morrow you can assure yourself that Miss Darling is well.”

Peter smiled, a fierce gleam sparked in his jewel-like eyes. “I shan’t have to endure the agony of another day. If you are willing to help me—” Anxiety replaced his grin as he pleaded, “You will help me, won’t you, Griffin?”

“Aye.” Griffin was well enough acquainted with Peter’s schemes to trust it would be equal parts benign intent and ill-conceived impulsiveness. However, where his brother’s mental peace was concerned, Griffin would endeavor to aid in his peace of mind.

“Thank you,” Peter replied and produced a sealed invitation address to Wendy in elegant script. “This is an invitation to Mr. Frohman’s grand ball. Will you deliver it to Miss Darling?”

“Aye, Peter.”

As Griffin began to shrug back into his coat, Peter added, “And wait for a reply by her own and most dear hand?”

“Aye.” Griffin began to rewind his muffler round his neck until Peter snatched the end and halted his progress.

“And—confirm she is in good health?”

Although this seemed like a lot to ask of a mere messenger, Griffin merely nodded and extended his hand for the invitation.

As Peter handed over the parchment, he acknowledged with a small measure of chagrin, “For the life of me, I cannot fathom why you indulge me so.”

Although meant as rhetorical, Griffin took the question to heart. With a far-away look in his ebony eyes, he answered, “In truth, it’s because I feel as though you took me in, rather than the other way around. I cannot explain it, but sometimes in the twilight of waking I dream that I’m scared and lost and you rescue me.” He shook his head to dispel the vision. “Just a fancy, I suppose. Be assured I will execute your errand to the exact detail.”

Watching his brother’s retreating form, Peter marveled at his fortune. Providence had quite easily brought him a family and love-at-first-sight. Although unable to recall life before
Highbury
Street, he felt sure that he must’ve done something noble to earn such a goodly lot. Griffin’s frank words, while improbable, only lent credence to this idea.

Now we know how Peter rescued forgotten babes and guided those lost boys until they were on the verge of manhood. Each and every boy deposited back into Kensington Gardens had the highest moral character. They entered adolescence fearlessly and grew up to become brave men who made their mark on our world. Some of the most influential men in our history were produced in just such a way. But those are stories for another time.

I hope you want to know what became of Wendy and whether she recovered from her first encounter with Peter Neverland. By the time she arrived home from the Duke of York’s matinee, she was quite herself again. At least on the outside… Her insides were a jumble of thoughts and emotions surfacing for the first time.

On the morning of this particular part of our story, she was in the drawing-room, taking her regular instruction from Aunt Mildred. Later in the day, the women of the Darling household, along with Aunt Mildred, were expected at the
Whitby’s
for tea. Mrs. Darling sat silently by, her sentiments belied only by the twitching of the perfectly conspicuous kiss in the right had corner of her sweet, mocking mouth. Wendy, you should know, had inherited that very same mouth and kiss.

“This is a test,” Aunt Mildred admonished shrilly. “The
Whitby’s
want to ensure your moral caliber and refinement is up to snuff. Come Wendy! Let us practice for this afternoon’s event.” She then began to advise Wendy on the genteel art of making conversation without saying anything at all. Wendy, however, kept getting distracted by the old woman’s waddle, which bobbed and wiggled above the ruffle of the woman’s high collar.

When a knock on the door interrupted the discourse, both Wendy, who’d been fixating on her Great Aunt’s throat rather than her discourse, and Mrs. Darling, who retained yet enough girlishness to balk at the matriarch’s practical lessons, were secretly thankful for the interruption.

A moment later, Old Liza appeared with a pretty little invitation. “For Wendy, Ma’am.” The servant offered the parchment not to Wendy but to Great Aunt Mildred. You see, the servant had been in the Darling household since she was a slight girl, and she knew on which side of the family their income’s bread was buttered. If not for Great Aunt Mildred, she would’ve been discharged a long time ago. For the Darling’s third child squeaked by so narrowly, Liza felt sure without the good matriarch’s intervention she would’ve been put out on the street so that he could afford to stay.

“What is this?” Great Aunt Mildred’s face turned fish-like, all pursed lips and narrowness as she inspected the invitation. “It seems,” she said to Wendy at last. “The producer of that theater you love so is throwing a ball.”

“A ball!”

It was Mrs. Darling who spoke thus, fortunately taking the attention off Wendy and the tremor that instantly racked her body at the thought of dancing with a certain young actor. Mrs. Darling’s liking for parties was one of her most remarkable qualities. Turning to her only daughter, she clapped her hands in delight, exclaiming, “Oh, I shall have occasion to lend you the necklace that George gave me! It does go so perfectly with your bracelet.”

Wendy loved to lend her pearl and ruby bracelet to her mother. It did complement Mrs. Darling’s necklace as if they were a matched set; therefore, on many occasions Mrs. Darling had asked for the loan of it. Imagining Peter’s reaction to how fine she would look adorned in them gave Wendy a small thrill.

“May I go, Aunt Mildred?” Wendy asked, trying to make the monumental inquiry seem trivial.

“Please, dear Aunt Mildred,” Mrs. Darling echoed. “Mayn’t she go?”

During this discourse, Old Liza had been quite forgotten until she cleared her throat and with downcast eyes said, “I’m to give the messenger Wendy’s reply, Ma’am.”

“Of course.” Aunt Mildred crossed to the writing desk, penned a short reply and handed it to the maid. By way of dismissal, she ordered, “Give him this.”

Liza left with a scowl; for she did not like the look of this particular messenger at all and was eager to be rid of him. Besides being too well dressed, he possessed the dark hair and eyes of a Spaniard. He also kept inquiring into Miss Darling’s health, an inappropriate and annoying impertinence in the old servant’s humble opinion.

Neither of the Darling women were given the benefit of seeing Great Aunt Mildred’s reply. For a tense moment, mother and daughter agonized over Wendy’s fate; for the girl’s attendance relied not only on the old woman’s agreement but also in her generosity to finance a suitable gown for the event.

After a pause befitting the Matriarch’s stature and influence over the situation, Great Aunt Mildred magnanimously declared, “I suppose, it never hurts for a young lady, who has yet to make her social mark, to partake in respectable society.”

At this, Wendy and Mrs. Darling clasped hands and began to dance about the room in a gay romp. It reminded Wendy of the lovely dances they used to have in the old nursery when she was still a child. Back then, Mrs. Darling would pirouette so wildly that all you could see of her was her kiss, and then if you had dashed at her you might have got it.

 
“Mother,” Wendy asked, when they finally stopped to catch their breath. “How did you know you were in love with father?”

The enigmatic kiss in the corner of Mrs. Darling’s smile grew deeper. “Why it was love at first sight, dear.”

This was an apt statement. As a girl, Mrs. Darling has been bursting with romantic sensibilities. When she finally decided she was ready to fall in love, Mr. Darling had the distinction of being the very first to arrive on her doorstep.

The way Mr. Darling won her was this: the many gentlemen who had been boys when she was a girl discovered simultaneously that they loved her, and they all ran to her house to propose to her except Mr. Darling, who took a cab and nipped in first, and so he got her. This confirmed Mr. Darling’s notion that love-at-first-sight sometimes had more to do with positioning than providence.

“How wonderful,” Wendy sighed, Great Aunt Mildred and her odious lessons momentarily forgotten. “Love at first sight.”

As Wendy floated from the room, Great Aunt Mildred’s eyes narrowed in shrewd speculation. Until that moment, she had not the least bit of concern in letting her great niece attend Mr. Frohman’s ball. Suddenly, the occasion seemed rife with peril. If the girl had ulterior motives… Still, she had given her word that Wendy could attend and she would stand by her promise. However, that didn’t mean that certain precautions couldn’t be taken.

Great Aunt Mildred had ulterior motives of her own, you see. Those motives, when coupled with manipulation, could make even the most well-meaning matriarch a formidable adversary. And the art of manipulation was, after all, a skill that the old woman had perfected in spades.