Verity Sparks, Lost and Found (2 page)

“She will love to take you out with her,” said Mr Rowland. “Shopping expeditions, tea parties, charity bazaars and whatnot – there’s nothing Maria likes so much as society.”

Oh no. I’d met lots of society ladies when I was a milliner’s assistant, and most of them had heads as empty as a china doll’s. My heart sank.

“And our daughter Charlotte – Lottie – will be glad of a new friend.”

Papa beamed.

“See, Verity,” he said when we were alone. “With Mrs Rowland’s help, you will soon be meeting really nice people.”

“But I already know really nice people,” I said, thinking of SP, Judith, Daniel and Mrs Morcom.

“But you need to make new friends. The right sort of friends.”

It’s a funny thing, but though he was so rich and successful, deep inside Papa had a yearning for high society. Not for himself, but for me. He wanted me to be a social success here in the colonies. That was why we were living in this big fancy mansion called Alhambra in the fashionable suburb of St Kilda. And why Papa was so keen for me to go gallivanting to all those tea parties and charity bazaars.

I have to admit that I dreaded my first meeting with Mrs Rowland. But it turned out she wasn’t the flibbertigibbet I’d imagined. She was lively, all right, but kind and motherly as well, and Lottie became my first real friend here in Australia. Lottie was starting at Hightop House late in the year because she’d had scarlet fever and was only now strong enough to go to school. And with Papa and Mr Rowland soon to depart for Queensland to look at tin mines, it made sense that I start school as well. Or that’s what Papa said. I wasn’t convinced.

“Are you listening, Verity?”

“Yes, Papa. You were telling me that you are to accompany Mr and Mrs Rowland to a reception at Government House.”

Papa brightened a little at the thought, but it was only a few seconds before he was back to today’s visit. “You will put on your new dress, won’t you? And the hair ribbon I bought you the other day.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“And please get the ink stains off your hands,
chérie
.”

I looked down at my blue-tipped fingers. Papa knew that I’d much rather spend the afternoon writing. Even though he tried not to show it, he disapproved.

As if he was reading my mind, he added, “A young lady shouldn’t spend
too
much time scribbling. You will strain your eyes, not to mention your brain.”

I wished Mrs Morcom was here, to tell him not to talk nonsense.

Papa gave me another kiss and, trying to walk quietly, which is hard if you are as big as Papa Savinov, he left my room.

The weather looked uncertain, so Papa – who had ordered our coachman to get out the barouche – changed his mind, and asked for the brougham instead. Barouche, brougham – not only did I know the different kinds of vehicle, but I rode in them too. “Carriage trade” was what we milliners used to call those customers rich enough to have their own carriage. I was “carriage trade” now. Sometimes the changes to my life since I left Madame Louisette’s simply boggled me.

But enough of those thoughts. Off we went, and Papa was probably right to choose a closed carriage that day. It was autumn, and though last week had been warm and sunny, today a sharp wind was blowing down St Kilda Road, whirling the leaves off the trees. St Kilda Road was one of the finest boulevards in the city of Melbourne. It was wide and lined with trees and posh residences. Papa and I entertained ourselves by looking right and left at all the grand new mansions, but in the end, we decided that our house was better than the lot of them. Secretly I thought Alhambra was rather ugly, but I would never hurt Papa’s feelings by telling him so. Not like Mrs Morcom, who declared it was a monstrosity. Besides, how could I complain when I was living in luxury?

The carriage turned, and now we could see the Yarra River, winding along beside the road.

“How brown and muddy it is,” I said.

“The river bottom is on the top,” said Papa. “You see? That’s because here in Australia we’re in the Antipodes. You might say we’re down under. And for that reason, the rivers flow upside down.”

I looked at the river and then back at Papa. He was straight-faced, but at last he burst out laughing.

“I knew you were tricking,” I said with dignity, and then I started laughing myself.

“It is a shame that the river is so dirty,” said Papa. “There are so many factories upstream and they discharge all their waste into the river. But it is the same in London.”

I couldn’t help sighing at the mention of London. Australia was an adventure, but sometimes I was homesick. I missed the great city, with its miles of bustling streets and shops, the fine squares and parks side by side with slums, and everything such a mixture of old and new. When you learned a bit, like I did from the Plushes, you realised that walking through London, you were walking through history. Melbourne was so new. Everything looked unfinished.

“We are in Toorak now,” said Papa.

I could see houses and villas set in leafy gardens, and here and there a paddock with a horse in it, or an orchard.

“Very pretty, don’t you think, my dear? Is this it? Is this the school?”

Our coachman had stopped in front of a pair of stone gateposts.

Hightop House Academy for Young Ladies

Proprietresses: Mrs B Morrison & Mrs R Enderby-Smarke

The words were engraved on a shiny new-looking brass plate. The gates stood wide open but somehow the effect wasn’t welcoming. Perhaps it was because the wrought-iron bars reminded me of a gaol.

My heart sank a little.

Papa must have seen the look on my face.

“You don’t have to go to school if you really don’t want to,” he said. “Don’t worry, Veroschka. I will only enrol you at this academy if it is good enough for you.”

But was I good enough for the academy? That was the question.

Papa and I were shown into Mrs Enderby-Smarke’s study, where she sat behind a highly polished desk.

“You understand we cannot accept just
anybody
,” she said in an accent so refined you’d think she was Queen Victoria herself. “Mrs Morrison – my cousin, you know – established this school to cater to the
crème de la crème
of the colony. Indeed, one of our boarders is the daughter of Mr and Mrs Alistair McGryll of Gryll Grange near Hamilton in the Western District.” She paused for a while so that this information could sink in. “You have to understand, Mr Savinov, that we are a
most
exclusive school.”

Papa looked almost downcast.

Then Mrs Enderby-Smarke said, “That is why we are so pleased that Mrs Rowland has recommended you.”

And Papa, relieved that we came up to scratch, smiled broadly. “
Bon
,” he said. “I mean, that is good.”

Mrs Enderby-Smarke stood up. She was a short lady in her early fifties, wearing a dress of cinnamon-brown silk striped with blue, and with lots of hair piled up in a sort of tower on top of her head. Trying to give herself extra height, I guessed. Her eyes were small, and rather like brown pebbles. The hair, I decided on closer inspection, was partly wig.

“A recommendation like that makes
all
the difference.” She beamed a smile at Papa, and then turned it on me.

There are smiles, and then there are smiles. There was something about this one I didn’t like. For one thing, it didn’t reach her eyes. And for another, I felt like she was adding up the cost of my clothes.

“Hightop House is very much in demand,” she said smugly. “You are
very
lucky that we happen to have a place.” She spoke as if she was doing us an enormous favour. “And now, Mr Savinov, come and sit over here.” There were two armchairs and a spindly table by a window. “We will have a cup of tea and discuss the curriculum. And of course …” She gave yet another smile, and I was reminded of the barracouta fish one of the
Herringbone
’s sailors had showed me, “… the fees.”

While Papa and Mrs Enderby-Smarke talked, I looked around me. The walls were covered with murky engravings. I looked a bit closer and saw a pile of corpses in a snowy field. Ugh! It was titled
Napoleon’s Retreat from Russia
. How odd, I thought, to have gory battle scenes in a lady’s study. I glanced at her books. They weren’t what you’d expect on a headmistress’s shelves either. There were ten bound copies of
London Society
magazine,
The Bazaar and Fancy Fair Book
,
Crickleworth’s Complete Compendium
,
The Polite Person’s Guide to Etiquette
and one I owned myself,
The Young Ladies’ Treasure Book and Complete Companion
.

It had been a present from Papa. He’d been pleased as Punch about finding me the perfect gift, so I didn’t have the heart to tell him it wasn’t. Perfect, I mean. It was 900 pages on tatting, knitting, netting, crochet, needlepoint and other assorted handicrafts. There were also sections on etiquette, manners and polite conversation. It was part of Papa’s campaign to transform me into a perfect young lady.

I looked across to where they were sitting.

“Piano lessons?” she was saying.

“But certainly,” said Papa.

“And what level has she reached?”

“Unfortunately, she has never learned.”

“What, never?” Mrs Enderby-Smarke sounded shocked. “To be truly accomplished, a young lady
must
have a thorough knowledge of music.” She added another set of figures to her list.

There was a tap at the door and a scrawny maid entered carrying the tea tray. It looked heavy, and her hands shook slightly as she put it down. Milk spilled from the jug onto the table.

“Go and get a cloth, Bridget! Hurry up, girl. What are you waiting for? No, stop!”

Poor Bridget pulled up short.

“Mr Savinov would like to meet one of our instructresses. Ask Miss Deane to come down.”

Bridget hurried away, and Mrs Enderby-Smarke turned to Papa. “These Irish girls! They’re little better than savages, but what can you do? They’re all we can get.”

I’m glad to say that Papa spoke up. “Our Irish maids are a bit rough-and-ready, I admit, but very willing and good-hearted. And cheerful.”

“Perhaps my standards are too high,” sighed Mrs Enderby-Smarke as she poured the tea.

I heard footsteps. They were coming from the floor above and I moved closer to the door. Looking up, I could see what Papa and Mrs Enderby-Smarke couldn’t. It was a surprising sight for such a high-toned school. A small, slightly plump woman in her early twenties stalked to the head of the stairs, hitched up her skirts and then – zoom! – simply slid down the banister rail. She landed at the bottom of the stairs with a thump, settled her skirts, ran a hand through her tousled red hair and looked up. Our eyes met. She put her finger soundlessly to her lips.

I nodded, and she proceeded past me into Mrs Enderby-Smarke’s office in what seemed like a thoroughly lady-like manner … until she looked back at me and winked. It was all I could do to stop myself from giggling.

“Mr Savinov,” said Mrs Enderby-Smarke. “I would like to introduce Miss Deane. Miss Deane teaches drawing, composition, elocution, grammar, and introduces the girls to the wonders of English literature.”