Creatures of Charm and Hunger Page 6

  Edith had as good as said she was doing something to try to help Miriam’s parents. Probably several members of the Société would involve themselves, both those who believed in Miriam’s family’s innocence and those who believed they could prove the reverse.

  But they didn’t have every known text on diabolism at their fingertips.

  Miriam did.

  Furthermore, this was personal for her; a passion project. As much as Edith might care for Miriam’s parents, it couldn’t ever be the same for her. Miriam loved her mother and her father, not because of the secrets they carried or their role in the fate of the war effort, but because of who they were, and what they meant to her.

  She had to clear their names.

  Usually, Miriam was able to fold her anger into little neat packages, but this rage was too big, too messy for that. How could anyone dare accuse them? Her mother hadn’t been sad about Hitler’s election, she’d been furious; her father had become withdrawn and started going to services at his synagogue again, after years of intermittent attendance at best.

  He’d brought Miriam with him, too. When she’d asked why she had to go, her father had replied, almost sharply: “If they hate us for being Jews, we’ll be as Jewish as we can be!”

  She refused to believe that either of them had become collaborators.

  Miriam was never one to put off work, but in order to avert suspicion on Edith’s part, she made sure to be at least reasonably social the rest of her aunt’s visit. She even walked with Edith and Jane into Hawkshead to look at what was in the few shop windows, though the trip didn’t seem to afford any of them much pleasure.

  Jane was usually at her brightest when Edith visited, but she had been in a strangely dour mood ever since the night of their Test. In better days, Miriam would have intruded into Jane’s room to winkle out of her what weighed so heavily upon her mind, but the truth was Miriam was too afraid of what might be said if she did.

  “You’re up to something,” said Jane, the last morning of their aunt’s visit, when the two girls passed on the stairs.

  “What?” Even to her own ears, Miriam sounded startled, not innocent. “I mean, why do you say that?”

  Jane leaned back like a movie star, head tilted, arms crossed; if she’d been smoking a forbidden cigarette, the look would have been complete. Miriam just stood there, right foot on the stair above, her hand gripping the railing for strength.

  “You’ve had your nose in a book even more than usual.”

  Miriam winced. “I didn’t mean to be so obvious.”

  “Did Edith say something to you? After their fight, I mean?”

  Miriam wasn’t sure she wanted to discuss Edith’s disclosures with Jane at all, but certainly not in the stairwell. “Just that she was sorry for everything.”

  “She apologized to me, too.”

  Miriam tried to throw Jane off her scent with what she thought would be the blandest possible explanation. “It’s just that, well . . . we passed our Test. It’s time to get to work on our Practical.”

  “Oh!” Jane blushed. “Yes, of course. Me, too. I mean, I feel the same! I’ve just been a bit distracted.” Her eyes flickered to the kitchen, where Nancy and Edith were talking.

  “She’ll be gone soon enough,” said Miriam, and then realizing how that sounded, added, “and you’ll be able to focus more easily on your endeavors. The two of you enjoy one another’s company so much, and get it so infrequently . . . no one could blame you for wanting to take advantage of it while you can.”

  Miriam was surprised by Jane’s annoyed shrug.

  “It’s interesting, isn’t it? They say we’re growing up so fast, but how would they know? They’re still children themselves.”

  Miriam realized Jane was disappointed by something, but it felt presumptuous to ask what it might be. “True enough,” she replied, “but I’m only sometimes able to be an adult about things. Maybe growing up is just about adjusting the percentages.”

  Jane laughed. “That’s as good an explanation as any. Just the same, I wish they hadn’t quarreled like that. It was so embarrassing.” She said all this very rapidly, almost whispering it. “It’s an old argument between them, I guess.”

  “Old argument?”

  “Edith didn’t want Mother to become the Librarian.” Miriam wondered how Jane knew all this, but also didn’t want to interrupt to ask. “She thought Mother was too young to bury herself in the country for the sake of a bunch of books.”

  Miriam couldn’t hold back any longer. “Did she tell you this?”

  “No!” Jane grinned. “After their fight, I hid in the hall and listened to them.”

  “Eavesdropping!”

  “Oh, go on! But that seems to be it. When Mother was pregnant with me”—Jane’s face went all funny for a moment; Nancy would never tell Jane anything about her father, much to Jane’s chagrin—“she put her name forward for Librarian and was accepted. Up until then she and Edith had been traveling around together. Edith said, ‘You loved these books more than you loved me—you jumped at the chance to come here and leave me to deal with the world on my own.’ And Mother said, ‘You’re still jealous of this place?’ And they went on from there. Anyway, then Edith said, ‘You took away Jane’s chance at having the life she deserves.’ ”

  “No wonder they’ve been so polite to one another,” said Miriam. “This was quite a fight. What did Nancy say to that?”

  Jane’s mood shifted slightly, her smile going from rueful to wry. “She said, ‘Perhaps, but I’m glad to have been able to offer Miriam a safe place to grow up when she needed it.’ ”

  Miriam didn’t know what to say.

  “I’m glad too,” added Jane.

  Miriam looked up, wondering if Jane might be attempting to traverse the rift between them, but then Nancy called them to breakfast.

  Jane’s expression soured. “Shall we? Last one of these for a while, thank goodness. And they’re always perky on the last morning of a visit.”

  They were indeed, and, even better, Nancy suggested the girls might like to ride in the back of the mule cart when it came to collect Edith’s luggage. A bumpy cart ride was one of the few outdoor activities Miriam really loved; she scrambled right up. Jane hesitated, but after Edith declared her intention to walk, Jane planted herself beside Miriam.

  “See you there!” called Jane, and the two of them bid the boy, “Drive on, drive on!” just as they’d used to do when they were younger.

  The cart jolted over the winter-rough road, and more than once the girls squealed as they knocked into one another. The weather had turned colder again, and their breath puffed out in white clouds that disappeared against the gray sky.

  Even on a dreary day like this one, Miriam thought this the most beautiful countryside she’d ever seen. While at times she still missed the low, flat German landscape, Cumbria’s rolling, rock-strewn hills and rushing culverts had claimed her heart.

  Since coming here she’d learned that Beatrix Potter’s sweet little depictions of ducks and rabbits weren’t inaccurate—but Cumbria was also a wild place, lonely and remote with as many black and mysterious pinewoods as it had sunny farmyards.

  They arrived in Hawkshead well before Edith and Nancy, of course. Jane bemoaned the lack of ice cream, for she desperately wanted one—if Jane wanted something these days, she wanted it desperately. For her part, Miriam wanted a cup of tea at the Red Lion, but she could not speak this desire aloud.

  Once Nancy and Edith arrived, there was the usual snippy fussing that went into loading all her luggage into her too-small car. Then Edith said her farewells.

  “I don’t know when I’ll be back again, so please try not to grow up too, too much before I return?” she said, gazing fondly upon them both.

  “No promises,” muttered Jane. Miriam said nothing at all.

  Edith looked rather annoyed as she got into her car. “Upon second thought, perhaps you might both use my time away to push through this awkward stage you se
em to be in. Ta!”

  And with that, she roared away in her Citroën.

  “I’m surprised at you, Jane,” said Nancy. “Usually you’re one step away from stowing away in Edith’s boot.”

  “We’re all very busy,” said Jane, “and it will be nice to get back into a routine.”

  Miriam’s spirits sank further as they returned to the old farmhouse one Blackwood fewer. The rain-washed slate roof and white walls made her feel strangely ill at ease. Miriam usually considered the first sight of home to be the best part of a journey, but today it filled her with dread. She wondered if she and Jane would ever again ride to the village together in the back of a cart—if they would ever speak again in hushed whispers about the ways in which a family visit had gone wrong.

  It wasn’t just Jane who was changing, not anymore. With this new quest before her, Miriam sensed she’d started down a path that led away from childhood—and that she would never be able to retrace her steps.

  7

  * * *

  EDITH HAD INDEED PAID A VISIT to Jane on the night of the Test—but she hadn’t merely stopped in to apologize, as Jane had told Miriam. Edith had had another, more shocking purpose for intruding upon Jane’s privacy.

  “I think it’s time you learned something about your father, Jane.”

  That wasn’t the first thing Edith had said. No, she’d asked for “permission to come aboard,” with a little salute that Jane didn’t acknowledge, made herself comfortable, and then sighed deeply.

  “I see now why Nancy has always been so scrupulous about not playing favorites.”

  Jane bit back her urge to say, “She has?” Her own wounds were known to her; Edith’s point was not.

  Edith continued. “It seems that by declaring for you early on, I’ve alienated my sister and hurt Miriam. Not to mention made your own mother a little more suspicious of your dedication to the Art than she ought to be.”

  “Do you blame yourself for that?” Jane didn’t offer even a token protest in defense of Nancy’s fairness. She just wanted to know why Edith felt the way she did.

  Instead of answering, Edith said, “Nancy asked me to come with her, when she took this job.”

  Jane was amazed. Edith always seemed to enjoy the novelty of country living during her visits, but it should have been obvious to anyone that she would not have thrived here, miles away from anything and anyone.

  Edith, too, seemed to be contemplating the life she might have led. She was gazing into the flame of a candle Jane had burning on her desk, and for the thousandth time Jane was struck by her aunt’s sublime poise and grace. The dipping of her head was elegant, almost swanlike. How could Nancy have even asked Edith to bury herself here?

  “I declined,” said Edith, “obviously. And I think we both came away feeling betrayed. She didn’t have to take this job; we had plenty of money from Mother and Father. We could have kept on traveling the world, going to parties, and doing fabulous works of diablerie—yes, even with an infant in tow! Especially you, given how you turned out.” Edith favored her with a smile.

  Jane had heard all this from eavesdropping, but she played along anyway, sensing there was something yet to be revealed.

  “People change. They end up wanting different things. For a long time, I felt Nancy had chosen these books over me. Now, I see how much she loves her work.” Edith shrugged. “Sadly, I don’t think Nancy’s ever been able to understand why I couldn’t give up the world for her . . . and for better or for worse, I think your mother looks at you and sees me.”

  How Jane wished it were so! Or at least, that it were due in part to some physical resemblance, not just their shared bits of character. Edith’s beauty was shocking—the smooth darkness of her skin, her birdlike throat, her perfect posture. Jane would have sold her soul for a share of her aunt’s poise and grace.

  “She also sees him.” Jane held very still, and after a moment, Edith said, “I think it’s time you learned something about your father, Jane. I know it’s a forbidden subject. Nancy would probably burst in here to strangle me if she knew what I was about.”

  Nancy had never been willing to tell Jane even the smallest detail about the man who had sired her. She stuck firmly to the story she told everyone—that she was a widow who’d moved to the countryside. Little things here and there had made Jane wonder whether that was true, and after listening to that argument between her mother and aunt, she was sure there was more to the story.

  “Your father is alive,” said Edith, and Jane went perfectly still. “His name is Patrice Durand. He lives in Paris, though before the war he used to spend half the year in Indonesia.”

  A French father! This seemed unexpectedly glamorous to Jane, even if she suddenly felt rather less English.

  But also exhilarating. She knew his name. With his name, she could learn more about him. She could send him a message through the Basque Lens in the Library. They might even meet one day!

  Though it made her feel a bit silly, Jane asked the one thing she’d always most wanted to know:

  “How did they meet?”

  “The Société, naturally. Patrice also works directly for the organization, but his role is rather different. He’s currently the Société’s Evaluator . . . something in between an officer of the law and a judge. He investigates alleged violations of our codes and our laws and decides what should be done about them . . . anything from appointing investigative committees to dispensing justice.”

  Jane didn’t have ask if “dispensing justice” meant what she thought it did; Edith offered the information freely.

  “I was picking at your mother, earlier,” she admitted. “Neither of you girls would have been at risk of such dire repercussions, had you failed, but part of the Evaluator’s duties include deciding what’s to be done with those who don’t pass their Test.”

  “How droll,” said Jane. Edith had recoiled from her waspish tone, but Jane didn’t care. It was awful in every way to finally—finally—learn who her father was, only to find out he would be the one to decide her fate if it were ever discovered she’d failed her Test. “That’s a perfectly ghastly thing to joke about, in my opinion.”

  Edith looked surprised. “I—I suppose it is. Forgive me, Jane, I didn’t mean to upset you. I was just feeling so merry after you both passed . . .” Jane was not mollified by this. “I forget how isolated you’ve been here. In a city, apprentices often swap information and tales, so when the realities of the Art are revealed, it isn’t quite so shocking.” Edith looked really worried. “You’ve learned a lot tonight, and that after an ordeal. Perhaps I should have held off on telling you all this.”

  “I’ve waited long enough to hear it, I think.” And be disappointed by it, she thought. Jane knew she was acting like a spoiled and tired child, but she was, frankly, appalled to realize the entire dreadful conversation she’d endured earlier at the kitchen table was due to Edith trying to needle Nancy—and it had been about her father.

  Never in a million years would Jane have believed that she’d find out her father was alive and not wish to contact him! But how could she? He would be the one holding the knife to her throat.

  “I can see I’ve made a misstep somewhere, so I’ll just say this information was meant for your ears only. In fact, I ask you to swear to me that you’ll not contact your father until you’re no longer living under Nancy’s roof.”

  “Why?” Jane felt her interest in contacting her father increase as a result of this demand for a promise, rather than the reverse.

  “It’s not my story to tell, but your mother’s affair with Patrice ended badly. He loved her so much; he wanted her to stay, wanted to raise you together. But he has a temper, and when Nancy said she would not, he declared he wanted nothing to do with either of you, and didn’t even say goodbye when she left for England. But, Jane,” said Edith, registering some of the very real hurt Jane was feeling, “as you can see, time changes all things.”

  “Not my mother.”

&nb
sp; Edith acknowledged Jane’s point. “No, not your mother.”

  Jane had one more question. “Why did you tell me this now? Why not tell me later instead of asking me to wait?”

  Edith hesitated. “That’s a fair question. I did it at the request of your father.” She had the air of someone choosing her words very carefully. “The losses in this war have been heavy and far-reaching. Patrice may not be on the front lines, but he has seen his share of sorrow. He is eager to make up for lost time.”

  “Then—”

  “Do not think this is a step that can be untaken,” said Edith, so sharply that Jane jumped. Her aunt had never spoken to her like that before; Edith, too, seemed surprised at herself, and when she spoke again, it was more gently. “There’s nothing I can think of that would do more to damage your relationship with your mother.”

  But of course there were things Jane could learn about her father that didn’t require contacting him. She couldn’t see the harm in looking up certain information, and so she did: his address in Paris, his service record, his birthday, his parents’ names and their occupations (famous diabolists in their day, it turned out—he, and therefore she, had quite the pedigree). Jane read these tidbits as she could, when she could, even before Edith had departed, sneaking looks when her mother wasn’t in the Library and Miriam was lost in her studies.

  Jane didn’t feel like she was violating her promise to her aunt, and yet she did feel vaguely guilty about her secret researches. But she wasn’t doing anything with the information—she was merely finding out the facts. And the facts were Patrice Durand was two years younger than her mother, he lived in a flat in the heart of Paris, and Jane could contact him if she wanted to.

  But she didn’t want to. All that had changed was that the option was now at her fingertips.

  It felt frivolous, thinking about her father at all, really. Jane had many more pressing concerns.

  While Jane could accept that she’d failed her Test, she would not accept that she was done as a diabolist. Rationally speaking, she knew there was a slim chance that the Société would decide she warranted divvying up to those individuals who might enjoy the use of her liver or eyeballs, but neither would she bow and scrape before them, begging for whatever dreadful jobs they saved for the disappointments.