Hiram, she detested. Her parents and this Hiram, they had no understanding of art or music or beauty. Their world was pork, pork and more pork.” Papa gave a wry smile. “Isabella was grateful their hard work had given her a comfortable life. But she hated their ignorance and narrow-mindedness. Isabella …”
“Yes, Papa?”
“Ah, Isabella …”
Papa had gone into a sort of dream. I tiptoed out.
Papa decided to leave for Castlemaine at the end of the week. The night before we were due to travel, he arranged an outing to the opera. The famous soprano Marie Chartreuse was performing at the Princess Theatre.
“I saw her in this role in Paris in ’72. She was stupendous.” Papa smiled and stretched his arms wide. “Grand opera – there’s nothing like it, eh?”
“No,” I said. Nothing else consists of two or three hours of wobbly high-pitched singing and bad acting in Italian or German or French. It was sad, but I just couldn’t share Papa’s passion. I wondered if, secretly, I was a disappointment to him. What with Mama being a famous diva, opera should have been in my blood, but to tell you the truth, I preferred a play.
Never mind. I could enjoy Papa’s enjoyment.
We had an early dinner and at around half past seven our coachman Albert stopped the carriage outside the theatre. There’d been a brief shower just before we set out and the blazing gas lamps made glittering reflections in every raindrop. The theatre, too, was lit up like a fairy palace. A street orchestra nearby was playing a waltz. My heart lifted. Opera or no opera, Melbourne at night was a thrilling place.
Poppy hopped out first with a squeal of delight. She held Papa’s hand and looked around. Connie held Papa’s other hand. She loved music more than anything except her father, and tonight she was beside herself with anticipation.
The audience was milling around in the brightly lit foyer and on the pavement outside and I felt another surge of excitement as we joined the throng. Top hats, silk evening cloaks, sparkling jewels, rustling skirts … the mingled smells of perfume, hair pomade and cigars … chatter and laughter and breathless excitement. To think that when I first arrived, I’d expected to see kangaroos in the streets of Melbourne!
The bell started to ring. It was time to take our seats. I tried to follow close behind Papa and the two girls, but we were separated in the crowd. A large man in a brown coat rudely pushed in front of me, knocking me sideways. I would have fallen had not a hand at my elbow kept me upright. I turned to thank my unseen helper.
“Oh,” I gasped. “It’s you.”
She was wearing grey again; a pale silvery grey dress and a darker cape. Her skin was startlingly white against the black fur collar. As I stared up at her face, I began to tremble. She was so like Mama’s portrait that I felt a strange impulse to reach out and stroke her cheek. It was as if I was being drawn towards her.
“Who are you?” I whispered.
“My name is Della Parker.” She spoke in an urgent, husky voice with a strong accent. Was it American? Canadian? I couldn’t tell. “I am your cousin.”
“My cousin?” I didn’t have any cousins. Instantly, the puzzle pieces inside my head formed a suspicious picture. Somehow this woman had heard of Uncle Hiram’s death. She knew I was rich. She wanted money and was masquerading as a relative.
“My father was Waldo Parker,” she said.
Now I knew she was lying. I stepped away from her. “Waldo died when he was young,” I said. “Now go away and stop bothering me, or I’ll–”
“No, it’s true.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Believe this, then.” She thrust a small oblong package into my hand and then vanished into the crowd.
“Veroschka, there you are.”
It was Papa, come back to find me. He took me by the arm. “What are you waiting for,
chérie
? We don’t want to miss a minute of the first act.”
Actually, I missed most of it.
My mind