Verity Sparks and the Scarlet Hand by Susan Green Read Free Book Online

if he could tell I was awake, Papa opened one eye. “Where are we,
chérie
?”
    “I’m not sure, Papa.”
    “I’ve got pins an’ needles.” Now Poppy was awake too. “Are we there yet?”
    We looked at the landscape flashing past on either side of the line. Dusty roads, bush, farmland, a few straggling houses.
    “Look,” said Papa. “Can you see that large hill? Or mountain, I suppose we must call it, though compared to the Swiss Alps or the Rockies it is merely a pimple. It is called Mount Alexander. Did you know, girls, that the Mount Alexander goldfields were among the richest in the world? Ernö told me that during the gold rush, everyone in the colony was possessed of the gold fever and it was to the Mount Alexander diggings that they came in their thousands, to live in tents and try to make their fortunes.”
    The conductor put his head through the door of our carriage. “Castlemaine is next, sir.”
    The rhythm of the train began to slow. Now we could see streets and paths, a bridge, the tall spires of churches, rows of cottages.
    “We have arrived,” announced Papa.

    Castlemaine Station was a handsome brick building. As we walked from the platform past the ticket office and waiting rooms and out into the yard, I saw a wide street leading up a hill. It was lined with houses, shops, hotels and churches, and I have to confess my spirits rose. I’m a city girl, born and bred, and after Papa’s talk about tents and goldmines, I didn’t know what to expect. To be sure there was almost nobody about, but I put that down to the heat. It was much warmer than in Melbourne.
    Mr Petrov had ordered the livery stables to send a driver with a wagonette to pick us up. The stationmaster followed us out.
    “There’s something else to take up to Mr Petrov,” he said, and a couple of men followed him carrying a large crate. A small white head with a beak and watchful blue eyes poked out through the wooden slats.
    “Ooh, it’s a bird,” said Poppy, backing away. Though she loved animals, Poppy wasn’t keen on birds. Lucifer was the only exception.
    “It’s just a hen, Poppy,” said Connie, taking her hand.
    “No, it’s a peacock,” said the stationmaster. “You’ll find a whole flock of them up at Mr Petrov’s. He’s quite a bird fancier.”
    “Well, I don’t fancy ’em,” said Poppy. She poked out her tongue at the peacock. “Not one bit.”

    A few blocks from the station, the driver turned in from the main road and drove up a steepish hill. The houses that lined this street were neat and modern, surrounded by pretty gardens. The sun was shining and a stray breeze ruffled the ribbons on my hat. The shadow of Della Parker faded to nothing. I sighed happily as I breathed in a lungful of fresh country air.
    “Nice, ain’t it?” said the driver. “Champagne air, I always says. Not all dirty and full o’ smoke and smells like the city. And here we are.”
    He turned down the gravelled driveway of a large, low house with a verandah all the way round and stopped at the entrance. Mr Petrov, leaning on a cane, was standing in the doorway and he came forwards to greet us. How stiffly he walked, how frail and sick he seemed. It was hard to believe that he and Papa were the same age.
    “We’re here!” yelled Poppy.
    Mr Petrov winced at the volume of her voice but he spoke kindly. “So you are, my dear,” he said. “Welcome to our home.” Turning his head, Mr Petrov added, “This is my wife, Helen.”
    A woman emerged from the shadowy hallway and Poppy dropped a curtsey that would have done for a duchess. Amid the flurry of introductions that followed, I exchanged a quick glance with Papa. He was just as astonished as I was. You see, when Papa had told me Mr Petrov had married his grandchildren’s nanny, I expected the lady to be middle-aged or older, and, well –
nanny
-like.
    Mrs Petrov was a stunner. She had grey eyes and wheat-coloured hair done up high on her head. Her face was beautiful and