38. November 2, 1914 Great Yarmouth, England
Beatrix intends to abandon England to its fate. She saves enough money to buy a one-way third-class ticket on an ocean liner to America, packs her single suitcase, and tries not to think about the fate of the Titanic.
She gets as far as the train station.
The girl standing alone on the concrete platform can’t be more than six years old, with mousy brown hair plaited into two French braids and brown eyes that are too big—and too serious—for her round face.
She has forgotten her coat somewhere, and her nose has turned pink from the chill in the air. An ache blooms in Beatrix’s chest.
She sets her bag on the pavement near the girl’s feet. Her scuffed patent-leather shoes are too big for her, too. “Hello. Are you waiting for the next train?”
The girl straightens and puffs out her chest. “Yes.”
“Are you expecting someone?” Beatrix prods.
“I’m running away. To London.” She says it as if it were some magical far-off place, like Peter Pan’s Neverland.
Beatrix smiles down at her. “Fancy that, I’m running away, too.”
The girl’s gaze snaps to her face. She gasps. “Your eyes are two different colors!”
“They are,” Beatrix says. And maybe because the girl reminds her of Margaret, with her braids falling loose and her curious gaze, she whispers, “All the better for seeing faeries.”
“George says there’s no such thing as faeries,” the girl says, frowning. It was obviously a point of contention between them.
“Does he now?” Beatrix says. “And who, might I ask, is George?”
“My older brother.”
Beatrix guesses that he must not be much older than the girl, or else she wouldn’t be so annoyed by his declaration. It was like Victor and Margaret, Alice and Isabella. The closer in age, the better they were at getting under each other’s skin.
“He obviously hasn’t checked down by the old Roman wall. Or under the pier. Or in the minster cemetery.” Not that Beatrix has seen a faerie in any of those places, but they sound like somewhere a child would expect one to be—sleeping inside flowers and drinking dewdrops at sunrise.
“He’s afraid of the cemetery, but I’m not,” the girl boasts.
“It’s a pity you’re going to London,” Beatrix says. “I don’t think faeries much care for the city.”
“I could go tomorrow…”
Beatrix nods. “You might have better luck finding them now that the crowds have gone for the season.”
The girl’s face brightens. “Will you show me where to look?”
Beatrix glances at her watch. “Oh, I don’t know…”
“Please?” she begs.
Beatrix gives her a smile. “I suppose I could take the next train.”
The girl beams at her.
“What’s your name?”
“Elsie.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Elsie. I’m Beatrix. Shall we walk you home, and I’ll show you all the best places along the way for faerie spotting?”
Elsie nods eagerly.
Beatrix spins a tale as they walk. She points out a hollow in a gnarled tree in the minster cemetery and explains that faeries prefer the new moon to the full one, so their twinkling dresses can shine like stars in the dark.
She tells Elsie to check under the tiniest shells on the beach and to peek into the mossiest cracks of the old wall at dusk.
Elsie soaks it all in, transfixed by Beatrix’s words.
Beatrix feels like dirt. Time has changed faeries, too, and now every word she speaks of them is a lie. The truth would give Elsie nightmares.
They reach the front door of a redbrick row house, and Beatrix kneels in front of her.
There is one truth she has to share. “The most important thing to remember about faeries is this,” she says.
“Never call out to them. Never speak to them. And no matter what, never, ever trust them. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” Elsie says gravely.
Beatrix smiles at her. “I knew you would.”
She straightens and knocks on the faded red door. A scrawny woman with blond hair falling loose from her bun answers. She takes one look at Elsie standing on her front step and bursts into tears.
It takes an entire pot of tea to calm the woman enough for Beatrix to discover that Mary Taylor wasn’t crying tears of relief because her lost daughter had been found.
They were tears of shame and horror, because she hadn’t even realized her youngest child was gone.
The poor widow is overwhelmed: her eldest son sent to the front in September, her husband lost to it in October.
And now she is alone at home, taking in extra washing and mending work to make ends meet, with six children to care for, at least one of whom is too headstrong for her own good.
Beatrix takes their teacups to the sink. It’s overflowing with dishes. Mary frowns as Beatrix sets to washing them.
“Enough of that,” she says. She hands Beatrix a dish towel. “You’re going to miss the train if you don’t hurry.”
Beatrix dries her hands. There’s a basket of clothes in the corner of the cramped kitchen, and linens on the line out back waiting to be brought in.
Small muddy footprints are dried onto the floor, and dinner sits half prepared near the stove.
Children shout from the next room. Mary looks on the verge of tears.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Beatrix asks. “I used to be a governess. In London.”
Mary waves her off. “I’m sure I can’t afford that.”
“What about room and board? I could use a place to stay.” Because somewhere between the station and the sink, she has decided to do just that.