Lady Abigail and the Morose Magician Read online

  ***

  Our first meal at chez Wilkerson was a marvel beyond all description, but allow me to give a feeble attempt.

  First of all, the house was packed to its no doubt extensive rafters with the most horrible furniture and statues and bits and bobs, as if Papa Wilkerson had stamped into Harrods and ordered the entire place outfitted in job lots. Books I saw none, save Miss Belle's extensive collection of penny papers, which filled the otherwise empty shelves in the drawing room. Dreadful brocade curtains the color of mud hung at every window I saw, and the house reeked of hothouse flowers and cabbage. A combination devoutly to be dreaded.

  "Oh, Simon," Abigail said as we followed a plump maidservant into the drawing room, "lovely, isn't it?"

  She said it just loud enough for our host to hear, of course. He rose from his armchair—a not inconsiderable feat—and beamed at us in delight.

  Mr. Ezekiel Wilkerson had appeared large in the daguerreotype. In the flesh, and a great deal of flesh there was, he became a veritable whale of a man. His plump shoulders were just the beginning of a body that extended out, and out, and out again, to narrow slightly as it headed towards his feet, oddly tiny and shod in brilliant patent leather. Rotund doesn't touch it; he only wanted a spout atop his round head, which sat atop a nest of chins, to be mistaken for a whale. This resemblance was only added to by his formal black and white evening attire. I calculated it would take at least a bale of cotton to make one shirt for him.

  "There you are, my dear Miss Abigail," he said, holding out his flipper-like hand.

  I gave it a professional inspection, noting the flashing diamond in the ring on his left little finger. Real or I was a Dutchman.

  "So very kind of you to invite us to your lovely home," Abigail gushed. "And please let me introduce my darling brother Simon."

  He turned to me and engulfed my hand. "Pleasure, sir, pleasure indeed."

  Then a whirlwind in orange velvet blew into the room.

  "Abigail," the whirlwind squealed as she threw herself into my companion's arms, "how perfectly thrilling!"

  "Belle, my dear!" Abigail managed not to topple from the blow and gave Miss Wilkerson a kiss on each cheek. "Now, then, let me introduce you to my dear brother. Simon, this is Miss Belle Wilkerson."

  The vision in orange turned and simpered at me, holding out a hand. I bowed over it, taking a quick reconnaissance as I did so: each finger had a ring, each ring had a jewel, each jewel was of impressive size and worth. But the pearl necklace around her plump throat was even more impressive. And do not assume, when I say 'pearl necklace' that it was a mere simple strand or two of tiny seed pearls, such as any miss might wear to a country dance. No indeed. Think instead of some ancient Roman lady going off to the weekly bout of Christians v. lions while dripping in ropes and ropes of massive snowy pearls the very size of robin's eggs. This image, if you have managed to create it—not everyone, I say with all modesty, has my own imagination—would fall short of Miss Belle's pearl necklace. The necklace was a stunner, I will admit.

  "Oooh, Abigail," squealed Miss Belle, "'e's even more handsome than you said!"

  I smiled at her, though it wasn't true. Abigail has lovely hair of a dark auburn shade. Mine is, sadly, ginger colored, and my nose is a trifle long. But I suppose, compared to most of Miss Belle's acquaintances, I looked rather well.

  "Don't turn his head with flattery, Miss Belle," Abigail said. "You know how men are."

  Miss Belle giggled. "I understand, Mr. Thorne, that you are fond of penny dreadfuls?"

  "I am indeed," I said. I had neglected to release her hand. She made no effort to take it back.

  Things were going swimmingly.

  "Varney the Vampire, Jack Harkaway, Dick Turpin," I continued as warmly as I could.

  "And the imports from America: Frank Reade, Buffalo Bill and the others," said Miss Belle.

  Mr. Wilkerson, obviously bored by our literary discussion and hungry for his dinner, cleared his throat. "Very well, m'dear, but shall we dine?"

  We dined. At chez Wilkerson, I found, dining was taken seriously. Papa W. ignored us as he made his way through course after course with such rapt attention, I could see how he became so enormous. Miss Belle did not fall far behind, and I wondered how long it would be before her necklace of pearls became a choker.