“You didn’t!”
“I did. And I loved it . . . at first. It was part of my big act of defiance, all bold and brazen and exciting. I can assure you, though, it stops feeling liberating after months of hard, dusty work. Now I just wish I had some dresses that were a little less . . . dressy.”
“Well then,” said Jenny, “when you find you must choose between two conflicting options, just do what Jackaby does. Take both.” She patted a neat pile of folded clothes beside her with her slender, gloved fingers. “As I was going to say, if you need more functional attire, try these. You’re a little smaller than I was, I think, but if you like, I can show you how to bring them in. It isn’t as though I’ve any use for the things any longer.”
I picked up the first garment. It was a rich, chocolate brown skirt, made of sturdy cotton—not as hardy and rough as denim, but thicker and more practical than any of my own. I held it to my waist. It hung well off the ground. My mother would be mortified at the thought of my bare calves, open to the world. I was delighted at the idea of not tripping over myself when stepping up to a curb.
“It’s just a day dress, nothing fancy,” said Jenny. The next item was an understated shirtwaist. It had been sewn with a minimum of unessential embroidery, but without losing its feminine lines. A long, fitted coat had been cut to drape smoothly over the shirt, coming in at the waist and then flowing loosely into the skirt. Laid out in front of me, the outfit looked infinitely more comfortable than my current options, and it was simple but elegant.
“The waist cinches up in the back, and there are pockets sewn into the hem, here and here.” Jenny gestured to the skirt.
Pockets! I was thrilled. I have never understood the aversion to pockets in ladies’ fashion—as though it has become some great shame to appear as if one might actually need to possess anything.
“These were yours?” I asked, feeling immediately indelicate about my use of the past tense. Jenny did not seem to notice. She nodded.
“Drab, I know.”
“Not at all—they’re brilliant!”
She smiled again. “I have some other skirts and aprons if you prefer. Not as much fun to wear, but they served me well helping out around the laboratory.”
“Laboratory? You were a scientist?” I asked.
Jenny’s smile faltered. “My fiancé was the scientist, but I was studying. I dare say it helped to prepare me for sharing a home with Mr. Jackaby. Well—as much as anything could prepare one for Jackaby.”
“And your fiancé? What happened to him?” I was beginning to let myself feel like I was gossiping with an older sister.
Jenny pursed her lips, and did not answer. I instantly regretted the question. After several moments, she smiled politely. “Do try them on, why don’t you?” she insisted.
I turned around to unbutton the billowy red gown, and found a large, prim mallard perched on a mossy cabinet just behind me.
“Goodness—Douglas! Are you going to—erm—fly off or something?” I said to him.
Douglas bobbled his head from side to side, looking very much like a simple bird.
“I don’t see why he should,” Jenny called from behind me, playfully. “He is a duck, after all. Besides, I watched him dress on more than one occasion when he wasn’t,” she added with a nostalgic smile. “Not a bad figure. I suppose it’s really only fair.”
I felt my cheeks growing hot. “Rather bold,” I said.
She laughed. “Free spirit, Abigail. Losing one’s body has that effect.”
“You didn’t seem so blithe about privacy when I stepped into your room by accident.”
Her mischievous grin vanished into a dour pout. “That’s different,” she said, but relented with a shrug. “But if you insist. Come on, Douglas, let’s give the girl some space.” She tossed her arms up and dove backward, like a swimmer into a pool, pouring smoothly into the mossy floor behind her. The greenery trembled slightly, as if kissed by a gentle breeze, and in the blink of an eye the only sign that the spectral lady had ever been present was the pair of white gloves, pressed softly into the moss. Douglas waddled to the edge of the cabinet and dropped into a shallow glide. From the other side of the ivy curtain I heard his webbed feet splash down in the pond. Out of courtesy, I retrieved Jenny’s gloves and laid them folded on the log for her return.
The clothes fit brilliantly, and smelled faintly of pine and perfume. Jenny had even thought to provide a pair of thick, wool stockings, which cushioned my sore feet marvelously. I thanked Douglas for his discretion on the way out, keeping carefully to the hardwood path to avoid wetting my new, warm, woolen footwear. I padded down the staircase, and was nearly to the ground level when I heard the rapid knocking from the front room. Jackaby stuck his head out of the laboratory as I entered the hallway.
“Oh, Miss Rook, good. Go and see who it is, would you? Nearly finished with the eggs.” He made no indication that he had even noticed my change in attire.
“I thought they were nearly finished before I went upstairs,” I said as I passed.
“Different eggs,” he said, sliding back into the room. “The last ones were somewhat . . . uncooperative.”
I slid into the lobby and opened the bright red door to find an agitated Junior Detective Cane on the doorstep.
“Officer Cane!” I stepped aside and gestured for the young man to enter. “Please, come in! My goodness, you look dreadful! Have you slept at all?”
“I’ve not had a chance.” He removed his hat as he slipped into the room. “Thank you, Miss Rook. You, on the contrary, are looking quite well.” I felt my cheeks go warm again, and I found myself lifting a hand to my hair, wishing I had stopped to brush and arrange it before coming back downstairs. “Is Mr. Jackaby in, miss? I’m afraid it’s rather urgent.”
I led the man back down the hallway, and poked my head in the laboratory door. “It’s Charlie Cane, Mr. Jackaby,” I said, putting into my tone that touch of professionalism my tousled hair and stockinged feet might have lacked.
“Who?”
“The police detective from yesterday. He says he has some urgent news.”
Jackaby plodded over to the doorway. “Oh, right—you.” He looked Charlie up and down with a modicum of suspicion.
“So, I take it our friend in the red pajamas is dead?”
Charlie nodded. “Mr. Henderson, sir. Yes, sir.”
“Shame.” Jackaby nodded, thoughtfully, but without surprise. “Same manner of death as the last one?”
Charlie nodded again. “Just the same. Only more blood, this time, sir.”