Cornelia and the Audacious Escapades of the Somerset Sisters

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  For more than forty years, Yearling has been the leading…

  Chapter One Cornelia

  Chapter Two Lucy

  Chapter Three Virginia

  Chapter Four Morocco, 1949

  Chapter Five The Souk in Hell’s Kitchen

  Chapter Six Paris, 1950

  Chapter Seven The Howling Dog

  Chapter Eight England, 1953

  Chapter Nine A Different Sort of Play

  Chapter Ten India, 1954

  Chapter Eleven Tulips in Every Color

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Other Yearling Books...

  Copyright

  For Caitlin, Franny, and Gregory

  For more than forty years, Yearling has been the leading name in classic and award-winning literature for young readers.

  Yearling books feature children’s favorite authors and characters, providing dynamic stories of adventure, humor, history, mystery, and fantasy.

  Trust Yearling paperbacks to entertain, inspire, and promote the love of reading in all children.

  Chapter One

  Cornelia

  It was winter in New York City and the days were short. At three o’clock in the afternoon, the sun already hung low over the horizon, casting sharp pink light on the clouds above the skyscrapers.

  Cornelia S. Englehart lagged five steps behind her classmate Lauren Brannigan as they walked down the street. School had just ended for the day.

  Lauren wheeled around to face Cornelia, her long blond braids whipping through the air. “Come on, Cornelia,” she said irritably, as if Cornelia were her annoying little sister. “Hurry up.”

  Cornelia reluctantly quickened her pace.

  “So, what do you want to do this afternoon?” Lauren asked without enthusiasm after they had walked several blocks in complete silence.

  Now, in certain circles, Cornelia was renowned for her extreme reserve. Some girls always have a coterie of pretty friends, sisters, and cousins fluttering around them—but not her. She spent most of her time alone and hadn’t had playmates since nursery school. Party invitations and after-school playdates had become few and far between. And when Cornelia did get asked over to someone’s house, she was terribly out of practice and awkward.

  “We can do whatever you want,” Cornelia answered, her breath forming a misty cloud in the cold air.

  Lauren sighed impatiently. “Well, I just got some new American Girl play scripts for Christmas,” she said. “Maybe we can dress up and act one of them out.”

  Cornelia’s heart sank. “I’ve never done a play before,” she said, longing for her warm bedroom at home, with her armchair and all of her books.

  “Fine,” Lauren said. “My older sister just got a karaoke machine as one of her presents. Why don’t we use that?”

  What a nightmare, Cornelia thought. “I don’t like singing either,” she said.

  Lauren lost her patience. “What do you like to do, then?” she snapped, staring at Cornelia.

  “We could play Scrabble,” Cornelia suggested. It would give her secret satisfaction to trounce Lauren in the game, for Cornelia knew lots of uncommon words. It was her special weapon.

  “That is so boring,” said Lauren as she strode down the street. “But better than nothing, I suppose.”

  They arrived at Lauren’s brownstone house and rang the front doorbell. When they heard the sound of footsteps coming toward the door from inside, Lauren whispered to Cornelia, “The only reason I invited you over in the first place is because my mother made me.”

  She smiled meanly as Cornelia’s face turned ashen. At that moment, Mrs. Brannigan yanked the front door open.

  “Hello, girls,” she cried, clapping her hands together in apparent joy. “Come in, come in. It’s absolutely freezing out there! Hello, hello, Cornelia! Welcome to our humble home. It’s about time you came over and visited us. Ever since I heard that you were in Lauren’s class, I have been simply begging Lauren to invite you over to play. And you live so nearby as well.” She took the girls’ coats and stuffed them into the front closet. “Follow me, troops—I have a snack for you in the kitchen,” she shouted as she practically galloped down the front hallway.

  Lauren glared at her guest as she followed her mother to the kitchen. Cornelia trailed after them.

  “Sit down, ladies, sit down,” Mrs. Brannigan whooped, clattering down some plates, cupcakes, and glasses of milk for the girls. Cornelia, who found Mrs. Brannigan as volatile as a pot of boiling water, warily sat down at the kitchen table. Mrs. Brannigan plunked down in the chair next to her.

  Lauren stomped to the refrigerator. “I want Sprite, not milk,” she complained. “I’m not five years old, in case you forgot.” Of course, she didn’t offer Cornelia any soda as she poured herself a huge glass.

  Mrs. Brannigan gave a little hoot. “Have whatever you want, dearest, as long as it’s not brandy,” she said, and smiled coyly at her cleverness. Then she swiveled around and leaned in toward Cornelia as if they were long-lost friends.

  “So, my dear,” Mrs. Brannigan said. “How is that mother of yours?”

  “Fine,” Cornelia replied, wishing by now that she were at the bottom of the ocean. The cupcake sat like a wart on the plate in front of her.

  “I heard her play in a concert at Carnegie Hall last month,” Mrs. Brannigan said. “Marvelous, absolutely marvelous! She has such flair, and my goodness, is she gorgeous! Those long, elegant arms! I could just die! I imagine that you play the piano too, don’t you?”

  “No,” said Cornelia.

  “What?” shrieked Mrs. Brannigan. “You don’t? How can that be? I would think that your parents would insist! Especially since you’re their only child, and all of that talent would go to waste if you didn’t play too! After all, your father is a famous pianist also, isn’t he?”

  Cornelia stared at her glass of milk. “Yes, he is,” she said after a moment. “But I’ve never met him.”

  For the first time since the girls had walked through the front door, the room was utterly silent. Even Lauren stared at Cornelia.

  Mrs. Brannigan shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “Ohhh,” she said. “I see. Well, that’s all right, dear.” She patted Cornelia’s hand in a fakey, consoling manner.

  Then she went on, “In any case, your mother seems so fabulous. I have always wanted to get to know her! She seems very warm. And, you see, I am planning this charity gala—a big party—and I’m sure it would be a big hit if your mother played the piano at it.”

  Tears sprang to Cornelia’s eyes. Now she understood the invitation to Lauren’s house. Believe it or not, this sort of thing had happened to her before. It always astonished Cornelia that adults were willing to make such fools of themselves in front of her just to get the chance to meet her famous mother.

  “I think I’ll go home now,” she said, feeling older than her eleven years. “I have a stomachache.” She got up and began to walk toward the front door. Lauren looked elated for the first time that afternoon.

  “Ohhhh,” wailed Mrs. Brannigan, sensing that her mission was in danger. “What’s the matter, sweetie?” She followed Cornelia down the hallway and snatched an envelope from a desk in the foyer.

  “Just a second, dear,” she cried, handing the envelope to Cornelia. “Please give this to your mother. And come back anytime! I mean it—absolutely anytime!”

  Cornelia put on her coat, marched out the front door, and closed it behind her, sealing Mrs. Brannigan back up inside. Cornelia sighe
d with relief. Her visit had lasted a grand total of ten minutes, nearly a record high for an after-school social outing.

  She looked at the letter in her hand. “To Lucy” was scrawled on the front of the envelope. “Please call me!” was written on the back of it.

  Cornelia dropped it in the gutter and went for a stroll.

  Cornelia loved walking around her city neighborhood, Greenwich Village. She had never lived anywhere else, and it had been a wonderful place to grow up. Usually when people thought of New York City, they conjured up images of steel buildings tall enough to touch the sky, and wide avenues filled with rumbling taxis and buses. They thought of noise and dirt and crowds.

  But Greenwich Village was different, like a world within a world. Its narrow streets wound around in a wonderful maze, and worn-down cobblestones covered many of them instead of plain old asphalt. People in the Village did not live in towering skyscrapers. They lived in rows of colorful brick houses with pretty trees and flower beds out front. Dogs of every shape and size briskly walked their owners up and down the sidewalks. Sometimes Cornelia forgot that she lived in a big city at all. Greenwich Village felt like, well, a small village, the sort of place where parents let children play ball in parks by themselves.

  Cornelia liked exploring alone. She knew every building, nook, and cranny in the area. She loved visiting the Magnolia Bakery on Bleecker Street. In the front window, the bakers arranged lines of dainty cupcakes covered with pale pink, baby blue, or buttery yellow frosting. Cornelia’s mother called them “fairy cakes,” and customers stood in long lines down the block just to buy one. When the line was too long, Cornelia sometimes went around the corner to a tiny café called Westville instead. She ordered French fries and a root beer and watched people outside rush past the window. She made up stories about the passersby that she never told to anyone else.

  However, the Biography Bookshop on Bleecker Street was Cornelia’s favorite destination. She always marched past the tilting stacks of books written for girls her age and headed straight for the dictionary section. There she inspected the books for new arrivals. After all, Cornelia had an impressive dictionary collection of her own, and she needed to stay up to date.

  Sometimes, if she was in the mood, she visited Cornelia Street. Cornelia’s mother, Lucy, had lived there when she’d first moved to New York City, long before Cornelia was born. And then, when Cornelia came along years later and they moved to a bigger apartment, Lucy gave her new baby the most unusual name: Cornelia Street Englehart. Lucy’s grown-up friends thought this was just wonderful, but Cornelia did not. In public, she shortened her name to Cornelia S. Englehart and kept her full identity to herself.

  Today, Cornelia just sat in a nearby park and tried to forget about Lauren and her mother. When the sun finally started setting at four o’clock, she walked to her home on Greenwich Street. The big brick building where she lived looked like a Roman fortress with its rounded corners and arched windows. The Hudson River ran past it, two short blocks away. Cornelia squeezed through the heavy front doors into the grand foyer.

  “Miss Englehart,” boomed a voice from the front desk. “Might I ’ave a moment of your time, please?”

  Walter Withycombe, the building’s sociable, plump old doorman, peered down at Cornelia. White hair stuck out in tufts on his head, from his nostrils and ears, and even on his fingers with their knobby joints. His eyes always smiled and he talked to children with the same level of respect as he did to adults. He had grown up in London, and he loved to tease the building’s tenants in his loud, cockney-accented voice. Cornelia was his favorite target, and he always enjoyed catching her as she tried to slip unnoticed into the elevator.

  He disappeared into the big, dark closet behind the front desk and reemerged with a large, banged-up box. Tape and string wound around it like a mummy and stamps covered the top.

  “Tell Madame Desjardins to leg it down ’ere straightaway and get this parcel,” Walter said. “I rung ’er on the phone about it hours ago.” He drummed his fingers on the top of the box as he talked. Madame Desjardins was Cornelia’s French housekeeper.

  “Where is it from? Who sent it?” Cornelia asked. She stood on her tiptoes to see the stamps.

  Walter investigated the writing on the box. “It’s from your mum,” he announced. “Blimey—she’s in Moscow? Where ’asn’t that lady been?”

  Cornelia ignored his questions. “I’ll tell Madame Desjardins to come down and get it,” she said.

  “Tell ’er to get it tonight or I’ll throw it away,” Walter threatened jovially. “It’ll go straight into the bin! I mean it this time,” he called after Cornelia as she got into the elevator and the door slid shut.

  Somber as a widow, Walter thought to himself, shaking his head. I ’spect all she needs is a spot of sunshine. Miss Lucille should take ’er along on a trip once in a while.

  He dropped the box under the desk with a thud.

  Madame Desjardins opened the front door of the apartment with great flourish and ushered Cornelia in.

  “Where have you been, Cornelia Street?” she exclaimed as Cornelia wiggled out of her backpack straps.

  “I began to think that you were blown away in the wind! Mon Dieu, your cheeks are cold.” She hung up Cornelia’s coat.

  Madame Desjardins had been working for Lucy since Cornelia was born. It had been a decade filled with constant talking. Even though the housekeeper’s English was proficient at best, she managed to fill every second of the day with chatter, and she was as nosy as a detective. An old-fashioned servant, she wore a white apron even when she did errands.

  “Walter says that there’s a box for us downstairs,” Cornelia said. “It’s from my mother.”

  “A box?” Madame Desjardins answered distractedly, taking the book bag into the kitchen. Cornelia followed her. “Oh, oui. Yes. I forgot. I will send Ingrid down when she is done with the living room. I am scared to ask her, though, for today she is in a worse mood than ever.”

  Ingrid was their maid. She came twice a week to give the apartment a vicious cleaning.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” asked Madame Desjardins, whisking a teakettle off the stovetop and heading for the sink.

  “No, thank you,” said Cornelia. “I’m just going to go upstairs to read until dinner.”

  “Comment? What? But you have only just come home,” said Madame Desjardins, the kettle hanging at her side. “You do not want to tell me about school or your visit with the Brannigan girl, l’enfant terrible? Maybe I will come upstairs to sit with you. I am lonely today, with no one but Ingrid to speak with. Your mother is always away and you are too quiet.” She looked at Cornelia as pitifully as possible.

  “I want to read,” said Cornelia. She had to be firm, for privacy was as rare as diamonds in a household run by Madame Desjardins. “But I’ll come down when Ingrid gets the package,” she added generously, and she ran out of the room.

  Cornelia’s home had an upstairs and a downstairs, which was unusual for an apartment in New York City. Extra-shiny wood covered the floors in all of the rooms and high ceilings loomed overhead. The apartment could easily be mistaken for a vast white museum instead of a house, for several enormous paintings hung on the walls and isolated clusters of modern furniture stood in the rooms. The dramatic spareness of the décor had a single purpose: to make the star of the house, Cornelia’s mother, stand out as much as possible.

  On the other hand, the apartment always made Cornelia herself seem smaller than she really was. Her footsteps echoed off the walls as she hustled down the corridor to the stairs.

  Then she noticed that the big double doors to her mother’s music room had been left open. Cornelia looked back toward the kitchen, but Madame Desjardins was clanging some pots around and showed no signs of emerging. Ingrid made some crashing noises down in the living room. Since no one was paying any attention, Cornelia ducked into the room where her mother spent her every waking moment when she was at home in New York.


  The room’s complicated beauty always intimidated Cornelia and made her feel out of place. It smelled slightly of old papers and cigarette smoke, and even more slightly of Chanel No. 5, an expensive perfume worn by Cornelia’s mother. Dark, opulent wine-red silk covered the walls, and huge white bookshelves towered to the ceiling on two sides of the room. Hundreds of music books, written on coarse yellow and tan pages, lined the shelves. Every page in every book featured an intricate web of lines and notes, which only Lucy could read.

  In the middle of the room stood a huge, sleek grand piano. It looked as important as a king on a chessboard, and its black lacquer gleamed like a mirror. Its row of shining black and white keys looked like a wide, teeth-baring grin. Madame Desjardins called the instrument the “Bête Noire,” which meant “black beast,” and she never went near it.

  The only person who ever touched the Bête Noire was Cornelia’s mother, who was indeed a very famous concert pianist. And she was the only person in the apartment who understood the instrument at all. In fact, she loved it, seemingly more than anything else in the world. In return, the piano seemed to love Lucy with all of its heart, which was made of wire and felt and wooden hammers beating and moving and twanging inside its massive body. To everyone else, the piano was indifferent and haughty.

  When Cornelia was a very little girl, she used to loll under the piano while her mother practiced. She would lie on her stomach and watch Lucy’s feet working the pedals as the music thundered from the Bête Noire’s belly above her. But as she got older, Cornelia grew wary of the instrument, and considered it her foremost enemy in the battle for Lucy’s attention.

  Cornelia poked around the room for a few minutes, breathing in its musty scent. Ingrid had straightened up, pushing stacks of music books usually strewn about on the floor into neat piles. Being inside the room made Cornelia miss her mother, who was at this very moment performing in a concert far away, halfway around the globe. Cornelia disliked her home when her mother was gone. The rooms in the apartment came alive only when Lucy was here and music was coming from the very room in which Cornelia stood.