Cornelia and the Audacious Escapades of the Somerset Sisters Read online

  “I have come to bring you some presents, and then say good-bye,” said Patel. “Come sit down, Cornelia-ji.”

  Cornelia scrambled over to the couch and sat very close to him. It was so strange to see him in her apartment for a change, after all of Cornelia’s visits to the world next door.

  “Where are you going?” she asked, drying her eyes.

  “I am going back to India,” he answered. “Although to me, home was always where Virginia-ji was. Now I will have to make my own home. So I am starting at the very beginning again.”

  “I miss Virginia,” said Cornelia. “I miss her stories and I think about her all the time.”

  “Yes,” said Patel. “I miss Virginia’s stories very much as well. You never knew where her true memories ended and her imagination began. But that never really mattered, did it?” He smiled sadly. “Virginia-ji has left you something.” He held out a package wrapped in brown paper.

  Cornelia took it from him and held it in her lap. Her heart beat faster and she felt a bit light-headed. She edged her fingers under the brown paper and tore it away. There was a book inside. Cornelia turned it over to read the title. The front cover of the book proclaimed:

  Cornelia looked at Patel in astonishment.

  “There is also an inscription inside,” he told her. She opened the book and saw a note in Virginia’s handwriting:

  Dear Cornelia S.,

  Just to tide you over until you start having adventures of your own. The torch has been handed over, and you are officially the new Scheherazade of Greenwich Street. Forge onward and upward.

  Your friend always,

  V. S.

  Cornelia turned the book from side to side. “What is this?”

  “It is Virginia-ji’s last book,” Patel explained gently.

  “About you.”

  Cornelia was speechless. She opened it up. There were eleven chapters, and at the beginning of each one was a bright illustration, depicting Cornelia, Lucy, Alexandra, Beatrice, Gladys, Patel, Mister Kinyatta, and, of course, Virginia herself. Something suddenly dawned on Cornelia.

  “Patel—are these your paintings?” she asked, looking at the pictures in the book. “Is this what you were working on all the time when I came over?”

  “Yes,” Patel admitted. “Virginia-ji and I were working on this for many weeks. We tried hard to keep it a secret from you.

  “There was something about you that inspired us,” he continued. “You made us think about many wonderful things that happened years ago. Virginia loved you, Cornelia-ji. You reminded her that life continues in a cycle, and that she still had many gifts to give before she died.”

  Cornelia sat quietly on the edge of the couch, hugging the book to her chest. “I don’t want you to leave, Patel,” she said.

  “When you are older, you can come and visit me in India,” he said. “And in the meantime, you can send me letters about what you are doing. And of course, you must give me news about how Mister Kinyatta is doing as well.”

  “What?” said Cornelia, looking down at the small dog in surprise.

  “I cannot bring him with me,” said Patel. “Your mother says that he can live here with you now. Anyway, he does not like me. Besides Virginia, you are the only one Mister Kinyatta does not like to bite. I know that you will take good care of him. Maybe you can take him to buy little cakes, like the first day you met him.”

  Cornelia put her head on Patel’s shoulder and tears dampened her cheeks again. “Thank you,” she said, her heart filled with happiness and sadness at the same time. “If Mister Kinyatta ever has a puppy, I’ll name him Mister Patel,” she promised.

  Patel laughed and got up. “It is time for good-bye, Cornelia-ji,” he said, and held his arms out to hug her again. Cornelia put her arms around him and squeezed tightly.

  Then she watched him leave through the study door and heard him say a gracious good-bye to Lucy. The front door closed behind him, and the last remnant of Virginia’s world next door was gone—except for the book that Cornelia held in her hands, and the dog sleeping under the desk.

  She picked up Mister Kinyatta and carried him and the book up to her bedroom. There she threw herself into her armchair and began to read. Mister Kinyatta curled up at the foot of the chair and resumed his nap.

  A few hours later, Lucy knocked at the bedroom door. “Cornelia,” she said. “Can I come in?” She walked in and snapped on the desk lamp. “Mister Kinyatta needs to go outside,” she said. “Should we take him for a walk before it gets dark?”

  Cornelia clapped her book closed. “Yes,” she said. “Let’s take the orgulous bezonian out.”

  “Orgulous” meant “showy and proud,” while “bezonian” meant “rascal.”

  Cornelia followed Lucy downstairs, snapped on Mister Kinyatta’s leash, and the family of three walked out onto summertime Greenwich Street.

  Acknowledgments

  I am extraordinarily grateful to many people for helping me with Cornelia—whoever said that writing is a solitary profession? Since I began this project, my life has been bursting at the seams with lavish personalities. And I would like to pass on my adorations to all of them:

  First, I am deeply indebted to my wonderful editor, Erin Clarke at Knopf, and my superb agent, Christine Earle at ICM. I couldn’t be luckier that Cornelia found her way into their hands, these two grandes dames in training. Ladies, may our triumvirate set a new standard in the world of neoclassical middle-grade fiction.

  And of course, where would I ever be without the support and encouragement of Jeff Berg and, in turn, Jim Brooks? I am exceedingly beholden to both of them (like everyone else in Los Angeles and New York, I suspect). Gentlemen, I cannot thank you enough, and for the record, I promise to show up at dinner next time.

  Obviously, I would like to thank my mother, Franny, for her unwavering encouragement and vicious edits…oh, and for being a glorious pianist and basically inspiring the entire plot of this book. Mom, merci beaucoup for allowing me to exploit your entire career and social coterie as material for Cornelia. I warn you: this isn’t the end, for I know there’s a lot left to pilfer.

  Now I need to turn my attention to Miss Caitlin Crounse, whose devotion and contributions to this book have been on a par with my own. Her beautiful insights about the characters and nature of children’s literature provided me with invaluable inspiration at every stage. I couldn’t have asked for a more magnificent creative cohort.

  I am grateful to Gregory Richard Macek, my very own bête noire, for being a stalwart of support, adulation, and foolery throughout this process and so much longer. I’d also like to thank him for his first-time reaction to the eleventh chapter, which nearly broke my heart.

  And very importantly, I am much obliged to Miss Sarah Lyon and her mother, Jenny Sour, for their insights into the social world of bookish eleven-year-olds, therefore making plausible to children what is otherwise a work about the lives of sophisticated adults. My thanks also to Sara Just for introducing me to these ladies in what was probably the most unusual booking job she’d done in a long time.

  Finally, on a quiet, solemn note, I would like to thank Daisy, whose bohemian vitality and precipitous departure first inspired the idea for Cornelia. She will long be remembered with wistful affection by those she left behind.

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  Published by Yearling, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books a division of Random House, Inc., New York

  Copyright © 2006 by Lesley M. M. Blume

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