Astrid Darby and the Circus in the Sky
By Eleanor Prophet
ISBN: 9781622010158
Copyright 2013 by Eleanor Prophet
CIRQUE DU FLAIRE
Pietro Augustus Flaire's
Dazzling Spectacle of Delectation! Stimulation! and Stupefaction!
Amidst the Clouds and
Among the Firmament!
The advertisement adorned the frosted glass doors of Lady Mandragora's Elegant Hats and Tasteful Arrayment, infusing the atmosphere around the erstwhile debonair and urbane establishment with an air of roguish silliness. Beneath the provocative recommendation for the innovative and widely lauded Cirque du Flaire, a bright, beautifully rendered collage declared stunning funambulists tumbling amongst exotic beasts, terrible, leering clowns and an enormous man tossing an almost perfectly identical homunculus into the air.
In the fore, a dandified man in a red and gold striped suit raised his arms in sublime exaltation. It appeared as though he floated in the heavens above a most peculiar dirigible, the shape of which so delighted the eye, it had been duplicated unabashedly in the more recent penny dreadfuls and adventure tales. It was a large, white and red striped circus tent. The unusual aerostat seemed to be suspended from large, multi-coloured balloons, giving the impression it floated serenely through the clouds, buoyed by the air alone.
“Mrs. Darby? Mrs. Darby!”
I spun slowly from Lady Mandragora's storefront, my lips pursed slightly in pique. I had been eagerly anticipating my appointment with the highly venerated and exceedingly temperamental seamstress for weeks. Mandragora was not a lady to be kept waiting, as I had learned on a number of occasions when my work had interfered with my ability to make our previous fittings. Despite her ire, my generous purse had convinced the lady to fit me into her schedule this morning.
I had not anticipated this most unusual person accosting me in the street with the look of a man in desperate need of my services. I suspected it would be long before the Lady Mandragora forgave me for this new slight. I instantly regretted the loss of her good will; she made the most exquisite dresses.
“Good god, man,” I exclaimed. “What do you mean by coming here dressed like this and addressing me as I am enjoying my exceedingly well-needed holiday?”
The young man was out of breath. He took a moment before he responded to my admonition, and I studied him with incredulity. London was a place in which a person expected to see any number of varicoloured people. One did not, however, expect to see a man dressed in a binding, metallic blue unitard and matching cap, from which loose wisps of pale, curly blonde hair had escaped as though in his hasty dash to meet me. Swirls of silver, gold and bronze paint bespangled his face, which was delicate and finely-featured, almost effeminate, though his figure was exceedingly well-muscled. I could not determine if the garish red slash of his plump lips was paint or a natural hue that gave him a peculiar, almost clownish aspect.
His expression was not playful, however. His deep, brilliant blue eyes were imploring as they met my own. “I am so sorry, madame. Forgive me.” He spoke in a distinctly French accent, which tickled my fancy. I could not have invented a more farcical tableau vivant. For an ephemeral instant, I expected to catch my impish cousin peering around Lady Mandragora's storefront, barely able to contain his mirth at this most witty jape.
The outlandish young man did not appear to be in any mood for jocularity. “I have only a short time on leave, and I had no time to redress. I did not mean to offend. I must speak with you urgently. It is a matter of grave importance, Mrs Darby!”
I lifted an eyebrow. It did not seem as though my cousin had orchestrated this particular meeting, and there was but one conclusion to which I could arrive. “Am I to assume, sir, you are a member of that most famous of circus troupes, the Cirque du Flaire, which I understand to be aground this very day?”
“Oui, madame, the very same.”
“Ah. Well, this is most intriguing, indeed. Tell me, sir how did you know where to find me at such an auspicious moment whilst I was attempting to keep a very hard-won appointment with my seamstress?”
“You were recommended to me by a dear admirer of mine who had heard from the Lady Mandragora that you had insisted upon meeting today while you were in the city on holiday. The seamstress was, by all accounts, quite put out by your apparent inability to keep your appointments with her.”
This was quite out of the ordinary. I had grown accustomed to the gossip surrounding my choice of employment, but I did not appreciate the tempestuous modiste repining my shopping habits to her other clients. “And who might this admirer be to whom Lady Mandragora feels compelled to complain about my wont?”
“A Mrs Emmaline Maynard, madame.”
“Emmaline? The matron of Tornell Hall?”
“The same, madame.”
“I see. Yes, Emmaline is a very old acquaintance. Her husband was a distant cousin of my dear late Mr Darby. I understand Earnest has been in ill health lately.” He did not seem affected by the dryness of my tone. Emmaline Maynard was still quite young and pretty, and her wealth was a great draw amongst the finer circles of society. She had been gleefully discussed amongst these circles since her much older husband, Earnest, had fallen ill, rendering the lady practically a widow and revealing a hitherto undiscovered streak of shamelessness. “As you might expect, due to your particular insight into my association with the Lady Mandragora, I do have a rather pressing need to keep our fitting this morning.”
“Oui. I am regretful that my dire troubles disrupt your holiday, Mrs Darby.”
I studied him a moment, but his musical accent obscured the tone of his words. “Might I inquire as to your name, sir?”
He bowed so low, his nose practically reached the cobblestones at his feet, which had been hastily shoved into scuffed, worn leather boots that clashed horribly with his outré attire. “I am Eitenne Allard, madame.”
“True, Mr Allard, I am on holiday, and I assure you it is most well-deserved. However, your frazzled aspect suggests your situation is dire indeed, and my curiosity is piqued by your Cirque du Flaire. I regret inciting the continued ire of the Lady Mandragora, but I am willing to hear you out.”
His spangled face illuminated. He bobbed his head so keenly, the cap upon his head further loosened, and long strands of curly, baby fine hair escaped to float whimsically around his face. “Merci, madame. Merci.”
We were not alone on the bustling thoroughfare, and Eitenne Allard was attracting much attention from the men and women who passed. Children goggled unabashedly at the queer man and giggled to each other behind their hands. “Perhaps, Mr Allard, this is a conversation best conducted elsewhere, yes? Let us retire to a most appropriate establishment, wherein your dress will not attract unneeded attention and interrupt what I suspect will be a most interesting discussion.”
“Of course, madame.”
The Blue Bottle was the sort of establishment Asher Key and his comrades in the licit professions frequented. The storefront was unremarkable, grey cobblestone with a small, hand-lettered wooden sign that declared, Walk in quality ye who enter, for this here be a Coopered Ken. Even the performer's most singular dress would hardly raise an eyebrow in the Blue Bottle. The patrons enjoyed a particular anonymity that extended even to those of my unique profession who required a quiet place to discuss matters with desperate clients.
A quiet bell tinkled over the door as I entered with Mr Allard. The patrons did not glance up from their drinks as they gathered in twos and threes at the widely-spaced wooden tables around the small, dimly lit lounge. We hardly drew a single eye on our path to a small table in the corner.
Mr Allard seemed almost put out by this lack of attention. He peered around the room with an air of disappointment. I rolled my eyes and motioned the young man behind the bar to attend us at his earliest convenience.
“Mr Allard, I brought you to this particular establishment due to the unique privacy the patrons enjoy. Do observe the customs of the day.”
He swivelled his head back to me. “Oui. But of course. But I am only Eitenne, madame.”
I inclined my head to acknowledge this invitation. A tall, spindly young man with a shock of curly black hair that resembled a frizzy halo around his head approached the table. He was new to the establishment, I noted, as I had never seen him before. He stared agog at Eitenne a moment but quickly smoothed his strong but overly thin features into a neutral expression of polite solicitousness. “Sir? Ma'am? What can I get you?”
“My companion and I would be much obliged if you would fetch us a pot of tea, good sir.”
The young server dipped his head. “Of course, ma'am.” His pale eyes turned back towards Eitenne, who smiled luminously at him. The server did not scurry away to fetch our tea, as I had hoped. “The Cirque, sir?”
Eitenne gave him a graceful little half bow. “Oui. A most astute observation, sir.”
“I have heard