by Elsa Hart
“Well, if we have come to the subject of stories,” said Meacan, “one thing I do know about our mysterious Alice is that she has a gift for telling them. After I let her in, but before she went into the house, she regaled me with a fantastic yarn about the sweetbay tree.”
Cecily raised her eyebrows in surprise and waited for Meacan to continue. Meacan’s gaze became distant and she nodded to herself as the memory returned. “I’d set my drawing on the bench when I went to see who was at the door. She noticed it, and naturally she complimented my work. Then she commented on the smell of lemons, and asked the name of the tree. When I told her it was the sweetbay, she lit up like a mirror when struck by sunshine. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Oh, I know all about Sir Barnaby Mayne’s sweetbay.’”
“There is nothing strange in that,” said Cecily. “Sir Barnaby published a number of essays about it in the Transactions.”
“Most girls of eighteen or nineteen do not read and memorize the Transactions,” said Meacan. “You, no doubt, being an exception.”
Cecily conceded the point. “How, then, had Alice heard of the tree?”
“I don’t know,” said Meacan, “What I do know is that her account bore no similarities to any I’ve ever heard. She told me Sir Barnaby’s sweetbay came from a seed that was brought to England by a pirate, who found it on a deserted island.”
“A pirate?” Cecily’s brow furrowed. “I thought Sir Barnaby had it from a ship’s surgeon who had traveled to the Carolinas.”
Meacan nodded. “As I said, her story was not the usual one. But I always enjoy a good tale of piracy, so I asked her to continue. The pirate, she told me, had washed ashore after his ship was attacked and pulled to pieces by a monstrous squid, a creature with tentacles long enough to embrace it from deck to keel, and rows of round eyes like obsidian shields.”
“And it was she who supplied these details?” asked Cecily, suddenly suspicious. The story thus far was not unlike those Meacan told when as children they escaped their lessons and deliberately lost their way in the garden maze. “They are not your own embellishments?”
“If anything,” said Meacan, “I am leaving off some of the gilding. May I continue?”
It occurred to Cecily to protest that she didn’t consider sailors’ yarns to be a productive line of inquiry, but a glimmer of an idea, as yet indistinct, gave her pause. She gestured for Meacan to go on.
“The pirate,” said Meacan, “searched every cove and cave and hill on the island, and soon understood himself to be entirely alone. Day after day he paced the beach, hoping for rescue, lamenting the loss of his companions and of the hard-won jewels that had gone to the bottom of the sea. One day, he saw something gleaming red on the ground. He picked it up, full of hope that one of his lost rubies had washed ashore, but when he saw the branches of a tree above him, he understood it was only a seed.”
“If he thought it was a ruby,” said Cecily, “he must have seen the aril coating the seed, and not the seed itself. It is only the aril that is red.”
Meacan fluttered the feather impatiently. “This is a tale. Botanical anatomy has no place in it. As the months passed, the pirate grew fond of the tree, and of the lemon-sweet flowers that covered it in spring. He often spoke to it and told it stories of his home. He decided that if ever he should be rescued, he would reform, and be a pirate no longer. But no rescue came. Eventually, he resolved to escape the island using his own strength and craft. And when one day another storm lashed the waves into a frenzy and beat down upon the island with winds so great they uprooted the tree that had become a friend to him, he decided the time had come. He used the tree to make a boat, and set out again into the sea. And on that boat, with no compass to guide him or rudder to steer him, he was miraculously borne home. He came back to England, and out of gratitude to the tree, planted at the center of his garden the seed he had always kept in his pocket. And the tree that grew from that seed sired every sweetbay in London, including Sir Barnaby’s.”
Meacan set the feather down. “I didn’t contradict the girl,” she said. “It was a good tale, and well told. I did ask her whence she had it, but she gave no answer.”
Cecily was deep in thought. The story itself was not familiar to her, but the manner in which it had been crafted, with such cheerful intention to fascinate, was. “It reminds me,” she said, speaking half to herself and half to Meacan, “of a story about a fox.”
“Oh?” Meacan looked intrigued.
“It was in a letter,” said Cecily slowly. “Written by the traveler Anthony Holt to his sister.”
Meacan smiled. “Sea monsters, pirates, deserted islands, jewels. Alice’s account does have the ring of a tale an older brother would spin for his impressionable—” She stopped. Her eyes widened. “Do you think—”
The idea that had shimmered at a distance in Cecily’s mind gained definition. “According to the captain who wrote to Sir Barnaby about Anthony Holt’s death, Holt had been disowned by his father. But suppose Holt had a sister. A girl who loved her brother so much that she would defy her father?”
“Not Alice Fordyce,” whispered Meacan. “But Alice Holt.”
Cecily nodded. “If brother and sister wished to maintain a correspondence, might they not have done so through the man funding Holt’s travels? Anthony could include letters to Alice in the crates he sent to Sir Barnaby, and she could send replies with Sir Barnaby’s communications to Anthony.”
Meacan leaned against the open cabinet behind her, careful to avoid the sharp beaks and talons extending over the edges of the shelves. “It doesn’t seem in Sir Barnaby’s character to facilitate so sentimental a correspondence.”
“No, but it seems exactly in the character of a gentle curator in love with Alice.”
“Dinley!” cried Meacan.
“I found the letter tucked in a book beside his bed,” said Cecily. “He could have been keeping it to give to her.”
“And she could have come to the house to receive it.” Meacan’s expression changed. “But do you think she knows that her brother—she must know by now—that her brother is lost?”
Cecily put her finger to her lips and looked meaningfully at the closed door. There were footsteps approaching. “We still have all the questions for her we had before,” she said quietly. “What has changed is that we now have a good idea of where we must go to ask them.”
There was a knock on the door. It opened, and John appeared. With him came a wafting fragrance of mint. In one hand he held a folded paper with a wax seal. “You two are returned,” he said. “There’s a letter for—” He held up the letter and squinted at it. “Ah, for you both,” he said, and handed it to Cecily. Below the floury print of John’s thumb was written in an elegant hand: Mrs. Meacan Barlow and Lady Cecily Kay.
John glanced around the room with only vague curiosity, scowled at a nearby starling, then shook his head and retreated to the door. “Supper’s ready,” he said. “I’ve had an idea for a salad of tansy, served hot, with spinach and green corn”—he left the room, still listing ingredients—“and primrose leaves. Violets, too.”
When he had gone, Meacan’s eyes dropped to the letter Cecily was holding. “That’s Covo’s seal,” she said.
Cecily opened it and they read in silence together.
My esteemed friends. The games I enjoy in my little world of wonders can become tedious, the players and pieces uninspiring. Allow me to say that I found in your company this afternoon a renewal of interest and inspiration, dare I say creativity? I hope you will join me again. May I entice you? Tomorrow night there is to be a meeting of the society of which we made particular mention. The usual host being unavailable (ironic that he cannot be reached, given the subject in which they claim expertise), they have asked me to provide for them a space in which they can remain unobserved, and I have acquiesced. Perhaps you will also be my guests at that time, and we may continue our conversations.
Meacan gave a derisive snort. “They may think themselves unobserved
,” she said. “But there are no secret rooms in Covo’s house into which he cannot see. A fact he knows I know.” She sighed. “I suppose it’s too good an opportunity to refuse. We may learn something of value.”
“I am not certain I understand,” said Cecily, frowning over the letter.
“It seems obvious enough to me,” said Meacan. “Covo has invited us to join him for an evening of spying on occultists.”
CHAPTER 22
Lady Mayne moved through the house so rarely that when Cecily heard footsteps and the crisp tap of cane on the landing the following morning, she didn’t know who was approaching until she saw her through the doorway. The widow’s pale gaze swept over the cabinets in Cecily’s room with wilting disapproval. Here, too, the eyes seemed to say. I should not have expected better. Cecily supplied a polite greeting. Lady Mayne’s mouth relaxed a little at the sight of her guest, neatly coiffed and attired in a tasteful gown of blue linen. “I hope I am not intruding, Lady Kay.”
“On the contrary,” Cecily assured her. “Your visit is most welcome.”
This was not true. Cecily had been waiting, dressed and ready, for Meacan to join her. Finding the address of the Holt house had not been difficult. Meacan had ascertained it with a few strategic conversations with mourners on the previous afternoon. They had agreed to set out early before anyone could trouble them with questions.
“I am accustomed to exercise in the morning,” Lady Mayne announced. “I prefer a garden, but as I cannot bear the city air, I must content myself with the indoors.” With her free hand, she reached out and moved assessing fingers over the bed-curtains. Though they were worn and threadbare, the blue velvet still shimmered like the surface of the ocean. “These should have been replaced years ago,” she said, releasing them and shifting her attention down to the faded rug. “Five fewer stuffed crocodiles, and he would have had ample funds to furnish the guest rooms to a standard befitting the family.”
Cecily was in the midst of assuring her hostess that she was very comfortable in the room when Meacan appeared at the door. “Ah, Mrs. Barlow,” said Lady Mayne. “Good. I would speak to you both.” She crossed the room and lowered herself to the window seat, where she sat with one arm outstretched, her palm resting on the carved handle of her cane. “On the matter of the inventory, I have decided that our current arrangement is no longer acceptable.”
Cecily sensed Meacan freeze like a mouse that knows it must move quickly in a short amount of time, but is not yet sure which direction will be wisest. “I cannot imagine what change would be necessary,” she said humbly. “I assure you the project is proceeding in an orderly—”
“I am not terminating your employment, Mrs. Barlow. I am simply making an adjustment in order to increase your pace.”
Cecily and Meacan exchanged glances. If Inwood was indeed trying to delay the transfer of the collection, it seemed Lady Mayne meant to resist. Lady Mayne continued. “Of course I intend to do all that is required of me by God and by law to ensure the fulfillment of my husband’s last wishes. I hope I have shown as much. I am sure I have.” She directed a defensive look at the shelves as if she were responding to an accusation leveled at her by the silent bones.
“But I cannot think,” she went on, “that he would have wished to prolong my custodianship of his”—she paused and pursed her lips as if she had tasted something she did not like—“his curiosities over so many weeks. Therefore I took it upon myself to inquire among the visitors who have come to pay their respects whether any among them might be of assistance. I have since accepted the offer made by one Richard Thursby, Esquire, who not only impressed me with his gentility and decorum, but promised to commit not only himself, but his two secretaries to the endeavor. He believes that with the four of you working together, the inventory can be finished before the close of June.”
“Ah yes, it would be Thursby,” said Meacan with a knowing nod. “He does like to involve himself.”
Cecily decided to risk voicing her guess in the hope that Lady Mayne would confirm the truth of it. “Have you mentioned this to Mr. Inwood? It was my understanding that he was the one who suggested an inventory be done.”
“Yes, it was,” said Lady Mayne irritably. “And yes, I have informed him of my agreement with Mr. Thursby. Mr. Inwood’s only concern is that the inventory be thorough, and be accorded the full amount of time required for it to be so.”
Meacan gave Cecily a knowing look that clearly communicated her thought. Of course that would be his concern.
“But as much as I appreciate Inwood’s dedication to my husband’s interests,” Lady Mayne continued, “I see no reason why I should not take steps to hasten the project to its conclusion. I wish to make arrangements for the remainder of my own life, you understand. I wish to have this business concluded.”
“Quite understandable,” said Meacan. “When is Thursby to arrive?”
“He will be here at any moment. When he arrives, you will acquaint him with your method, and the work you have done thus far. Then you may agree on how to proceed.”
“Certainly.” Meacan hesitated. “But I hope Mr. Thursby will be patient. I was to accompany Lady Kay on an errand this morning.”
Lady Mayne shook her head. “Oh no, that cannot meet with my approval, Mrs. Barlow. Recall that you are in my employ. If you are to remain in this house, I must insist that there be no further delays. Am I understood?”
Outwardly, Meacan was all deference, but Cecily saw the mutiny in her eyes. “You are. My apologies, Lady Mayne.”
Lady Mayne rose slowly to her feet. Her right hand gripped her cane. Her left went to the wall beside the window for support. “If you require an escort, Lady Kay, you may take Martha or John.”
“Thank you,” said Cecily. “But I will be quite—”
Cecily was cut off by a sudden cry from Lady Mayne, who had started for the door only to be jerked sharply backward. The veil attached to her tall widow’s bonnet had caught on one of the sharp teeth of the shark’s jaw mounted to the wall. Cecily and Meacan sprang forward to help as Lady Mayne fumbled in confusion with the snagged cloth.
The moment she was free, Lady Mayne confronted the shark with a look of furious hatred and embarrassment. “Vulgar perversion,” she spat out. “The very walls of this house are malevolent.” Refusing further offers of assistance, she righted her hat and smoothed the veil into place with shaking hands. “I will return to my room,” she declared. “And I will not venture so far from it again. Not in this house.”
When she had gone, Meacan touched a finger to the point of one of the shark’s teeth and shook her head. “I told you,” she said to Cecily. “The collection has a will of its own. That said, if Lady Mayne and this shark were to meet in open water, I am not certain the shark would emerge the victor. She looked capable of smashing the whole room to pieces.”
Cecily was only half listening as she searched her trunk for a pair of gloves. “What do you know of the man who is coming with his secretaries?”
Meacan dropped her hand and heaved a sigh. “Thursby. One of the collectors, of course. As conceited and officious a pedant as you’ll ever encounter. He will speak for two hours without cease on the subject of his Plants of Cornwall and the number of copies it has sold. When you meet him, you must ask him who provided the illustrations. You will have to ask him, you know, because you will not find my name printed anywhere in the— What are you doing?”
Cecily had found her gloves and was putting on her hat. “While I’m gone,” she said, “you can observe the mourners. This is the last day they have to visit. Perhaps something of interest will occur.”
Meacan frowned. “I am not certain I like the idea of you going to the Holt house alone.”
“I will be careful,” Cecily assured her.
“See that you are. Don’t trust young Alice just because her face is fair. The knife that killed Sir Barnaby has a keen blade. Even her dainty hand could have driven it home.”
* * *
William Holt, whose masonry contributed to London’s weight upon the earth an impressive number of ornate fireplaces, lintels, and buttresses, owned a respectable house on Bread Street. From the portrait of him that hung in the entrance room, he appeared hewn from the same rock with which he made his living. He had the set, serious features of a man who applies himself to his work and who wishes it to be known, above all else, that he applies himself to his work.
After Sir Barnaby’s crowded walls and Covo’s deranged ones, Cecily found the inside of the Holt house almost disconcertingly spacious. Without the muffling abundance of material, sounds lasted longer, bouncing and echoing through the rooms. There seemed to be more air available for her to breathe. The house, she realized, was so normal, with its comfortable furnishings, tasteful artwork, and signs of family life—deeply etched scrapes on the floor where diners had pulled their chairs to and from the edge of the table, a blanket draped over the back of a settee by the fire, a basket overflowing with scraps of cloth and yarn—that she herself, her mind populated with skeletons and corals and mermen, felt like a curiosity that didn’t belong.
The servant who answered the door apologized. The mason would be occupied at a building site for the rest of the day. When Cecily said she had come to pay a call on Alice, the servant responded that the youngest daughter of the house was not accepting visitors.
“Perhaps you might ask her if she would speak with me. Tell her it’s Lady—” Cecily hesitated. Whatever Alice’s condition, Cecily suspected she might need some further gesture of goodwill to gain admittance. “Lady Sweetbay,” she said.
The servant complied, and upon returning pronounced that Alice would see her. He escorted Cecily up the stairs to a well-lit sitting room adjoining a bedchamber. Alice was in a chair by the window. The expression she turned to Cecily was glazed, the pink of her complexion replaced by blue shadows beneath swollen eyes. She rose slowly, dismissed the servant, and indicated a chair for Cecily.
