There was a knock at her bedroom door. Through her mirror she watched Cecil enter the room and approach her. Neither of them spoke. What was he expecting of her? Hardly love’s first passion. She felt her body go rigid; a cool shiver ran through her limbs. He came to a halt behind her and they stared at each other in the reflection.
Who was this man in the glass; this man she’d allowed herself to marry? He had an ageing, hooked face. She could see how he was trying to tease it back into youth. Every rogue hair had been plucked, the skin was unnaturally smooth and oiled; not a blemish or a fleck sullied his pristine appearance. Only his balding head gave him away.
He raised his hands to her hair and began to remove the rest of the pins, slowly and meticulously. When there were none left, he picked up the silver hairbrush on her dressing table and started to brush her hair with long, methodical strokes.
‘I’ve always wanted to do this,’ he murmured. ‘What lovely hair you have. You must never cut any of it off, do you understand?’
She watched the concentration etched on his face as he separated each lock and brushed with the utmost care. When he finished, her hair was sleek and glossy. He stroked the palm of his hand down it reverently.
‘Would he have cared for you like this?’ he asked, suddenly catching her eye in the mirror with a face so drawn and livid, with his jaws clenched so tightly, that it made her jump.
‘I don’t know,’ she faltered.
And then, almost as quickly as his anger had arrived, it subsided, leaving him with a pale, thoughtful expression instead. He assessed her scared face as if he were making some sort of calculation in his mind.
‘Take the hairbrush,’ he said at last.
She took it from him.
‘I’m going to go now. But three minutes after I’m gone, I want you to raise that hairbrush up and smash your mirror with the back of it.’
‘Why?’
‘Do you want me to go or not?’
She didn’t answer and he left the room.
The glass smashed easily. She stood there, staring at the broken fragments of her reflection, the hairbrush still in her hand. It had been strangely exhilarating to feel the weight of her force bearing down on such a fragile thing.
The sounds of instant commotion filled the corridor. Running feet approached her room. There was a brief knock before Stella, her new maid, burst in.
‘Are you alright Mrs Hearst?’ she exclaimed, rushing over to inspect the glass.
Tamara quickly put the hairbrush down, but not before the maid spotted the unlikely weapon in her hand and flashed her a bewildered glance.
‘Yes, yes I’m quite alright. Sorry…I’
‘She’s fine, just fine,’ came Cecil’s voice; so smooth that it almost purred. He was standing in the doorway. ‘It has been a very long day, hasn’t it dear? But you’re safe here, quite safe. Isn’t that right, Stella?’
Stella looked from the glass, to Cecil, to Tamara with a confused expression.
‘Yes, of course Mr Hearst.’
‘Now, come on,’ said Cecil, putting an arm around Tamara’s shoulders and leading her to the bed. ‘You rest now. Stella can clear this up and I think a small glass of brandy would be just the medicine, don’t you Stella?’
‘I’ll deal with it straight away, sir.’
They left together, the maid not even daring to look at her now. Tamara lay flat on her back, staring up at the ceiling, feeling the weight of her chest rise and fall with every breath. Her eyes welled up. Two tears trickled down either side of her face and fell hotly against the pillow. Was Tom watching her right now, down from heaven? She hoped not. She hoped that he wouldn’t be able to witness which came first: Cecil’s attempt to turn her into a mad woman, or her own raw insanity breaking through.
Chapter 13
The following morning was bright and clear. The clouds had given way to a sky of rich, marine blue. Down in the gardens, Cecil was pushing Daniel along a pathway in his bath-chair. Despite the warmth of the sun, Daniel was dressed for the Arctic. The two men didn’t talk to each other at all.
Tamara left her bedroom window and wandered downstairs. There was one main corridor in the house that connected the two towers at either end. All other rooms jutted off this main artery to comprise the central body of the building. The corridor was long and rather gloomy. It contained several suits of armour, and scenes of medieval life embellished the stained glass windows. Was this another nod to Cecil’s mother’s dream of becoming a princess?
She made her way along the black and white tiles of the corridor. Stella passed her, on her way to the kitchen. The maid nodded, but didn’t smile or say a word. There was a new look of disdain in her eyes that made Tamara want to flinch from her.
She hurried on, admonishing herself for not scolding Stella immediately. Mama certainly wouldn’t have allowed a maid to look at her in such a way. But Tamara had never run a household. She had never had to tell servants off, least of all a disdainful maid at least ten years her senior, who probably now thought that her mistress was mad.
At the far end of the corridor, she found the door to the south tower. It was well hidden behind a large tapestry that had presumably been hung over the door to keep draughts out. She pushed it aside. It was plain to see where the modern house had been forced onto the old. The curved wall of the ancient building jutted out at an uncomfortable angle from between the clenched bricks of the new one.
The door leading into the tower had bolts across it, but they were unlocked. She pushed the bolts back and heaved the great mass of oak open. A draught stroked her face. She stepped inside. The air was very different in here: it was cooler but also dryer, unlike the rather cloying atmosphere in the rest of the house. The room before her was sparsely furnished. There was a big old dining table with a few chairs pushed around it, but nothing else. It was also extremely dim. The light filtering through the narrow slits of windows barely made it to the middle of the room.
At the far end of the tower there was a wooden spiral staircase. She crossed the room and began to climb it, drawing her finger against the rough old stone, etched with lifetimes of marks and chips and scratches. She imagined soldiers racing down these stairs to battle, weapons and armour clashing against the walls. And alongside them she could almost feel the ghosts of priests, monks, widows, servant boys, pass her by. Generations of the unremembered, carving out there lives in this place. Marshstead Tower. How ridiculous of the Hearsts to try and rob this old building of its rightful name.
At the top there was another floor; thick-beamed and solid. It was far brighter up here. Sunlight beamed in through larger windows, which looked out in all directions. One of them was open. She went over to it and caught sight of the river, winking and shimmering at her in the glory of the day. A small mound lay on the floor at her feet. It was a dead bird; a beautiful wood pigeon. Its open eye stared mournfully up at her.
There was nothing else in this room but a rocking chair. Perhaps Cecil’s mother had come up here to rock and survey her kingdom from her bower. Perhaps she’d decided that her dream was in fact rather cold and disappointing, and that the north tower was better equipped to suit the needs of an old lady. Tamara closed her eyes and took a long, deep breath. The room seemed to envelop her, like a wonderful secret that had taken her in. The rays of sunlight tickled her face and made her smile.
She closed the window, bent down and cradled the bird into her hands. Its neck flopped sadly down.
‘I’m sorry you got caught,’ she murmured, tenderly.
She carried it down through the tower, out of the cool gloom of the floor below and back into the corridor of the main house, with its knights and stained glass windows. As she approached the drawing room, she could hear Cecil and Daniel talking. Cecil’s voice was slightly raised.
‘I will not summon him.’
‘But why not?’ pleaded Daniel. ‘It’s all over my legs now. They’re so red and raw I can hardly move.’
‘You�
�ll have a series of baths with the chamomile cordial.’
‘The chamomile cordial does nothing. Nothing! Only Mr Balanchine’s medicine worked. Please, you must send for him.’
Daniel’s voice wavered, as if the pain was sapping him of anymore fight. Tamara stepped into the entrance of the room, but Cecil was so distracted that he didn’t notice her. Daniel, slumped in a chair, looked like a petulant child.
‘I will not have that man in my house and that is the end of it.’
‘But…,’
‘Enough!’
Cecil paused for breath and turned to her, as if he’d suddenly sensed that she was there. He glared at the dead bird cradled in her hands.
‘What on earth have you got there?’
She looked down at it. ‘A dead wood pigeon. It must have got stuck in the south tower. One of the windows had been left open.’
Cecil took a step back from her. His hand immediately found its home across the top of his head. The corners of his mouth sloped down with a look of revulsion.
‘Take that thing away immediately,’ he said, falteringly. ‘I won’t have dead, rotting birds in my house. What could have possessed you to do such a thing? Go on!’
She carried the bird to the river. The water was deep and fast moving; so high that it almost kissed the moss-covered banks on either side. She found a shady tree and placed the bird under it. Poor Daniel. He presumably had no idea why Cecil now hated Walter Balanchine. Walter had brought Tom Winter into their lives after all; the man who had nearly destroyed years of careful match-making; the man who had paid for such daring by having his bones broken and crushed.
‘Goodnight, sleep well,’ she murmured to the bird.
She followed the river for about a hundred yards until part of it was diverted by a narrow canal, which spiked out into the distance. A series of wooden footbridges traversed the two waterways and she climbed up. The water gushed busily below her, frothing over sharp-edged rocks and catching the light so that it was almost blinding.
It made sense that Walter should be a skilled healer. He was more than just a conjurer, of course he was. The man had magic in his fingertips and, more importantly, he had a way of looking at you. It was as if he could push back all the layers of your body and read exactly what was written on your heart. She could picture his extraordinary face perfectly – how could she forget it? He was the strangest, gangliest person she’d ever seen. Never had she witnessed such a small head attached to such a long body. But that strangeness dispersed with just a single glance into the man’s eyes. One glance. That was all it took to know that he was a friend, and that he had read and understood your soul completely.
*
By the time Tamara got back to the house, it was nearly lunchtime. Daniel was sitting by an open window, the rays of sun lapping at his face, his eyes half closed. She had planned to go straight up to her room to change, but found herself hesitating. Cecil was nowhere to be seen; she hoped that perhaps he was out on business.
She approached Daniel instead. He seemed to be asleep. The mesh of veins in his eyelids stood out against the sunlight. But when she sat down beside him, his eyes flickered open. He looked startled to see her and instantly glanced about him as if he were trying to find some sort of escape route. His face had flushed slightly in the warmth and this sudden colour suited him; it made him look younger, healthier.
‘Don’t worry Daniel,’ she said. And then, as a sort of afterthought, she whispered, ‘I won’t bite you.’
This immediately turned the sun-kissed glow of his face into a deep crimson.
‘No, of course not,’ he stuttered. ‘I…I just shouldn’t be out in the sun for very long.’
‘Why not?’
‘It will give me a headache.’
‘I think it might be good for you. You look better already.’
‘Oh, really? Cecil wouldn’t agree with that.’
‘No.’
She stretched back in the chair, closing her eyes to let the sun wash over her own face. The air was so clean here. It even smelt sweet. Not like London at all, where the smog filled your eyes and nostrils with black flecks. There, the contents of a sneeze looked like something scraped from the inside of a chimney wall. The thought of it made the corners of her mouth twitch with amusement. How did Cecil ever manage to survive in such a dirty place?
‘What did you do with it?’ asked Daniel in a small voice.
She opened her eyes and turned to him.
‘With what?’
‘The bird.’
He searched her face. His eyes were those of a young, curious boy.
‘I put it under a tree by the river.’
‘A fox will get it.’
‘Yes, I think you’re probably right.’
Daniel looked away. He began scratching at his knee, harder and harder until he winced with pain. A small blood stain rose up like an ink blot through his trouser leg.
‘When did Walter Balanchine treat your skin?’ she asked.
He shrugged, as if the question added even more weight to his burdens.
‘It’s alright, you can tell me,’ she said, trying not to look too insistent and closing her eyes to the sun again, as if she didn’t have a care in the world.
‘We met him, when we were still in London. He gave me some ointment for my hands. Nothing’s ever worked before, but I’ve run out you see. Now I need more for my legs.’
His voice was flat and hopeless.
‘Perhaps you should write to him.’
‘Oh, Cecil wouldn’t let me do that. He’s got something against the man now.’
She felt her chest heave deeply. The image of the dead wood pigeon ran through her mind, its poor head resting in her hand. And then she thought of that river water, heedlessly sliding over those sharp stones, reflecting dazzling light up into her face.
The idea came to her in a flash; the words suddenly seeming to sizzle on her tongue, imploring her to let them loose. Before she even realised, there they were, out in the open.
‘Maybe,’ she began, ‘if you got really ill, or at least… if you gave that sort of impression… then Cecil might have no choice but to call Walter.’
For a moment she didn’t dare look him in the eye. When at last she did, he was staring straight back at her.
‘Are you suggesting that I lie to my brother about the state of my health?’ he murmured.
She rose to her feet and walked away without another word, feeling a glimmer of what it was like to be alive again.
Chapter 14
For the next few days the three of them fell into a routine: Tamara, Cecil and Daniel. Cecil liked to take Daniel out for a walk first thing in the mornings and then, after their return, Tamara was free to wander out on her own. There were bluebells at the far side of the estate, which she liked to pick. She put some of them in an old jar and took them up to the top of the south tower. She also carried a small table up there, which she placed next to the rocking chair. The room was dusty and unloved. The maids didn’t come up here, but she preferred it that way. She found some old rags and, for the first time in her life, learnt what it was like to scrub floors and clean windows. This was her little corner and it was heartening to feel it come to life again under the care of her own hands.
In the afternoons Cecil retired to his library to work and Tamara took a bath.
‘You are free to wander and forage outside in the mornings,’ Cecil explained. ‘But in the afternoons you will wash the stench and grime off yourself with hot water and plenty of soap. Just because we live in the countryside, this does not mean that we should smell like animals.’
Before bed, Cecil brushed her hair. It was always a silent matter now: a gentle tap at the door, his approach across the room, the long meticulous strokes with the brush until her hair ran down her back like silk ribbons. Only once did he pause to run a finger softly down the side of her neck. Her heart began to beat violently; her stomach lurched with the sudden revulsion of his touch.
Was this the night when he would finally expect to claim her as his wife? But when he lowered his finger from her skin, she saw that his hand was shaking. She watched his face in the reflection of her new mirror and noticed that he was biting his lip. Was he frustrated, anxious… scared even? He resumed brushing and left soon after, without another single touch or glance.
After two weeks Tamara’s horse arrived. She looked at the beautiful, muscular animal and wished herself quietly tucked up in bed.
‘She’s called Briar,’ Cecil announced, proudly. ‘A fine animal; cost me a fortune.’
Tamara stepped up to her, conscious that any true country woman would be heartily throwing herself onto the back of this creature by now and galloping delightedly off into the distance. She put a timid hand against its flank, feeling the warmth of the chestnut coat on her skin. Briar stretched her neck towards her, as if to say hello, and Tamara raised her other hand to stroke the horse’s velvet nose. She had great, beautiful eyes; the colour of chocolate. She hoped that Briar wouldn’t sense her nervousness and do something sudden. But the horse only exhaled deeply through her nostrils and gave her head a gentle shake.
‘Get on her then, we shall go for a ride,’ said Cecil.
‘Really? So soon?’
‘Of course. The sooner you shake off this unnatural fear, the better.’
Cecil’s eyes were sparkling. He was enjoying this; he was relishing her terror. She felt her face burn up. How dare she let herself fail so miserably in front of him? Even now she could feel her back stooping defensively, her hands quivering. And yet she could do nothing to hide it. Hot, angry tears welled up in her eyes.
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