Illusion

by Stephanie Elmas

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘To London, in search of treasure.’

  ‘And did you find it?’

  Sally looked wistful for a moment, as if an old memory had caught at a nerve. ‘I thought so for a time. But that treasure didn’t want me back.’

  ‘Sounds mysterious.’

  ‘Oh, it isn’t really, it’s quite simple. But I still have my health and my faith and wonderful friends. That’s all I need in this world,’ and she gazed at Tamara again, with deep, thoughtful eyes.

  *

  Daniel went to bed early that evening; exhausted by the day’s surprising successes. Sally saw that he was comfortable, whilst Tamara waited for her in the drawing room by the fire. It was raining again. She could hear it, scratching like small fingernails at the window panes. Suddenly the panther strolled in, as if he were an invited guest looking for a comfortable chair to spend the evening in. He gazed around the room and his eyes landed on her. Her fingers tensed around the arm of her seat. He strolled up to her and she felt her breath quicken. A scream welled up threateningly in her throat.

  But instead of pouncing on her, and ripping her flesh apart into edible chunks, he settled himself comfortably by her side, resting his glossy head in her lap. His head was warm and heavy and even though her heart was racing, its weight felt surprisingly reassuring. She raised a hand very slowly and then traced her index finger down the parting between his ears. The cat blinked lazily in response.

  ‘And to think that I was once scared of horses,’ she murmured. ‘I don’t know what Cecil’s going to say about you when he gets back.’

  At that moment Sally walked in and the cat raised his head.

  ‘Oh, there you are Sinbad! Making yourself at home? I’m so sorry Mrs Hearst, he’s an independent soul.’

  ‘That’s quite alright. He’s rather wonderful, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, he is.’

  ‘Sally, I’d like to show you something. Would you mind coming with me?’

  She grasped a lamp and the two women walked to the south tower, Sinbad close behind them. Tamara pushed back the tapestry and let them through, the light of the lamp filling the circular space in a way that made her feel as if they were standing at the bottom of a well.

  ‘Follow me,’ she said, holding up the lamp and climbing the stairs to the top.

  ‘The easiest way to look at it is by lying down, like this.’

  Sally glanced at her questioningly, but followed Tamara’s lead and lay down next to her on the carpet. Sinbad collapsed at their feet. The ceiling glowed up with the lamplight and at once Walter’s picture took shape. Sally looked at it intently.

  ‘Walter did it, when he was here with Kayan. I think he’s trying to tell me something and now I’ve got to decipher it, somehow. I’m fairly sure that that dove, up there, is me. And the gun, that’s Cecil. He has one just like it.’

  She looked over at Sally, whose eyes were fixed on the painting in the deepest concentration. ‘The round eyes,’ she mused. ‘Walter has a cloak with a patterned lining just the same. And the chains around them are identical to the one around his neck.’

  ‘Of course!’ cried Tamara. ‘It’s a cloak, not a scarf. So, that must represent Walter then. I knew you’d help me. But what about those fingers gripping it, are they Walter’s too?’

  ‘No!’ Sally laughed. ‘Have you ever looked at Walter’s fingers? Like great long knobbly sticks they are! No, those fingers are lean, elegant.’ She paused. ‘They’re a musician’s fingers.’

  Tamara’s heart stopped for a moment. ‘Tom’s,’ she whispered.

  Her eyes immediately welled with tears. She couldn’t help it. Sally watched her gravely as she hurriedly swept them away with the back of her sleeve.

  ‘Do you know what the letters mean?’ the Welsh girl asked.

  ‘Not a clue. I spent most of last night trying to arrange them into something. They make no sense at all to me at the moment.’

  ‘And what about the spiral? Those jagged edges look like they were painted in a very precise way. Have you tried counting them?’

  ‘No, I haven’t. Do you really think that Walter would have thought about that?’

  ‘Walter thinks about everything.’

  Tamara began to count, but the edges of the spiral line made her eyes blur every time. If only she could reach the painting and move her fingers across it as she tried to add them all up. She had better success by closing one eye and pointing her finger at each individual angle. After several false starts using this method, she finally reached the end. Two hundred and fifty-eight jagged corners. Or could it have been two hundred and fifty-nine? Her head was beginning to throb.

  She turned to Sally and discovered that she had fallen asleep. Her face looked smooth and angelic in the lamplight. Sinbad too was softly snoring at their feet.

  ‘Sally,’ she whispered. ‘You need to go to bed.’

  The girl stirred. ‘I’ll stay here,’ she murmured. ‘I prefer it here.’

  There was a blanket on the rocking-chair, left over from Walter’s stay. Tamara shook it out and spread it over the two sleeping forms. She knelt down and kissed Sally softly on the cheek before she left. ‘Goodnight.’

  Chapter 20

  As soon as Tamara opened her eyes the following morning, it came to her in a startling moment of clarity.

  ‘Two hundred and fifty-nine!’ she exclaimed, sitting bolt upright in her bed.

  She raced downstairs, still in her nightclothes, and dashed the full length of the house to the south tower, nearly knocking Stella over on the way.

  ‘Sorry Stella!’

  The maid gave her one of her surly looks, but Tamara ignored it.

  The top of the tower was empty, although it did now contain Sally’s leather bag. Tamara threw herself back down on the rug and began to count again; this time with steady, fresh eyes. Yes, there were exactly two hundred and fifty-nine angles in the spiralling line.

  ‘They’re stairs,’ she whispered. ‘Two hundred and fifty-nine stairs to the Whispering Gallery!’

  As she stared at the painting, it began to take on a wholly different shape. The curved and angular petals now became domes and spires before her eyes. The crucifix, of course, had been trying to tell her all along that this was a painting of St Paul’s Cathedral. She could even see the swooping, circular outline of the Whispering Gallery now. And there she was up there, the blinded dove with the gun by her side. Nearby were the grimacing fox and the question mark. She looked once again at the foetal image of the boy.

  ‘There you are!’

  Sally was standing over her, her hands on her hips. ‘You need to get dressed Mrs Hearst, we’re going on an outing.’

  ‘One question,’ said Tamara, biting her lip. ‘Who does that curled up figure look like?’

  Sally glanced up at the painting, eyes narrowing. ‘Judging from the mop of black hair, I’d say that that was my blessed Kayan.’

  ‘Yes, that’s just what I thought too.’

  *

  They went out for a ride along the river. Sally had discovered an old trap in the stables and harnessed one of the ponies up to it. The paint was peeling off and it was rickety in places, but it moved well enough. They helped Daniel climb up into the back and then Sally took the reins.

  ‘How did you learn to ride a pony and trap?’ Daniel called out to her.

  ‘Never done it before in my life.’

  They charged off through the marshy grass, slowing down in places where the wheels threatened to sink down into the boggy earth beneath them. The threat of becoming stranded seemed to add yet more fun to the adventure and the three of them found themselves joking and laughing into the clear fresh air until their sides hurt.

  ‘What shall we do if we become marooned?’ cried Daniel.

  Sally gave him a long, serious look. ‘Well then you shall have to carry us home, Mr Hearst. One of us over each shoulder, I imagine.’

  His thunderstruck expression was
so funny that it brought tears to their eyes.

  At last they inched above the boggy terrain and reached the river. The water flowed fast and forcefully. Something about it made Tamara want to shiver. It reminded her of a petulant child; small and yet eager to prove its strength. And it looked cold, despite the hazy glow of the day. She couldn’t imagine wanting to sit by it, or dip her feet into its waters. The sound of its current seemed to have a shrill cry that she would never have associated with the normal melodious sounds of tumbling water.

  ‘The canal is just up there,’ said Daniel. ‘My father had it built to prevent flooding.’

  ‘Farmer Peters says that it was built badly, and that it’s not enough,’ Tamara replied.

  ‘Oh, I doubt that. No, that can’t be right. Father paid a great deal for it; I remember him grumbling at the expense. He got one of the best engineers down from London to oversee the whole thing.’

  ‘Let’s hope that his London engineer understood Somerset,’ said Sally.

  *

  Over the following week, Sally transformed Daniel from a bedridden invalid into a mobile, talkative, smiling man. They went on walks that became increasingly longer by the day. She made him bend and stretch and pick things up off the floor. In the mornings he did breathing exercises in the garden to strengthen his lungs. They even went fishing in the canal. In the short space of time his legs became firmer and he began to rely less and less on his walking sticks. She rubbed his sore skin with the same ointment that Walter had originally given him and it sank in so deliciously that it made him look at his healing hands and legs in wonderment.

  ‘You’re the wizard Miss Sally,’ he took to saying. ‘You’re the miracle worker.’

  She pretended to be firm with him. She tried her best to behave like a strict nurse managing a testy, trying patient. But it never lasted. Tamara could see the way that Sally melted beneath Daniel’s beseeching, admiring eyes. She noticed how Sally celebrated every one of his triumphs and she saw the pride that the young nurse took in his recovery.

  Sally moved a mattress and a small stove up to the top of the south tower, and made her bedroom there. With her few possessions, and jars of wild flowers from the grounds, she turned it into an attractive and comfortable haven. Sinbad slept there, too. He seemed to have taken a shine to the rug Walter had left them.

  ‘Why do you prefer it in the south tower?’ Tamara asked her.

  ‘It feels more real somehow, like a natural part of the landscape. The new house doesn’t feel home-like.’ She looked over at Tamara. ‘Sorry, did I offend you?’

  ‘No! No, you’re quite right. I prefer the south tower too. Its proper name is Marshstead Tower. Nothing else has ever survived the land here. The new house is wrong. It’s at odds with the countryside and it looks more like a factory, or a prison.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right,’ Sally drew in her bottom lip. ‘Although I really shouldn’t say such things about your home.’

  ‘Home? Oh, this isn’t my home. Dovestead doesn’t just look like a prison. It is a prison. Mine.’

  *

  The following day Mr and Mrs Peters arrived at Dovestead quite unexpectedly. Mr Peters was smartly dressed in a brown woollen jacket and Mrs Peters wore a deep blue shawl and bonnet. She looked even smaller out of her kitchen, devoid of her realm. Tendrils of her wiry red hair escaped down the sides of her neck.

  ‘I’ve brought you an apple pie, to say thank you for looking after my John here,’ she said, depositing an enormous dish into Tamara’s hands.

  ‘What a wonderful surprise!’ exclaimed Tamara. ‘How is your sister?’

  ‘Better for now. But she does suffer awful with her lungs.’

  ‘Please, will you come in and have tea with us? Mr Hearst is away, but his brother Daniel is here and his nurse, Miss Jones. This pie is much too big for our small company and we’d rather share it with you.’

  The couple needed some persuasion to come in through the door, but eventually joined them for tea. Sally served out the pie and they found fresh cream to go with it.

  ‘I’m so glad it’s finally stopped raining,’ said Tamara, opening a window over the small company and allowing a pool of sunlight to wash in over them. ‘I don’t think I’ve even seen so much rain. Is it always like this here?’

  Mr Peters shook his head glumly. ‘The weather’s been up to all sorts this year. It’s been a nonsense of a summer. Never known a season like it. And there’s more to come.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘He feels it in his bones, don’t you John?’ said Mrs Peters with a wink.

  ‘I do. And I’m rarely wrong. It’ll get worse before it gets better.’

  ‘And how is your health, Mr Hearst?’ asked Mrs Peters, expertly changing the subject.

  Daniel smiled broadly at her. ‘Better than it’s ever been. Miss Jones here is an excellent nurse. I honestly believe that she’s saved my life.’

  Sally’s milky white face flushed pink and she didn’t seem to know where to look.

  ‘Well, you must come up to the farm whenever you like,’ said Mrs Peters. ‘John here could come and collect you. You must try some of my brews Mr Hearst. They’re excellent for the blood, and the lungs. Did my poor sister a treat, they did.’

  ‘I would be honoured,’ replied Daniel.

  ‘Oh!’ said Tamara, suddenly remembering something. ‘Did you like my bread Mr Peters? How was it in the end?’

  Mr Peters looked at her and then at his wife. He began to speak but then seemed to change his mind. The man looked as uncomfortable as if he had something caught in his teeth and didn’t quite know how to dispose of it discreetly. Mrs Peters’ shoulders began to shake. Her eyes filled with tears of laughter that seemed to be infectious, because her husband rapidly joined her.

  ‘I’m so sorry Mrs Hearst,’ he blurted out, ‘but that bread was the most miserable thing I’ve ever laid eyes on! It was as flat as the Levels!’

  Sally began to giggle; Daniel too.

  ‘I think that might have had something to do with the yeast…,’ Tamara mused. ‘Or perhaps the lack of it,’ she added. It was enough to send the whole table into fits. She looked around at the merry faces and saw that there was nothing she could do but join in.

  And then the door swung open.

  Tamara rubbed the laughter out of her eyes to see the figure standing near the door; almost to attention. He was smiling patiently down at them all, clearly waiting for them to stop.

  ‘Cecil,’ she murmured. ‘You’ve returned.’

  ‘Yes, dear. I see you’re having quite a little gathering here.’

  The farmer and his wife stood up. The lightness and merriment in the room died in a moment, as if it had been sucked into a jar and tightly sealed away. Mr and Mrs Peters suddenly looked awkward and out of place in the room.

  ‘I… I didn’t know you were returning today,’ Tamara stammered. ‘Mr and Mrs Peters have come to visit us.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that.’

  Her heart heaved for her lovely, kind guests. Tamara didn’t know where to look; what to do. She felt her cheeks turn crimson with embarrassment.

  ‘Mrs Peters has brought a marvellous apple pie. Would you like some, Cecil?’ she asked, her voice now trailing with nerves.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  Mr Peters stepped forward, offering out his hand. Cecil looked at it but did nothing.

  ‘It has been a pleasure for us to become acquainted with your new wife, Mr Hearst,’ began the farmer. ‘I hope you don’t mind our visit. My wife makes a sumptuous apple pie and, as Mrs Hearst is so partial to her cooking, we thought we’d make a gift of it.’

  ‘How very charitable of you,’ replied Cecil, with a withering smile.

  ‘You are always most welcome to visit Rise Farm. Our lands border after all. We have common interests.’

  ‘Oh, I very much doubt that.’

  Mr Peters paused and gave Cecil a long, dark stare. His usual twinkling eyes had lost their lustre
; his face was grave and lined.

  ‘Come dear, we’ll take our leave now,’ he said in a low voice to Mrs Peters.

  Mrs Peters came to his side and Tamara hastily began to follow them to the door.

  ‘Thank you so much for the lovely pie,’ she chattered pathetically after them, so ashamed that she felt sick. Her eyes rested on the back of Mrs Peters’ bonnet; she dreaded to think what sort of expression the poor woman had on her face.

  Just as she was about to leave the room behind them, Tamara felt a tight squeeze on her wrist. She turned to find Cecil’s face directly behind her; threateningly close.

  ‘Leave them now. Saunders will show them out.’

  Her heart was beating so fast that she thought it might explode. She wanted to scream into his ugly, beaked face. She wanted to hammer at his chest with rage. But then she caught Sally’s eye, quiet and steadfast. The Welsh girl gave her head the subtlest of shakes.

  As if sensing the exchange, Cecil turned to Sally.

  ‘And you must be Miss Trenacre,’ he said. ‘Thank you for your letters, I always like to be kept informed about the boy’s progress.’

  Sally stood up and nodded. Her face was pale and thoughtful. ‘Not at all, Mr Hearst. It is a pleasure to meet you.’

  ‘I trust you dealt with the matter of the other nurse?’

  ‘Yes. It was quite straightforward.’

  Tamara glanced at the open doorway and saw the tip of a black tail disappear quickly down the corridor. Sinbad clearly knew when he needed to make himself scarce, and yet how long could such a beast remain in hiding? How long could Sally maintain this deception?

  ‘I trust you are improving boy, in Miss Trenacre’s hands?’

  ‘Yes,’ Daniel coughed, burrowing his chin down into his neck. He seemed to have retreated back into himself immediately; like a flame suddenly blowing itself out. All that shine and laughter that Sally has infused into him over the last few days streamed out; leaving the house almost as fast as the Peters.

  ‘Good, good,’ answered Cecil. ‘Well, I have a small announcement,’ he continued, rubbing his hands together. ‘A faithful member of staff has returned to the fold. It took a little persuasion, as he was eager to spend some time with his family, but I have coaxed him away from them to be with us again. Come on, come forward!’