Illusion

by Stephanie Elmas

  When at last they arrived at the Maymonts’ home, Cecil could do little more than totter to the front door, with Palmer anchoring him up. Despite having being pummelled by the elements for several hours on horseback, Palmer seemed to be entirely untouched by the ordeal. He propped Cecil up like an unconquerable boulder, the rain trickling down his bald head in a way that Tamara had seen before.

  The Maymonts welcomed them as they came in. Lord Maymont was tall and scraggy. His jacket was almost threadbare. Lady Maymont looked so rigid that, on first glance, Tamara couldn’t help but wonder at how this woman might be able to sit down or bend over. They both regarded Cecil as if he were a rather pathetic child and Lady Maymont offered Tamara only the faintest flutter of a smile.

  ‘I’m afraid that my husband was made ill by the journey. The weather was awful,’ said Tamara, attempting to sound as cordial as she could. Her hostess responded to her comment with nothing more than a stony face; her high, silvering hair rose up above it as if it were a battle-hardened helmet.

  ‘Hmmm,’ responded Lord Maymont; a sound that was one half groan and the other half a clearing of the throat. ‘The storms are quite dreadful! Never known anything like it. We’ve had a lot of damage, lost some good livestock.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. I do hope it eases soon.’

  ‘Yes, yes, we can all hope.’

  ‘Please show Mr Hearst to his room,’ said Lady Maymont to a servant. ‘He looks like he needs to rest. I imagine that you would also like to get changed after your ordeal, Mrs Hearst. We could then have tea in the library.’

  ‘Actually, I’m perfectly fine, thank you. The journey didn’t bother me at all,’ responded Tamara. They all watched as Palmer ferreted Cecil away up the stairs. It felt good to be with strangers again, even with someone as daunting as Lady Maymont. Anything felt better than being with Cecil and Palmer. ‘Could I possibly have some tea now? I think just a little warming up is all I need.’

  The library was a tattered old room: narrow and long with windows looking out onto the green expanses of the estate’s grounds. It must have been beautiful once. She gazed up at the intricately carved wooden ceiling, which was now full of dust and cobwebs. As she came to the middle of the room, a man seemed to unfold himself from a chair. He was immensely tall and slim and wore a suit of intense green, with lace at the cuffs.

  ‘Walter!’

  The word was out before she even had time to think and she followed it with a great gasp of delight.

  Lady Maymont arched her eyebrows in astonishment.

  ‘My apologies,’ smiled Tamara. ‘But Mr Balanchine is a dear friend. He tended to my brother-in-law, Daniel.’

  ‘Yes, I am aware of that. You’re certainly getting around, aren’t you Mr Balanchine?’ she answered, wryly.

  Walter stepped forward and made a gallant half bow. ‘It’s a pleasure to be of service to you all,’ he said, with an amused twinkle in his eye.

  ‘I expect you’ll all be wanting tea,’ chimed in Lord Maymont. ‘Come, come. Let’s sit! Hearst’s been taken ill, like a woman,’ he said to no one in particular, although Tamara assumed it must have been to Walter. ‘What’s wrong with the man? Should have been on a horse in the first place; not travelling indoors.’

  Tamara began to giggle. The Maymonts appeared to be quite extraordinary and it felt like paradise to be in Walter’s reassuring company again. There was so much that she wanted to tell him about Daniel and Sally and she was, of course, bursting with questions about the painting… and Tom.

  ‘Not there Sir,’ said Walter, as Lord Maymont prepared to slump down into a deep, winged chair. ‘Back straight, chin raised. Just like we practised.’

  The man hovered for a moment and then shuffled round to a taller, straight-backed chair. He grasped a cup and saucer with red, shaky hands.

  ‘My husband has been suffering from prolonged headaches and nightmares,’ said Lady Maymont. Clearly she had noticed Tamara’s bemused look. ‘Mr Balanchine has been assisting him.’

  ‘He’s just the wizard they say he is!’ barked the old man. ‘The doctors can go to hell! Although, I have to say, he seems to spend more time looking at our money matters than giving me medicine for my poor head. Don’t you? Don’t you Lad?’’

  ‘I’m afraid that it’s the condition of your money matters that has given you your poor head, and your nightmares,’ replied Walter. ‘Fix one and you will cure the other.’

  ‘Quite right,’ muttered Lady Maymont, to which her husband made a disapproving grunt.

  ‘Well, if anyone can help you, then it’s Walter,’ said Tamara. ‘He’s done wonders with my husband’s brother. Daniel’s a changed man.’

  Lady Maymont gave her a long, hard look over her tea cup. She had the small, intelligent eyes of a woman not easily fooled. ‘I recently received a letter from an acquaintance of yours,’ she said slowly. ‘A Mrs Lakefield.’

  Just the mere mention of the Lakefields made Tamara’s heart beat a little faster. She had tried her best to forget about their excruciating visit. ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a moment of silence.

  ‘Ridiculous woman Mrs Lakefield, with all those ratty little dogs,’ added Lord Maymont. ‘Although she found Walter for us, I’ll give her that!’

  Lady Maymont ignored her husband and carried on, ‘How is your mother, Mrs Hearst? I gather that she had to return to London, rather hastily.’

  The question felt so heavy, that it might as well have been coated in thick lead. The weight of it bore down on her like a faceless shadow. She instantly pictured the question mark in Walter’s painting.

  Tamara had received nothing more than a brief letter since Mama’s sudden departure. In truth, with all that had been going on, she’d barely given herself a moment to think about her.

  ‘I haven’t seen her since, I’m afraid,’ she answered. ‘I imagine that she’s still in London.’

  Lady Maymont sipped her tea as if to close the subject, but her reference to Mama had left a disquieting aura in the room. Walter, thankfully, came to the rescue.

  ‘I hate to rush your tea, Lord Maymont, but we have breathing exercises to perform and then two large ledgers to make sense of. I believe that Mr Hearst will be recovered by then?’ he looked at Tamara.

  ‘I imagine he will.’

  ‘I have been exploring this extraordinary house over the last few days, Mrs Hearst,’ he went on. ‘With Lady Maymont’s permission, I would be honoured to show you the gallery before dinner.’

  Tamara smiled. ‘That would be wonderful. Thank you very much.’

  *

  Cecil’s face had turned from green to grey when she found him lying in his room later. Palmer was sitting in a chair at his bedside and Stella was unpacking.

  ‘I won’t abide a single crease in that shirt,’ he barked at the maid.

  Tamara thought of Lord Maymont’s shabby clothes. Surely Cecil had little to prove here? But then again, the Maymonts were old Somerset landowners. The family had reigned in the county for hundreds of years, and even though they had clearly fallen on hard times, they held a place in the community that Cecil would never have. She wondered why on earth Lord Maymont had even invited them to stay.

  ‘How are you?’ she asked.

  ‘Improving.’

  She looked at Palmer’s thick fists; at the ring with the fox gleaming brightly from his little finger, and began to back away.

  ‘I trust you’ll be well enough for dinner, Cecil.’

  ‘Yes. And thank you for your obvious concern,’ he snarled back as she left the room.

  *

  The gallery was a long, fine hall that led to the east wing from the stairs on the first floor. It had an arched roof of frosted glass panels that were now being assaulted by the storm outside. Tamara could see the shadows of leaves and great, wave-like patterns of water sliding down them. The room was filled with family portraits and landscapes of glowing country scenes that bore no relation to the m
aelstrom currently outside. There was a painting of Lady Maymont in her younger days: a far gentler and happier impression of the woman that Tamara had just met. She wore diamonds in her hair and was dressed in an extravagant, maroon gown.

  ‘Hello Tamara.’

  She jumped as Walter touched her gently on the shoulder.

  ‘Oh, Walter! I have so much to tell you. To ask you!’

  ‘How is Sally?’

  ‘She’s an angel.’

  ‘Ah, now that cannot be disputed.’

  ‘But I’m sure that Cecil will find out who she really is very soon. He nearly did just before we left. And poor old Sinbad!’

  ‘Don’t worry yourself about Sinbad. Here’s there to protect you. He has his purpose.’

  ‘Walter…I can’t believe you’re here!’

  ‘Really? Surely you know me better by now than to believe that this is some sort of coincidence.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she replied, her eyes filling with tears. ‘The painting you left me in the south tower… was it a test?’

  ‘In a way. At the time I couldn’t afford to tell you; the risk was too great and there was much that I needed to think about. But I couldn’t leave you without anything either.’

  ‘You were there, weren’t you? You saved him, by throwing out your cloak…,’

  ‘Well now, here’s an interesting surprise.’

  They both turned to discover Palmer watching them from the end of the gallery. His hands were clasped behind his back in a business-like manner.

  ‘What will Mr Hearst think about this reunion?’

  ‘Well that, Mr Palmer, is the business of Mr Hearst alone,’ Walter replied, his face unchanging.

  Palmer’s thick lips broke into a wide grin. ‘Why of course, who am I to get involved in your affairs? Mrs Hearst, in the absence of your husband, who will be back to himself quite soon I assure you, I am to accompany you downstairs.’

  ‘I do not need a chaperone.’

  ‘Oh, on the contrary, I sincerely believe that you do.’

  *

  When Cecil finally emerged downstairs, he was still a little ashen, but was freshly dressed and able to move quite normally again.

  ‘Ah, Hearst! You’re still alive then,’ growled Lord Maymont. ‘Thought we’d seen the last of you. Never had to fight for your country, eh?’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Lord Maymont?’

  ‘You know, trudging through mud, battling with the elements, a whisker from death at every turn.’

  A pink glow flooded into Cecil’s cheeks. ‘No, indeed. It is perhaps fortunate that I am a man of business, then.’

  ‘Yes, yes, just the thing,’ grumbled the old man.

  Eventually Cecil and Lord Maymont managed to fall into some form of a conversation, which then left Tamara trapped alone in Lady Maymont’s stony presence. Her hostess was wearing an old, faded dress; a world away from the maroon gown that she’d worn for the painting.

  ‘How are you finding Somerset, Mrs Hearst?’ she asked, eyeing the lace around Tamara’s neck. ‘It must be awfully dull after your exciting city life.’

  ‘It has been a big change, yes, but the air is good and the locals are friendly.’

  ‘You have made friends with the locals?’

  Tamara eyed Cecil. He was talking to Lord Maymont, but his head was cocked in a way that told her that he was listening as well. ‘I have tried,’ she answered, carefully.

  ‘Interesting. Local people tend to be rather suspicious of new money. They prefer the old families whom they know and trust.’

  ‘You mean families like yours, Lady Maymont?’

  Her steely exterior was caught off guard for a moment. She pursed her lips and frowned, as if she wasn’t quite sure how to answer such a question. In the corner of her eye, Tamara spotted Walter entering the room; like an actor taking his place on a stage. She turned anxiously to Cecil, who was standing by the fire with Lord Maymont. Cecil immediately sensed the new, unexpected movement in the room and his eyes fell on Walter.

  The moment made her want to shrink away. Cecil barely moved in response to what he saw, but the corner of his mouth twitched three or four times. That was enough.

  ‘Ah Walter, there you are!’ bellowed their host. ‘Meet our mystical guest, Walter Balanchine.’

  ‘Yes, we have met before,’ said Cecil, in a quiet voice.

  ‘Marvellous fellow. Makes me breathe slowly and eat broth. He also says that I need large amounts of money to stop my headaches, although I knew that already! Ha!’

  ‘Henry,’ Lady Maymont murmured under her breath. Her husband didn’t appear to hear her.

  ‘No medicine will do apparently, apart from exercise, good posture, less of this poison,’ he continued, waving his glass in the air, ‘and a bit of clever thinking.’

  ‘I see,’ said Cecil.

  A bell chimed and Lady Maymont stood up. ‘Shall we go through to dinner?’

  ‘I will not be joining you tonight I’m afraid,’ said Walter. ‘But I bid you a pleasant evening.’

  Tamara experienced a mixture of relief and loss as she watched Walter turn his back and leave the room. They went through to dinner and she tried her best to engage in the conversation around the table. She tried to overlook Lady Maymont’s long, steely glances and she tried even harder to ignore the simmering fury beneath Cecil’s polite smiles and his brooding tolerance of Lord Maymont’s conversation. She tried.

  ‘See that painting there?’ slurred Lord Maymont.

  They all turned their eyes to an oil painting over the mantelpiece of a hunting scene.

  ‘Like it? Think it might grace Dovestead, eh? I’ll give you a good price for it.’

  ‘Henry,’ murmured Lady Maymont for the second time that evening, this time with a heavier note of warning to her voice.

  ‘Do you hunt?’ asked Lord Maymont. He was so drunk that he was actually leaning against Cecil’s arm.

  ‘I have done… on occasion.’

  ‘They taught you that sort of thing then, eh?’

  Lady Maymont, seeming to think it best to ignore her husband now, turned to Tamara instead.

  ‘What is it that you call your house now?’ she asked Tamara. ‘I’ve forgotten.’

  ‘Cecil’s mother renamed it Dovestead.’

  ‘Ah, yes. It was called Marshstead before. My family used to own that land, with the tower.’

  ‘I’ve been told that the tower is very old. That it is the only building ever to have survived there.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true. They say it’s as old as the land. The folk used to come from far and wide to tie ribbons and charms on Marshstead Tower for good luck,’ replied Lady Maymont, with a wistful expression on her face.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t know. They certainly don’t come anymore.’

  ‘Of course not. They were banned from doing so.’

  Suddenly there was a huge crashing sound, like a great explosion in the room. A howling gust of wind swept across them, knocking down vases and ornaments in its wake. They all jumped to their feet. Palmer emerged from the shadows. He marched to the window that had been blown open and shut it again, firmly. Lady Maymont pressed her hand against her chest. They all remained still, allowing a moment for the sudden chill that had charged in from the storm outside to settle once again.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Lord Maymont with a nod in Palmer’s direction. He looked almost sober again.

  *

  Tamara woke in the night with a knot in her stomach. Something was wrong. She looked up to find a figure sitting at the end of her bed: Cecil. The storm was still raging outside; the wind howling through the trees like a lost, scared child.

  ‘You knew that Walter Balanchine would be here, didn’t you? I daresay you arranged it,’ he said quietly.

  ‘No! No, I swear to you that I didn’t.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me.’

  ‘I’m not lying!’

  He was eerily calm - shoulders a little slumped, the rise and fall of his chest slow
and steady. He moved his face towards hers. His expression was taut with resolve.

  ‘You’ll be punished for this. You wicked, evil whore.’

  ‘No, you’re wrong!’

  ‘Don’t answer me back. We’ll return to Dovestead in the morning. I’ll make an excuse.’

  He stood up and walked over to the door, pausing on his way out. ‘What do you think would be the perfect punishment for a dirty little piece of work like you? Perhaps we should ask your mother.’

  Chapter 22

  The storm had calmed a little by the morning. The rain had stopped, thankfully, although the wind still howled. Tamara pulled her bedroom curtains apart and squinted outside. Two trees had come down in the night, thankfully missing the house. They lay like sad, fallen giants across the lawn. In the distance, she spotted Lord Maymont inspecting the damage. His grey hair was being swept up like a wisp of smoke in the wind. In the other direction, Walter was striding across the grass towards to the house. His long cloak billowed out behind him.

  ‘Merlin,’ she whispered to herself.

  ‘Are you sure you won’t stay another night?’ asked Lady Maymont, when Tamara came down. ‘Mr Hearst has informed me that you’re leaving already.’

  Her hostess seemed to have softened in the night; she even managed to attempt something resembling a warm smile. Perhaps she regretted her harshness from the day before; or perhaps she could see something of the fear and misery in Tamara’s exhausted face.

  ‘Thank you,’ Tamara replied. ‘But my husband won’t change his mind, and the storm seems to have settled a little.’

  ‘The roads will be in a terrible state. I’m not sure whether Mr Hearst will survive such a journey,’ she answered, with a smirk.

  Tamara looked down. She didn’t have the stomach for Lady Maymont’s wry humour just now. But, without Cecil in the room, she did feel a pressing urge to ask the woman about one of the things that had helped to keep her awake for much of the night.

  ‘Please, um, Lady Maymont. I would be very grateful for a little clarity regarding a concern that I have,’ she stumbled. ‘Mrs Lakefield mentioned something about my mother in her letter to you, didn’t she? You made hints about it over tea yesterday. I’d like to know what she said, please.’