Illusion

by Stephanie Elmas

  Lady Maymont widened her eyes in astonishment. ‘Are you always this direct?’

  Tamara stepped towards her, a sudden sense of urgency ringing like warning bells in her head. The image of the question mark spun in her mind. The grim shadow of the punishment awaiting her made her dig her nails into her knuckles. She felt as if she were walking a tightrope; stumbling on shaking feet, too terrified to look down.

  ‘Let me tell you something,’ the desperation rasped in Tamara’s throat. ‘I have untold horrors waiting for me upon my return home. I live in fear every day and am quite sure that I have little time left for playing games. I have to be direct. It is quite clear that you want nothing from us apart from some portion of our wealth; that is why you reduced yourselves to inviting us here. And yet in spite of your dreary circumstances, you cannot refrain from making condescending scowls and hurtful comments in our company. Don’t look so shocked, Lady Maymont. I’m not ignorant; I’m fully aware of how you feel. So, now we have no secrets. We no longer need to dance around each other, pretending to be polite. If you have something to say to me about my mother, something that you have heard, then please tell me now. I would be grateful for the knowledge.’

  Lady Maymont’s face had fallen and her chest heaved. She shook her head, putting her hand to her cheek. This gentler expression suddenly seemed more like the portrait of her as a young woman. She sighed deeply before she spoke. ‘Mrs Lakefield said that her husband recognised your mother from certain circles he’d once been aware of in Paris. She was quick to establish, of course, that he never consorted with such individuals. Your mother, it seems, has somewhat of a history; a history of the lowest sort imaginable for a woman.’

  She pursed her lips tightly and blinked hard into Tamara’s eyes. Outside the wind whispered up the windows. You could almost see its little fingers, scratching to get in.

  Tamara let her hands fall to her sides. She felt her cheeks turning red with a hot, lurid anger. ‘I think, that before Mrs Lakefield spreads such ugly rumours about my mother,’ she began, slowly, ‘she should stop to consider her husband’s true involvement with these individuals he remembers so clearly. She is playing a dangerous game of gossip, when her own good name could be so easily compromised.’

  Her hostess nodded, silently.

  ‘Thank you for your honesty. I hope that you tell Mrs Lakefield about my views and that her evil story about Mama will end with this conversation.’

  There was a clatter of feet as Cecil, Lord Maymont and Palmer walked into the room.

  ‘We will take your leave now, Lady Maymont,’ said Cecil, approaching the two women, gloves in hand.

  Shortly behind them Walter also strode in, his tall boots clicking against the floor.

  ‘How are the grounds?’ asked Lady Maymont.

  ‘Not good. You certainly have a lot of new firewood, if that’s any consolation,’ replied Walter. He turned to Cecil. ‘I see that you are leaving early.’

  ‘I feel that I must return to Daniel. Now that the weather is calmer, we should grasp our chance. Come on, Tamara.’

  ‘It will worsen,’ said Walter.

  Cecil paused. ‘And how on earth do you know that?’

  ‘The wind is swelling up again by the minute. It’s dragging in some powerful storms from the Atlantic. You’d be very unwise to travel now.’

  Cecil held his breath as if teetering on the brink of eruption. He brushed his hand three times across his scalp.

  ‘Now listen here, Mr Balanchine,’ he said quietly. ‘If I want to take advice from a freak, I shall go to a circus. Please ensure that we never meet again. Tamara, come,’ he hissed with a click of the fingers.

  ‘What did he say?’ barked Lord Maymont to his wife. ‘Something about a circus?’

  ‘Not now, Henry. Not now.’

  As Tamara followed Cecil out of the room, she felt the brush of something in the palm of her hand as Walter strode swiftly by. She clutched her fingers around the object, which was small and round. Before anyone could notice, she buried it in her pocket.

  *

  The journey home was even worse than expected. Trees and broken branches littered the roads and the carriage had to take long diversions through the mud to make any progress at all. Palmer rode on ahead, jumping down repeatedly to clear the roads of wood and render them passable for the carriage. It seemed that he could lift any weight, endure any hardship. Nothing tired him. In contrast, the horses were soon exhausted by having to plough their way through endless mud and water. They got stranded so many times that Cecil didn’t even have the chance to become sick again.

  They rested once at a small tavern with a welcoming fire. As soon as she could be alone, Tamara removed the thing that Walter had given her from her pocket. It was a locket. She recognised it from the collection of charms that Walter wore around his neck. She removed her gloves and opened it carefully. Inside was a very old and withered looking sprig of dried lavender. Engraved on the other side, in such tiny letters that you could hardly read them, were the words:

  Have Faith in the Impossible

  She stroked the locket with her finger. It felt and looked so familiar and yet so foreign at the same time.

  ‘Who are you, Walter Balanchine?’ she whispered.

  *

  When they finally entered the grounds of Dovestead, the wind was shaking the carriage treacherously and the rain fell in sheets. It seeped inside so that their backs were now soaking. Stella sobbed and shivered in the corner. It was late afternoon and almost dark. As they began to descend the long, sloping drive, the ground grew sluggish, suggesting that even the driveway had sunk, or been swept away.

  The horses came to an abrupt halt. There was a loud sound of whinnying and stamping, as if something had suddenly taken them by surprise; the carriage jolted violently as one of them reared up.

  ‘What is going on?’ yelled Cecil, prising the carriage door open.

  As he did so, the dark, muscular figure of a great beast careered past them. Its shining flanks and hooves sprayed water directly into the carriage, nearly knocking it on its side. Cecil fell back with an agonised cry. Tamara caught a moment’s glimpse of the beast’s deep brown eyes before it raced away, back through the mud and into the darkness.

  ‘Briar?’ she murmured, gripping the edge of the carriage door in disbelief. ‘Briar!’

  In the distance she noticed that the outline of the stables had changed. A section was missing; it must have collapsed. Her poor Briar had been there all along, hidden away. And now she was running wild and terrified in the storm.

  ‘Cecil, that was Briar. You made me believe that she’d been shot!’

  Cecil lifted himself from the carriage floor. He was clasping his left shoulder; his face was crunched up with pain.

  ‘Do you really think I’d shoot an animal that was worth selling?’ he cried. ‘Do you think me so stupid?’

  ‘But… you…,’ her mouth hung open as the carriage ground on. Stella stared at them both from her corner with big, red eyes.

  At last the carriage wheels were so thickly plastered with mud, that they could go on no longer. There was no choice but to give up and walk. Tamara bowed her head against the wind and rain, wading onwards. In some places the mud nearly came up to her knees. She hoisted up her filthy skirts and ploughed on through the cold, gritty slime. Palmer led the way, his wide back taking the force of the torrent. Beyond them, a few lights twinkled in the windows of Dovestead. Home, she thought, wearily. That house was her home now, and yet she had a feeling that somehow she was far safer out here in the storm. It was a comfort at least to know that Sally and Daniel would be there.

  But when they finally collapsed through the heavy doors, the house felt strangely dark and empty.

  ‘Where are my brother and his nurse?’ Cecil asked Saunders.

  ‘They took the trap out this morning, when the weather was much calmer, and haven’t returned,’ said the old butler. ‘I assume they’re waiting out the storm at one
of the farms. I made a fire up for you in the drawing room when I saw your carriage coming. Shall I wake cook up?’

  ‘No,’ said Cecil, with a shake of the head. ‘Go to bed, Saunders. You too, Stella.’

  Palmer helped Cecil to remove his boots, as the other two servants slipped away. Tamara quietly unfastened her own things by herself. She was shivering, and longed for the warmth of the drawing room fire. But when they made their way through, Palmer strode ahead of her towards the blaze, dominating the space around it. Tamara slunk back.

  Palmer’s face was florid and he clapped his hands heartily together into the warmth of the fire, stretching his body limb by limb. It seemed almost as if he had been invigorated rather than exhausted by the journey. Tamara noticed Cecil watching this display with a sort of shining admiration in his eyes. Palmer turned to him and the two men exchanged a look of understanding that made her stomach suddenly rise into her throat. As quietly as possible, she began to move towards the door.

  ‘And where are you going?’ asked Cecil.

  She halted. ‘To my room, I’m very tired.’

  ‘Very tired? But all you have done is sit in a carriage. What about Palmer here? Surely he should be tired? Exhausted.’

  ‘Yes, I imagine he must be.’

  ‘In fact, I would say he behaved valiantly today, wouldn’t you? Making way for our carriage to pass; clearing trees and so on.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I believe that our faithful servant deserves a reward for all of this bravery.’ Cecil removed his gloves, finger by finger, and placed them on the mantelpiece. He then walked purposefully to the door. ‘Palmer,’ he called behind him, with a loud, lazy yawn. ‘Tonight my wife belongs to you.’

  In a moment Cecil had gone, and there she was, alone with Tom’s murderer. Sweat glistened on his forehead. He began to pace towards her. She felt herself scream; her teeth rattled violently against each other as she backed away.

  ‘Now who’s gonna hear that – eh?’ murmured Palmer.

  He was right. Only the wind cried back, screaming like a ghost down the chimney and lashing at the windows. How could she escape from this mountain of a man? She could already feel his revolting hands on her; already sense him breathing down her neck. He lurched forwards suddenly and she screamed again, and then he backed away just as quickly, laughing. He was mocking her, playing with her. She began to sob uncontrollably, her back inching towards the wall with nowhere to go; nowhere to hide from this monster.

  His expression suddenly changed; from a leering mock to steadfast intent.

  ‘Oh God help me! God!’ she screamed.

  He grabbed at her shoulders, ripping her clothes, pushing her back against the wall. She could do nothing but scream and cry as he gathered her hair up into his great fists, holding her fast. An almighty gust of wind seemed to scream back at them. It was so violent that it shook the house to its foundations. From somewhere came the sound of a deafening crack, like a tree splitting in half. Palmer paused, throwing a disconcerted look around the room. But he didn’t spot the black shadow padding up behind him; the beautiful, sinuous, feline shape.

  A deep, throaty growl resonated through the air. Palmer turned around slowly. Sinbad’s eyes were like two bright flames and his white teeth were bared, menacingly. Another monstrous crack tore through the house. Plaster began to fall from the ceiling. Without another moment of hesitation, Sinbad pounced at Palmer; his weight and ferocity throwing the man across the room. Tamara watched as the lithe, sinuous shoulders of the cat bore down on him. Sinbad was a wild animal once again: growling and hissing as Palmer seemed to dissolve beneath his teeth and claws.

  And then the most wondrous and terrifying thing of all began to happen. The world around them caved in. Just like a flimsy pack of cards, the walls of Dovestead started to collapse and black, oily water began to gush into the house from every direction. Sinbad darted back from Palmer with a wild yelp. He flattened his ears and then bounded towards the windows, which had started to explode beneath the pressure of the collapsing walls and the water outside.

  ‘Sinbad!’ Tamara cried. But then suddenly she lost sight of him as large parts of the ceiling plummeted down between them. She raced into the hallway; arms wrapped around her head as blocks of masonry came crashing down in every direction. With one last glance behind her, she saw the floor of the room actually give way into what looked like a great abyss beneath. As the black water gushed down into the huge hole, it swept Palmer’s body into its arms and carried him down with it. Down, down into the chasm below.

  Gathering every ounce of strength that she possessed, Tamara began to wade through the water and the devastation around her to the only place that she knew would be safe. She could just about see. In spite of all the water, a series of fires had broken out in a number of the rooms. The noise was deafening and the water and slime and filth weighed her down. Something clunked against her thigh. It was part of a suit of armour, floating down the hallway; the final remnants of the Hearsts’ chivalric dream.

  And then the mightiest roar of all gripped the stricken building, like a dragon’s deep battle-cry. The floor behind her and in every room around her began to cave in, too. A window exploded only inches away from her head and she hid her face, shrieking with terror. She watched as the little fragments of glass cascaded into the water around her like pins.

  But her legs kept on going.

  ‘Have faith in the impossible. Have faith in the impossible,’ she whispered, over and over again.

  At last, the noise and pain and horror of it all seemed to fade away, as the door to the south tower came into view. And it gleamed at her, like a beacon. The tapestry that had hidden it had been swept away. There were great, gaping holes where the new house had once been forced against its pale, stone battlements. The tower stood alone once again, brave and proud. Even the water around her legs became shallower and shallower as she approached it. Finally, Tamara put her hand up to the old wooden door and went in.

  A trickle of water came in after her, but otherwise the tower was dry. With a deep breath, she inhaled its familiar, musty scent. She ripped off her sodden skirts, removing Walter’s locket from them so that it was safe in her hand, and used her remaining strength to climb the stairs. At the top, in the reassuring sanctuary of Sally’s room, she wrapped herself in blankets and curled up like a frightened animal. In the warm comfort of her cocoon, she prayed for the day to come and this nightmare to end.

  Chapter 23

  The dawn came like a watery, white veil. At last the air was completely still. Tamara’s eyes flickered open. She flexed her stiff fingers and toes and drew her tongue over her dry, cracked lips. For a long time she didn’t move. All she could do was stare at Walter’s painting above her. She narrowed her eyes at the question mark, so that it really did turn into a woman’s form, and she pressed the locket in her palm. It seemed to exude a heat of its very own. Her mind wandered back to that day in the lavender fields, when her childish eyes had watched her mother cry and cry.

  At last the sound of voices echoed in the distance. They seemed familiar. She raised herself on her elbows and finally summoned the energy to stand up. Her bruised body creaked like an old machine. She hobbled over to the nearest window and saw Sally and Mr Peters in the distance, sprinting towards the tower. She waved but they couldn’t see her. She didn’t yet have the voice to shout out. Still on the road, and some distance behind, she spotted Daniel, limping towards them as fast as he could.

  She turned and shuffled across the room to the window opposite. For the first time she had a perfect view of the fields beyond. No longer did the north tower blot the landscape with its ugly silhouette. Looking down, there was nothing left of the house but a vast mound of rubble and an even greater expanse of water, stretching all the way to the broken banks of the river. Confused birds swooped down over the waters, looking for rich pickings. Only a few fences and forlorn looking trees poked through the surface of the new lake.

 
In the distance, where the land finally rose up through the water, stood a tall, curious-looking figure in a purple cloak; a perfect shade of lavender. On his left side there was a beautiful chestnut horse and, on his right, a black panther. The figure saw her in the window and raised his hand. She waved back and, as if reassured by her response, he turned with his companions and they walked away.

  It was then that she heard the groaning. It started low and quiet, but gradually began to gather itself up into a crescendo. It was coming from the bottom of the tower. Wrapped in blankets, Tamara cautiously began to pick her way barefoot down the stairs. A figure was lying at the bottom. It looked crooked and broken and was partially covered in her filthy, discarded skirts.

  She came down and crouched before him. His bloodshot eyes were half open. His breathing was thick and heavy. One of his legs hung at an unnatural angle and blood was seeping from it, forming rusty orange clouds in the puddles on the floor.

  She sank down against the wall as his mouth murmured to her in recognition.

  ‘Hello Cecil,’ she whispered.

  Book 3 – The Return

  Chapter 24

  Not all of the beer had been a mistake; only perhaps the last three, four, or maybe even five drinks. Tom felt his left cheek plummet down and kiss the stinking, oily table top. He watched the room loom in and out, in and out. He closed his eyes, but that felt even worse. When he tried to open them again, he found that he couldn’t. The inn hummed with noise: foreign sing-song voices that he still barely understood. He drifted off into the same familiar dream. It was so familiar now that he even knew he was dreaming it. He could almost see himself dreaming it.

  He was falling; always falling. Her almond eyes had gone and in their place were distant, frenzied screams. The world slowed down. Outside the droplets of rain plodded ponderously down through the sky. They landed on St Paul’s and trickled no faster than a snail’s pace down its dome. Back at home his Ma was sleeping calmly, a soft smile planted on her lips. And below him, the floor of the cathedral was breathing in a deep sigh and readying itself for yet another small piece of history to scatter its bones across its ancient surface.