Illusion

by Stephanie Elmas

  ‘You will not speak of this,’ she hissed between gritted teeth. Two lines of tears trickled down her cheeks.

  ‘You’re crying,’ he said. ‘Tamara, my dear wronged sister, said that she only ever saw you cry once. You were in a lavender field. Something about that place made you cry.’

  Catherine bowed her head and lowered her shoulders. Tom could hear her gentle breathing, as if she were trying to console herself, to gain strength. How alone she looked.

  ‘When I ran away from the castle,’ she began, ‘my intention was to go to the ends of the earth; away from everything I knew and anything that reminded me of him. Ha!’ she smiled, shaking her head. ‘What a stupid, naïve little thing I was.’

  ‘Did you not want to find him?’

  ‘No. Why would I have wanted to do such a thing? He abandoned me. He cared only for himself!’

  She held her hands to the fire and stared into its flames.

  ‘I fled to France and worked for a time in poor conditions. And then I managed to get a passage to England. It felt so strange and exotic: to cross the sea, to come to a new land. And all the time, you were growing inside me, Walter. I had no idea what I was going to do with you.’

  ‘I moved from farm to farm, finding work. Few farmers wanted to employ me. Eventually I was paid to pick lavender, not far from London. The blankets of purple fields stretched as far as the eye could see. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. There was a small cottage there where I slept. No one else wanted it; the roof was broken. You were born there,’ she said, looking up at Walter. The firelight glistened in her eyes. ‘Yes, you were born in the ruin of a cottage and I delivered you on my own.’

  She smiled sourly at the memory and then bit her lip. The sound of a log splitting in the fire fizzed and crackled through the air.

  ‘What happened after that?’ asked Walter.

  ‘I took you to London. I thought I would find work there; enough money to pay for us both. But all I found were rats and poverty. Everyone was looking for the same thing as me. I couldn’t care for you,’ she whispered, shaking her head. ‘I had no friends, no family, no money, no food… So one night I took you to the workhouse. I placed you on the steps with that locket of yours. Have faith in the impossible. Your father had always said that to me and I still believed it then, even after everything that had happened. Those words were the only thing of his I could give you, so I had them engraved in the locket. It was the last thing I had. And there I left you.’

  Her voice trailed off. She brushed her tears away and clenched her fists.

  ‘Did you ever truly intend to reclaim me?’ Walter asked in a hollow voice that made Tom’s heart lurch. Suddenly his dear friend was that child again. He was that long-limbed upstart, being dragged along by the ear for causing trouble. Poor Walter. Poor, poor abandoned Walter Balanchine.

  ‘Yes, I did. But I needed to make something of my life first,’ she replied. ‘I found my way back to France, Paris this time, where I was promised work. It was a trap of course. But by then I was so desperate I didn’t have a choice. I had nothing; not even you anymore, Walter!’

  She clenched her fists even tighter, so that her knuckles turned white.

  ‘And so I became the lowest thing a woman can be to survive. Yes, so low that I could almost feel hell bubbling beneath me,’ she looked around at them all, as if she were telling a frightening story to a group of children. The corners of her mouth twitched and there was a glint of fury and defiance in her eyes. ‘But it didn’t really matter by that time,’ she continued. ‘I’d turned into a stone, you see. My heart had gone by then. I think I must have left it at the workhouse, with the baby and the locket.’

  There was a long silence. Walter’s face had become expressionless, impregnable again.

  ‘But something must have changed for you,’ said Tom. ‘You must have had some ambition left. How else did you become a respectfully married woman, a part of London society?’

  She closed her eyes as if to steady herself and took a deep breath.

  ‘Yes, I was ambitious. I always yearned for something better than I had. Who would not?’ she asked. ‘The woman I worked for became a friend. She was strong; she understood the world. I think that, perhaps, she saw a little of herself inside my young body. And so she became my mother: the mother of a poor, immigrant aristocrat. We were very good actresses. I was beautiful then as well, just like Tamara is now. London loved us. Richard Huntingdon wasn’t the only man to be fooled by me, I assure you. But I liked him. I didn’t love him, not in the way I had loved before. He was a kind man, however. A good man, and wealthy too. It was nearly perfect…,’

  ‘Nearly?’ asked Walter.

  Catherine left the fire and approached them both. She didn’t speak for some time. Her face was pale; the colour had drained from her lips so that they were almost grey. She lifted her hand, as if intending to touch Walter’s arm, but then seemed to change her mind. It fell back down to her side.

  The story of her life had been so desperate, so cruel, but it was clear from her face that they were still yet to hear the worst of it. She looked scared even to say the words. The fear unfurled itself like a mask across her countenance.

  ‘During my time in Paris,’ she began, ‘I had a customer who visited me regularly over the course of a month. His name was Mr Aubery Hearst: a harmless old man who’d surprised himself into doing rather well in the world. Unfortunately, he had a very clever young son.’

  ‘Cecil,’ said Walter.

  ‘Yes, Cecil. He sneaked in one day and secretly witnessed us together. I found him after his father had gone, hiding in a cupboard. He slapped me violently in the face and told me, in the most explicit language, how dirty and disgusting I was.’

  ‘It was to my great misfortune that, not long after my marriage, I came face to face with Cecil Hearst once again at a party in London. We recognised each other instantly. My first fear was that he would say something to my husband, but he didn’t. Not yet. I began to notice him more and more at public events and soon realised that he had become fascinated by me. I was still disgusting to him, that was quite obvious, and yet I think that it was this disgust that fuelled his interest. He seemed to love to sneer at me; it pleasured him to torment me. I discovered far too late that he had me followed, to the workhouse that day when I came looking for you. He had his little spies everywhere and he could barely control his glee when he discovered that I had a son.

  Walter’s eyes widened, ‘Cecil knows that I am your son?’

  ‘Yes. He told me that he’d found you, that he was watching you, growing up in the gutter. He wouldn’t tell me where you were. Oh God! That man has bribed and blackmailed me, threatening to tell the world about my past, for twenty years! When my husband finally discovered the truth, and he found himself forced to surrender his fortune piece by piece to Cecil Hearst, our marriage was destroyed. It broke Richard’s heart and I could do nothing but watch him slip away. Cecil has everything now: me, my daughter, and all that we once owned.’

  ‘That first night, when we performed for the Gallops…,’ interjected Tom.

  ‘Cecil was ecstatic!’ exclaimed Catherine. ‘He’d lost track of Walter for a number of years; I was hoping, praying that you’d slipped through the net. But then you suddenly appeared again before us, in a magic show of all places. I recognised you instantly, how like your father you are… The irony of such a thing certainly wasn’t lost on dear Cecil.’

  ‘You must understand that he would have found you again anyway, Walter. Cecil would never have stopped looking for you because your existence gave him so much pleasure. Bribery was everything to him. He loved extracting money from me, bit by bit, as if he were pulling out one tooth at a time and watching me squirm beneath him.’

  ‘But to have you appear before us again at the Gallops; so suddenly, so magically… in front of me! In front of Tamara’s innocent eyes! I cannot describe his delight. The game became even more marvellous for him after that
. He even invited you to perform in his own home. But then, then…,’

  ‘Then his game was ruined, wasn’t it?’ Tom murmured. ‘I spoiled it all for him when I tried to take Tamara away. And because of that, Walter became his enemy.’

  They stood in silence, watching each other, like three travellers at the centre of a crossroads. Sally had been sitting with Ma throughout; a silent witness to the unravelling tragedy that connected them all. Now, for the first time, she moved. Standing up, she approached Catherine and took her hands. Her thin face was grave, her brow wrinkled with concern.

  ‘You said earlier, Mrs Huntingdon, that you had, once, intended to reclaim your son,’ she said. ‘After visiting the workhouse, you must have seen how terrible it is there. Are you sorry now, for not having tried to find him sooner?’

  Catherine’s lips trembled. Either the touch of Sally’s hands, or the sincere resonance of her voice, seemed to make her dissolve.

  ‘I meant to do it!’ she wailed. ‘Believe me, please, I wanted to so much! You don’t know how many sleepless nights I spent conjuring up grand schemes, trying to make plans. It nearly tore me apart!’

  She sobbed violently and wrapped her arms around her stomach as if she were doubled up in pain. It seemed as if the weight of the world was slowly pushing her to her knees.

  ‘But then Richard fell in love with me, so quickly. Before I knew it I was engaged, then married. Suddenly I had become something for the first time in my life. I kept telling myself that I would do something about you, Walter. But the months slipped by, then the years. It became harder and harder. ’

  Walter took a step back. His eyes looked cloudy, lifeless.

  ‘You know, I didn’t want another child,’ Catherine continued, gasping back the tears. ‘I couldn’t bear to endure that sort of love again, when at any moment the world might come crashing down around me. I lived in constant fear that Cecil Hearst would reveal who I was, or someone else might recognise me.’

  ‘I managed to stop the others from being born. Yes, it’s true!’ She glared back at the three of them, teeth gritted. That same angry defiance sparkled through her wet eyes again. ‘But Tamara was stubborn. She wanted to survive. And after she made her way into this world, how could I possibly have explained your existence, Walter Balanchine? How could I have told my husband? My daughter? The society we lived in?’

  ‘I have to leave,’ murmured Walter, making for the door. But Tom grasped him by the sleeve.

  ‘No, don’t go my friend.’

  Walter’s arm felt as taut and sinewy as an old piece of rope. His face was contorted with disgust.

  ‘Is love such a base thing to you?’ he snarled at her. ‘You abandoned one child, whom you failed to reclaim because he did not “fit in” to your gilded world. Despite all your conniving efforts you had another child, my innocent sister, and you married her to the vilest, most monstrous human being imaginable…,’

  ‘She had to marry Cecil!’ Catherine screamed back at him. ‘Don’t you see? Don’t you understand? Marrying Tamara to Cecil Hearst was the only way to put an end to his threats, the only way to take back all that we owned, the only way to save us both from the gutter!’

  Walter marched over to her, clasping her by the shoulders. ‘You have written her death sentence!’ he bellowed, shaking her until she yelped.

  ‘No, Walter!’ cried Sally.

  ‘Where is the love in you? What are you made of?’ he spat. His face trembled with rage. ‘Did you really think that your troubles would end by marrying your daughter to Cecil Hearst? How selfish are you? How selfish can a mother be to sacrifice her own daughter in such a way?’

  ‘I did it for her!’ Catherine wailed.

  Her legs buckled and suddenly Walter was no longer shaking her by the shoulders, but holding her up from the floor. Sally and Tom released her from his grip and led her to a chair.

  ‘I am sorry,’ she began to mumble. ‘I am so, so sorry.’

  ‘No. Please don’t say that,’ Walter replied, in a voice that cracked with pain and remorse. He turned to face the wall, clenching his fists as if he were tempted to bury them in it.

  ‘I can’t… I can’t breathe any longer,’ she moaned.

  ‘Yes you can, of course you can. You have to,’ he barked.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we have to right the wrongs of the past. We, all of us, have to save Tamara and Daniel.’

  No one dared to speak again for a very long time. Walter took out his pipe. The thick, sweet smoke seemed to calm him. Sally brewed tea and attended to Ma. Sinbad slipped in. Catherine's jaw dropped at the sight of him, but she held her nerve and seemed to know better than to protest. The panther gave her a surly glance as he nestled at Ma’s feet.

  ‘What do you want from me?’ Catherine said at last, glancing between them all like a small, lost child.

  Walter sat down before her. He was composed again now. He gave her a long, searching look before he began to speak.

  ‘Tomorrow evening you will visit Tamara’ he said. ‘You will pretend to leave afterwards, but instead you will hide in one of the rooms. Just before midnight, Patrick Brennan will leave the house through the back door. He will lock it behind him and then his brother will bolt the door from the inside. When the brother has returned to his post, you will unbolt and unlock the door and leave by it immediately.’

  She looked down at her hands and smoothed them softly over her skirts. Her tears had dried, but her face was still pale and wistful.

  ‘Very well,’ she replied slowly. ‘But I need your assurance regarding one thing.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘That you will not try to spirit my daughter away again.’ She looked up at him with imploring eyes. ‘Cecil will find her; he will always find her.’

  ‘You have my absolute assurance that we will not move Tamara,’ said Walter.

  She looked from Walter to Tom and then back at Walter again. ‘Then I will do as you bid.’

  ‘I need to know something more,’ said Walter.

  She raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Do you know of a folk song called Death of the Lady?’

  ‘Yes. Only because Cecil plays it incessantly on the piano. I think that it’s perhaps the only tune he can play. He has been extremely morbid since the accident.’

  ‘I see.’

  Gingerly she raised herself to her feet. She seemed so weak and vulnerable now; like an injured bird attempting to take flight to save itself. Tom stood up too; an instinctive urge prompted him to help her, despite the pangs of disloyalty that needled him.

  ‘I think I would like to leave now,’ she said. ‘Goodbye, dear Molly.’

  She bent down to kiss Ma on the cheek and then made her way to the door. Walter didn’t move.

  ‘Would you like me to escort you, Mrs Huntingdon?’ asked Tom. He stepped out after her into the thickening fog of the graveyard.

  ‘I think I can probably look after myself, Mr Winter,’ she replied, plunging into the grey.

  ‘Mother,’ came a voice, suddenly.

  Walter was standing in the doorway.

  Catherine drew to a halt at once. Her back flinched. Slowly she turned around.

  ‘May I ask, what is my real name?’ he called.

  The glint of a smile played on her lips. ‘Kralis,’ she replied.

  Chapter 29

  They watched him leave first through the crisp, white frost that had already coated the streets. Patrick Brennan: almost as wide as he was tall and with a medley of facial features like root vegetables thrown at random on a plate.

  ‘The brother’s even uglier,’ whispered Sally.

  ‘Then we might possibly die of fright,’ replied Tom. The dried peas and eels were causing positive mayhem in his guts.

  Only a few minutes later another figure slipped past: tall and grey. She moved noiselessly, her eyes cast down at the glimmering frost.

  Walter made a slight movement and Tom placed a comforting hand on his arm. Mome
nts later she was gone and then they slipped out of the shadows.

  The back door opened noiselessly. They filed into the house: Tom, Walter, Sally and Kayan. The warm air pressed against them as they exhaled their last frost-coated breaths. Tom looked at the three pale faces huddled around him. They all wore black, even Walter; like a group of ravens trespassing on a field of rich pickings. He half expected the sudden hammering of gunshots.

  ‘Come on,’ said Walter, in a low breath.

  They moved through the pantry across the empty kitchen. A plate with a half-eaten slice of bread and butter on it seemed to eye them threateningly as they made their way through.

  The kitchen door was open an inch and Walter peered around it.

  ‘It’s clear.’

  They made their way along a small passage leading to the back stairs of the house and then climbed them in procession through the murky light. Tom’s chest began to thud so loudly that he was sure that the others must hear it. Somewhere, only a short distance away from him now, was Tamara.

  A single lamp shone near the top of the stairs. They filed into a long, austere corridor decorated with marble busts. Their stony white eyes watched on as the small group hurried by.

  Kayan led the way to Daniel’s room. Walter pressed the handle down noiselessly and the door yawned open. At once the intense, dry heat of the room seemed to jump out at them. The air was stifling. As soon as Tom stepped inside, he could feel his cheeks burning up.

  The room was grand but sparse, with long draped curtains of dense velvet muffling the windows. An immense, roaring fire, that would have been better suited to a baronial hall, roared like a furnace and filled the room with a bright, orange glow. In contrast to the room’s castle-like grandeur, a simple hospital bed stood at the centre. On it lay a thin figure. His face was grey and gaunt. His eyes were so firmly shut and his body so still that Tom wondered whether they had come too late.

  Sally, clearly thinking the same thing, gasped and then covered her mouth with her hands. Tears sprung into her eyes. They rushed over to Daniel’s bedside and Tom put his ear to his mouth. Yes, there was still life there, but his breath was as soft as feathers. Sally took his hand in hers and squeezed it. His fingers were painfully thin; the knuckles bulged in her small, firm grasp.