The Gates of Sleep

by Mercedes Lackey

  She simpered, and dropped her eyes, to avoid having to look at him. “Oh, cousin Reggie, I really have very simple tastes. I would like to see a bookshop, and I haven’t nearly enough gloves, and perhaps a hat—”

  He guffawed—there was no other word for it. “A hat? My dear cuz, I have never yet seen a woman who could buy a hat! If you manage that feat, I will fall dead in a faint!”

  I just wish you’d fall dead, she thought ungenerously, but she managed to fake a giggle. “Shoes, too,” she added as an afterthought. “And riding boots, at least. Mine,” she added with genuine regret, “are a disgrace.”

  “That’s enough to fill a morning and an afternoon. Gloves, hats, books—romances, I’ll be bound, or poetry—and shoes. Hands, head, heart and—” he grinned at his own cleverness, “—soles.”

  She did the expected, and groaned and rolled her eyes at the pun. He looked pleased, and chuckled. “I’ll tell the Mater; she’ll be cheered. She thinks you ought to see the big city—well, something bigger than a village, anyway. Maybe we can go down for a concert or recital or whatnot after this, if the sight of all those people in one place doesn’t give you the collywobbles.”

  “I shall do everything on my part to avoid the collywobbles,” she promised solemnly. She managed to be flatteringly good company until he finished his breakfast, then went off to whatever task he had at hand. She finished hers, then took herself off to the long gallery for her newest lessons, which were occupying her mornings now.

  The long gallery was a painting and statue gallery, with windows looking out on the terrace on one side, and the artworks on the other. To show off the art, the walls had been painted white and had minimal ornamentation. And now, during autumn, winter, and early spring, the ornamental orange trees in their huge pots from the terrace were kept at the windows inside. The highly polished stone floor echoed with every footstep, and a glance at the rain-slick terrace outside made Marina shiver.

  Mary Anne was conducting these lessons, but Marina had hopes that they would be over relatively soon, since she was mastering them more quickly than the dancing lessons. And for once, the wretched girl was actually being helpful instead of superior. It didn’t seem as though one ought to need lessons in how to move and walk once one was past babyhood, but as Marina was discovering, it wasn’t so much “how to walk” as it was “how to walk gracefully.”

  The first mistake in her carriage that Mary Anne had corrected had been that Marina always swung her right foot out and back when she moved—she wasn’t sure why, or how she had gotten into the habit, but now she understood why it was that she was always stubbing the toes of her right foot on things she should have passed right by. Then Mary Anne had made her shorten her stride and slow down by tying a string between her ankles, so that she couldn’t take a long stride and was constantly reminded by the string not to.

  Yesterday, at the end of the lesson, the string had come off so that Mary Anne could view her unimpeded progress.

  Today, Mary Anne ordered her to walk the long gallery with a proper stride without the string. She began, taking steps half the size of the ones she was used to, and feeling as if she was taking an age to traverse the distance.

  “Now, mind, if you’re in a great hurry, and there’s no one about to see you,” Mary Anne said, as she reached the other end of the Gallery, “then go ahead and tear about with that gallop of yours. But if there’s anyone who catches you at it, they’ll know in an instant that you’re a country cousin.”

  Eh? “What on earth do you mean by that?” she replied—pitching her voice so that it carried without shouting, which had been Madam’s personal lesson for the afternoons when she wasn’t at the vicarage.

  “You can’t race about a townhouse like that without tripping over or running into something,” the maid replied smugly. “Nor on a city sidewalk. You have to take short strides in a city; dwellings are smaller, there’s much less space and more people and things to share it. Why do you think people talk about going to the country to ‘stretch their legs’?”

  “I hadn’t thought about that,” she admitted.

  “I’m not going to put a book on your head, though Madam said I should,” the maid said thoughtfully, watching her as she approached. “That’s only to keep your chin up and your shoulders back. I must say, for someone tossed about in a den of artists, you have excellent posture.”

  “My uncles used to have me pose for ladies’ portrait bodies and busts, so that the ladies themselves only had to sit for the faces,” she said, giving a quarter of the truth. “And I posed for saints, sometimes—Saint Jeanne d’Arc, for one. You can’t slouch when you’re posing for something like that. They have to look—” she pitched her voice a little differently now, making it gluey and unctuous, like the utterly wet individual who had commissioned a Madonna and Child once, when she was very small and posing as Jesus as a young child, with Margherita standing duty as Mary.

  “—drrrrawn up, my child, drrrawn up to Heaven by their faith and their hair—”

  For the first time in all the weeks that she had been afflicted with the maid’s presence, Mary Anne stared at her—then burst out laughing. Real laughter, not a superior little cough, or a snicker.

  “By their hair?” she gasped. “By their hair?” Tears rolled down her face to the point where she had to dry her eyes on her apron, and she was actually panting between whoops, trying to get in air. Marina couldn’t help it; she started giggling herself, and made things worse by continuing the impression. “As if, my child, they are suspended above the mortal clay, by means of a strrrrring attached to the tops of their heads—”

  “A string?” howled Mary Anne, doubling over. “A string?”

  When she finally got control of herself, it seemed that something had changed forever, some barrier between them had cracked and fallen. “Oh,” the maid said, finally getting a full breath, the red of her face fading at last. “Thank you for that. I haven’t had such a good laugh in a long, long time.” She dabbed at the corners of her eyes with her apron. “Imagine. A string. Like a puppet—” she shook her head. “Or suspended by their hair! What fool said that?”

  “A fool of a bishop who got his position because he was related to someone important,” she replied, with amusement and just a touch of disgust at the memory. “Who knew less about real faith than our little vicar down in the village, but a very great deal about whom and how to flatter. But my u—guardian Sebastian Tarrant needed his money, and he did a lovely painting for the man, and since it was for a parlor, that is how he painted it. To be ornamental, just as if it was to illustrate something out of King Arthur rather than the Bible. Sebastian said he just tried to tell himself that it was just an Italian bucolic scene he was doing, and it came out all right.”

  She smiled at the memory. She could still remember him fuming at first over the sketches that the Bishop rejected. “Damn it all, Margherita! That pompous ass rejected my angels! Angels are supposed to be powerful, not simpering ninnys with goose-wings! The first thing they say to mortals is ‘Fear not!’ for heaven’s sake! Don’t you think they must be saying it because their very appearance is so tremendous it should inspire fear? The angels he wants don’t look like they’re saying ‘Fear not!’, they look like they’re saying, ‘There there’.…”

  “Mary Anne,” she said, sitting down—insinuating herself into the chair, as the maid had just taught her—”I know that you aren’t comfortable going to church with me. I don’t see why you should still have to, honestly—in the beginning, yes, when I might have done something foolish like crying to the vicar about how horrid my guardian was and how she was mistreating me, but not now. Why don’t you ask Madam to be excused?”

  The maid gave her a measuring look. “I believe that I will, miss. And you are correct in thinking that Madam assumed you might do something foolish. There was, after all, no telling how you’d been brought up out there—nor what you’d been told about Madam.”

  Oh yes; something ha
s fallen that was between us. She is never going to be a friend, but she’s not my enemy anymore.

  “Well—” she shrugged. “What child likes a strict tutor? But the child has to be readied for business or university, and I have to be readied for society. I know a great deal from books, and nothing at all about society.”

  There. That’s noncommittal enough.

  Mary Anne unbent just a little more. “A wise observation, miss. And may I say that thus far you have been a good pupil, if rebellious at first.”

  Marina smiled and held out her hand to the maid. “I promise to be completely cooperative from now on, even if I think what you’re trying to teach me is daft.” She lowered her voice to a whisper as the astonished maid first stared at, then took her hand in a tentative handshake. “Just promise to keep the fact that I posed for saints a secret. Reggie and Madam already think I’m too pious as it is.”

  “It’s a promise, miss.” The handshake was firmer. “Everyone has a secret or two. Yours is harmless enough.”

  “And I’d better practice walking if I’m not to look like a country-cousin Monday in Exeter.” She got to her feet—ascending, rather than heaving herself up—and resumed her walk up and down the Gallery.

  But she couldn’t help but wonder just what that last remark of the maid’s had implied.

  Everyone has a secret or two. Yours is harmless enough.

  Chapter Eighteen

  To Marina’s immense relief, all she had to do was act naturally on the trip to Exeter to keep Reggie amused. It was, after all, her first train ride, and she found it absolutely enthralling—they had their own little first-class compartment to themselves, so she didn’t have to concern herself about embarrassing rather than amusing him. The speed with which they flew through the countryside thrilled her, and she kept her nose practically pressed against the glass of the compartment door for the first half of the journey. By the time she had just begun to tire—a little, only a little—of the passing countryside, it was time to take breakfast, and for that, they moved to the dining car.

  This, of course, was another new experience, and she looked at the menu, and fluttered her eyelashes and let Reggie do all the ordering for her. Which he did, with a great deal of amusement. She didn’t care. She was having too much fun. Eating at a charming little dining table with lovely linen and a waiter and all, while careening through the countryside at the same time, was nothing short of amazing. Mind, you did have to take care when drinking or trying to cut something; there was certainly a trick to it. For once, there was an advantage to wearing black!

  The enjoyment continued after they disembarked from the train, though the sheer number of people pouring out of their train alone was bewildering, and there were several trains at the platforms. In fact, it seemed to her that there were more people on their train than were in the entire village of Oakhurst! And they all seemed to be in a very great hurry. For once, the Odious Reggie was extremely useful, as he bullied his way along the platform, with Marina trailing in his wake. Literally in his wake; he left a clear area behind himself that she just fitted into. The engine at rest chuffed and hissed and sent off vast clouds of steam and smoke as they passed it, and she followed the example of the other passengers and covered her nose and mouth with her scarf until they were off the platform.

  The Odious Reggie continued to prove his utility; he took her arm as soon as they were out of the crush. She didn’t get much chance to look at the terminal, though; he steered her through a mob of people who streamed toward the street. Once there, he commandeered a hansom cab and lifted her into it.

  “Head, heart, hands, or soles first?” he asked genially, once he was safely in beside her. She could only shake her head in bewilderment.

  “Lightest first, then, since I’m likely to end up as your beast of burden.” He tapped on the roof with his umbrella, and a little hatch above their heads opened and the driver peered down at them through it.

  Evidently Reggie knew exactly where to go, too. He rattled off a name, the hatch snapped shut, and they were off, the horse moving at a brisk trot through streets crowded with all manner of vehicles—including motorcars. Marina couldn’t help it; she stared at them with round eyes, causing Reggie still more amusement.

  “Soles” proved to be Reggie’s first choice; the cobbler. This was for the very simple reason that the shoes would have to be sent, being “bespoke,” or made to Marina’s measure. She chose riding boots, two pairs of walking shoes, and at Reggie’s urging, a pair of dancing slippers. When she protested that she had no use for such a thing, he laughed.

  “Do you think I’m going to let you keep treading on my toes in what you’re wearing now?” he said, making her blush. “Dancing slippers, m’gel. My feet have had enough punishment. If you’re going to keep treading on them, let it be with soft slippers.”

  From there, they went to the glover—which was a thing of amazement to her, that there was an establishment that sold nothing but gloves—and she got a full dozen pairs, all black, of course, but of materials as varied as knitted lace and the softest kid-leather. Reggie overruled her completely there, when she would only have gotten one satin pair and one kid. He’d gone down the entire selection in black, picking out one of everything except the heavy wool, and two of the kid.

  Then the milliner. And at that establishment, Reggie excused himself. She had conducted herself with dispatch—or at least, as much as would be allowed, given that the cobbler took all the measurements necessary to make a pair of lasts to exactly duplicate her feet—but here she stopped in the entrance and just stared.

  Hats—she had never seen such hats, except in pictures. Enormous cartwheel picture-hats, hoods, riding hats, straw hats, little bits of netting and feathers that could hardly be called a hat, plain, loaded with everything under the sun.

  “I’ll be back in an hour, m’gel,” Reggie said, patronizingly. “I expect by that time, you’ll have just gotten started.”

  By that point, an attentive young woman in a neat skirt and shirtwaist had come up to them. “Whatever she wants, and put it on Madam Arachne Chamberten’s account,” he told the assistant, and took himself off, leaving Marina in her hands.

  Marina shook herself out of her daze, and determined that, although it was unlikely she was going to escape with only the single hat she had promised Reggie, she was going to keep her purchases down to only what she needed. She faced the eager assistant. “I’m in full mourning,” she said firmly. “So we will not be purchasing anything frivolous. I need a riding hat. And a foul-weather hood, or something of the sort—”

  “Yes, indeed, miss,” the assistant said with amusement, sounding fully confident that the very opposite was going to happen.

  No you don’t—she swore to herself, despite the fact that her eyes kept going to a particularly fetching straw for summer.

  When Reggie returned, she was waiting for him—with only a single hatbox. Granted, there were three hats in it, but she had managed to select items that fit together neatly so as to all fit in a single box. It had been a narrow escape, but she’d done it.

  “One hat?” Reggie asked incredulously, staring at the box. “One hat? You’re escaping this Aladdin’s cave with one hat?”

  “No,” she admitted. “Three small ones.”

  “It’s one box. It counts as one hat. My heart fails me!” He clutched theatrically at his chest, and the assistants giggled over his antics, stopping just short of flirtation with him—probably because the milliner’s eye was on them.

  “Off to the bookshop, then,” he said, “Then luncheon at the Palm Court, and the old firm, then homeward bound.” He scooped up her, her hat- and glove-boxes, and carried them all off to the waiting cab.

  If there was one blot on the day so far, it was that Madam seemed to have accounts everywhere, and not a single actual penny had changed hands, so Marina hadn’t been able to say something like “Oh, I’ll take care of it while you visit the tobacconist,” and keep back a shilli
ng or so for herself.

  The same case proved to hold at the bookshop—which was the biggest such establishment that Marina had ever seen, and had actual electric lights, which had been turned on because of growing overcast that threatened rain. She tried very, very hard not to stare, but it was extremely difficult, and she couldn’t help but wish for such a thing at Oakhurst.

  Not that it was going to be possible for years, even decades yet. Electricity hadn’t come anywhere near the village, which didn’t even have gas lighting either. It would be paraffin lamps and candles for some time, she suspected.

  “Electric lights,” she said wistfully. “What a magical invention!”

  “We’ve gas at the pottery,” Reggie said, giving close attention to the electrical lamps, which burned away the gloom with steady light not even gas could rival. “I wonder if this is more efficient, though. I believe I’ll look into it.”

  Since he seemed more interested in the lamps than in books, she left him there, and penetrated deep into the recesses of the closely set shelves. Bewildered, she was not, but dazzled, she was. It was one thing to encounter a wealth of books in a private library like that of Oakhurst—such collections were the result of the work of generations, and (not to put too fine a point upon it) a great many of the resulting volumes stored in such libraries were of very little use to anyone other than scholars. Often enough you couldn’t, daren’t read them, for fear of them crumbling away, the pages separating as you tried to turn them. But here were twice or three times that number, all of them eminently readable, in modern editions, brand new. A feast—that was what it was! A feast for the mind…