The Last to Know

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  If it was the color—a pink of a particularly rare and fashionable intensity, you will remember—or the height of these adornments which caught his attention I shall not speculate. However, his eyebrows noticeably rose.

  Now I positively burned from the heat of the words I wished to utter, yet I am certain that the lineaments of my face did not change. I was inspired, you see, by the calm surface of a lake we were just then passing by.

  Once more, it was my mother’s precepts that I turned to. “When distressed, allow the mind to fix upon a distant and glorious object. A great waterfall perhaps, or the sea as—in the words of the poet—it ‘keeps eternal vigil around endless shores.’ Are we not tiny in comparison with God’s work? And are not all the destructive emotions mean and transitory when placed beside the eternal majesty of the Lord’s creation?”

  I was convinced that God Himself had placed His lake there for me to see and draw strength from. Yet, did I but know it, my courage had not, then, been completely tested. The freedom of this stranger’s ways had quite deprived me of breath only moments before, and for the second time since I had first sat down did I regret the very tight lacing of my gown.

  As you will be aware, Louisa, when young I was frequently complimented on the neatness of my waist and the delicacy of my figure; it is not to break a confidence to say such things can only be obtained by the strictest lacing. But then, dear Cousin, I know you understand, for your struggle in this regard was always so great. I observed it with compassion and respect; it cannot have been easy for you. Another digression! Forgive the ramblings of an old woman. To return . . .

  It was at just that moment—and I was never more thankful—that Jane returned to the carriage. Though she was a quiet girl ordinarily, the excitement of the journey had brought a light to her eye and a flush to her cheek that was unusually becoming. From beneath lowered lids I watched the stranger observe my maid; Jane might even have smiled at him—yes, I’m certain of it—except that she apprehended the glance I cast her from behind my book.

  Blushing in a manner remarkably similar to my own, my girl curtsied to the wretch in the opposite seat and, gathering her modest gown, neatly navigated a passage around his knees to sit beside me. We both, as one, turned our heads to observe the countryside, green and secret, as it flowed past the carriage window.

  “Well?” I whispered the word since I was determined that Jane and I should converse privately. Catching my mood—Jane was a sensitive girl, a good girl—my maid shook her head. Her breath was warm and moist as a cow’s in my ear when she muttered, “I’m very sorry, Miss Elinor. But the steward says there was such a run on the India water, none remains. On account of the heat. I asked that tea be brought as soon as possible. I hope that is satisfactory?”

  I closed my eyes and for just one moment, one only, allowed my spine to rest against the seat behind me. It was a blow, I will confess that, but fortunately duty, and the bones of my corset, returned my back to its accustomed upright conformation.

  The stuffiness of a closed carriage is certainly a trial on a warm day. I, of course, had determined to ignore the heat; others had not achieved that happy state, and they had drunk all of the India water. I summoned up the image of the lake once more. Its effect was cooling and delightful. Restored, I smiled at my maid. “Thank you, Jane. That was kind. Did you ask the steward how much farther to Carsholt?”

  “No more than a further quarter of the clock, dear lady.”

  Round-eyed, Jane’s glance sought my own. The stranger had addressed me directly despite my having indicated, quite distinctly and on several occasions, that I did not wish to speak to him.

  I shook my head just a little. Jane, sensitive girl, understood the signal and said, rather loudly, “Miss, you look quite unwell. Please allow me to assist you.”

  It is essential, of course, that a competent lady’s maid anticipate the needs of her mistress, and Jane was a treasure in this regard. She had very white, small hands, and against the dark sides of her carpetbag they seemed as waxy, as ornamental, as orchids from my father’s forcing house. Yet those same pretty fingers could be practical, and they soon procured a lavender-soaked handkerchief from the depths of the portmanteau and gently pressed it to my eyes, my brow.

  It was only a small piece of cloth, but that delicate linen stood double duty on this jolting afternoon. It banished the headache gathering at my temples as the scent escaping its folds filled up the silence between the stranger and ourselves with sweetness. I began, I swear, to drowse . . .

  “Carsholt. Carsholt! Ladies and gentlemen, the next stop is Carsholt. Please prepare to alight. Carsholt. Carsholt! Ladies and gentlemen . . .”

  The conductor passed by our carriage door. He was restored to cheer after our earlier exchange, his face a glossy red and his neck bulging over the collar of his jacket in a pouched swell of pork-like fat. The sight was too much on a hot day, and I closed my eyes against it.

  In that dreamlike state, I sensed Jane busying herself with the things we had arrayed around us on the seat. My cut-velvet shawl, my reticule, and a furled parasol that was particularly smart with its ivory handle and tasseled cream silk bell.

  Jane touched my shoulder. “Miss, please to stay here and rest. I’ll see to the baggage and return for you in a moment.” But she cast an apprehensive glance at our carriage companion. The wretch was folding up his paper, brushing imaginary dirt from a tailored knee, and staring in an odd, wide-eyed way. At me, or most definitely in my direction.

  Perhaps it was the tightness of my corset, perhaps it was the heat, but I felt myself become dizzy beneath that bright, hard inspection. It was his sweeping mustache which, finally, alarmed me most. Waxed, most certainly, since its ends were so pointed, it seemed dangerous in its very profusion.

  “No, Jane. I shall accompany you. I am determined on it.” I sounded so much more certain than I felt. But the train was slowing as we approached the station. We heard the wheels grind and scream on the track, heard the shouts from the railwaymen as that mighty iron beast groaned and spouted steam and smuts while its masters forced it to stop. I was convinced that slowing from a roaring run, losing the freedom of green fields and the brilliant afternoon for the gloom of Carsholt station, was a jolt to the soul of that iron animal—and not just the bodies of its passengers.

  “Miss Fairfax? Miss Elinor Fairfax?” Jane was assisting me to alight from the panting train as an elderly and respectable groom stepped forward, touching his cockaded hat. “I am she. Jane? Please see to our things. Perhaps this person here may be able to help you.”

  The groom saluted smartly. “No need, miss.” He waved along the platform toward the baggage car, where a boy of perhaps fourteen was jigging from foot to foot as he chaffed the guard. “If your maid would point out your trunks, Miss Fairfax, Robert, there, will do the rest.”

  I waved Jane on to speak to the lad. And though I was occupied with smoothing my gloves—deliberately, so that I might be spared the sight of our persistent companion should he descend behind us—I noted that no other passengers had left the carriages.

  I smiled at the groom. “And your name is?” It was then that the voice I had grown to dislike so very much spoke from behind my shoulder. “His name is William. How are you, Will?”

  The groom beamed and touched his hat. “Quite well, Mr. Kit, and better, indeed, for seeing you home.” But in the next instant, the joy dropped from his face like a cloth covering and something strange was left in its place. Suffering.

  “Your mother and father, sir, They’ll be . . .”

  Kit Carsholt spoke over the groom. “They’ll be as they are always when I return, Will. Delighted to receive their son and heir.”

  Like a wax marionette, I felt myself turn. Like that of a puppet with a fiendish master, my mouth stretched to smile as if other muscles than mine controlled my face. But my voice was steady. How, I do not know. “My name, sir, is Elinor Fairfax. I do not believe we have met, but I am invited to be a guest of
your parents. It seems we shall share a carriage to Carsholt Hall?” I raised my head proudly and fixed my eyes to his. I did not blush.

  Of course it is not polite for a lady to offer to introduce herself to a person she does not know, but this was a moment which challenged the norms of all accepted behavior.

  The servants formed a discrete cluster; they were watching us, even Jane, who had returned with the boy, Robert (he was pushing a large barrow with my two trunks and dressing case upon it, surmounted by the bulky carpetbag which contained Jane’s things). Silently the little group waited to see what would happen next, but I noted that Will was milk-pale.

  However, my erstwhile traveling companion bowed gracefully in the continental manner: right hand to the heart, left leg a little extended. Raising his hat, he made a flourish with it, saying, “Kit Carsholt, Miss Fairfax. Entirely and completely at your service.”

  I curtsied. For a moment, I was tempted to sink into the full Court obeisance (having practiced it with you so often before our joint debut, Cousin). But he would have known. Kit Carsholt would have known that I was mocking him, as would the servants. I heard my mother’s voice. “Restraint, Elinor. Restraint is always more powerful than show.”

  And so I judged to a very nice degree, I believe, an exact depth with which to indicate the merely moderate pleasure of making his acquaintance for the first time. Officially.

  “I thank you, Mr Carsholt, sir, for your gallant sentiments.”

  Having donned his high-crowned hat, Mr. Kit invited me to place my hand in the crook of his arm. For a moment I hesitated; however, since I was accompanied by my maid, a groom, and a boy, and was about to be a guest of the Carsholt family, surely there could be no risk of impropriety in his offer? I demurred no longer, and, together, we walked to an open carriage. A crest which I presumed to be that of the Carsholts was painted on its doors, and a pair of matched bays drowsed and mumbled their bits in the late sun.

  “Miss Fairfax?” Mr. Carsholt pulled the steps down himself, though William leapt to reach the handle ahead of his master’s son.

  Kit brushed the groom away. “No, no, Will. It’s the least I can offer to this lady. My parents’ cherished guest, after all.” An odd glance flashed between man and servant. Will stepped back and stood silently beside the carriage door. I did not know, then, just what luck I represented in Kit Carsholt’s life.

  I climbed the carriage steps as gracefully as I could, handed up by him. Gallantly, Mr. Kit himself sat with his back to the horses as Jane was assisted to her perch beside William on the high driving box. Robert stood on the backplate, behind the strapped-on luggage.

  The conveyance lurched and began to turn as Will whistled at the horses, touching their backs with his long whip. They responded, jolting into a brisk trot, then a canter. The earth road drummed beneath their hooves as we began the journey that would change my life.

  My companion sat erect, scanning the passing scene with what seemed to me a fixed and hungry eye. Then he slumped against the squabs, his face quite drained of nervous spirits. “Miss Fairfax, I feel I should make you an explanation . . .”

  Since the order of our relationship had changed, I smiled agreeably. “I can assure you, Mr. Carsholt, that none is required. It was merely a misunderstanding. Unused to travel without my parents, perhaps I can be forgiven also?”

  Mr. Carsholt seemed suddenly confused. My hand stole to the crown of my bonnet. Could it be the feathers again? I felt them streaming out behind me as the carriage picked up pace.

  “. . . an explanation of the time it will take to travel to Carsholt Hall. I do not wish you to become alarmed. Though the house is at some small distance from the village, we shall be inside the home park for the entire length of the journey.” My companion’s eyes flicked away, and I followed the line of his gaze. We were passing through a gateway which was formed by two great towers of stone, each higher than ten or, perhaps, twelve men standing on one another’s shoulders. A heraldic beast of lichened bronze guarded the summit of each edifice, and I shivered when I saw that these snarling, winged creatures—half hound, half dragon—had massive iron chains spilling from their mouths; the links clanked and shifted as we drove beneath them. It was as if these brutal and brutalized forms had torn themselves from dungeon imprisonment and were awaiting the call to fly down upon our defenseless carriage.

  I looked back, almost against my will. Mighty gates had closed behind us without, it seemed, the agency of human hands.

  “Miss Fairfax, the estate is very large, but Will has driven its roads his entire life. You will be completely safe in my hands, I do assure you.”

  Safe? Now I was becoming alarmed, for the sun was rapidly descending, and, as the shadows lengthened beneath that bloody sky, the warm day cooled. I felt a distinct chill.

  “I am not certain, sir, what you can mean by such a statement.”

  Mr. Carsholt frowned. For a moment I thought that he would speak, but he did not. And, as he turned away to stare at the darkening landscape, it seemed to me that I saw, as if for the first time, how very handsome he was. There was something in the profile—hard and cold—like the edge of knife caught in the dying light. I began to be afraid.

  “Sir? Mr. Carsholt?”

  “Miss Fairfax?” He had turned back, smiling. It seemed to my overwrought fancy that it was a terrible smile.

  “I must ask you once more, sir. You spoke of safety? What possible difficulty could be encountered within the bounds of a gentleman’s park?”

  He answered me softly. “I see you do not know the North, Miss Fairfax.”

  The air of deliberate mystery irked me, and that overcame dread. “Do you joke with me, sir?”

  This time, each word was delivered slowly, as if to a child. “Miss Fairfax, my family has lived here, at Carsholt, for hundreds of years. In that time, many peculiar things have happened. Things I should not like to speak of but, for your sake, your innocent, trusting sake . . .” Did he shiver when he looked out into the gloaming? He did. I saw it. And he observed me note that fact.

  Mercurial, he was suddenly reimbued with that restless energy I had observed on the train. “Come, it’s almost as if we are before the fire on midwinter’s night telling ghost stories! This will not do. You are to be the honored guest of my mother and my father. My mother . . .”

  He ceased to speak, and his eye strayed from mine; he peered forward anxiously. What was he searching for?

  The journey continued in deepening silence, dear Cousin, and though I sought to engage Mr. Carsholt in conversation—what an irony considering our relations in the train!—on each of those occasions, he mumbled something distracted, or ignored me. Our roles had reversed.

  At last, lights could be seen in the near distance. A substantial building was close to us now, embowered in trees: trees larger and older than any I had ever seen. Their forms moved past like a dark army as the carriage swept on and, finally, the dusty road gave way to a gravel drive. Will brought the carriage to the front of the mansion, for mansion it was, and stopped before a flight of broad stone steps. The doors of the great house began to open, and a wash of light dazzled my strained senses. For a moment I could see nothing of the detail of this vast building, and yet, as my eyes became accustomed, shapes slowly grew and resolved into their proper forms.

  Carsholt was ancient indeed. Above my head battlements flew against the night sky, and there was an eccentric jumble of towers and twisted chimneys rearing up toward faint stars. Was that, yonder, the remains of a moat? I could not tell—further exploration must await the morning—but, for now, the noble doors were open to their greatest extent, pulled back by a man even older than William.

  Dressed in perfect black, the manservant hobbled down the steps toward the carriage, and in his wake came others, men and women who arranged themselves, one of each sex and a pair to a stair tread, into a party of reception.

  “Welcome, welcome, Miss Fairfax. On behalf of my master and . . .” The old man, busy b
efore this moment in opening the carriage door, pulling out the steps, and talking, had not looked up. When he did, the torrent of pleasantries fled, as if he’d been garroted. He gurgled as the name emerged. “Mr. Kit, can it be you?”

  Kit Carsholt smiled charmingly and leaned forward, catching up one of the good old man’s hands in his own—yet I saw that my traveling companion’s expression was strained and his face a sickly white beneath the tan. “Yes, Graveney. It is I. Tell me, how are my parents?”

  The butler straightened and backed away a pace or two, his eyes never leaving Kit Carsholt’s face. “You will find them well, Mr. Kit.” Was there the taste of a threat in those words, a menace? Graveney transferred his attentions to me. “Miss Fairfax, my master and mistress await.” He bowed deeply as, behind him, each servant on the stairs mimicked the action.

  I smiled as graciously as I was able—though my heart quivered in my breast with the strangeness of this arrival, the unanswered questions—and allowed Kit Carsholt to place my hand on his. It seemed he would conduct me formally into his parents’ house, and the strange fears—even dread—that I had experienced during the lengthy journey through the dark and silent world of Carsholt Park were snuffed out in the light of many candles as I entered that gracious building.

  Mr. Kit ushered me into a lofty hall; it was an old, old place. There was a fireplace larger than was needed to roast even the most enormous ox, for instance; and banners of antique design were hung high above my head among the rafters. Trophies from battles fought so long ago, lost or won, who would remember now?

  Beneath my kid boots—also pink, with buttons of pearl, I have them still—was a floor of stone flagging. Its surface, though waxed and polished, was so abraded by time and many feet that I recall wondering what stories that stone would have to tell us of the past if only we could hear with more than mortal ears, see with more than mortal eyes . . .