“We hurried through the streets to the hospital. It took forever. Through so many frightened people and so much destruction, it was odd, the city was so quiet. After the horrid noise of the earth rolling and shaking, the city was hauntingly quiet.
“We came up the steps from the tunnel to where the hospital building was, where it should have been, but there was nothing but empty sky. The building Fermina and Mead were supposed to be inside was just a flat waste of rubble in front of our eyes. You can’t imagine. I’ll never forget all that clear empty sky.”
Alice took a strained, deep breath.
“You know his full name is Meadowscarp Macleod.” Alice smiled. “It’s a beautiful name Duncan gave him. You know a meadow is a heath and a scarp is a cliff. Do you see?”
Eleanor shook her head no. “Not exactly.”
“I expect Duncan meant it for me.”
“But Mead’s alive, isn’t he?”
“Oh, yes, darling. Very.” Her eyes seemed to have come back from somewhere vivid and far away though her voice was weak. “They were miracle babies.
“Mead was with Fermina all night. They surmised a nurse had thrown him out the window when the shaking began and the walls were coming down. He was found in the rubble with a tag on his wrist. Other babies, in the nursery, survived in their cribs. Maybe they were used to being in small spaces, with no expectations from life, their nervous systems strong and ready for survival—no one knows why they survived, really, but they did.”
Alice tried to reach for a glass of water on the bedside table and Eleanor stood and helped her take a sip.
“Duncan was too broken from it, losing Fermina and the shock. He couldn’t manage. For a long time, Duncan couldn’t manage at all, and Mead became my son, my ward.”
They hadn’t poured the tea or touched the buns. Eleanor cleared the tray from the end of the bed and set it on a low cabinet.
“That’s an incredible tale.”
Alice nodded. “Look how fit and strong you are,” she said. “Already out on the moors all morning. They will keep you hardy.”
Eleanor pulled the covers up on Alice’s chest, and Alice took her hand. “How about if I tell you about that beautiful ring you’re wearing, then?”
“Aren’t you tired?”
Alice nestled under the covers a little more deeply. “Perhaps it will be a short story.” She was drawn and her voice was weak as she began, “This lovely ring was made in Whitby sometime in the century before last. A young woman named Victoria Enswell, an ancestor of ours generations ago, put in her will that it should go to the first daughter of each generation when she turns twenty-seven.”
“The first daughter, like the house.”
“Just like that.” Alice put her cool thin hand on the side of Eleanor’s face and gazed at her. “Do you know you have a lot of Annie in you?”
“I do?”
“You do.”
“Why at twenty-seven?”
“I don’t know for certain, but I think it’s meant to protect against a certain bad habit of heartache.” Alice’s eyes fluttered and almost shut. “Sweetheart, there’s so much I want to tell you and I can’t sort out what goes where.” Eleanor wanted to hear more. “It’s something that’s said, a story that’s trickled down, that women in our line, women torn between two loves, choose the wrong one. Take the wrong turn for the wrong reason. It used to preoccupy me, but not much anymore.” There was a worn smile on Alice’s face as her eyelids closed then opened again. “It doesn’t happen to all the women,” she reassured Eleanor, “and this ring is meant to protect against it.”
Alice spun the ring on Eleanor’s finger. “It’s beautifully carved, isn’t it? Have you ever seen anything like it?” Alice’s eyes fell closed and it was minutes before she opened them again. “You’re happy, aren’t you, dear? You look wholesome and happy.”
Trying her best, Eleanor said, “I am.”
Eleanor stripped off her clothes and lay down for a minute in the late afternoon. Naked under the duvet with the window slightly open in the small room, she closed her eyes and soon was half dreaming. She saw the tree with orange bark on the moor and now its shape looked like a woman screaming. She tried to picture another tree, but instead her mind moved closer to this one and she sat down beneath it. She looked up at the orange female tree and realized she was not screaming but running her fingers through her hair, stretching and yawning in the evening. The tree shivered and the leaves fell like snowflakes onto the bed.
Against the window above the bed where Eleanor slept and dreamed, the tree scratched against the pane. She was damp with sweat and moaning when she felt someone come in and cover her bare shoulders with the comforter, then push the branch away from the glass and close the window.
By the time she wakened, it was dark outside.
Disoriented, she wondered if she’d missed a day or just dinner. She was hungry but dank with sweat and when she climbed out of bed she was shocked by the cold, her nipples so hard they hurt. With fresh clothes in her arms, she went down the hall and waited for the bath to fill for a hot, steamy soak.
In the cupboard beside the sink she found some fragrant oil and poured it in, then slipped under the oily water. Her arms by her sides, palms just above the waterline, she felt herself inside Millais’ great painting of Ophelia: the dead shock in the eyes, the jaw loose, and the mouth ready to speak. She slipped under the water and held her breath. Touched the softness along the backs of her thighs. Gazed through the water at the coved ceiling ten feet above her.
In their talk, Alice had asked after Miles. She remembered him from when she’d visited New York for the funeral. She mentioned how attentive to Eleanor he’d been, how unusual it was for a boy so young to be so overtly concerned, asked if she still knew him.
Eleanor wanted to protect him. She wondered what had taken him so far from what he’d always been. His face, in that split moment when he saw her and before she turned away: he hadn’t wanted to ruin everything.
She came up out of the water for a mouthful of air. Her mother had grown up inside these stone walls. She might have bathed in this very same bathtub, deep and made of heavy iron to hold the heat for a long time. Eleanor grabbed the large, fragrant bar of soap and rubbed it into a lather. She extended her legs and washed her feet, her knees. First she hummed, “Lavender’s blue, dilly-dilly,” and then she sang, as she soaped herself. She remembered when she couldn’t sleep at night her mother, and when she was very young her grandmother, would whisper with a song. “Dreams for sale, fine dreams for sale . . . hush, my wee bairnie, an’ sleep wi’oot fear.” Now she knew where it came from: the strange accent they sometimes fell into together, her mother and her grandmother.
In her short time here, Eleanor had come to accept the child her mother had been in this house. Now it dawned on her that this was the world her mother had come back to just before she died. As a grown woman she’d walked the halls. Why hadn’t she brought Eleanor with her? Why hadn’t she asked her mother if she could come along? Maybe there were questions she’d known not to ask, all those years ago.
The towel was thick and dried her quickly. She pulled on white tights and a cream cashmere dress and her big cream sweater, because it was cold in the house. She wrapped a black satin ribbon around her bun and headed downstairs.
Her dress had a flirty flare at the hem and she swung her hips side to side to feel it swing around her knees. Her hand on the rail, she had her eyes on the chandelier in front of her and over her head. The house was Tara after the war, a bit worse for wear, but still dignified, and she was heartbroken and the loneliest girl in the world.
“That’s a fine sashay,” a man said from where he stood at the bottom of the stairs, just behind the bend in the banister.
Embarrassed, she said, “Um, thank you?”
“I take it you’re the lady of the manor.” He b
owed and Eleanor wasn’t sure if he was mocking her or being kind or what he was doing.
“Are you Mead?”
He bobbed his head forward and back, his top lip buried in his bottom lip. Solemn. “I am.” He waved to her and went into the front hall and out the front door.
In the kitchen, Gwen had just made a thick sandwich and was about to make another.
“Tilda’s making some chicken and potatoes for Alice, but I’m having a sandwich. Which would you rather?”
“I’d love a sandwich.”
“It’s not a proper dinner,” she said as she set her sandwich on the table for Eleanor, “but we’re all turned about in terms of schedule. Did you rest well?” Gwen went back to start a sandwich for herself.
“I slept for a bit and took a wonderful bath.”
“Did you and Alice have a good talk?”
“We did.”
A bowl of fresh brown and green eggs sat beside bottles of wine on the counter, next to the flour bin, the sugar bin, and the saltcellar. There were crystal glasses and stacks of dishware on one of the counters, a few open cardboard boxes on the floor. Tilda hummed as she stirred butter into a bowl with boiled potatoes and basil. The mood in the house was cheerful. It wasn’t at all the same feeling she’d had when Gwen had called, sounding desperate and urging her to come.
Eleanor hadn’t dealt with a house full of family in a long time. After her mother died, her father withdrew from her and five years later died of what they called a massive coronary, but she knew it was a broken heart. For so long, she’d only dealt with herself, with some friends, with small choices and never anything extended.
Sitting with Gwen in the warm kitchen, Eleanor confided, “Aunt Alice started to tell me something about a bad habit the women in the family have, a habit of picking between two loves and choosing the wrong one. She was tired before she started and got more tired as she spoke and then fell asleep midsentence, so I didn’t really get it. Do you know what she was talking about?”
“Ah, the bad habit, where to begin?” Gwen rolled her eyes. “This house is rumored to have been the house of Heathcliff and Catherine. The real Heathcliff and Catherine, somehow . . .”
“I didn’t know the book was based on something real.”
“It isn’t. That’s just the rumor here, and Alice has picked up a tale about something in the bloodline, a tendency—she calls it a habit. The idea is that it runs in the blood and inclines the daughters of the family to choose the wrong man, between two men. Of course, it’s never been clear at all to me that Heathcliff would have been the right choice for Catherine.”
“Heathcliff was the great romance, wasn’t he?”
“Not by me, but the trouble with all this is that if one tries to choose the right way in anything, one will get all turned about and confuse oneself entirely. I’m not sure why Alice brought it up, really. It’s nothing you need to be thinking about.”
Eleanor responded, “Well, I guess one of those bloodline daughters would be me.”
A different young woman, someone Eleanor hadn’t seen before, passed through the kitchen with a bundle of wood in her arms. She didn’t look up, didn’t say a word. Eleanor didn’t have time to offer to help her before she disappeared.
“Let’s go on in,” Gwen said, with her own sandwich on a plate. “Come on.” Gwen led the way under the stairs to a much smaller room not nearly as fine in its decor, but with another stone fireplace. The walls were lined with half-empty bookcases. There were two deep armchairs, so Eleanor took one and Gwen sat in the other with the plate on her lap.
“Did Alice make a wrong choice?”
Gwen flushed red and said, “I certainly hope not.”
They shared a smile and Eleanor considered what Gwen implied.
“There have to be two choices and for Alice and me there’s always been just the one.”
“That’s good, that’s so nice,” Eleanor said. She realized they were a couple. “I’m confused, though. Then who made the wrong choice?”
“All I know is what I’ve heard, and what I’ve heard has a good deal of fancy wrapped about it, but it had to do with a couple who took in their friend’s orphaned daughter, more than a hundred years ago. The child was named Victoria, and she grew up in this house, married the family’s son, inherited Trent Hall, and set the entail to pass the estate the way it does.”
Eleanor was fixed on a thought she couldn’t shake, but she wasn’t sure why as she spun the ring on her finger. Her skin was cold and her head was filled with ancestors she’d never known. “And did she choose the wrong man?”
“What an interesting question,” Gwen said. She looked at Eleanor intently. “Goodness, you’re worried about this. Are you facing a romantic crossroads?”
“No, not really. No.” Eleanor pulled herself up taller in the chair and realized she was preoccupied about the beautiful black ring failing to protect her from heartache.
“You’re from the New World, dear. Old Yorkshire tales can’t touch you.”
Tilda dropped a glass and it shattered. Worried, she looked about and apologized.
“They’re old glasses, it’s all right, Tilda,” Gwen said. “That’s a good sandwich, isn’t it?” she said to Eleanor.
“Very.” Eleanor took her last bite. “I met Mead in the hall.”
“Ah, that’s good. I’ve been meaning to find him for you.”
Gwen put her plate aside and knelt by the fireplace. “You know, dear, Alice’s mind is fairly muddled. She’s just recently been put on morphine. It really is the end, and sometimes she seems to be working very hard on something. I see it in her face, like she’s puzzling through decades, maybe more than that, putting things in order. She wanted you to come so she could see you and touch you and I don’t think she imagined it would really come to pass. I know she’s overwhelmed with wanting to catch up and tell you everything she’s ever known, make an impact.” Gwen’s eyes were awash with tears that didn’t fall. “But she’s made things simple for you. This place takes rather good care of itself so it won’t be any burden when it all comes to you.”
“To me?” Eleanor was taken aback.
“Good God, I’ve put my foot in it, haven’t I?”
Eleanor was stunned. She thought back through what Alice had said to her. “It all coming to me, what does that mean?”
“You’re the first daughter in this generation. Clearly, Alice didn’t say anything.”
“No. Not in so many words. She told me about Mead, and about this ring, and I guess she said the ring and the house went together, but I didn’t put it together. The house is coming to me?” She stood up and then sat down again. “I guess that’s what she meant.” On the sideboard there were crystal decanters with whisky and some cocktail glasses. “I’m going to pour myself some of that.” Eleanor stood up and walked to get herself a glass. “Can I pour you one, Gwen?”
“Absolutely. This is altogether too much coming at you.”
“A bit.” Eleanor threw back two fingers of whisky then poured another and one for Gwen. She handed Gwen her glass and sat down. “Upside down and inside out is what I feel. I can’t live here, you know. I can’t stay.”
“You don’t have to. Most estates can’t keep themselves, can’t make it without opening up to the public in one way or another, but this one takes care of itself, produces quite a lot of income.”
“Income from what?”
“The livestock, rapeseed oil, heather and lavender, rentals from properties in the village. Alice has been vigorous about making the most of this place.”
With whisky warming her, Eleanor gazed at the jet ring on her hand and said, “Why didn’t I come here sooner? I wonder why I didn’t come right after my father died, or even with my mother sometime.”
“You had your own life, dear. You were a young woman with a big life. Alice always kept
track of you.”
Gwen took her glass and sat down beside Eleanor close to the fire.
“What about Mead? What about all this going to him?” Eleanor asked.
“Dear, there’s nothing to worry about.” Gwen was shaking her head but hadn’t yet answered when Mead came in. He went straight to the fireplace and stirred the logs with the poker, then got himself a whisky before he sat down, before he said a word to them or they’d said a word to him.
His hair was longish and unruly, dark brown to the nape of his neck. He had a square jaw, tanned skin, full eyebrows, and a prominent nose. There was nothing delicately handsome about him, but he wore smart navy trousers that draped beautifully and a thick gray wool cardigan. Eleanor took in his clothing, clear down to his shoes, dark suede desert boots, scuffed and tumbled with wear, and just as she was putting together where she’d seen the shoes before, he said,
“How’s the ankle, then?”
She exhaled a laugh. “I hadn’t put two and two together till just now, when I saw your shoes. My mind’s not working very well today, but my ankle’s fine, thank you.” She said to Gwen, “I tripped on some rocks and Mead happened to be out there, and he put something on my ankle, and it’s all better.” She turned to him. “Just as you said it would be.”
She was glad to see a young person, to have someone else her own age in the house with her. She was curious about him, but didn’t ask him any questions. She felt nervous and flustered and looked about the room. Her eyes landed on some boxes stacked high in two corners. “Are those books in the boxes?” she asked Gwen.
“Boxed-up books, yes,” Mead said.
“Are they going somewhere?”
“I’ve been building a library here.” His head tipped in the direction of the courtyard. “Out there.”
“Wow.” Eleanor wrapped her arms around her knees. No one spoke for a while.
“Perhaps you could explain, Mead,” Gwen said.
“Let’s see, about a year ago, I decided to go through the house and check the collections for mold, and silverfish, and book lice, see what shape things were in, and I saw what we needed was a proper library. There are random bookshelves in every room, you see, and Alice has loads of books stored all over the country, so the barn was the most likely place, the biggest building”—Mead took a breath in midspeech and Eleanor saw he was weary—“and though it took a lot of sealing up to make it right, a new roof and insulation, glass doors for the shelves, it’s coming along.”
Solsbury Hill Page 5
