Half the World in Winter

by Maggie Joel

  And Hermione, receiving news of a second calamity fast on the heels of the first one, groaned with dismay and clapped a hand to each side of her face, which was enough for Lucas to conclude that the girl had not been privy to Mrs Logan’s plans. He dismissed her and went out into the hallway. Then he stopped dead. He had been about to summon Mrs Logan. A crisis had occurred and she would fix it.

  But she was the crisis. And the Jarmyns were on their own. For a moment he couldn’t quite catch his thoughts. He was almost relieved when various members of his family began to appear.

  ‘Is it true, Father, that Mrs Logan has left?’ asked Gus, bug-eyed.

  ‘It is looking very much as though she has.’

  Behind the boys Aurora had come halfway down the stairs. She paused now, her hand resting on the banister and her face quite still and composed. He tried to read her face but could not.

  ‘I bet Mrs Logan murdered Cook and that is why she has fled!’ said Jack, fairly bouncing up and down in his excitement.

  Lucas rounded on his son, furiously. ‘Mrs Logan did not murder Cook! Do not be so absurd, Jack!’

  And Jack cowered and crept up to his room and did not reappear until teatime.

  ‘Well. This is very awkward,’ observed Aurora, still not moving from her place on the stairs.

  ‘Awkward? Yes. Yes, it is indeed awkward,’ he agreed and he began to experience a dizzying sense of things moving outside of his control. He needed to say something, there was no doubt something definitely needed to be said, but he did not know what it was. He turned abruptly and went downstairs to the hallway. His coat and umbrella and gloves and hat were all there, where she had placed them last night. He put them on and grabbed the umbrella and made for the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Out,’ he replied, not turning around. He pulled the door shut behind him and plunged down the steps and away, putting as much distance between himself and the house as he could. It was only as he turned into Cadogan Square that his pace slowed.

  Where was he going? He would find her, of course he would.

  He hailed a cab but when the driver asked where he wished to go, he realised he did not even know where to begin.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  THE DAY WENT ON AND a lunch of sorts was served, consisting of last evening’s soup, heated up on the hob by Hermione, who spilt some of it on Gus’s lap, and a chicken salad. True, it was not traditional salad weather (last night’s frost still lay on the ground outside) but no one commented. Jack did inquire whether or not this was the self-same chicken on which Cook had choked to death, but he was silenced by a look from his sister that was almost as frosty as the pavements outside. There was a tart to follow though, wisely, no one inquired as to its provenance, and when no custard arrived to accompany it, the family dealt with that too.

  Mr Jarmyn did not join them for lunch and no one seemed to know where he was but, as there wasn’t very much soup or salad, it was perhaps just as well. After lunch Mrs Jarmyn retired to her room and asked not to be disturbed. It was assumed that she had a headache.

  Aurora closed her door but she did not at once sit down. Instead she leant against it, her forehead pressed to the wood panelling. She closed her eyes.

  Mrs Logan had gone. And in the end she had simply packed her things and, with the minimum of fuss, had left them. Unquestionably it was right that she go. It was for the best. It was, on the whole, a relief. That horrid little scene yesterday, and the ghastly incident in the cellar. It had been awkward. Untenable, it had seemed at the time. But now, miraculously, it was all resolved. Mrs Logan had gone. She was no longer a presence in their lives.

  She wondered when Lucas would return. It was Saturday, he would not have gone to the office. He rarely went to his club any more, though perhaps today he had. Yes, that was it: two of the staff had gone—one had died, one had fled—what self-respecting gentleman would wish to remain a moment longer in the house? The home was her responsibility, her domain, and it was her duty to ensure it was a haven of peace and calm, a place where a husband felt secure and contented, a place to which he would wish to return each evening.

  She would make this a haven of peace and calm.

  The dinner gong did not sound. Realising it was past the usual hour, Aurora made her own way down to the dining room and found Dinah already seated. Of Lucas there was still no sign.

  ‘I don’t know where Father is,’ said Dinah.

  Aurora put her hands on the back of her chair to steady herself, aware that Dinah studied her. After a moment she sat down. Then she gave her daughter a bright, encouraging smile.

  ‘I do believe it is a little warmer this evening,’ she observed.

  ‘Yes, perhaps it is,’ Dinah replied, sounding unconvinced.

  They lapsed into silence and Lucas’s unexplained absence and the inexplicable and sudden departure of Mrs Logan hung over them.

  ‘I wonder what we shall be having for dinner,’ Aurora remarked. She had intended to go downstairs this afternoon and address Hermione. It was important that the girl receive some instruction in order to carry out all the duties that now fell to her. But somehow she had not. She had stayed in her room. She had had a headache.

  ‘Are you all right, Mama?’

  But before Aurora could reply the dining room door opened. She looked up, a welcoming smile ready on her face. But it was Uncle Austin who shuffled through the door and now regarded them. Aurora looked down as the old man shuffled towards a chair and fussily arranged himself in it.

  ‘Good evening, Uncle,’ she said, more for Dinah’s benefit than his. ‘How lovely of you to join us.’ His attendance at dinner—at any meal—was sporadic. Often the maid took a tray up to his room and they did not see him from one day to the next. But tonight he had appeared.

  ‘Good evening, Uncle,’ said Dinah. ‘I am very much afraid dinner may not be quite what you are expecting. Indeed, there is every chance it may not happen at all.’

  The major sat and smiled politely at her. He mumbled something they could not catch and began to rock gently back and forth.

  No one spoke.

  ‘I wonder what has happened to dinner?’ said Aurora eventually and Dinah pushed back her chair and stood up.

  ‘I shall go and see what is happening in the kitchen.’

  ‘Perhaps that would be for the best.’

  They were alone, she and Austin. Aurora looked down at the tablecloth and Austin sat and rocked and mumbled. She had a vivid memory as a child of him in his dark blue and gold cavalry officer’s uniform visiting her father’s house in Cheyne Walk. He had sported a great, bushy moustache in those days—the mark of the cavalry officer—riding boots, a tall hat with a crest on top and a sword at his side. The next time she had seen him had been during the second year of the war. The dark blue and gold had gone, the boots replaced with soft house slippers, the great bushy moustache replaced by a gaping, vivid gash from mouth to temple. She had been frightened of that terrifying gash, of the empty and unseeing eyes that sometimes frightened you even more by becoming unexpectedly focussed and intelligent. But gradually she had grown used to him. She had brought him into her husband’s house—he was her final link to her father, after all.

  She poured herself a glass of water and drank it.

  And now she was preparing to send him to an asylum.

  ‘I’m afraid dinner may be some little time yet,’ said Dinah, returning and resuming her seat.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. There is duck, apparently, but it is some way from being roasted. I suggested we have our soup and some hot bread rolls and await developments. It may be that we have the duck for breakfast instead.’

  ‘What happened to the child?’ said Uncle Austin suddenly, looking up with an inquiring but perplexed expression.

  A chill seemed to settle over the room and Aurora’s throat constricted. ‘Now, Uncle,’ she murmured in a soothing voice, keeping her eyes on him and willing him to say no more
.

  ‘But she was here,’ Austin insisted. ‘A girl. Sweet little thing,’ and he gave a wistful smile.

  ‘Mama, shall I go to the cellar and get a bottle of claret to have with the duck—if we get the duck—in case Father returns?’ Dinah suggested.

  ‘Yes, if you wish, dear, though I shall not join you. I shall just drink water, I think, this evening. Oh, Dinah be careful. The accident yesterday—the floor may still be slippery or there may be broken glass. And you’ll need the key.’ For Aurora was once more custodian of all the household keys—and everyone knew there was only one key to the cellar.

  ‘Thank you, Mama. I will be careful,’ and Dinah got up and left.

  They were alone again.

  ‘Uncle, why don’t you have your dinner in your room? I can bring you up a nice bowl of soup and a hot bread roll. I am sure you would prefer to eat in your room, wouldn’t you?’

  He ignored this, a look of distress appearing on his face. ‘Something happened.’

  Aurora put her hands flat on the table before her and took a slow, calming breath. ‘Uncle, please—’

  ‘To the child. Something bad.’

  She didn’t want Dinah to return. She should get Austin up to his room. Mrs Logan would be able to manage him.

  But Mrs Logan had gone.

  Dinah returned at last, carrying a bottle which she had already uncorked, and resumed her seat. Mother and daughter faced each other across the table and Aurora thought, things have come to a pretty pass when we have to fetch our own wine and pour our own glasses. But everything appeared to be different this evening, the dinner and the wine was the least of it.

  Dinah poured herself a small quantity of the claret and Aurora watched her over the top of her glass of water. She could smell the pungent fumes of the claret but she would not drink. Mrs Logan had gone. She was going to make this a haven of peace and calm.

  Austin moaned, rubbing a hand agitatedly against his cheek over and over. ‘The child caught on fire and no one could save her.’ He clutched his hands to his head and groaned. ‘No one could save her.’

  At this Aurora pushed back her chair so violently it fell backwards onto the floor. No one spoke. Dinah’s face had a ghostlike appearance in the lamplight. Her uncle’s eyes showed black with tiny pricks of reflected light and she shivered because she could not tell if beyond that light was absolute clarity or an unimaginable void.

  She pleaded a headache and fled to her room, leaving him in Dinah’s care to say or not say whatever he might. Once alone, she sat motionless to calm herself. Mrs Logan had gone. All would be normal once more. But she saw again—she kept on seeing—Lucas’s expression as he came to Mrs Logan’s assistance in the cellar the day before, and his hand reaching up to touch her; and she saw him again this morning as he had announced Mrs Logan had left, and his face as he had curtly informed her he was going out.

  She stood up as a terrible fear gripped her and her fingers curled themselves into tight fists. In a moment it passed but she found herself at her desk drawer, the key already in the lock, the drawer sliding open where an Armagnac, one of the Janneau that had been unaccounted for in yesterday’s inventory, lay. She had had no intention of drinking them, they were an insurance, that was all; an insurance that had not, in the end, been required, for Mrs Logan was gone of her own volition. But she had earned one drink and she poured herself a quantity, taking a sip and letting the brandy roll over her tongue. She was not a drunk, though in the early years of their marriage, in the dark months following her mother’s death, she had almost gone down that path, had come perilously close, and Lucas had almost discovered it but in the end a maid had been dismissed instead and this sacrifice—it was Clara surely, not Clarice—had saved her marriage. She had not let herself fall like that again. She was not a drunk like her poor dear Mama, but she had earned one drink on this night of all nights.

  She sat up with a start, breathing quickly, awake.

  ‘Who’s there?’ She got unsteadily to her feet but she was alone. The room was almost in total darkness; only a thin shaft of moonlight lay across the bed and the spluttering remains of her candle made dancing shadows against the wall. What time was it? It was impossible to know. She could not remember hearing any clocks chiming for a while. She reached for a shawl and put out a hand to the door handle, listening.

  Someone was there, just outside her door. She thrust open her door and all but walked right into him.

  ‘Well, you have driven her away. Are you satisfied?’

  She stifled a gasp. Lucas was standing at the top of the stairs, a smell of chimney smoke and horses and night air clinging to him as though he had just this minute returned home. It was a moment before she realised he was referring to Mrs Logan. The hatred in his words nailed her to the floor but when she replied her voice was quite calm.

  ‘I? I hardly see how I am responsible.’

  ‘Do you not?’ he said, and his tone chilled her. ‘No doubt you absolve yourself of that too.’

  ‘I am afraid I do not follow you, my dear.’

  ‘Then let me enlighten you: our daughter whose death you caused. Our daughter who was burnt alive due to your negligence … your drunkenness—’

  She heard herself gasp.

  ‘—and now you attempt to lay the blame at your uncle’s door, and do not think for one minute that I do not see what you are doing! Let the old man take the blame. He is an imbecile—who is to know? And once he is removed, then who is to know the truth?’

  Aurora put a hand to her mouth. The flesh on her face felt cold, clammy, as though there was no blood left in it.

  Lucas took a step towards her and peered into her face: ‘My God. You are drunk,’ and he turned and went into his room.

  She stood for a time in the darkness, listening to the sounds of the house around her: the floorboards settling, a window rattling in an upstairs room. Each sound was amplified and thick with portent. There was no sound from Lucas’s room and no light from beneath his door.

  He believed she had killed their daughter.

  Their daughter. Their beautiful, innocent daughter.

  ‘I wish to look as beautiful as you, Mama.’

  She had asked her child, ‘Have you thought about what type of dress you are going to choose?’ and Sofia had answered at once: ‘A princess line with a cuirasse bodice in sapphire or perhaps crimson silk, but certainly not in green and not in taffeta though I do like taffeta but I think it will be a little stiff and bothersome to wear,’ and she had smiled at this for it sounded like something she herself might say. ‘I am not sure that sounds entirely suitable for a little girl,’ she had observed, and Mrs Logan had gone outside to whistle for a cab. But in the end the outing to the dressmaker had been abandoned. ‘We will go to the dressmaker another day,’ she had said, but they had not gone to the dressmaker on another day for there had been no other days.

  A sound from the street below startled Aurora and she listened—a man calling drunkenly, a carriage passing the end of the square, a dog barking in the mews, the clock at St George’s striking the hour. She found she was lying on the floor, curled up, and she had no idea how long she had lain here. She did not move, could not imagine how she would ever move again.

  I have tried, she thought, Lord knows I have tried so very hard.

  But it would not be dislodged, the coldness, the void, all she had done was to push it down, to pretend it did not exist. She had thought Lucas would help her. But he had not. Instead he blamed her.

  A second clock struck, though whether it was for the same hour or if another hour had passed she didn’t know. She lifted her head and the room swam horribly, her eyes refused to focus. She had drunk, and she had drunk a great deal, and the irony, the wonderful, funny, stupid irony was that she had drunk because he had accused her of being a drunk! It was funny, wasn’t it? It was ironic!

  She pulled herself to her feet, filled with a purpose now that had been entirely absent a minute earlier. She reached for
her cloak and her shoes and went down the stairs in the dark, opened the front door and, like Mrs Logan a few hours before her, she went out of the house and down the front steps. Outside she paused, breathing slowly. It was bitterly cold—wasn’t it? She couldn’t feel the cold.

  She walked out of the mews and into Cadogan Square. It was deserted, no lights showed from any of the houses. To the south, she could hear the never-ending clatter of carriages on Oxford Street. It was a comforting sound when the silence of the square was unsettling. She walked towards the clatter, down Southampton Row and crossing Oxford Street, and at once she was surrounded by people and horses and cabs. One cab appeared out of nowhere, its horse rearing up, and for a moment all she could see was hooves and the froth on the animal’s nostrils and the terror in its yellow eyes. The driver shouted at her and a whip cracked frighteningly near her head.

  She plunged onwards through the maze of streets between Lincoln’s Inn Fields and Drury Lane, crossing the Strand, and reaching the Embankment where the river finally halted her.

  The river flowed swiftly, swollen with a high tide, and looked impenetrable, its black depths so wide one could not make out the opposite bank. The clatter of hooves on Waterloo Bridge echoed across the silent expanse of water and a barge laden with coal slid past heading eastwards towards the Estuary, a lamp burning at bow and stern. The clouds parted and a three-quarter moon appeared, transforming the scene and bathing the river in a pale ghostly light, and Aurora saw the figure of a child on the far bank. A little girl, a beautiful, perfect nine-year-old child, miraculously saved from the fire! She started forward with a cry but the figure transformed itself into a stranger. The clouds closed in again, the river became black and the figure was gone. It was not her child. It would never be her dead child.

  A mile or two north of the river, Dinah could not sleep. Giving up, she pulled back the curtains. Ice had created delicate patterns on her window and in the moonlight the frost on the branches of the plane trees glistened so prettily she felt a moment of light-heartedness. Then a shadow fell as she remembered that Cook had died in the kitchen and Mrs Logan had gone.