She dreams of the night when the Lawrences drank down the last of the vineyard’s best reds, all liberally laced with a gentle poison that made them think themselves young once more. She imagines her sister, only ten, accepting but not drinking the draught offered by loving hands. She imagines Bethany watching their parents die. She thinks of the little girl found by neighbours unable to feed another mouth, who sent her off to an orphanage in Seaton St Mary. A little girl who, when finally located almost twelve months later by Mr Farringdale’s exhaustive investigations, stared at her elder sister with a gaze so empty and old that she was barely recognisable as the golden-haired cherub who lived in Cordelia’s memory.
Cordelia thought that child would never forgive her, but then Bethany had fallen ill with fever and spent nigh on a month in bed. Sitting beside her, night and day, almost ignoring her own offspring, Cordelia waited to see which side of the divide between life and death the girl would choose. When Bethany at last awoke, her eyes were clear and new, and she smiled at her sister as if she was the loveliest thing ever seen. For the longest time, though, Cordelia was roused by terrified screams as the nightmares rode Bethany hard, and there ever remained some questions about life at the orphanage which her sister refused to answer.
In the small dining room, not the formal one, Victoria sits beside Cordelia and glares at her younger brother. The brooch has not been found, nor has Torben admitted his crime. Unable to find any evidence of his culpability, Cordelia will not mete out punishment; she spoke quietly with him earlier, emphasising her disappointment if he had taken the trinket. Henry, at fourteen, has grown out of tormenting his sister, yet Torben, at seven, still finds joy in the act. However, he swore his innocence, green-brown eyes awash, and she chose to believe him.
Edvard, at the head of the table, has been discussing with Henry the next stage of his schooling.
“Whitebarrow, Father. Or St Isidore’s Mount, at a pinch.”
Edvard, as yet not convinced the boy truly wishes to become a medical man rather than a merchant, lifts a brow and suggests Pennworth. Henry, tall and handsome, already a copy of his father, manages to keep his expression neutral and nods consideringly. Cordelia frowns for the both of them: Edvard had agreed to abide by the boy’s wishes. Pennworth is not noted for its medical curriculum, but commercial . . . that and the fact that it is known to be . . . economical, the sort of place people lower on the social scale than the Parsifals send their sons in the hope they’ll learn to make money. Such an alma mater may well cost a young man certain positions, certain advancements. Henry’s tutors have given glowing reports of his abilities, supported by the results of the entrance exams he’d sat some weeks ago, which showed he was more than capable of undertaking the studies at Whitebarrow.
Cordelia smiles at her son, encouraging, hoping he will remain strong, and not be swayed by another’s wishes. Stronger than she has chosen to be. The problem with appeasing others, she thinks, is that it becomes a hard habit to break. Should she tell her boy this sooner rather than later, or point out to Edvard that he has three heirs, not simply one, if he would but open his eyes? Torben will settle, when he’s older. Victoria . . . she gives her daughter a surreptitious glance and worries that she’s made the girl too readily into what she herself has striven, by denial of self, to become. Is Victoria helpless, will she drift until she finds a husband to tell her who to be, what to do? Cordelia swallows the disquiet and resolves to speak with Edvard after dinner, to remind him of his promises; remind him if she must that, according to his own rules, the children are her purview and she will see them follow their hearts.
Bethany’s place is empty but Cordelia gives Merry a nod to serve the rare roast she’s been carving at the sideboard. Cordelia rubs her stomach surreptitiously; a new life is growing there. She wasn’t certain until this morning, when her bloods failed to appear—she has been regular as the moon ever since her twelfth year—and now she knows. She is unsure how she feels: three children have done enough to drain the life from her. It’s not that she doesn’t love them, but she’d thought Torben the last. She has been looking forward to a time when she might convince Edvard to let her travel with him, to leave landlocked Lodellan and go thence to the sea. Perhaps even to make the journey home, up into the mountains to where the old vineyard lay, to see what might be salvaged, perhaps to try her hand at a new venture and see if her parents’ sacrifices might still be worth something. She hoped, when the children were independent, but this . . . this would delay that at least another fourteen years.
She squeezes her eyes shut, keeps them that way until she senses someone at her elbow. Merry stares at her, a little moodily, a little concerned, the fresh pot of coffee in a pin-and-needle pricked hand. Cordelia smiles and nods for her to pour the steaming bitter brew. Edvard has always disdained her habit of drinking it with dinner, but he has ceased to comment. She adds cream, but no sugar, and sips; feels the thing in her stomach, however small—two months, no more—squirm and protest. All her children were thus, all objecting in utero to the beverage; to this day Victoria screws up her nose at the smell. And every day Cordelia bids her not to do so for the wind may change and leave her face all a’turn. Well, the girl would not need worry soon enough, for this new pup will curtail her mother’s customs if she wishes to keep any food down at all.
She wonders if she might refuse to go through with it. She is thirty-two, almost thirty-three: hasn’t she done enough? Hasn’t her body done enough? How many more dark purple veins will pattern her hips and thighs? How many more crêpe-ripples will emboss her breasts, her belly? How much higher will her hairline reach, how much thinner will her hair get, how much will fall out this time? And will it recover as well? Will it regain its thickness, its sheen, its weight? Who would I go to? Who might know of such things? Nowadays the city is filled only by male physicians; the cunning women have been hunted, driven to ground, and are few and far between. Magic and old medicine have become elusive, rare, endangered. Even Mrs B’s little habits and rituals, her acts of household magic—hanging a toadstone pendant around the children’s necks when they were ill; putting little purses of graveyard dirt beneath pillows when a member of the household could not sleep; all the tisanes she brewed for any number of ailments—all are carefully hidden lest someone see and talk.
Her reverie is broken by Bethany’s bright greeting, and she removes the hand from her stomach so no one might notice. Her sister offers an envelope to her, and an inky broadsheet to Henry. Cordelia recognises the lilac stationery and gold wax seal, and breaks into a relieved smile, which Edvard echoes. She barely notices her sister’s excited glow as she sits beside Henry, hand lighting on the lad’s shoulder so briefly. The boy buries himself in the news, while Bethany’s attention is concentrated on Cordelia.
This missive is coveted in Lodellan: a summons, really, to the Winter Solstice Ball thrown by the Princess Royal. This is the second occasion in a row that the Parsifals have garnered such favour. To be invited one year and forgotten the next, replaced by newer, richer, more amusing callers, is to be dreaded! A second request means one automatically passes onto the repeat guest list. It is precisely the sort of invitation Edward spent so many years seeking—subtly, of course, without appearing to do so. He’s rebuilt the family fortune his grandfather frittered on dancehall girls who were more expensive than one might have expected, racehorses that were slower than they should have been, and a variety of alchemical experiments meant to create diamonds and gems and gold by the molehill, by the mountain.
“What will you wear, Dellie?” asks Bethany, tone sly. “Though why I ask when you’ve spent so much of your time on this important decision . . . ”
Cordelia chooses to ignore the dig, and toys with the envelope flap, reluctant to break the resplendent seal; then she carefully slips the length of her pink nail beneath and gently encourages the wax up, all in one piece. The small triumph makes her smile. “The purple, I think.”
The dress has often felt like
a daring, audacious thing, made in hope. Merry has been working on it for months and Cordelia watched the last stitches being placed in the hems not two days ago. She has worried, sometimes, that it has been too cheeky, a challenge to fate; others she simply revels in how lovely it is and that it is hers.
“A decision worthy of the intellect devoted to it,” says her sister, as if it’s a joke, as if there’s no edge to her words, and nods at Merry. The girl brings the wine decanter, pours for Edvard and Bethany; a half-glass for Henry, which is then topped up with water. Cordelia shakes her head when the girl lifts the vessel in offer.
“Then this is the perfect time, my love,” says Edvard. Cordelia concentrates on him, on his eyes, mouth, then glances at her sister’s avid expression as she, too, watches Edvard. It makes Cordelia uncomfortable; it brings to mind this afternoon when she came upon her husband and sister, standing close and whispering, huddled like conspirators, Bethany’s posture reminiscent of the women on Half-moon Lane, those not fortunate enough to have a place on Courtesans’ Row. She pushes aside the fears that have crawled up her spine, have curled in the pit of her belly. She brightens her gaze, widens her smile.
In Edvard’s hand is a burgundy velvet box.
“For you, darling, to ensure you are the belle of the ball.”
Her fingers slip and shake as she accepts, and seeks the latch. By clever design, the lid flips open when the catch is released and inside, lying on a bed of dark red, is a necklace. Her sister smiles and claps with delight, but no surprise. This, Cordelia thinks with relief, is why her husband and sister have been speaking secretly. Her relief is too great, but she chooses not to examine what that might mean, and concentrates on the gift.
An enormous amethyst is the heart of the piece; it is glorious, cut many times over to give the perfect shape, to glean every bit of light from the candles, the fire in the hearth. It seems to have impossible depths, a darkness and a lightness dancing within and without its hallucinatory purple hue. It is surrounded by a band of alternating emeralds and diamonds, set in an opening lily of white-gold, each petal perfectly recreated. All hangs from a chain of tiny elegant interlocking silver spirals.
Cordelia drapes it around her neck, ensures it’s secure. It feels warm against her flesh as she rises to stare at her reflection in the gilt mirror above the small fireplace. A few dark spots on her creamy skin distract her—a sure sign of a babe on the way; lemon juice solution will help. She attends to the necklace again, primps and preens, smiles at her second self in the mercury, the one who is free from all the burdens she bears, all the burdens she has consented to. Her smile dims when she recalls that the Winter Solstice Ball will be the last time she can fit into the dress for a long while. She touches the amethyst absently.
Edvard calls, “To the table, my love, and your dinner. You must eat, you need your strength.”
And Cordelia realises, then, that he knows. His smile is too smug, his words too weighted. He won’t mention it yet, will consider it something for her to announce, but his knowledge gives her no options, other than deceit. The thing around her neck turns cold as she recognises it as a bribe, a sop, a pretty thing to wear while she grows fat yet again. While all her chances for change disappear. Still, Cordelia is skilled at hiding her true self, and she smooths her expression until it is pleasantly bland, then takes her place beside her husband.
Merry brings out the first dessert and places it on the sideboard. The boys eat quickly and will be through their main course well before the rest of the family.
“Henry,” Cordelia says, noticing the broadsheet beside his plate leaves smears on the snowy cloth. “Put that away, you’re making a mess.”
“The Agnews,” he says sombrely, folding the pages and handing them off to Merry without even looking at her, as if she’s not there. Cordelia is caught between reprimanding him for that small impoliteness, and preoccupation at his words. Preoccupation wins.
“What of them?”
“They’ve been murdered—Master and Mistress, Mrs Agnew’s parents, the four children, and the three servants.”
Cordelia’s hand goes to her throat, finds the gem, grasps it. The amethyst curls into her palm as if it belongs there. She seems to feel the echo of her heartbeat deep in the stone.
“Do they know . . . ” begins Edvard, unable to finish a question with so much potential, so many gaps, and mysteries, and lacunae, so many possible answers. The Agnews were one of the city’s most prominent families, certainly one of the richest; not bad folk, generous to those beneath them, kind to their servants and those in their employ, charitable, philanthropic. The robberies have been bad enough, but now, this.
Murder.
And not a slaying in the road, not a battle of lowlifes, not a fight between tarts that’s gotten out of hand, not an over-enthusiastic debt-collector, nor a constable taking his duties too seriously. But a killing in a fine house barely three streets away. A killing of a fine family who should have been touched by no more than time and the rigours of old age, not by violence. Not by something so . . .
Henry clears his throat, he is pale; he’d been friends with the oldest Agnew boy. “A robbery gone wrong. There was another body. They think someone interrupted the thief, who tried to eliminate all witnesses. Perhaps Mr Agnew managed to kill him even as he himself was dying.”
“Who?” asks Victoria through her tears. She would no longer play with Ozanne and Oriel Agnew, her closest companions.
“An employee of the Considines’, their valet-in-training . . . Japheth something or other.”
Cordelia’s twists in her seat, gaze going immediately to Merry, who has dropped the second dessert tray. Meringue and cream and fruit compote spread far and wide across the expensive silk carpet. The girl holds both hands to her mouth, face drained of all colour, and Cordelia thinks, foolishly, that she is quite lovely when not scowling. Merry’s eyes are huge, the pupils so large there is almost no white left around the irises that at this moment look more green than hazel. Before Cordelia can go to her, the tweeny flees, sobs trailing behind her like black mourning ribbons.
The last notes of the requiem mass still hang in the air when the Parsifals leave by the great arched doorway of Lodellan’s cathedral, passing by the six ghostly wolf-hounds—age evident in their fading outlines—that guard the holy house. The family is in the front half of the dolorous procession following the archbishop; the line of mourners snakes across the portico, down the stone steps, then along the footpath to where the lychgate breaks the walls surrounding the graveyard. Cordelia looks up at the elaborate roof and see shadows shifting in the steep angles there; then the moment is gone, and she is through the strange bottleneck and pursuing the safest paths. The ground is treacherous in places, the unwary who wander are likely to find themselves breaking through the crust of the earth and turning an ankle in an unsuspected grave, or worse. The trees, mainly yew and oak, are ancient, branches and roots entwine from one tree to the other, and thick bushes fill any space in between; beneath the canopy the shadows are cold, and Cordelia hears the chattering of teeth behind her. One of the children, she thinks, Victoria.
Ahead, she sees the flickering torch the archbishop carries to light his way into the Agnew vault.
The cortège sweeps past the graves of the poor, marked by simple white crosses or piles of stones. Next come the merchants’ plots, which are tidier and larger, the slabs and headstones made of better material, more marble and granite, the statuary showing signs of artistry. There is Micah Bartleby’s tomb, black quartz glistening in the skerrick of sunlight that’s fought its way through, and here an angel leans drunkenly, its features all but erased by the elements and the only trace of a name left is Hepsi . . . tyne.
At last they come to the mausoleums, where Lodellan’s richest and best lie, and the great snake of mourners splits around the pink marmoreal structure where the Agnews will take their final rest, and forms a line either side. No distant cousin or such can be located—the family
has been utterly annihilated—so Belladonna Considine, wrapped in shimmering black bombazine, undertakes funereal honours. She wears a veil of netting so thick one can barely make out her features.
How must she feel? wonders Cordelia. Knowing her own servant visited such catastrophe on her dearest friends? Belladonna takes the fat golden key from the archbishop’s hand and inserts it in the lock, then gives the heavy door a good push. There is neither creak nor groan of hinges, for the structure is kept in good repair. Belladonna steps aside, into her husband’s politely waiting arms, and the clusters of pallbearers trail the archbishop and his blazing brand down into the darkness of the crypt.
Cordelia is grateful she does not have to go beneath, to feel the blackness pressing in from all sides. She puts an arm around Victoria, who stands close, shivering. The cold on the girl’s shoulders is so intense it bites through the leather of Cordelia’s glove. She looks at her daughter and sees, to her left, in the space between Victoria and Torben, a pale white formless mist. Cordelia blinks, but is careful not to draw attention. She glances at the crowd then realises no one else can see the icy cloud; she manages a motion that is part-rub, part-wave, and her fingers pass through the thin fog, leaving traces and trails in the air. Soon it dissipates and Victoria’s tremors ease.
A Feast of Sorrows, Stories Page 24
