And it is here.
In this drawer.
In this room.
In the possession of this girl . . .
Cordelia’s throat tightens as she thinks of having this girl, this dangerous girl, this sullen, angry, moody girl in her house, near her family. This girl . . . this girl whom she’d welcomed when Mrs B had taken in the orphaned niece as a baby, who’d been raised beside the Parsifal children, to whom she’d given a position, a wage, and much patience. The thought that this girl should so requite her kindness in a petty dishonest manner, that this girl had been associating with a killer . . .
Her fear makes her angrier than she might otherwise be; it washes reason and kindness away. Deliberately, Cordelia reaches into the drawer and finds a tiny silver pin. Her hands shake as she fastens the wayward rose in place, and it’s only by sheer force of will that she completes her task without drawing blood. The she picks up the brooch, all her anger, her fear, her umbrage, pooling, roiling and boiling as she makes her way downstairs to the basement kitchen.
Once again there’s no sign of Merry, but Mrs Bell is tidying after supper, grey-gold tendrils peeking from under her mob cap. She smiles as Cordelia enters, eyes lighting up, expression fond as fond can be, but finds no answering grin. Cordelia holds out her fist, fingers opening like petals to show the spray of gilded lilies there. Mrs B is perplexed.
“Where did you find it, madam? Did Torben—”
“It was in Merry’s room,” says Cordelia tightly.
Mrs Bell stares, then shakes her head. “She’s a good girl, Mrs Parsifal. I know she’s had a hard time of it and she’s been a challenge for you, but she’s a good girl for all that.”
“She has to go.” Cordelia’s tone is arctic, and it chills the housekeeper who’s never heard such a sound from her mistress’s lips.
“Perhaps Miss Victoria misplaced the brooch when she was in for a fitting . . . ” The excuse is weak even to her ears: Victoria hasn’t had a new dress in months. “You’ve known Merry all her life, Mrs Parsifal. She’s not bad, no more than Miss Bethany’s ever been. I’m sure . . . ”
The older woman’s pain begins to crack Cordelia icy determination, but she steels herself: she will not be defied. Not in this. The house is the one sphere over which she has control. Her husband keeps secrets from her; her sister is becoming a stranger; this is the sole change she can enforce.
“Make sure she’s gone by the time we get back tonight, Mrs Bell,” orders Cordelia, blinking hard to keep the tears confined. They cannot be allowed to run or they will take the black lash powder and eye-paint with them, cut swathes through the glimmering pearl foundation powder, drop onto and ruin her dress. “I’m sorry, but I really must insist.”
“There’s no bad in my niece, Mrs Parsifal.” Mrs Bell wrings her apron with dry, red hands. “I beg you to reconsider, my dearling.”
“Not much good either it seems,” snaps Cordelia, fighting the effect of her childhood nickname, then watches as Mrs B’s aspect freezes. All her affection drains from it. She speaks quietly.
“If Merry goes, then so must I, Mistress,” says Mrs Bell, her own tears utterly unfettered, pattering on the white of her apron front. Cordelia is stunned, hurt, possibly as stunned and hurt as Mrs B, but this doesn’t occur to her, nor will it for weeks to come. Her face burns while her heart closes—that her old nurse would choose such a girl over her!—and she draws herself stiff and straight.
“Do what you must,” says Cordelia, breaking a lifetime’s bond too easily, and spins about, hurries up the stairs into the hall where Edvard waits impatiently. Annie, beside him, has her mistress’ fur-lined cloak waiting. She drapes it around Cordelia’s shoulders as she gently draws on the lavender silk gloves that are meant for show, not warmth; then Annie disappears, subtle as a ghost. Cordelia keeps her head down so Edvard cannot see her expression, will not ask what is wrong and delay their departure. Had she but taken the time to steal a glance at him she would have observed his distraction, his pallor, and the fact that his eyes do not quite light upon her at all, as if she is simply an amorphous thing on which he cannot focus. But, caught up in her own web of upset, she does not notice that her husband is distressed to the point of inattentiveness as they step outside to where their coachman awaits with a carriage and four.
In her sleep, Cordelia imagines the baby is still inside her. She feels it turning and twisting, making her stomach bubble as if in the grip of terrible indigestion. As if a small sea creature does somersaults in the very pit of her. She could swear it’s real, could swear it’s solid and true—though it’s months since her belly carried anything but hunger. She imagines that when she wakes it will be to the sweet, demanding cry of a newborn seeking milk, of a child wanting the comfort of its mother’s arms, the warmth of her familiar flesh.
She dreams that the unwished-for child is still hers to have and hold.
The coach takes them the short distance to the palace, pulls up outside the grand wing which Armandine, the Princess Royal, has made her own since her brother’s marriage. Though the Prince of Lodellan will not be in attendance tonight—he seldom partakes in his sister’s soirées—his wife will be, for this is the woman with whom Armandine herself was, and still is, in love.
Some whisper the prince’s bride has no aristocratic lineage at all, that she was selected for her peasant heartiness, the width of her hips, the generosity of her breasts—for her perceived fecundity. Thin blue blood, fussy breeding habits, and limited marriage pools have failed the ruling family, and the days of large broods are done with. It is said that Princess Armandine gave up her lover only in the daylight hours when propriety still held some sway, that she and Ilse yet meet on all but those nights when the royal physicians deemed her most likely to conceive. As a result, Ilse is round, set to provide the longed-for, much-needed heir, an heir with his mother’s robustness, born of a woman whose bloodline has not been weakened by its purity.
But Cordelia doesn’t think of the rumours. She doesn’t think on the importance of this invitation, of the culmination of Edvard’s ambitions, of the beauty of her dress and the splendour of the necklace lying cold around her throat. She thinks only of Merry and her betrayal, of Mrs Bell and her ill-placed loyalty. She thinks of a home without Mrs B’s warmth, of the absence of a woman she only now admits she loves better than she ever did her own icily beautiful mother; the woman who protected her from the worst of her maternal parent’s rages and punishments. She shakes herself as the footman rolls out the metal steps, and Edvard helps her from the carriage. She makes a concerted effort to forget all that’s happened, to concentrate on the Ball, on being Edvard’s fine wife, on doing him justice.
They sweep in through the first set of doors, wood and fittings faded by the elements, up stone steps covered in a red carpet for this eve only, along a phalanx of men-at-arms in shining livery, and join the receiving line waiting outside a second set of doors, great arched things of highly polished ebony banded with gold. Cloaks are taken by maids and whisked away. When their turn comes, Edvard offers the pale purple leaf to the chief doorman, whose expert eyes scan the contents. Satisfied it’s no forgery, he gives a nod to the lesser doormen, who push open the panels and let them through. Their card returned, they step inside, onto a landing high above the ballroom floor. A herald, now, takes the invitation and reads out their names at the top of her lungs, so all heads swivel to look, to see, to judge.
Proceeding down the red marble staircase they are engulfed, briefly, by friends before joining the next section of the receiving line. Cordelia notes, amongst the already-arrived, already-welcomed guests, Belladonna Considine in an exquisite sable gown covered with shimmering jet beads. Her very public mourning is tasteful, understood, yet no one would expect her to forego the Winter Solstice Ball. Cordelia fixes a smile for her, part greeting, part sympathy, and flutters her fingers to catch the other woman’s eye. Belladonna’s lips begin to lift in answer, then stop, her glance hooked and caught by
. . . something. Cordelia wonders if she’s been found somehow unfit, her dress has been compromised by errant snowflakes, stained or marked in the kitchen during her confrontation, but a downward glance reassures her.
Belladonna moves off, swiftly. Is she embarrassed by her outburst at the wake? Before Cordelia can comment to Edvard they are swept onwards to a raised dais where the Princess Royal, platinum-blond locks carefully braided into a crown studded with gem-encrusted pins, awaits on a high-backed chair. Beside her, on a chaise longue set slightly lower, lounges a woman with fiery red hair and bored yellow eyes that glitter at the sight of Cordelia’s gems. Her cheekbones are broad, her head quite round but for the sharp little chin, and a heavy belly presses against the fine chiffon underskirts displayed through the slit of her amber high-waisted outer gown. It’s all Cordelia can do to resist the urge to touch her own stomach in sympathy.
Edvard bows and Cordelia curtsies. The Princess Royal’s appreciative glance takes in the dress and necklace. She offers her hand, long and pale fingers weighted down by many rings. First Edvard, then Cordelia, bow over them, kissing the cool stones and even cooler flesh. One of the diamonds catches Cordelia’s bottom lip, just a little and she feels a tiny cut, and a minuscule spring of ruby red. She licks it away and raises her head to meet Armandine’s gaze.
“What a delightful ensemble, Mrs Parsifal. You must tell me the name of your seamstress.”
“A girl of our household, Your Highness,” she replies, the lie heavy in her mouth.
“You must let me borrow her,” says the princess.
Cordelia nods. “Of course, Your Highness.” She does not know how she will make this happen.
“And come visit with us, take tea.” She waves a hand at the thin woman in green standing behind her chair, book and pencil in hand. “Rada, make arrangements for next week.”
The clerk nods, and the Parsifals are moved on. No one bothers to introduce them to the woman with auburn hair and yellow eyes. The woman who is ostensibly the reigning Princess of Lodellan, the mother of the city’s next ruler.
Now they are free to mingle in the to-and-fro of the crowd’s waves, to shift and dance across the mosaic floor of gold and gem tiles that shows scenes from the city’s history, good and bad: the miracle of the twice-born prince; the queen who let a dark woman lead the violet-eyed royal children astray and ended her days walled into her chamber; the troll-wife who almost stole the crown and her defeat at the hands of the unloved princess; the archbishop who raised the new cathedral yet disappeared before its completion; the lost children turned to wolves by the bite of a grieving widow; the bakeress whose creations caused more trouble than they should . . . all this and more collected in the stones beneath them, now ignored by heedless feet whose owners no longer find miracles and magic fashionable.
The Parsifals gravitate towards a group of friends—two groups, really, the men and women forming separate circles close enough that they might each hear the others’ conversation, but not take part. While she chats with the wives, Cordelia begins to relax, almost forgets the drama leading up to this point. She basks in compliments about her dress and necklace, although part of her is dedicated to listening to her husband’s discussions, determined to learn any way she can the things he keeps hidden. Determined to prove Bethany wrong.
“The profit we made on that latest Antiphon expedition has equipped three more ships!” bleats one youngster, hair black and thick as a fleece, but with no discernible moustache or saving sign of a beard. A son of one of the merchants, too foolish and wrapped up in himself to keep his boasting more private.
Edvard frowns. “You turned a profit?”
The gentlemen around him nod. He seems confused. “But we lost money on the deal.”
The others, older and wiser, look elsewhere so he might not see their pity. Their lack of comprehension. He shakes his head and the young cumberground laughs loud and spiteful. “Forgotten how to count, old chap? I’d find a new accountant if I were you.”
And Cordelia watches as the blood leaves her husband’s face and he shakes as if suffering a sudden palsy, as if a terribly misplaced trust has been revealed. She tries to go to his side, but a hand grabs her arm, nails scratching the skin. She turns and meets the eyes of Belladonna Considine, filled with hatred and grief so palpable that Cordelia feels the gaze almost as a physical force. Then she notices the men-at-arms on either side of the woman, stern-faced, implacable.
Belladonna points at Cordelia, at her throat. “That’s it. Odela Agnew’s necklace, Leon had it made especially for this ball. She showed it to me not two days before the murders.”
Cordelia says gently, though her voice trembles, “No, Bella, you are mistaken. My Edvard gave it to me.”
Belladonna shouts, “Do you think I wouldn’t know it? Do you think I’d not recognise it? How dare you? How dare you do this and come here wearing the spoils of your evil labours?”
“There must be some mistake. Edvard, tell them . . . ” Cordelia looks to her husband for support, but sees he is in the custody of two guards, taller even than himself, as though specially chosen for his apprehension. “Edvard, tell them!”
But though he struggles, though he tries to throw off his captors, though he shouts their innocence, their outrage, no one listens. The crowd around them simply grows, as if the Parsifals form the vortex of a whirlpool from which there is no escape; in which the couple will be dragged a’down.
Finally, one of the guardsmen, tired of Edvard’s dissent, draws back a meaty fist and hits him square in the mouth. There is blood, a tooth flies across the gathering to be lost in a sea of shoes, and her husband crumples so he must be carried from the ballroom. Cordelia, dragged along behind and protesting all the way, finds herself drained of sympathy. She wants to shout at him, to rail, pull a response from him, but he has left her to face this shame on her own.
As they pass through the crush, people step away as if a stench has attached itself to the Parsifals. Cordelia hears the whispers, the snippets that cut like cold winds, like sharp knives: financial problems, lost his edge, murders, living beyond their means, thieves, shame, driven to it by her demands.
And then out the doors they’d so recently entered in triumph, taken across the courtyard with its frozen air, marched over the uneven flagstones to the entrance of the palace gaol. Snow and sleet come down hard, chilling them, marking them. The dread iron gate is opened, then closed behind them with a terrible clang, and in a dingy chamber rough men strip them of all belongings but their clothing. The cool absence of the necklace makes her flesh burn. Next it is down, down, a’down into the dungeons that stretch beneath the city. It is barely warmer here than in the winter wind outside. They are delivered to separate cells so far from each other that even if he would answer her cries, Edvard could not hear them.
It is almost a week before Cordelia sees anyone other the gaoler and his hateful wife. That woman brings her stale bread, stew that smells richly of ferment—of which Cordelia eats no more than she must—and water that is sometimes fresh, most often not, but cannot be ignored. Though she isn’t supposed to talk to the prisoner, Mistress Lamb does for the first few days, taking time to spout spite as she shoves the food through the bars, happy to see someone like Cordelia fallen so far, so fast.
The pieces have been put together, she says with glee. The broadsheets have traced the coincidence of the Parsifals’ waning finances with the spate of robberies. No one, of course, believes her guilty of being but an accessory—anyone who knows Cordelia Parsifal swears she’s too dim to think up anything so devilish clever. But then equally, the woman continues, no one believes she did not know what he did. No one believes a husband wouldn’t confide his deepest failures, his darkest solutions, to the woman he loved, and their devotion is well known, sneers the gaoler’s helpmeet.
But why? asks Cordelia when she can get a word in edgeways, Why would we do all this and then flaunt the spoils in such a stupid manner?
Oh, she say
s, the penny-papers know that’s where they ran aground! The necklace was new, assumed unseen by anyone but the dead. Edvard rashly, arrogantly, presented it to her. How fortuitous that Mrs Considine—wonderful woman, devoted friend—had been shown the thing by poor Mrs Agnew!
Where are my children? asks Cordelia, over and over, never getting an answer, but it does not stop her asking again.
By the third day, though, the goodwife has worn out her bile, and even in her malicious stupidity she realises that Cordelia’s hurt bewilderment is not an act; no mummer, this sad and terrified captive. She has stopped spitting in the water and simply hands over the meals, although their quality remains unimproved. And still Cordelia has seen no one, no lawyer, no representative of the courts, no friend or acquaintance, no priest to offer succour or damn her soul, not even Mr Farringdale—who could surely clear up any financial questions!—has come. No one has formally presented the charges to her, though she cannot help but know of what she is accused. She’s wondered if all matters have simply been addressed to Edvard, if she’s been wrong in her anger towards him; if her husband is negotiating—nay, fighting for—their futures. Their lives.
On the sixth day, when the gaoler’s wife brings the morning repast, she also leads in Bethany and Cordelia dares to hope.
“Bethany! Are the children all right? Are they safe?”
“They are safe, sister, never fear. I have the care of them.”
The tears she’s held in—even two days ago when she began to bleed and cramp, and knew the child—suddenly, strangely precious—was gone—spring at last. Cordelia’s heart, so battered and bruised, leaps, certain somehow that she is saved.
A Feast of Sorrows, Stories Page 26
