by Sandra Byrd
Later that night, after a dinner of well-sauced cold meat and fresh bread, Davidson saw himself down to the small Steward’s Hall, near the old Beer Cellar, where he stayed. It was many floors away from my room, and though there was a bell system for summoning help, he was deaf enough that I doubt he could have heard them chime, let alone my distant shout.
Again that fear. Why did I think I’d need to shout?
The house was blackness itself, surrounded by blackness outdoors, on all sides. I took a lamp with me and rounded the stairs.
I settled into the big bed, alone in the Tapestry Room. The posts of the bed rattled, and I knew they would have to be replaced. Lord Lockwood had mentioned that all the chandeliers would need to be reattached—no small task indeed. I hoped one should not crash down before it could be tended to. When would I have funds to tend to a chore such as that? There were perhaps thirty chandeliers in all.
The room smelt dead, as though the air had not circulated for some time, and it likely had not, but the bedsheets were clean. I supposed I should be thankful for Lady Lockwood’s kindness. I did not appreciate her knowing every move I made in the country. I did not appreciate Inspector Collingsworth knowing every move I made in the city.
Perhaps he knew every move I made in the country, too, if it had been his man who had followed me. If not his man, then whose?
Francis, came a thought. Francis’s man.
In truth, the walls were closing in around me in every direction and I had no idea whom to trust.
I could not sleep. I got up and opened every cabinet in the room to see if Papa might have stored something in any of them. Had that been why he had come to Winton just a few weeks before his death? I did not know. They were empty.
Perhaps the punched train ticket had not even been Papa’s.
I wandered, quickly and quietly, down the hall to the Flower Room, Mamma’s childhood bedroom. I noted, right away, that the clock on the mantel perfectly matched Lord Lockwood’s carriage clock.
Mamma’s picture was on the wall; she looked like me, or perhaps I like her. I held my lamp up. She was not smiling, and I barely recognized her. Mamma had always smiled, even up till the end when Papa climbed into their big bed and held her till he handed her, gently, to the angels who came to carry her to her waiting savior.
I reached into my linen pocket and fingered the photograph of the smiling young woman. I would ask Davidson, next day, if he’d seen her with my father, here at Winton.
I pray Davidson had not seen her, I believe Father had not brought her here, but I must ask nonetheless. Papa had long been a widower. He could have had a rendezvous of sorts here at Winton without anyone in London knowing.
I stood for a moment. The night was silent but for the croaking frogs in the park lawns outside. The vastness of the house closed in on me. I did not believe in ghosts, of course, but I sensed the memories, somehow, of what had transpired in Winton over the hundreds of years. It simply felt different from my new house in Cheyne Gardens, which the three of us had been the first to occupy.
Winton had been passed along, one inheritor after the other, hand over hand like men pulling a rope, to continuing generations. What had been the hopes and dreams, the desolation and fears of those who had lived here before me? Would I be letting them all down to give it away?
The frogs went silent.
I opened the black japanned cupboard in Mamma’s room; it was etched with red peonies. Could Papa have placed anything here? It was a hidden cabinet, of a sort, the sort we’d had at home in London.
It was empty. I closed the door and glanced at the bedside table, on which still rested a pressed flower book with notes by Mamma and some of her friends. I blew the dust off it and opened it; it had probably been left as it matched the theme of the room. I smiled at her girlish delight; Mamma had chosen to press and annotate both unusual and unworthy flowers, whereas her friends, including Barbara—Mrs. W!—had pressed traditional roses and made notes to their findings.
I looked through the rest of the room. Nothing. I’d complete a search of the upstairs the next morning before Lady Lockwood came to call for tea. I wonder what she has in mind?
I walked down the hallways, the doors to the rooms were closed. I dared not go in them so late at night. It was dark. I had but one light and no idea how long the oil would last.
I returned to the Tapestry Room and looked out of the window. Far in the distance, through a veil of trees, night lights flickered. Darington.
Was Lord Lockwood here or in London?
I closed my eyes, and when I did, I saw him draw near me. Then I will kiss your lips, Kate.
He reached toward me and did just that. I became entangled in the scent of sandalwood and reached an arm around his neck, entangling us further and kissing him back.
• • •
In the morning, the breakfast table was laid before I arrived downstairs. Ruth had already been there. Davidson waited by the front door, in a worn leather chair. I hoped he should not feel it was necessary for him to remain there for the duration of my visit. But he had been carrying out his duties since long before my birth and I was not going to instruct him.
I did come close to him before taking my meal, though. I withdrew the photograph from my linen pocket.
“Davidson, if I may ask a question. Have you ever seen this young lady or someone like her?”
He took the picture in hand and then brought it close to his eyes, and then held it as far away as his arm would stretch.
“I don’t know about her, but yes, yes, this kind of girl is familiar to me.”
“What does that mean, ‘this kind of girl,’ and when did you last see one?”
He looked embarrassed. “Your father would sometimes bring them kind in through the basement passages, miss.”
My father!
“Through the downstairs, that’s right,” he continued to muse, “so none could see. There weren’t as many of us there then, you know. But I saw. I and Mrs. Abbot.”
Mrs. Abbot had been the housekeeper, who had been dead many years.
“My father, Davidson? Andrew Young?”
He looked confused. “No, miss. Lord Palmer, of course.”
I sighed, just a little. He had confused me with my mother again and perhaps was misremembering much more.
Davidson nodded toward the dining room. “Lady Lockwood will be here to see you soon. She’s not been back since we buried your father, you know.”
Now he seemed to know who I was again.
“Speaking of Lady Lockwood, has Lord Lockwood been here since my father has died?”
He looked confused. Perhaps I should see to getting him some help; I would make a note of that. Then he shook his head clear. “No, Miss Young. He distinctly told me that you’d asked him to look at the outside but not inside again and that I was to tell him if anything needed to be tended to. Captain Lockwood, though, he comes round often, to check on me.”
I’d wandered, room to room, and thought how beautifully the place could be restored, tidied, filled with laughter and love. Circulating fresh air, one might say, in a new way.
But who had Davidson referenced? “Captain Lockwood?”
“Lord Lockwood’s younger brother.” He lowered his voice. “The one that was maimed . . .”
I nodded and replied softly, “Thank you, Davidson.”
I finished breakfast, and after, whilst waiting for Lady Lockwood to call, explored the main floor.
I went from room to room, peeking under dust sheets, looking to see if any portraits had been recently moved, but I could see no recognition that anything had been disturbed by Papa hiding something.
Perhaps he had not hidden anything at all, and I had misinterpreted his last letter, wanting something to be there that was not. He may have been wishing me love and luck, and reminding me of his affections, as any father would. He’d clearly known, however, that his life was at risk.
And it had been. The runaway cart had, it s
eemed, been deliberately loosed or pushed, if it had been a cart at all. Andrew Roberts was dead, too.
By the time I’d finished my exploration of the main floor, it was time to greet Dowager Lady Lockwood.
Ruth showed her in, and I stood to greet her. “Lady Lockwood. How do you do?”
“How do you do, Miss Young,” she said. “I hope Ruth has been of some help.”
I showed her to the seat that faced the window, and Ruth stood nearby to serve tea.
“I could not have asked for a kinder gesture from you, nor a more gracious attendant.” At that, Ruth served the tea.
We made small talk for a moment or two—she had seen and enjoyed Esmeralda, and her younger son and daughter-in-law had accompanied her—and then she came round to her target.
“Do you intend to keep Winton Park, Miss Young?” She set her teacup down and bit into a biscuit, one of her own cook’s making, I imagined.
“What else would I do with it, Lady Lockwood?” I took a sip of my tea, hand steady.
“You might consider it a part of your dowry,” she said.
I hid my surprise. Whyever would she be thinking of my dowry and marriage? My heart skipped a beat.
“My mother did not bring a dowry to her marriage,” I said. “I do not expect to have to, either.”
But maybe, for the right man . . .
She frowned, but then nodded and continued. “I suppose as you’ll certainly marry someone middle class you won’t need a dowry. I had thought you might want to sell Winton.” She shrugged. “It’s a large home, in need of much attention and repair. I know you are mostly in London and are not a part of a set that would need or desire a country house.”
My face reddened, but I stood and walked toward the window to cool it off before answering her. She was right. I could not afford to modernize or even maintain Winton Park on my seamstress income, which was barely enough, at the moment, to support the London property. “I’m giving serious consideration to donating Winton Park to the Cause.”
Her teacup clattered. “Donate? To an organization for the . . .”—I knew she searched for a socially acceptable word—“underserved?”
Now our positions were equaled again; I returned to my chair. “Yes. It is what my mother wanted. In the end, Winton was hers to do with as she pleased.”
She looked me in the eye. “Your mother would never have given Winton Park away, and it is now yours to do with as you wish.” For a moment, the certainty of her conviction shook me. Then I realized, she was not given to generosity herself and would not understand the kind of woman my mother had been.
“Exactly. It’s best for me to decide.”
“But your father . . . ,” she began.
I raised an eyebrow. “My father?”
She shook her head a little and took her teacup in hand; Ruth had warmed it with a refill. “As you’ve said, it’s for you to decide.”
She’d clearly had an insight that she was not sharing.
A minute of awkward silence ticked by. “I brought a gift for Lord Lockwood.”
Her eyebrow raised and her face hardened. “That was not necessary.”
I handed it to her. “To thank him for his kindness in looking after the property. I thought I might see him this visit, but I return to London tomorrow.” And I’d had no real excuse other than the plan to show up at the front door with the gift, knocking like a schoolgirl.
“I’ll see he gets it.” She handed it to Ruth. I wondered if she would see it delivered to him or if it would go straight to the wastebin.
“I have one for you, too.” I reached for a second wrapped package.
“For me?” She seemed genuinely surprised.
“Yes. I thought maybe we would have occasion to see one another during my visit.” I held back a wry grin.
She gently unwrapped the package and took out the pair of exquisite gloves, soft ivory calfskin with pearl beads. “Oh my,” she said. “They are lovely. They are . . . art.”
Unexpectedly, she took off her gloves and slipped them on. “They are a perfect fit. Remarkable! Without even measuring me.” I could barely focus on what she was saying, though, so surprised was I that her hands were red and rough, pricked by pins and sliced through by thread.
My astonishment must have been evident because she genuinely smiled and said, “You are not the only woman who sews, Miss Young.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The next morning, I worked my way through the many rooms in the house, one by one, floor by floor. The furniture was draped and drifted with dust; it did not appear as though any had been disturbed in quite some time before I approached. I found nothing, not even in the desk in the library. Papa had seen to it that the official papers had been archived with Mr. Pilchuck; he was careful about such records. I should have to see to them now.
I finally arrived in the basement, much to Davidson’s dismay. “What are you looking for, Miss Palmer?” he asked, confusing me with my mother once more. “I can help you. You know your father will be most distressed if he finds you belowstairs.”
I spoke softly to calm him. “I’m just taking inventory.” I had an idea. “I wonder . . . have there been any others in the house lately, people who are not family or staff?”
“Just that copper Lord Palmer doesn’t like.” He sniffed.
Papa!
“What was he doing here?”
Davidson looked at me, pointedly. “You’d know better than I, Miss Victoria.”
Dear me. I was not Victoria. Was he referring to Papa or to Inspector Collingsworth as having been here of late?
The next room was where Mamma’s trunks were stored. It was more of a large closet, really, with one small window but two large doors that pulled open from the outside. In earlier days it had held extra kitchen linens, and the room and doors had been built to accommodate large laundry carts. Perhaps that was why Papa had stored Mamma’s costumes here when he’d made space for my sewing salon. The cases would fit through the double doors, and the room was exceedingly dry.
I pulled the left door handle, and it opened outward; it was unlocked. Just inside was the costume repair kit, a sewing cabinet of sorts: the hodgepodge of drawers held scissors and needles, some threads, ribbon, felt for her stage shoes, and a variety of pieces for fixing her hair. I pocketed one of her pincushions, for fondness, and placed it into my linen pocket. Once dropped in, I felt it shift. Did it rest uneasily with the photograph I always carried?
I’d propped the door open, which let in a little more light than the small, dirty-paned window did, but it was filtered, and the air was saturated with motes that clouded my vision.
Each wall was lined with two trunks as tall as a man and thrice as heavy. I undid one leather strap and pushed open the case. It held an emerald gown, hanging; the gown had been given to Mamma as a gift for her role in The Merry Wives of Windsor; she’d played Anne. I reached in for the dress, but it felt as though it might crumble beneath my fingers. I slipped my arm through one sleeve. Dearest Gillian, I chided myself, will you never stop wearing your mother’s clothes, and be your own woman instead? As the dress was grimy with age and punctured by a few moth holes, I dared not do more lest it fall apart on me, and gently eased my arm out. I could not lose one of her treasures. Soon I would take it, and the others, and use all of my skills to beautifully restore them.
I looked at the floor of the trunk, and in each of the pockets that lined the trunk’s walls, where accessories sometimes were stored. Nothing but the gown.
I worked my way down the trunks, looking for false floors, finding one or two that held nothing but shoes beneath them.
The fourth trunk down brought the day’s first laugh. A dress of aubergine and the matching shoes that I had worn the night Lord Lockwood had first seen me in Winton’s Staircase Hall! I took them out, their faded blue ribbons encircling my arms. I considered taking the shoes with me, but then could not, for the moment, separate them from their dress. They were twinned and belonged
together.
Nothing in the right trunk pockets but a playbill, for Rapunzel, crisp and yellow with age, tucked into the trunk with the Rapunzel costume. The long blond braids were severed and awkwardly tied around the waist of the dress. I felt bad. They had been chosen to perfectly match Mamma’s hair and had been shorn, likely, from someone who had needed to sell her hair.
I thought of Ruby and grinned and then grimaced. What would come of her if something should happen to me?
I left the room and closed the door tightly behind me.
No notes from Papa. It had only been a hunch, of course, based on a train ticket, but it had proved wrong.
Next, the hallway from the kitchen to the Servery. It was in terrible disrepair and as I pushed open the larder scores of black beetles escaped, racing over my feet; I could feel them scramble across the silk of my slippers. I dared not move for fear of stepping on one of them, until one began to crawl up my dress, and then a dozen clawed their way up my petticoat, clasping me with their six feet, scanning me with their antennae. I screamed and shook them free and struggled to shut the larder door again.
Lord Lockwood had mentioned that the pipes in the kitchen were in desperate need of repair; they probably entered through those decayed pipes. I fled the kitchen, closed the door that led to the house so they could not proceed inside, and stood in the hallway catching my breath and trying to forestall retching. In five minutes, I moved to the laundry rooms, just to be thorough, but found nothing but more beetles.
Papa, the least you could have done was see to it that the house was properly maintained. I knew money from my trust was available for such things. Papa had never felt comfortable with Winton—out of his league, he’d said—and rather than face it head-on, he’d let it crumble. Left it for me to deal with.
I walked upstairs to find Davidson waiting for me. “Lord Lockwood is here.” His smile released a baker’s dozen folds among his wrinkles.
