Uncle Peter was to join us for dinner. I was most eager to talk with him, but when I entered the drawing room, he was engaged in the telling of one of his stories. Hess and the Bedfords were enraptured. The young Ted Pentworth, however, together with his chum, Mr. Farrington, were bored as schoolboys at a philosophy lecture. My brother-in-law, too, was not engrossed. I guessed Alan would rather be at billiards or faro than listening to the wisdom of an old man.
I tried to look at my sister’s husband with new eyes and a charitable spirit. I suppose I should admire his devotion, for he sat dutifully by Alyssa’s side. When they had announced their engagement, Simon had tried to counsel me not to interfere, but I had not listened. I had thought she would tire of him, that her more sophisticated interests would come into being once she matured, and she would regret her choice. But my husband had been correct; I should not have spoken against the marriage. It had driven a wedge between my sister and me, and ours was an already fragile relationship. Now she was bearing his child.
My gaze strayed to where Mr. Fox leaned an elbow on the mantle. He pretended to listen to the conversation around him but I could tell he was not paying attention. His hooded gaze lit on me and I tensed. Must he always stare so? What was he thinking?
The timeliness of the dinner bell was a relief, and I was pleased when Uncle Peter took my hand and pulled it through his arm, disregarding Mary’s intended pairings. “Walk with me, my dear,” he murmured. His slower gait, exaggerated for his purpose at the moment, gave us an excuse to lag behind the others as we all made our formal procession in to dinner.
“Have you noticed the Latin written up there?” he asked me, and as we were just passing through the doorway from the salon, we both glanced at the carved words.
“They are all over the house,” I said.
“Indeed?” His heavy eyebrows twitched. “Do they all say the same thing?”
“No, they are all different. I’ve been meaning to ask Sebastian to give me a tour of them and write them down.” Then I remembered that Mr. Fox had done just that on his own.
“The corruption of the best is worst,” Uncle Peter said contemplatively as we moved slowly down the corridor.
“Uncle Peter,” I said suddenly. “I need to speak to you, soon. I have questions…I want to know about my mother.”
His look was suddenly sharp, almost angry, and I felt something fiercely disturbing rise up inside me.
“It is gravely important,” I said, and added a heartfelt “please.”
He thought for a moment, and seemed to come to a decision. “Yes, my dear. Indeed. I suppose it is time you and I had a very lengthy conversation.”
My heart kicked with excitement at this agreement, but I was not completely at ease. It was perfectly plain that the prospect did not please him.
Uncle Peter returned to the inn with the promise to join us for dinner the following evening. In my disappointment at being robbed of him so soon after his arrival, I sought out the company of Mr. Hess.
I had grown fond of the gentle older man, not only for his kindness but also because his great enthusiasm for learning made him something of a kindred spirit. And I was most especially interested in hearing about the local legends, which was one of his favorite topics as well. Thus it was I was able to steer an innocent exchange on the status of Dulwich Manor’s garden into a more interesting vein by observing, “I am put to mind, seeing the buds on the trees, of how myths over the centuries—even unto our own religion—affirm the human belief—or is it merely a hope?—that life will always triumph over death.”
It was, to me, an obvious ploy, and I hoped to direct the conversation to matters of traditions regarding life, death, and now this new and terrible alternative of living death. But his complex mind took a surprising turn.
“Spring renews,” he said with a sage nod. “And it never fails to reassure me. A time of life, and of beauty, although there is beauty in the other seasons, too. But I am most fond of spring, for it is when goodness and life are strongest. Though creation has its own terrors; consider the customs of Maying.”
Mr. Fox had also mentioned the pagan feast of May Day as a particularly potent time, I recalled. “I understand it is an old celebration.”
“Even druids and the ancients beyond them understood there is danger in the creation of life, for all things in nature are in balance. We think spring is the natural enemy of evil. It is the month of birthing. Lambs, calves, foals, all the flowers and trees—new life, my dear. The anathema to death. But there is another side—a dark side to creation.” Mr. Hess raised his index finger, as if anticipating an objection. “You may ask how that can be when spring is the season of resurrection, when our very own Lord triumphed over death, eh? The theme of rebirth, of holiness and life, is heralded as far back as Greek mythology and beyond, when Persephone is returned to Mother Earth at the conclusion of each winter. Each culture throughout the history of man has venerated the fertility and life renewal of the seasons.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Mr. Fox draw closer.
“Although autumn is the natural time of death and thus, it is assumed, evil, please recollect what I cautioned about the rule of balance. Even within spring, the season of life and therefore goodness, evil must have its reign, however brief. And what is more—and this is very important, dear—how much more intense that brief period of darkness is made by the inherent life-giving nature of the season. Thus, for spring’s very goodness, the corresponding evil must be equal. Equal and opposite, for balance as all things must ever and always be. And so tradition holds that on the Eve of Saint George, evil reigns, just as it does on the Eve of All Hallows. May Day, too, is considered a time when the undead roam free and mischief abounds. Evil must have its reign for goodness to come.”
“The corruption of the best is worst,” I said slowly.
Hess leaned in closer to me. “What is that you say? My dear, how very intriguing. The inscription—you know it? Why it is the very thing I am trying to explain.” He bustled to the escritoire in the corner and opened the ink pot, dabbing a quill and quickly scrabbling down a line. After blowing on the paper, he brought it with him as he resumed his seat. Folding it, he placed it in his pocket. “I’ve discovered something absolutely fascinating about The Sanctuary, and this might be a clue—”
Mary cut in, annoyance in her voice, for she did not want me monopolizing her guest on esoteric topics. “Mr. Hess, do have a raspberry biscuit. My cook is known for them.”
“Oh, indeed!” he exclaimed, selecting one from the tray his hostess proffered. Alan caught my eye at that moment, a scowl on his perfect features. I felt the barb of guilt he meant to send, for I could see that Alyssa was sulking. I sighed. I’d neglected my sister, and Mary was now occupying Mr. Hess in a conversation of horseflesh which presently animated Sir William, Roger, and Mr. Bedford.
I slipped next to Alyssa, smiling bracingly at her and taking her hand in mine. “What they say about women in your condition is true. Your face seems to beam with happiness.”
“You are a terrible liar, Emma. I feel wretched,” she murmured, but grasped my hand back and smiled a moment later at an amusing story told by Ted Pentworth.
I laughed as well, without paying much attention to what was being said. Mr. Hess had given me plenty to mull over, and the faint buzz of some disturbance, stronger than disquiet but lying just under fear, hummed in my head.
My frequent visits to the third floor had made a friend of Miss Harris, and thereby I gained myself an ally in keeping my eye on Henrietta’s condition. After playing checkers or paper dolls with Henrietta, I typically concluded by sitting with Miss Harris in the little nursery kitchen, munching on lemon biscuits from her secret tin and drinking tea while we chatted. Henrietta seemed the pleasant, happy child I had always known her to be; I could not have asked for more assurance that all was well with her. But I knew it was not.
Victoria was gone. I searched the schoolroom from stem to stern and fo
und nothing. And when I mentioned Victoria’s absence to Henrietta, she grew quiet and lowered her eyes. No amount of clever cajoling on my part would get her to confide anything to me.
Of the shadow I had seen, I spied nothing more, not even a hint. If I asked Henrietta where her friend Marius had gone, she would simply say, “He is sleeping,” and nothing more. Yet my mind was not at ease.
One afternoon, we were sorting through the puppet box while Miss Harris was having some time to herself. “Let us select a Henrietta,” I suggested. I pulled out the pretty one, with long, painted eyelashes and blond curls.
“And Emma,” she said eagerly, rifling through the options. The one she chose made us laugh. It was rather silly-looking, with wide eyes and very red lips. “She’s the next prettiest,” Henrietta explained.
I waited until she’d chosen a second, a male puppet, whom she named Joseph, after the master gardener who always produced a sweet from his pocket for Henrietta. “Joseph is her friend,” she said, pairing off her two puppets.
I, in turn, fished out an older puppet, with a chipped and faded painted face. “And let us make this one Marius.”
Immediately, she grew guarded. Doleful eyes flashed to mine. “I don’t wish to play with Marius.”
“But he is your friend, too, isn’t he?”
Her brow furrowed. “I can not talk about him. He is gone now.”
“But he is not a secret, love. Not any longer,” I said as I carried the puppets over to the theater. “I know all about Marius. I’ve even seen him. Remember, when you were talking to him up at The Sanctuary?”
She nodded, solemn and watchful. Following me to the the ater, she knelt and quietly arranged her puppets. I saw by the square set of her shoulders, the ramrod-straight posture of her back, that her body was gripped with great tension.
With her gaze firmly on the Marius doll I’d chosen, she spoke softly. “He told me you cannot see him.”
“But I did. And I saw him again, just a few days ago,” I said gently, arranging my skirts as I joined her on the floor. “He was walking with you and Miss Harris in the garden.”
She jerked her head up, and my heart plummeted at the look in her eyes. She was terrified. Dropping the puppets, she shot to her feet. She nearly collided with Miss Harris, who was entering just at that moment, as she dashed out of the room before I could react.
The nurse gazed at me in puzzlement, a bit cross with me, I noticed. I understood. We were all protective of Hen, especially these days. Biting down hard on my bottom lip to keep it from trembling, I simply shrugged.
Mrs. Bedford accompanied me on a visit to the village. The pair of us set out by open trap from Dulwich Manor down the road with which I had some familiarity. We passed Sarum Saint Martin’s; I shivered to see the high iron gates of the churchyard to which I had followed Mr. Fox, and a pang speared my sternum to think of him.
The weather was drizzly with that sharp-edged damp that permeates the month of March. I was bundled in a winter wool, which warded off the worst of the cloying air as we rode down the country road toward the village. The road wove through fields where the large sarcen stones of the Great Stone Serpent were cast about the landscape like some gigantic child’s playing blocks. It was so peculiar to see them peppered in among the living, with cottages in the foreground and farm animals grazing unimpressed in their shadow. Somehow, the contrast only increased their splendor and mystery. Two worlds, the old and the new, existing together.
Two worlds. The living and the dead meet here on the lay line of Saint Michael. Mr. Hess had told me that.
Once we arrived in the village, Mrs. Bedford suggested we share a comforting cup of tea in the inn. The gas jets were ablaze in the common room, and a fire had been lit in the massive hearth to banish the gray damp from the air. I sent word to Uncle Peter’s rooms that I was awaiting him, and could he join us at his earliest convenience? He appeared not long after, immaculately dressed and beaming with pleasure to see me.
“You are just in time for our second pot,” I told him after accepting a kiss on each cheek. He bowed to Mrs. Bedford.
“Ah, English tea. There is nothing like it in all the Continent.” He surveyed the tray with relish, wasting no time in helping himself from the assortment of sandwiches and biscuits arrayed before us.
Mrs. Bedford did not linger after we’d taken our meal. “I am most anxious to visit my friend Mary Linden. Her daughter, Margaret, is ill,” she explained.
“Let me walk you,” I said, rising with her. She protested, but I assured her it was no trouble, and went with her the short distance to her friend’s home.
“I trust the child is not too ill,” I ventured. I was concerned, and she sensed it.
She patted my hand. “It is a strange malaise, but not this wretched plague, I am sure. Probably no more than a common ailment of childhood. The ague, I suspect.” She suddenly waved, and I spied a woman in the door with a small child in her arms. The little girl, probably four years of age, had a solemn face with large eyes and a cascade of dark curls.
“I hope she gets well soon,” I murmured as Mrs. Bedford joined her friend. I hurried back to the inn to Uncle Peter, who was waiting for me.
“Well, then,” he said when I was situated at the table again. He reached a hand across the table to touch his fingers to mine. “Am I correct to assume you are here to speak with me about what you mentioned before?” he asked in his thick accent. His expression was sad but kind. “You wish to talk of Laura.”
“I must know about my mother.” I braced myself. I was used to being met with resistance, and I was prepared for it now. “I realize it is a difficult subject, but I’ve waited a very long time to ask someone who knew her to tell me the truth of what happened. And I need to know now more than ever what it was that killed her and what her madness was like. Do not spare me.”
His eyes flickered with doubt, and I drew myself up, ready to meet any objection head-on. “I am not a child any longer. I am a woman now set upon my own path in life. I no longer need to be protected.”
He regarded me for a moment, then sighed. “This is true enough.”
“You and my father were friends for many years. You knew my mother.”
“I was half in love with her myself.” He smiled, making the statement benign. “It was the same with every man who knew her. It was difficult not to adore Laura. It was not only her beauty. There are beautiful women all over this world—I should know, I’ve traveled much of it. But Laura, she was special. There was light in her…” He trailed off. Nodding, he then brought himself back with a renewed smile. “And she loved your father. Very much.”
The lump in my throat had risen fast. Suddenly it was too large to allow me to speak. I swallowed, but it would not move.
“They were very happy, you know.” Uncle Peter’s smile was of a man lost in the past, and I saw the love shining from his face.
I found my voice. “How long did they have before she became ill?”
“A few years, that is all. But it was enough, I think. Stephen—your father—he never regretted anything. Perhaps that is the first thing you should be told. When she became ill, he did not feel sorry for himself. He did not despair.”
I had never really considered my father in this. I don’t know why this was. Perhaps, drawing a conclusion from how he’d looked at me, the watchfulness and tension I’d imagined in his gaze, I had seen him only as a sentinel, an emotionless witness to my mother’s suffering. Of course, I had never before known how much they’d meant to each other.
“He was true to her, even when the madness was at its worst.” He stopped here, taking in a long, labored breath. “And before. This I believe.”
“What do you mean, before?”
“Before your mother fell ill. Her illness was provoked, you see.” He shook his head, as if remembering still made him angry. “A baronet’s daughter named Astrid Laforge had made her debut that season. As her parents traveled in the same social circles as Steph
en and Laura, she was at every dinner party, every dance. Ah, but she was a fiendish little fox, for she was jealous of your mother. Everyone could see how she pitted her youthful beauty against Laura’s more cultured air of loveliness. Your mother was beloved by her friends, and the little fox could not stand it. She wished to be the one all admired, and a very thinly disguised rivalry emerged.” His jaw worked. “And Astrid had a passion for your father, Emma.”
I heard the dark undertone, saw the hardening glint in his eyes, and my heart did a queer leap. I had the first inkling of how difficult it was going to be to hear this tale I’d waited so long to hear.
“Laura laughed over it at first, thinking Astrid silly. She dismissed her. We all did. I can see, in my mind, the way she’d smile when Astrid would ply her wiles on Stephen; I am sure they laughed about it in private. Her eyes would shine with humor when they caught mine, as if to say, ‘Are you enjoying her little show?’ Ah, her eyes. They were an extraordinary color, a very unique shade of blue. Really violet, in certain light. It was a haunting effect…” Uncle Peter trailed off momentarily, then resumed. “Your mother knew her appeal, and she was confident in the love she and Stephen shared. But Astrid was clever, and when she saw she could not lure Stephen into her bed, she did something diabolical. She ingeniously planted seeds of uncertainty in the mind of her rival.”
“What do you mean?”
“For example, she would make certain to be noticed coming out of a room moments after Stephen had emerged, and she’d look flushed, acting uncomfortable at having been spotted, as if…well, you get the idea. It was all very subtle, but effective. Soon rumors started to circulate.”
“And my mother began to doubt my father,” I said, knowing this had to be what happened.
Uncle Peter spread out his hands helplessly. “Laura began to listen to the doubts Astrid put into her head. No doubt Astrid delighted when she saw how the seeds slowly unwound, claiming Laura’s thoughts and becoming an obsession.”
Descent into Dust Page 13
