by Jane Healey
No doubt there would be quite a few illicit dalliances taking place that night, couples roaming out into the gardens looking for a private corner or tiptoeing upstairs to take advantage of the many empty rooms. It was something I had done myself a few times at parties at other houses, in those handful of years after my nerves had improved enough that I considered myself almost well, and before my mother and grandmother died; met young men and danced and later slept with them, though I always woke up regretful and cross in the morning, feeling that it was not worth it for an unsatisfactory fumble. But I had only once tried to take a man to my bed here at Lockwood, in an aborted first attempt at intimacy.
My parents had thrown a twenty-first birthday party for me, and my mother had made sure to invite many eligible men, nonchalantly dropping their names into conversation in the weeks before, while my father, who said I was surely too young for all that, glowered and mocked the caliber of the young men available, their weak chins and schoolboy mustaches. I heard them fighting about it, my parents, over breakfast.
“You’ve only given me one child,” my father said in answer to my mother’s shriek of frustration at his jeering, “and now you want to rush her to grow up and leave us. Or are you living vicariously through her, hmm? You think you could have done better than me, better than Lockwood, from where I plucked you from?” I was sure worse followed, but I scurried away because I couldn’t bear to hear them be so cruel to one another.
I had been in no hurry to marry—the idea of tying myself permanently to a man was unfathomable, almost frightening—but like all other girls I wanted to be admired, to have my fun. And so, after descending from my rooms after some champagne with a friend, the both of us swathed in silks and furs, diamonds glinting in our ears, I duly danced with every boy and man that asked, flirted back with the ones who were the least objectionable, and later found myself standing on the terrace at the rear of the house with one boy a year or so younger than me by the name of Charles. Lanterns lit the gardens in front of us as couples walked among its greenery, searching for somewhere quiet, and I was listening to Charles speak of a holiday he had taken on the south coast and watching, in an almost detached manner, the way he looked at me, his gaze lingering on my mouth before flicking down to my chest; the way he kept swiping a tongue across his dry lips when he listened to me speak; his face a picture of yearning, of youthful sincerity.
I asked him if he wanted to see the view from the roof outside my rooms up in the west turret and he nodded enthusiastically. We made our way through the house, his hand hot on my back, and then took the stairs to the first floor and walked down the long corridor to the west wing, our footsteps quiet on the thick carpet, nervous excitement (I assumed) making his movements a little stilted, before he stopped a few steps away from the spiral stone staircase that would bring him to my bedroom.
He said that he would just be one moment, that he needed to use the facilities, and seemed so embarrassed that I did not offer him the use of my own bathroom. I sat on my stairs, tucked away from the hall as I waited for him and pictured what was about to happen in my bedroom, how his hands would fumble on the buttons of my dress, how he would be eager and appreciative, how the act itself would be uncomfortable and strange but that I would get my first time over with.
But when he had yet to return after fifteen minutes, I left to find him. He had got lost, surely; the house could be confusing to a new visitor. I knocked on the door of the nearest bathroom and pushed it open but it was empty, and then I crossed to the east wing and tried the bathrooms there too—the first was empty, the second occupied with two girls who had giggled at my knock.
I stood at the top of the stairs, feeling suddenly ridiculous in the dress that I had adored at the start of the evening, with half thoughts that maybe he had fallen asleep somewhere or perhaps he had found another girl and changed his mind—but that was rather unlikely, when he had been so keen: he had danced with me for half an hour and looked as if he might die on the spot when I invited him to my room.
I waited there for five minutes, twisting on my heels, listening to the hum of the party, and there he was, finally, climbing the stairs. But his cheeks were red and he looked, I couldn’t help but think, absolutely terrified.
“Everything all right?” I had asked.
“I’m sorry,” he had said, voice trailing off. He was trembling slightly and he wiped a sleeve across his forehead. “I don’t think this is such a good idea.”
“What’s happened? Please tell me.”
“It’s nothing. You’re a great girl, I just—can’t.” He grimaced a smile. “I can’t stay here—” he said, biting off the rest of his words and scurrying back down the stairs as I felt my own cheeks heat with embarrassment.
I stood there wondering what on earth had happened—a crisis of confidence? It didn’t seem like it—and then two other figures climbed the stairs toward me.
My mother in her black dress and pearls, white fox fur draped over her elbow, hair mussed as if a hand had run through it, and lipstick faded and smudged; and my father, his bow tie loose around his neck.
“Hello, darling,” my mother said with a bright but tremulous smile. “What are you doing on your own up here; you aren’t waiting for someone, are you?”
“There was a boy, Charles, he wanted to see the family portraits,” I said as my father frowned. Charles had been one of the boys he mocked; a toothless runt, he had called him when my mother pointed out his pedigree to me, the grand estate he would inherit. “He was frightened of something . . .” I trailed off, unable to explain.
“Maybe he saw her,” my mother said with a confidence that could only come from madness, “the woman in white.” Her mascara had bled beneath her eyes, drawing out the dark hollows we both shared.
Maybe it was you, I thought spitefully, clenching my jaw. Maybe you scared him off.
“I think they’re bringing the cake out soon; you should head on downstairs,” my father said kindly. “Your mother needs some rest.” And I watched them leave, his hand tight on her arm, the white fur like a tail against the liquid black silk of her dress, hating her, feeling utterly rotten.
After that, I never tried to bring another partygoer back to my room, feeling bruised and embarrassed, fearing that my mother would make a scene or that they too would be spooked.
Maybe I should find myself a husband with an even grander house, I thought wryly as I smoked another cigarette and watched the crowds in the ballroom, and leave Lockwood altogether. Perhaps it was the house that was at fault—and I thought of the young maid who had left a few months ago, the one I had overheard muttering to Dorothy that even with my mother and her fits gone, she could not bear to stay at Lockwood any longer, that there was something here, a lingering malevolence. Maybe if I left too, my nightmares would not follow. But maybe they would. Maybe it wasn’t the house at all; maybe it was me, and had been all along.
And besides, although I had mocked my suitors for confusing me with the estate itself, it was true that I was tied here, that I felt a responsibility to Lockwood as if it was woven into my very bones; that it was unlikely now that I would ever be compelled to leave, and that I would no doubt join my mother one day in the graveyard just up the lane with all the other Lady Lockwoods—locked up in our coffins, dry hair spilling across our shoulders, nails like claws reaching out toward the packed earth above.
Thirteen
It was the Major’s voice echoing down the long gallery, I realized before I even reached him, and he was talking about the museum.
“I’ve seen larger butterflies on my travels, of course, I imagine you have too,” he was saying to someone. By the noise of feet shifting on the creaking floor, I pictured a crowd of about half a dozen with him. The long gallery only had four doorways inside of it, one pair on either end of the corridor, with two sets of six rooms linked together. The Major was in one of these middle rooms, hidden from my view.
“Oh, we have everything here, all the mammals.” The Major was
now replying to someone else’s muffled question. “Every beastie you could want,” he said, and then did something that caused the guests to laugh.
I took the door on the opposite side of the corridor and walked through the rooms, checking that everything was still in place, my nerves on edge.
All was well until I came to the last room and the hummingbird cabinet.
The glass of the cabinet had been smashed open in the middle, as if a fist had punched right through it, and in the center of the jagged hole I could see a bare branch and the empty spaces where a handful of hummingbirds had sat only this morning.
I marched across the hall and through the opposite doorway to find the Major and the crowd, and the thief that was likely among them.
“A marvelous example of plumage,” the Major was saying as I entered the room, a finger stroking one of the tail feathers of a bird of paradise, and then he took the same hand and tweaked a red curl of the woman standing next to him whose cheeks were pink with wine. “What do you think, darling?” he asked her.
There were two men in officers’ uniform with him and one in a tailcoat, plus four women, three of them at least half the age of the Major.
“Excuse me, Lord Lockwood,” I said, clearing my throat.
“Ah, Miss Cartwright!” he said, smiling at me with a touch of condescension. “I’ve just been telling people about the museum.”
About my museum, I thought, not yours; hating the way he acted so proprietarily, as if he were responsible for the museum’s careful collection of specimens, the curatorial work, the cataloging and mounting of the animals, the building of the cabinets, and the preparation of accurate labels and records.
“Did you take people through the rooms on the other side?” I asked. “I’ve just found some damage there—”
“Back to the party now, everyone,” the Major said, clapping his hands together. “I need to deal with some museum business. Work never ends.” He sighed jovially, and the women took the elbows of the men and left the room.
“Now,” he said, turning to me with a face free of humor, “what’s this about damage?”
“Come with me,” I said, not caring to be polite, and led him to the broken cabinet.
“You see,” I said, holding out a hand toward it. “And there are some hummingbirds missing too. Do you know what happened? Was the door to the long gallery locked when you arrived?”
“Yes, it was locked,” he said, and then he peered closer at the cabinet. “Hmm, they are quite faded, aren’t they, I thought that was just the distortion of the glass. Do they keep better away from the light?”
“This is a historical piece,” I stated, as if I needed to defend the poor hummingbirds and their discolored feathers. “Some of these specimens are very rare, and the display hasn’t been touched for fifty years. You didn’t hear a smash when you were in here, or a muffled crash? You’re sure the door was locked?”
“It was.” He nodded vaguely, still staring at the birds.
“This was not here this morning; one of the guests has done this,” I stressed. “One of the guests has taken the birds.”
“Taken the birds?” he scoffed. “I can’t think why.”
“Why doesn’t matter, Lord Lockwood. Something must be done.”
“Quite,” he said, straightening himself up and pressing his fingers lightly against his bow tie to check it was still in place.
“So you’ll make an announcement?” I pressed. “And ask the culprit to come forward?”
“An announcement?” he said distractedly. “Of course.”
“We won’t prosecute, naturally,” I said, as he left the gallery.
“Of course not, Miss Cartwright.” His words were thrown over one shoulder as he strode down the corridor toward the main house, and I almost had to break into a run to keep up with him.
I turned off the bank of light switches and then called out to him, “Your key!”
He paused in the second doorway and then turned around. “Here you are,” he said, holding it toward me and then waiting while I locked the door so that I had no choice but to give it back to him. If it were up to me he would not have any keys to the museum’s rooms, he would not have such free rein, but of course, it was his manor, so there was nothing to be done about it.
I squeezed past the guests lingering in lazy circles in the hall, entering the ballroom as the Major was calling everyone’s attention by hitting a knife against his crystal glass.
He started with thanking us for joining him tonight, for our good humor and excellent dancing feet, for draining his cellars dry (there was much jocular laughter at this remark). He informed us that the party was drawing to its close now, that there would be a collection at the door for the regiment, and to let the housekeeper know if any of us were without transport, for they would gladly be put up in one of the available rooms. Lastly he asked, in an offhand way, if anyone had seen any stuffed birds—a question that resulted in more laughter which plucked at my already tight nerves. He quietened the crowd and explained that one of the cabinets had been knocked by an errant elbow and a few of the hummingbirds had fallen out of it and been mislaid—making it sound as if they had tumbled to the ground right in front of the cabinet and that I was the idiot who could not find them where they lay.
“All jokes aside,” he then said, “please do check your pockets, just in case one of our guests has played a schoolboy joke and stashed a little feathered fellow there.”
A few people halfheartedly patted their pockets and then the crowd made their slow exits, leaving glasses and crumbs and bags and stray gloves in their wake.
I strode up to the Major, who was hobnobbing by the door with the officers. “Excuse me,” I said quietly.
“Yes, Miss Cartwright?” he asked, turning away from his group, his irritation at being interrupted again obvious yet replaced by a blank expression that was somehow all the more threatening for its blankness.
“Shouldn’t the guests be searched as they leave?” I asked.
“No, they should not,” he said, moving us a little way away from the others. “If someone really wanted to steal those birds, faded though they are, they would have already removed them from the house or slipped them inside their shoe, or something.” He leaned a little closer, voice dropping, and added, “Should you like my guests to be patted down like miscreants? A handful of birds does not call for a hysterical reaction like this. I will gladly pay the cost of replacement, but I will hear nothing more of this tonight. These men”—and with this, he pointed behind him—“are off to fight for us soon and you want me to accuse them of being thieves? Get some perspective, Miss Cartwright, this country is at war.”
I stood there under his onslaught and bit my tongue, feeling angry and the kind of righteous frustration that would lead to later bitter tears. I would not let him know that I felt cowed, so I tilted my chin up and listened to him as if he was saying something reasonable. Would he treat me like this if I were a man?
“Do you understand?” he said.
“Perfectly,” I answered, and he nodded and walked away, calling to Mary, whose pale dress gleamed in the light from the decorative candles. When she saw me over the Major’s shoulder, she gave me a dirty look—just as she had every time she had met me—before she turned to beam at him, and I did my best not to give in to the childish impulse to stick my tongue out at her, to stick my tongue out at the both of them.
I retreated to the long gallery to the sounds of maids clearing away the party—the sweep of brooms, the clink of bottles and glasses, the scrape of cutlery against trays and plates—and the murmurs of a handful of guests moving upstairs to use the promised empty rooms to sleep off their revelries. I looked for the birds for the next half hour, but came up empty-handed. I searched the rest of the museum rooms too, before locking the doors myself and checking in with the night guard, who was slumped in his chair by the door but still awake, his tie askew, looking like a reveler who had not had the energy to leave w
ith the others, or perhaps a pale-throated sloth.
“I had a feeling something was going to happen tonight, but I thought it would be a scuffle outside rather than a theft,” he said, and I was pleased that someone else had been just as unsure about the ball as I was. “It’s high spirits, that’s all,” he added quickly, though, dimming my good opinion of him. “I remember when we were about to be shipped off, the mischief we got up to. Half those lads didn’t come back, you know . . . I should be out there now, but for my leg.” As he spoke, he patted the offending limb forcefully.
“We appreciate what you do for the museum,” I said. “This collection is of international importance; the specimens we have are incredibly rare, and valuable to all sorts of scientific research and discoveries.” He nodded politely, and I realized that I was making my case for the museum to him because I had failed to do so to the Major, to some of the other guests tonight who I had heard making wry comments. It was as if, if I could only get this weary man to understand, to agree with me, the night could be salvaged.
I left him there with his torch, feeling annoyed at myself for that impulse, that justification. If this house continued to cause problems, if other items went missing, I would call London and tell them another home for the museum would have to be found, even though it would cause all manner of fuss and would no doubt lose me my job and have me shuffled down the career ladder to a simple assistant again. But it would be worth it, to save the museum. It would be worth it too to see the Major have to put Lockwood to use for other war efforts—perhaps the army could use his lawns to practice throwing grenades, or his rooms could be filled with evacuated children with eager, sticky hands. I smiled at the thought.
I unlocked my room with the key from my purse, relieved that this had become a habit since Lucy’s words of warning after my missing watch. But where was Lucy? I had not seen her in the ballroom when the Major was giving his announcement, nor afterward. Perhaps she had been wisely hiding away in her tower room, tired by the noisy crowd who had invaded her home.
