All eyes were on Faith’s father, who did not deign to raise his eyes.
‘I was one of the first called in to examine his New Falton find,’ continued the old man. ‘When I looked upon it, and saw a fossilized human shoulder with faint traces of wings spreading from it, I felt . . . awe. At once I knew what it was. “This,” I said, “is one of the ancient Nephilim, and it is as authentic as I am. I would stake my reputation on it!”’
The Reverend’s cheek twitched slightly at the word ‘reputation’. Faith was filled with a terrible surge of sympathy. She wanted to feel happy that her father had such an ardent supporter, but the old man’s declaration was a little too desperate. It made her nervous.
‘My dear friends,’ said Lambent, ‘I do not think this is a conversation for mixed company.’
The company unmixed itself. For a little while there had been a faint tension in the air, a feeling of politeness under strain. The ladies had been charming company, but now the gentlemen wanted them to depart and enjoy their afternoon tea, so that the men could have their scientific meeting and talk freely.
Faith’s heart sank as she found herself trailing after the other ladies. This is your future, said a cruel voice in her head. Walking away from scientific meetings you are not allowed to attend.
Halfway down the corridor, her attention was caught by an open door. Beyond lay a tiny room that smelt of dust and formaldehyde. Daylight from high windows glinted on glass-fronted cabinets and the eyes of stuffed animals. A cabinet of curiosities, a naturalist’s den.
Faith glanced after Myrtle and the other ladies, none of whom was paying her any attention. She felt a flare of rebellion, and a familiar singing in her ears. If I cannot eat at the table, I can snatch at scraps.
She slipped into the little room, closing the door behind her deftly and without a click.
Faith moved around the room, rapt, mesmerized, staring into case after case. Birds’ eggs. Butterflies. Dry pinned-out hides of lizards and baby crocodiles. Papery remains of carnivorous plants, with thorn-like teeth or tongue-like stamens. Every item had its own tiny, meticulously written label.
A stuffed mongoose was frozen forever in the black and yellow coils of a snake. The colour and pattern of the scales reminded Faith of her father’s snake, which made her feel a little uncomfortable.
As Faith peered at the exhibits in the biggest cabinet, she felt a queer, unpeeling sensation in her stomach. A stuffed albino badger lurked between a fly preserved in a glossy blob of amber and a tough-looking root shaped crudely like a person. In a great pickle jar, a pair of conjoined piglets floated in pallid eternal sleep.
Freaks of Nature, read the central label.
And that is what I am, thought Faith, feeling sick. A little female brain with too much crammed into it. Maybe that is what is wrong with me. Maybe that is why I cannot stop myself creeping and spying.
Faith had just crept out of the room into the corridor again when Myrtle reappeared, tight-lipped and impatient.
‘What in the world delayed you?’
‘Sorry, Mother – I was lost . . .’ Faith trailed off, and with satisfaction saw her mother’s annoyance ebb into weary resignation.
‘This is no time for wandering or wool-gathering.’ Myrtle tugged Faith’s straight collar a little straighter. ‘These “ladies” will be taking their measure of our family, and it is very important that we make the right impression. We cannot look too eager – if we let them talk down to us, then by tomorrow the whole island will be doing so.’
Faith followed Myrtle to a green-papered drawing room where half a dozen ladies were seated and a silver tea service had been laid out. A fierce fire blazed in the hearth. Even compared to the pleasant warmth of the trophy room, this room was muggy and stifling.
In a wicker throne by the fire sat a woman that Faith had not seen before. She had a high, queenly forehead and a fine haze of pale blonde hair gathered back into a bun. The blankets that swaddled her marked her out as an invalid.
‘Please, do come in – so that my man can shut the door. The seats are warmest by the fire. I am Agatha Lambent.’ She had a deep, pleasant voice, but every sentence lilted mournfully downward, as though drooping under its own weight.
Back in the trophy room the gentlemen would be taking the leash off their conversation. Likewise, here in the drawing room, each lady quietly relaxed and became more real, expanding into the space left by the men. Without visibly changing, they unfolded, like flowers, or knives.
Faith could sense her mother making rapid judgements. Everyone had their place on an invisible ladder. It was easy to know that dukes were high above you, and chambermaids far below. But there were thousands of rungs, some at tiny differences in height, and Myrtle always wanted to judge everyone’s level to a fraction of an inch.
Myrtle’s blue gaze flitted quickly over the room and its occupants. Mrs Lambent sounded as English as the Sunderlys, but the other ladies’ murmurs of greeting had displayed the local accent. The local ladies’ dresses were of good quality, but not quite up to date. Most of them were clearly wearing bell-shaped full crinolines, a style that had been fashionable a couple of years before. Myrtle, on the other hand, wore the very latest flat-fronted ‘half-crinoline’.
With an inner wince Faith saw Myrtle sweeping forward confidently and dropping curtseys that were polite but a little condescending. She could see that her mother was claiming a position only a little lower than Mrs Lambent, and slight superiority to the other ladies. Perhaps they were important ladies on this island, but they were all provincial.
‘How very kind of you to invite us!’ she told Mrs Lambent. And how kind of us to come, her manner added in the sweetest tone.
Faith took a seat and tried not to squirm. The tightened corset made her feel much more adult, but it was hard to sit still, and the straps dug into her shoulders.
Myrtle was younger than most of the other women, but did not defer to their opinions. Instead, she countered with, ‘Ah, but I have always found in London . . .’ or, ‘Well, I do recall a London gentleman once told me . . .’ She had been brought up in London prior to her marriage, and that was her trump card.
Please stop, Faith begged her silently. Must we make everybody hate us? What if we are stranded on this island for years? Only black-haired Miss Hunter seemed unruffled by Myrtle’s manner, watching her instead with the bright, anticipative air of one watching an amusing play.
I do not belong here, Faith told herself desperately. I do not belong in this room of tea and bonnets and gossip . . .
Faith tried not to listen to her mother, or to the thistly, resentful whispers elsewhere in the room. Instead she let her eye drift around the room, and realized that it was covered in religious oddments – prayer books, samplers with lines from Psalms, and memento mori like china skulls and black wreaths. Perhaps Mrs Lambent’s illness kept her thoughts focused on the hereafter. Certainly she seemed determined not to go to hell for lack of ornaments.
‘Faith!’ hissed Myrtle.
Faith started, and found that Mrs Lambent’s large eyes were regarding her solemnly. She reddened, realizing that she had probably just been asked a question.
‘Do forgive Faith – she is still recovering from the voyage yesterday.’ Myrtle gave Faith a far from forgiving look.
‘It must have been very trying,’ Miss Hunter agreed. ‘Particularly since I understand you brought none of your own servants with you?’ Her smile was a little too sweet.
‘The house we have leased is fully staffed,’ Myrtle responded quickly.
‘Oh, I do not blame you at all!’ Miss Hunter spread her plump, well-shaped hands. ‘There is always so much trouble when you mix two lots of servants – we all know how they gossip!’
Faith’s cup clicked against her saucer. Miss Hunter’s words were too close an echo of her own suspicions. The Sunderly family had not brought their servants because they did not want to bring gossip with them.
‘I do hope you will fin
d you have everything you need on Vane,’ Miss Hunter continued amiably. ‘We are not without society, and most of the London fashions reach us sooner or later. We even . . . receive the London papers. Usually a day late, but news is not milk – it keeps well enough.’ Her tone was dry, but now with an unmistakable barb. ‘I am particularly fond of the Intelligencer. Do you ever read it, Mrs Sunderly?’
‘I prefer The Times,’ declared Myrtle, with unnecessary hauteur, her spoon tracing hasty circles in her cup.
Faith kept her head bowed, hoping that her face did not show her feelings. She had started to hope that no dark rumours about her father had reached Vane. There was no mistaking Miss Hunter’s veiled meaning, however.
Faith glanced at her mother, and saw that Myrtle’s cheeks had turned pale.
Mother knows. The accusations against Father – Mother must have known about them all this time.
We didn’t outrun the Intelligencer after all. It followed us all the way to the island. Miss Hunter must know about the scandal already . . . and soon everyone else will too.
CHAPTER 6:
YELLOW EYES
As Lambent’s carriage took the Sunderly family back to Bull Cove, Faith tried to work up her courage. She needed to speak with her father. She needed to warn him about Miss Hunter’s words, and to let him know that whatever happened, she was on his side. It was torture seeing him bear so much alone.
When at last they reached home, and Jeanne had taken their coats and hats, Uncle Miles lit a taper and fumbled for his pipe, preparing for his customary stroll and smoke.
The Reverend halted him at the door. ‘Miles – if you’re stepping outside, stay near the house. Earlier today I had the gardener set gin-traps.’
Uncle Miles coughed out an incredulous lungful of smoke.
‘Erasmus – is that wise? In the dark . . . if people are unaware of the danger . . .’
‘I hardly see that allowing nocturnal intruders to prowl the grounds can be described as either “wise” or without danger,’ retorted the Reverend. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I must visit the folly.’ He strode out into the garden.
A little while later the Reverend returned with a small, wooden box in one hand. As he came in, stamping the soil from his shoes, Faith rallied her courage.
‘Father, can—’
‘My dear, I wonder if I might speak with you?’ Myrtle spoke at the same time, drowning out Faith’s more hesitant voice. She wore the expression of careful alertness she always used when addressing delicate subjects with her husband. ‘There is something I need to mention to you.’
‘It will have to wait,’ the Reverend responded curtly. He stared down at the box in his hand. ‘Everything will have to wait. There is a matter that requires my immediate attention – all of my attention. I shall be in the library, and under no circumstances must I be disturbed.’ The Reverend had claimed the library as his study from the first day, and it was now sacred ground.
Faith’s father had mastered the art of making his words sound gravestone-final, his decisions irrevocable. The library door closed behind him. The moment was lost.
Faith joined Howard for supper, then helped him say his prayers and put him to bed, wondering how she had become governess and nursemaid in one. Howard was sleepy but tenacious, wrapping his arms around her every time she tried to leave.
As she stroked his head and lulled him to sleep a faint sound jerked Faith from her thoughts. It was a short, sharp cry, not unlike a vixen but very like a child, and it came from the darkness outside. Doors below opened and closed. There were hushed conversations, exclamations of alarm and hurried steps.
Faith slipped from her brother’s room and hastened downstairs, in time to find her mother, her uncle and Mrs Vellet in the drawing room, in tense, hushed debate.
‘Madam, we must send for a doctor . . .’ Mrs Vellet was insisting.
‘I cannot consent to that without my husband’s permission . . .’ Myrtle cast a nervous glance in the direction of the library.
‘Has he forbidden it?’ asked Uncle Miles. ‘Does Erasmus even know that there is a maimed child on his doorstep?’
‘He gave instructions – strict instructions – that he was not to be disturbed,’ Myrtle’s tone was meaningful, and her expression seemed to take the wind from her brother’s sails. Even warmed by port, Uncle Miles was not one to risk the Reverend’s temper. ‘Miles – is there a chance that you—’
‘Myrtle, if I had money for the doctor I would send for him straight away, but right now I simply do not have the funds.’
‘Mrs Vellet –’ Myrtle turned to the housekeeper – ‘if the boy is brought into the kitchen, can he not be bandaged there?’
‘Yes, madam.’ Mrs Vellet seemed to be having some difficulty maintaining her usual composure. ‘But there is only so much we can do.’
All three were too caught in their conversation to notice Faith slipping away to the library.
Father would want to know. Of course he would want to know.
She knocked. There was a silence, and then a faint sound that might have been a cleared throat, but which sounded just enough like a muffled word.
Faith turned the handle and opened the door.
The gas lamps were turned down to a mere glow, but the brass reading lamp on the desk bathed the scene in a quivering halo of light. Behind the desk sat her father, reclining back in his chair. As Faith entered he turned his head very slightly in her direction, and frowned.
Faith opened her mouth to apologize, but the words died in her mouth. Her father’s posture, always ramrod-straight, was now oddly slumped. She had never seen his face so pale, so slack. Her skin tingled.
There was a clammy smell in the room, she realized, the cold scent she had noticed in the folly. Now it ran little ice-fingers down her throat, through the nerves of her teeth and across the backs of her eyes. The air was alive with it.
‘Father?’
Her own voice sounded odd, as if a faint down of sighs clung to it. As she gingerly advanced, her footsteps were muffled in the same strange, feathery way. On every side the air seemed to be stirring itself in little mouthless breaths.
A pen trembled between her father’s loose fingers, ink pooling on the paper beneath the nib. A few sentences had been scrawled in clumsy, lopsided letters, unlike the Reverend’s usual handwriting.
His pupils were tiny and impenetrably black. In the lamplight it seemed that the grey of his eyes had jaded to a murky, troubled yellow. As she watched, the flecks and blotches of his irises seemed to shift and stir like waterweed . . .
‘Father!’
The discoloured eyes fixed on her, their gaze sharpening. Then his jaw set and his brow slowly creased.
‘Get out.’ It was a whisper, but with more venom than Faith had ever heard in her father’s voice. ‘Get out!’
Faith turned and ran from the room, heart pounding.
‘Faith!’ Myrtle appeared in the hallway, just in time to see Faith closing the door behind her. ‘Oh – has your father finished his work for the evening? Thank goodness – I must speak with him.’
‘No!’ Faith reflexively put her back to the door.
She could not make sense of what she had just seen, but she knew he wanted to keep it a secret. Faith remembered tales of strange opiates smoked in secret, with fumes that entranced gentlemen’s wills and enslaved their minds. What if her father’s troubles had driven him to become an opium eater? She could not expose him. He was facing enough scorn and scandal already.
‘I . . . I went in to tell him about the boy in the gin-trap,’ Faith said quickly.
‘What did he say?’
Faith hesitated. The only safe answer was to say that she had been ordered out of the room and given no answer. It was true besides.
‘We should send for a doctor,’ she heard herself say.
Myrtle hurried away to give orders to Mrs Vellet, relief visible on her pretty, rounded features.
Faith was flabbergasted b
y her own nerve. Her lie would inevitably be exposed. Her mind mouse-scampered with the agility of practice, trying to find a way out, but she could think of no excuse or explanation. She could not imagine facing her father and telling him that she had given false orders in his name.
Father has to understand, she told herself If I had not, he might have been discovered, or blamed for letting the boy bleed. I am protecting him.
At the same time, the thought that she had claimed a tiny part in one of her father’s mysterious secrets filled her with a small, quiet glow.
A few minutes later, Faith looked out through the window and saw Uncle Miles, the household manservant and Mrs Vellet helping a shorter figure towards the house. When they drew close enough for the window’s light to fall on them, she could make out the face of the boy, who looked about fourteen years old. He was alarmingly pale, cheeks shiny with tears, face crumpled with pain. The cloth clumsily tied around his ankle was blotched with dark. The sight of it filled her stomach with an animal, sympathetic tingle.
Faith was not allowed into the kitchen. Sitting in the nearby dining room, however, she could easily hear the boy’s high sobs of pain, and the panicky conversations within.
‘. . . No, hold the pad steady!’
‘Mrs Vellet – it’s soaked! It’s leaking through my fingers!’
The manservant Prythe arrived with more makeshift bandages. As he opened the kitchen door, Faith caught a fleeting glimpse of the wounded boy lying on the hearthrug, Jeanne clamping a red-soaked cloth to his ankle. The boy was cursing through clenched teeth, his eyes tightly shut.
‘I won’t have language like that in my kitchen,’ Mrs Vellet could be heard to declare, as the door shut. ‘What would you do if you bled to death right now, and got dragged down to hell for having a wicked tongue?’
Dr Jacklers’s carriage arrived within the hour. He bowed to Mrs Sunderly and Faith, but had a businesslike frown rather than his sociable smile.
‘How is the boy?’ he asked immediately. ‘Serious, you say? Well, I would hope so – I have just left a good mug of spiced cider cooling on my dresser, and I would hate it to be wasted for nothing.’ He asked for a tot of laudanum to numb the patient’s pain, and a hot cup of tea to help himself recover from the cold of his journey. ‘I never like to work with numb fingers, and a man is best warmed from the inside out.’
The Lie Tree Page 6
