‘Disturbed?’
‘They say that the house is shadowy, that it harbours an atmosphere of, unrest? I can’t explain...’
‘There’s no need, no need at all. I quite understand.’
The lawyer coughed into his hand, flicking his eyes across the room again, the corners of his mouth arching down.
A funny sort of cry, like a low wail, met her ears. Minerva perhaps, grappling at the door. Although it didn’t sound at all like her.
‘Excuse me for a moment,’ she said. ‘I’m not quite sure what that strange sound is.’
‘No, don’t go. Please. I think I am the one to explain that to you. The sound that you have just heard lies at the cause of my visit today. I think you should probably sit down for this... Not two hours ago a young Frenchwoman by the name of Claudette Chauvin was delivered to the doors of my offices. She was accompanied by a lawyer I know well, a Mr Barrowman who has been acting on behalf of a former neighbour of yours. Mrs Eden.’
Just the sound of that name, spoken out loud was enough to turn her cold.
‘Miss Chauvin has been rather emotional since her arrival. She’s endured a long journey it seems, with something of a burden to take care of. And yet she refused to disclose anything at all about her circumstances to me until I could convince her of one thing.’
‘And what was that?’
‘That your late husband, Mr Whitestone, is dead.’
The sound came again, a soft innocent cry like a baby.
‘It is now that I should probably give you this letter. It was written to you, although unsealed, by the late Mrs Eden shortly before her death and will, I think, explain everything. I will leave you to read it in private.’
The letter was written on cream paper. The last time she’d seen that rushed scrawl it had been on a torn piece of magazine: Lucinda’s response to that fatal dinner invitation.
Dear Miranda
May I call you that now? You nursed me so kindly that I feel an unexpected closeness to you.
If you are reading this letter then it means that your husband and I are both dead. Because that was the agreement you see, that Claudette couldn’t possibly come to you until you were well and truly rid of him. How I hope and pray for this happy circumstance!
I have harmed you Miranda. I am so sorry. But please let me give you something in return that is more precious than anything I could ever dare possess for myself. The child, my child, that I made with Tristan in all my folly!
I feel it moving every day inside me, dragging his heels along my sides – yes, I’m sure it is a boy! And in spite of all my feebleness he is strong, stronger than me!
Alfonso gets angry with me. He has fooled himself into thinking that I’ll live through this, but I know better. I have been watching myself fall apart. I am a dead woman already.
You lost your mother, as did I. And those bitter holes in our worlds have shown us how necessary a mother is to a child’s life, my child’s life. But a mother should not be an ignorant fool like me! Heavens no. She should be someone like you who is strong and forgiving. Someone who still endures in spite of all the wretchedness and ghastliness around them.
Take him. Please take him and love him and do whatever it is that you must to make him happy. Until now I have made all the wrong decisions in my life. I trust you to make the right ones.
Lucinda
The soft wail reached her again; its sadness pulled her towards it, growing ever louder, bouncing petulantly against the walls of the hallway.
Motherless. Motherless! it seemed to say.
The door handle opposite turned and the lawyer appeared, his expression as sombre and downcast as before.
‘You have read the letter?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is a most unusual set of circumstances. If you would like to take some time to think then I could arrange...’
‘That won’t be necessary. It is all quite legal?’
‘Yes, I have the documents. Mrs Eden summoned Mr Barrowman to Paris during her time there although the child was later born in Leipzig. She was most exacting apparently, specifying that the child should remain in Miss Chauvin’s care until he could be handed over to you on your husband’s demise.’
‘He?’
‘Indeed. She had a son. She named your late husband as the father. You know she died on exactly the same day as Mr Whitestone, just a matter of hours before him it seems. Strange.’
Swish swish
The sound of that dress brushing against the floor came whispering back to her and the sight of those peacock feathers, glinting in all that lovely hair...
‘Oh, it’s not quite so strange,’ she replied. ‘Not really I don’t think. Alfonso Eden, where is he?’
‘Abroad still. Miss Chauvin says that his wife’s death weakened him considerably. He’s a broken man it seems, unwilling to move from where she left him. He couldn’t even bring himself to look at the child apparently.’
The wail came again: Motherless! Motherless!
‘Well I will look at him. Right now if you’ll excuse me.’
The Frenchwoman was patting and rocking the small parcel feverishly in her arms. It was the same small dark woman who’d come to nurse Lucinda in Dover on that cold morning. She rushed towards her.
‘He will not settle Madame,’ she said, putting him in her arms. ‘He is usually quite content, I don’t know what it could be!’
‘Is he hungry?’ asked Miranda; the bundle seemed impossibly light.
‘He will not eat. That is also so unusual for him.’
She drifted towards the window, the small red face screaming up at her in protest, eyes tightly shut.
‘I will leave you for now Mrs White!’ came Mr Fairclough’s voice, raised to make itself heard above the wails. ‘But before I go I would like to leave one suggestion in your mind. It is a bold one, but in light of your financial circumstances, one that I should at least make an attempt at. Mr Whitestone’s family...’
‘I will hear nothing of them.’
‘Indeed, but please do listen to what I have to say. I am aware that Mr Whitestone’s family have hardly been forthcoming in their support of you so far. Lucinda Eden however was, as you might know, a Hartreve. They are a wealthy family, with a large estate in Wiltshire, and although I understand that there were difficult relations caused by Mrs Eden’s marriage, there was once a close bond between her and her father. Lord Stephen Hartreve is commonly known as a strong-minded man, but he has also displayed a capacity for enormous acts of charitable generosity in the past. He could be a valuable friend to you and the boy.’
‘I am afraid that such a proposition is simply unimaginable. I will manage. We will manage.’
‘I see. Please then accept my apology. And do remember that as your lawyer my interests are only in your well-being. If, for example, you have any difficulties remaining in this house, then a solution must be found...’ his voice trailed off. She didn’t even need to look at him to know that those sharp eyes of his were once again sizing up the room around him.
‘Yes, I do understand. And thank you for your concern.’
The baby punched at the air with his red knuckles.
‘Does this place make you cry little man? Sometimes it makes me cry as well,’ she murmured to him, gently kissing his hot smooth face. He stopped wailing quite suddenly and looked straight up at her with eyes so achingly familiar that in a moment she was as smitten as that very first day when his father had taken her hand and smiled, just as if it had been love at first sight.
‘Like beautiful pools of crystal blue,’ she whispered, as he stared up at her unblinkingly. ‘And you seduce the world with them just like Tristan did, don’t you? But we won’t let you be like him. Oh no. Not like him at all.’
The baby yawned like a young lion cub and gradually, in her resolute arms, fell into a deep and exhausted sleep. For two hours she held him in the warm glow of the window.
‘You see, I am your slave already
little man. And we’ve only just met!’
She spotted her in a moment, not far off on a bench.
‘She’s over there, I can see her. Are you sure he’s warm enough?’
Mrs Hubbard raised her eyes to heaven. ‘He has three blankets wrapped around him. You should be worrying yourself more about him being too hot!’
Two blue eyes winked up at her from the perambulator. It was no good, she just had to lean in and kiss those soft cheeks one more time. A toothless grin beamed up at her.
‘How he loves the park! Alright. One circuit should do it; I don’t want too much time with her. Then bring him over to us.’
Jane had found a place to sit under a large oak tree. She was wearing a thick brown coat, far too warm for a day like this, and her mouth was fixed in a solemn pout.
Miranda waded slowly towards her through the grass. Her sister appeared to be looking in her direction but showed no hint of recognition. Closer and closer, just yards away now, and still she didn’t even blink or move a muscle in that resolute face. Walter Balanchine’s words came flooding back to her:
I see the pain inside you! You try to make it invisible, make yourself invisible, but I see it there, smouldering away.
‘Hello.’
‘Oh it’s you,’ said Jane, refusing to meet her eyes. ‘I didn’t see you coming.’
‘Yes I know. Thank you for meeting me here.’
‘Rather more appropriate to have met at the house I think.’
‘Actually no. The house is not the best of places to be in at the moment. I am trying to sell it. It was disappointing that you were unable to come to Tristan’s funeral.’
That did it. She had Jane’s full attention now: eyes round, lips trembling.
‘Did you really expect me to attend the funeral of a lunatic suicide?’ she spat.
‘He was my husband.’
‘A vile individual.’
‘Yes. But my husband, your sister’s husband, nevertheless. And now I’ve been left in an awful predicament. I have no money and the house won’t sell.’
‘What do you mean it won’t sell?’
‘It revolts people, turns them away. I really can’t explain it. But I have a child now to care for as well.’
‘A child! I had no idea.’
‘He’s not mine. Tristan had an affair with our neighbour Mrs Eden. She bore him a son and when they both died she left him to me. I am responsible for him now.’
It was almost possible to feel sorry for Jane at that moment. Her astonishment was such that she actually spluttered and all the taught muscles in her face suddenly slumped down.
‘Are you out of your mind?’ she gasped.
‘No. Mrs Eden was very badly abused by Tristan. I think you might be aware of his history in that respect. I helped her escape from him and now that she’s gone the child needs a mother.’
‘There are other family members.’
‘But he has been left to me!’
Jane’s mouth hung open. She raised her hands as if she were about to grab her by the shoulders and Miranda felt herself slink back an inch.
‘Please, lower your hands. Please. My sole intention today was to meet you in an open and honest way. Because we have never really been honest with each other, have we? I have been punished all my life for a wrong I never meant to commit. I now find myself with no money, a home that has become wretched and a child to care for. You are my only relative and although we have never been friends I am asking you outright whether you have any space in your heart to help me.’
Jane’s eyes glistened. Could there be tears there or was it just a ray of sun glinting back at her? Beyond her sister’s shoulder Mrs Hubbard was approaching, the wheels of the perambulator sluggish in the grass. He was probably sleeping now, his downy head resting peacefully against his pillow. Happy sleep. Not like at home.
‘Look. They’re coming now, just behind you, my cook Mrs Hubbard and the baby. You can hold him if you like. He only seems to cry at home, as if it hurts him to be there. I think his father...’
‘Be quiet!’ The tears had gone, or perhaps they’d been nothing more than a passing sunray after all. ‘Of all the things you’ve done over the years! All the ridiculous behaviour.’
Mrs Hubbard was almost with them now. She was red in the face, puffed out with all that pushing.
‘Are you telling me that you won’t help?’
‘I... I cannot.’
She bowed her head, eyes cast firmly down.
‘How very sad. And after all these years you still struggle to look me in the eye.’
‘That’s simply not true!’
‘Yes it is. Goodbye sister; from now on you won’t even need to ignore me ever again, because I’ll be gone. But I have one thing left to say to you. Just one last thing. If our roles had been reversed in this life I would never, NEVER, have treated you in such a heartless despicable way.’
‘But Miranda...’
‘Goodbye.’
Her feet felt surprisingly light as she walked away. Answers, even the most unwanted ones, were still better than lingering questions. In the corner of her eye she could see the bent shame in Jane’s curved back.
‘How was your walk?’ she asked, beaming at Mrs Hubbard. ‘Ah, there’s my boy! Lost in happy sleep. Let me kiss him gently.’
The sound ribboned in and out of her sleep. Her body felt like rocks; so tired that she doubted whether she’d be able to run from a blazing fire if she had to. And there he was once more, gliding through her dreams. Walter Balanchine...
‘Do you feel in any sort of danger?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Promise that you’ll come to me, when the time is right?’
‘But why would I...?’
‘Promise.’
‘I promise.’
The sound came to her again, lulling her out of the tunnel, wishing her awake... but Walter pulled her back towards him, with those eyes that could read into her soul. He’d taken the old nightmare away, replaced it with himself. All was jewel coloured in her sleep now: bright emerald green and amethyst, and the tinkling of trinkets hanging from a chain.
‘Promise that you’ll come to me, when the time is right?
‘I promise.’
And then that sound yet again; that familiar, painful wail. She drew her limbs back through the tunnel, heaved the great boulders off her eyelids.
The baby was punching at the air when she got to him: fists red and hot, his small head streaked with sweat.
‘Oh I’m sorry, I’m sorry my darling. How long have you been crying? I’m just so tired, you cry so much here...’
In her arms the wail simmered down to a pathetic whimper. He stared up at her pleadingly, as if he were desperately trying to tell her something with those watery blue eyes of his.
‘What is it little man? If only, if only you could just tell me!’
Her arms felt bruised with carrying him; her shoulders pounded with knots and strains. How many hours had it taken to get him off to sleep? Four? Five? And now awake again, with rings under his eyes and hers.
‘You sleep everywhere except here. You laugh and smile everywhere except here.’
The first light of day trickled in from between the curtains, casting spike headed shadows across the floor.
‘I’ll get you some milk now,’ she murmured to him. ‘And perhaps some water to clean that sweaty head of yours. Just wait for me here, you won’t even notice that I’ve gone.’
But as soon as his body touched the mattress of the cot again, his fists curled, his little back arched up and his lungs let loose a cry of double the previous force.
‘Two minutes,’ she stammered, dashing out of the room and flying downstairs to the kitchen. ‘Two minutes!’
She raced across the hallway, almost tripping over herself as something seemed to brush against her. Just a gust of cold air but it made her shiver. It was so gloomy down here, like wading through a grey cloud. She could hardly see
a thing.
The crying was a distant noise now, even fainter when she got to the kitchen. The floor was icy against her bare feet and she moved hastily, preparing his milk and putting it on a tray along with a glass bowl of water to mop his sweaty head. But then, quite suddenly, the crying stopped. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath as relief sank in.
The warm water slopped about in the bowl on the way up and as she walked along the corridor to his room. Hadn’t she left his door wide open? It was almost closed now, tricky to pull back with the tray in her hands. And he wasn’t asleep. She could now hear him murmuring in short sharp tremors:
‘Ah... ah... ah.’
She had to balance the tray carefully and then wedge her foot in the door to open it again. The bowl of water slopped about even more. ‘Ah... ah... ah.’ The door swung open.
Do you feel in any sort of danger?
Walter’s voice came roaring back through her head again almost before she saw it, standing there.
‘Ah... ah... ah.’
Motherless. Motherless.
The shadow hung over his cot, its spine like a long knotted rope. And on the mattress beneath it a small fist punched at the air.
An explosion roared beneath her. The shadow began to turn, its spine-rope bending with the grace of a cat. Her eyes fell down to the splintered tray on the floor, to the bowl of water now smashed into a thousand shards of broken glass, the bottle of milk rolling to a standstill in a ridge between the floorboards.
‘Aaaaaaw!’
His mew was like a tortured animal.
‘When will you stop?’ she cried. ‘They’re always quite defenceless, aren’t they? Your victims.’
The broken glass was barely visible on the floor, as deadly as black ice.
‘I thought I loved you so very much, once...’
She took one cautious step with her naked foot. A tearing sensation slithered along the bottom of her heel. She lifted it and something wet dripped down between her toes. She took another step closer.
The Room Beyond Page 25
