There were raised voices coming from the hall. One of them sounded like a woman’s voice; Susan strained her ears to hear, assuming William had been running wild again.
My goodness, it…. oh, it cannot remain outdoors? Another crash, still louder; Susan heard the breaking of china. She? Excuse me… can she not remain outdoors?
What on earth was going on? Susan detested having to be curious, but circumstances seemed to be dictating her actions. Fighting the sick swoop of panic that came when she opened her bedroom door, she padded to the bannisters; she stood, silent, as two figures appeared below her.
‘It is quite alright, Olive.’ One of them was Henrietta; she was comforting another woman, one that Susan vaguely remembered seeing before. ‘It is not your fault. Not at all.’
‘But I should have been more forceful.’ Another crash came; Susan flinched at the same time as Henrietta and Olive. ‘Oh Henrietta, I really cannot apologise enough…’
The figures vanished into the dim recesses of the kitchens. Susan, her fists slowly clenching her skirts as she moved down the stairs, thought longingly of her window-panes—but she could not turn back to count. Not now.
Things were wrong. Everything out of place, out of order, was tugging at her like knots through a brush. But things were too wrong to give into her worst urges; too wrong to continue indulging herself, at the expense of others. Pushing back the curtain that concealed the small, hidden door to the drawing-room, the one the servants used, Susan stepped into a world turned upside-down.
The drawing room was in more than disarray. It was a complete and utter disaster; the curtains were ripped, with great strips of torn fabric lying higgledy-piggledy on the stained and splattered rug. Henry and Anne were standing with Lydia, all of them concealing expressions of complete horror as yet another vase crashed to the floor; Susan noted, hardly thinking about it, that it was part of a set—the other vase would need to be thrown away, or crushed to use for mosaics.
Her expression unchanging, she looked at the huge bird that sat on one of the small tables that Anne used to hold needlework. There was no sign of the needlework, although the tangle of threads caught in one of the bird’s feet didn’t say promising things. Susan looked at the creature with ferocious concentration; cocking its head, the bird looked back.
An albatross. That was the type of bird; the bird inexplicably in her drawing-room. She had read Oliver Whitstable’s letters so many times, with so many lines dedicated to his pet, that the lines and colours of the bird were as familiar to her as those of a common sparrow.
Taking a step forward, she watched the bird bristle. Folding her arms, peering at the animal, Susan spoke slowly.
‘... Sheba?’
The bird gave a single, harsh croak that spoke of wide seas and storms. Susan watched the enormous creature take to the air, circling the room with the clear air of conqueror surveying captured land, before coming to rest beside the man standing in the threshold of the doorway.
To her surprise, she knew exactly who the man was—just as she had known who Sheba was. Tall, silver-haired, with a bird sitting by him that looked like something out of a nightmare… why, from Henrietta’s descriptions and the man’s own letters, it had to be Oliver Whitstable himself.
Oliver Whitstable, here?
Oliver Whitstable, here.
This was another thing that was terribly wrong; a flaw in the painstakingly ordered universe the Susan had built for herself. Oliver lived in paper and ink, his letters the expression of his soul—he certainly couldn’t exist within the confines of the drawing room, her drawing room, now a china-covered wasteland full of torn wallpaper and bird droppings. He certainly couldn’t be looking at her, eyes wide, his lips spreading into what Susan supposed had to be a smile.
What on earth was there to smile about? Everything was in disorder; the most horrific disorder. Susan waited patiently to disappear, to withdraw into the silent, stony part of herself, becoming increasingly worried as the process refused to begin.
‘Susan!’ Oliver stepped forward; Susan noted distractedly that he neglected to bow. He was taller than she had pictured; taller, broader, with resolutely untidy hair. ‘You are alive, then?’
Susan looked down at herself, before looking back up at Oliver with a deep frown. What a stupid question. ‘Of course I am alive.’
‘Good!’ Oliver’s face grew as serious as Susan’s own; the bird stared at her too, for all the world as if she had personally offended it. ‘Then what the devil do you mean by not writing for a week?’
Anne held up her hands, speaking as soothingly as she possibly could. Susan wondered why she was trying to make everything pleasant; everything was deeply unpleasant, and a calm tone of voice couldn’t possibly alter it. ‘My sister-in-law has been indisposed, sir—perhaps we could retire to the gardens, so your—your avian companion could feel more comfortable—’
‘You have no right to question my reasons for writing, or not writing.’ Susan interrupted Anne, a rage building in her as she took in the sight of Oliver Whitstable. ‘How dare you question me? How dare you come here?’
‘I will question exactly who I like, and go exactly where I like!’ Oliver tutted; Sheba clicked her beak, for all the world as if she shared in his annoyance. ‘I asked you several very pressing questions on the best grasses to feed ibex, and have heard nothing of note for seven days!’
‘I have already given my opinion regarding ibex! I gave it three letters ago!’ Susan folded her arms, speaking with a raised, acidic tone that made Henry raise his eyebrows. ‘And might I remind you, sir, that one can request information from the Royal Society on such matters!’
‘I do not want to question the Royal Society on such matters!’ Oliver stamped his foot; Susan clutched her skirts, anger flaring in her like wildfire. ‘I wish to speak to Susan Colborne, and become very annoyed indeed when the capricious woman cannot be bothered to speak to me for a week!’
‘Sir, that is quite enough.’ Susan watched Henry fold his arms; she rarely heard her brother speak seriously, but this was one of those rare occasions. ‘As my wife already told you, my sister has been—’
‘Henry, stop.’ Susan watched her brother fall silent as she walked down the stairs; it was the first time in a week that she had seen the gardens from the drawing room window, and the sight gave her courage. ‘I will speak to Mr. Whitstable myself.’
She watched Henry and Anne exchange looks; the secret looks that men and women sometimes gave to one another, the ones that Susan had never cared to interpret one way or the other. Approaching Oliver Whitstable, looking at his waistcoat rather than his eyes, she spoke.
‘I have been very ill, this past week. Not a physical illness—a profound despair, which occasionally falls upon me. I have been unable to speak to another living soul, much less write long letters.’ She glared at Oliver’s waistcoat button, wishing she had the fortitude to meet his gaze. ‘I am not a walking compendium of facts, sir, and neither am I required to be calm and cheerful when the world conspires against both of those states!’
‘I was dreadfully worried about you.’ Oliver’s angry, wounded tone struck something in Susan that she had not expected. Shame welled up; shame at having disappointed someone again. ‘You should have told me. Someone should have told me.’
‘No, I should not, and no, they should not.’ Susan finally risked looking into his eyes; they were difficult to read, horribly difficult, and so she looked back down. ‘When I am feeling better, I will resume correspondence. Or not.’ She turned away. ‘Now leave.’
‘We have only just arrived!’
Something broke in Susan; something wild, panicking, that she had been keeping at bay for a week. Her voice rose to a raw, broken shout. ‘You will leave!’
Not looking back, not looking at Henry or Anne’s face, she began walking up the stairs. She knew she had behaved badly; one didn’t speak in such a manner to guests, even if said guests had brought a whirlwind of chaos with them. S
till, in the burning heat of the moment, she felt no desire to apologise whatsoever.
If anything, she felt the urge to shout again. To scream. It was almost cleansing; the dull flame of her anguish had been given kindling to feed on.
Some hours later, the Longwater drawing-room still lay in chaos. An army of servants had been deployed to remove the worse of the disorder; maids could be seen speaking in hushed voices as they swept and polished, holding their noses in horror as they dealt with Sheba’s droppings. The temptation to run to neighbouring villages and tell their friends of what had occurred at Longwater was enormous—but one look at Henry Colborne’s face, the anger building behind his eyes, let the well-trained girls know that talking about the afternoon’s events would cost them their station.
‘Well.’ Henry picked up a fragment of vase, absent-mindedly wiping it on his breeches as he heaved a deep sigh. ‘We were planning on making changes to this room, I suppose.’
‘Yes.’ Anne surveyed the torn curtains and dung-splattered furniture, a weary frown on her face. ‘And I suppose the damage is nothing worse than William would have managed.’
‘Very true. Our son has inherited my talent for destruction.’ Henry handed the vase fragment to a passing maid, moving to take his wife’s hand. ‘And nothing precious has been damaged upon repair, I think.’
‘I am not sure.’ Anne looked upward; Henry followed her gaze, knowing that she was thinking of Susan. ‘I do not believe I have ever seen her so upset.’
‘Oh, now, that cannot be true.’ Henry, despite his reassuring tone of voice, was rather afraid that Anne was correct. ‘It was a lot of chaos, noise, unexpected things all at once. She despises all of that. I’m surprised she didn’t throw her shoe at him.’
‘But… but that is what her life has become, my dear. Chaos, noise, and the unexpected.’ Anne bit her lip; Henry drew her to him, shocked to see that her large, expressive eyes were full of tears. ‘I fear that we are making her terribly ill. That our very presence makes her suffer.’
‘Stop. Stop this now.’ Henry pressed his lips to her forehead, not caring a straw for the looks of the servants as they cleaned up around them. ‘You care for my sister does you credit. It always has. But Susan is no child—be careful that you do not coddle her by mistake. We help her much more by refusing to capitulate to the worst of her exaggerations—I remember the doctors telling my parents that, when we were both very young.’ He sighed, his wife’s sadness flowing through his own body. ‘But still… I understand why you worry. I am beginning to be concerned myself.’
‘The man did bring an enormous bird into the drawing room.’ Anne clicked her tongue, a shadow of annoyance passing over her face. ‘It is hardly exaggerated to take umbrage at such foolishness.’
‘You are correct. However, it is exaggerated to demand that guests leave less than five minutes after they have arrived.’ Henry bent to pick up another fragment of vase. ‘They are tired from the journey, they have travelled a considerable distance… there is no reasonable way to turn them out of the house. Henrietta has already whisked Olive away to some unknown location on the grounds—they will have to stay tonight, at least.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘I must say, I do not remember being quite so bold when calling upon people in their houses. Their letter inviting themselves arrived about an hour before they did.’
‘I believe it may have been written en route. Olive is a perfectly polite creature—she has always behaved with exquisite decorum where Henrietta is concerned.’ Anne smiled ruefully. ‘It appears that Mr. Whitstable was… concerned.’
‘So concerned that he threw himself into his carriage without sending a letter of enquiry?’ Henry snorted. ‘The man seems most immoderate.’
‘Or simply worried.’ Anne spoke gently. ‘He and Susan correspond with absolute regularity. I… I believe he may be a little like her, dear. In certain respects.’
‘If you are trying to softly communicate the fact that he’s as unusual as my sister, sweet, I have already gathered that.’ Henry smiled at Anne. ‘But thank you for saying it so prettily.’
They stood looking at one another, briefly blind to the utter chaos of the drawing room. Eventually, with soft laughter, Anne threw up her hands.
‘Then we have guests. Unusual guests, including a bird bigger than William—and a hostess undergoing a nervous crisis, who will refuse to acknowledge their existence.’ She laughed again. ‘I suppose we have faced more difficult challenges. Haven’t we?’
‘I would hate to say falsehoods, dear. I really would. But who knows—perhaps it may turn out better than we hope.’ Henry looked up at the ceiling, a thoughtful expression on his face. ‘After all… she did come out of her room.’
The next day, Susan woke a little earlier than was her usual custom. She lay silently in bed, wondering why her body had decided to rebel in such an unwelcome fashion, before deciding that the ridiculous events of the previous day had caused a rupture in the natural order of things.
However, there appeared to be an upside. Yes, everything was ruined; yes, there was more chaos than ever. But the fact of Oliver Whitstable’s presence, huge bird and all, had broken the vicious cycle of despair that had plagued her for the previous week. Everything was wrong… but once again, mysteriously, she had the strength to combat it.
Trying not to analyse her new-found fortitude, lest it disappear, she dressed and brushed her hair in her usual fashion. Then, rather than sink back onto the bed and lie wordlessly until lunch, Susan gingerly turned the key in the lock.
She pushed the door open. Unsure if her new bravery extended to speaking with the servants, Susan was heartily pleased to not see any. Moving quickly along the upper floors, trying not to flinch at any unexpected sounds, she paused at the entrance to her brother’s room.
Gentle snoring could still be heard inside. Thanking her lucky stars, Susan quickly went downstairs.
This morning she would walk in the gardens before breakfast; a welcome return to her usual habit. Putting on the thick-soled boots normally reserved for the gardeners, drawing her favourite greatcoat around her shoulders, Susan sighed with quiet, comfortable relief.
Longwater was splendid in the mornings. It always was; free of gardeners and guests, the trees and plants seemed to share a silent, delicious communion. Susan, walking her usual route along its flowered paths and tree-lined avenues, felt newly rejuvenated… until she saw, spiralling gently in the air, a single, very large feather.
It drifted softly to the ground, a little way away from her. Susan, who knew by heart every species of bird that chose to make its home in Longwater, felt her stomach sink with fear.
Oliver Whitstable was just visible through the line of handsome yews that separated the avenue from the water garden. As Susan watched, panic-stricken, he turned; they looked at one another, Susan’s own shock reflected in his face.
He was still here? Susan gritted her teeth, waiting for a loud greeting; an interruption that would ruin the walk. No-one ever understood the ritualistic nature of this morning habit—why, she would be forced to return to the house, and begin the walk all over again…
But this morning had already begun differently from the others. She had woken earlier, thought differently; rebelled against the strictures of her own soul, which had quietened with the coming of the sun. Maybe, just maybe, she could continue her ritual without the pattern being broken.
Turning away from Oliver, refusing to greet him, she continued along the path she always took. Her steps felt leaden as she passed him; the interloper, the intruder upon her private moment of reflection… but there was no offended cry, no rushing footsteps.
It was as if he hadn’t noticed her at all. Susan sighed with relief, her pace growing a little more relaxed. It was only after she had taken twenty or thirty more steps that she saw the shadow of wings once again, this time passing over her head.
Incorrigible. Unbearable. As much as her instincts begged her to turn around, return to her room and begin th
e walk again, free from unexpected horrors, Susan forced herself to look fear in the face. Yes, there was a bird, but it was just a bird—and she could keep walking, putting one foot in front of the other with the same determined speed she always used.
Sheba was, indeed, just a bird. She was used to birds. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Oliver Whitstable walking to keep pace with her.
This time, the fear almost stopped her steps. Stopped her heart. But if she died here, with the walk unfinished... well, that was worse than completing it badly.
The process had to be followed. The correct ritual had to be observed, even if the details were less than perfect. Susan, with the patient expression of a martyr on her face, walked beside Oliver Whitstable for fifteen long, silent minutes.
The man was, to Susan’s begrudging surprise, an excellent walking companion. His pace matched hers, sturdy but not rushed; she normally had terrible trouble escorting others through the gardens, given their tendency to either wander, or march. Oliver proved neither too quick, nor too slow; even the bird flew at the same steady pace as he walked, his rhythm strong enough to pull the creature into the speed of his gentle yet determined footfalls.
After several more minutes of silent walking, Oliver spoke. From his tone, one would think that the two of them had met placidly the previous day—no cross words exchanged. ‘You do not wish me to be here.’
‘It is not that.’ It was a simplistic assumption; Susan almost wished it were true. It would certainly make things easier. ‘It is not that at all. And I do not begrudge anyone the sight of the Longwater gardens in the morning.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Your presence… it was deeply unexpected. I do not respond well to the unexpected.’
‘It was not my intention to anger you. Or disappoint you.’ Oliver looked at her narrowly. ‘Olive has told me that I must apologise. I have already apologised to your brother, and his wife.’
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