“Mrs. Pick,” he said. “With the greatest respect. She’s just a child.”
He looked up at her with a bemused expression, as if he were not the only one watching, as if he had a crowd at his shoulder, a crowd of Malcolms all waiting for her to open her mouth and make a fool of herself.
“My point exactly!” she replied.
“And children get into mischief.”
Take a deep breath, she told herself. There was much she could say that was probably expected: she should thank him for his hospitality, for his generosity, his bountiful munificence.
“Malcolm dear?” Antonia was standing in the doorway. How long had she been there? How much had she heard? “What’s going on?”
He kept his voice steady.
“I was just explaining to your sister-in-law the rationale behind corporal punishment,” he said.
“Why on earth would you do that?” Antonia asked.
Malcolm’s face went red. He licked his lips, he scored out a word. The calm facade had fallen. Sweat was seeping out of his pores, making his skin shiny. And still he kept his voice level.
“I know you’ll agree that children should be taught that stealing is wrong, my dear. That rooting through other people’s belongings is wrong!”
“What are you talking about?” said Antonia.
“I told you! I was up in the attic looking out my galoshes. I noticed that some things were missing!”
Antonia’s hand flew to her mouth.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
“Why are you sorry!” said her husband, his voice rising at last.
“It was me,” Antonia said. “I was in the attic. I took a few things.”
“A Sèvres vase?”
“Yes. And a painting.”
For a moment there was silence. All Malcolm’s swagger was suddenly gone. He frowned at Antonia, put down his newspaper, and placed the cap on his pen.
“Why didn’t you say?” he said. “I asked you, and you said you hadn’t set foot up there for months.”
The grandfather clock ticked. Cicely pushed past Antonia, out of the room.
“What’s wrong, Cicely?” Antonia called after her. “Has something happened?”
In the glass house the gardener’s dog was asleep beside a heating pipe. So Kitty was alone.
Jacob was wheeling a load of coal toward the entrance.
“Is everything all right, Mrs. Pick?” he asked.
He tried to be reassuring, telling her she couldn’t have gone far, that she was bound to be fine, that she would be back as soon as it started to rain.
“Will you help me look for her?”
He nodded, rousing his dog.
They searched the glass house and the vegetable gardens, the driveway and the stables. On the shore below the water crashed against the rocks, and the river was in full spate. Cicely saw it all and yet saw none of it, her eyes brimming with panic. She couldn’t hold back the thought of Kitty in the water, Kitty caught by the current, her little hand stretching toward hers; Kitty crying out as she was pulled under. She had let her run wild, she had been too wrapped up in her own concerns. What if something unspeakable had happened?
“She’s probably deep in her imaginary world and lost track of the time,” the gardener said.
They spread out, they called her name, they searched the shore, the island, the woods, the hills, but she seemed to have vanished completely.
“Has she ever run off before?” Jacob asked.
“Never,” she said.
“Maybe she walked to the road?” he suggested.
“She wouldn’t have gone that far.”
But maybe she had. Maybe Malcolm’s threats had been enough to make her run away. Cicely covered her mouth with her hand as tears started to spill from her eyes. If Kitty was dead she would have no choice but to kill herself too. Coming to Scotland had been a huge mistake. She should never have left home. The whole trip was misjudged, disastrous. The daylight had started to seep away. It would be dark in a few hours.
“Let’s look once more,” the young gardener suggested. “I’ll take the grounds if you take the glass house.”
She walked around the outer path, looking behind wheelbarrows, water butts, towers of empty flowerpots; then she ran down the stairs to the boiler room. The vast furnace gave off a low rumble. The heat was oppressive, the walls, the floor, every surface, all covered with black soot.
“Kitty?” she called. “Kitty?”
She listened to the silence, to the slow dripping of a tap and the tick of the pipes. Nothing.
“Is there nowhere else to look?” she implored the gardener, back outside. “Surely there must be somewhere that we’ve missed.”
“Wait a minute,” he said, ducking back into the glass house. She had already looked there, she wanted to tell him, twice. He needed to go back down to the shore, to look along the riverbank, scour the beach. Why was he wasting time? As Dora talked about bringing in the farmer’s lads to start searching the estate at daybreak, the dog started to bark. The door of the glass house swung open.
“Mrs. Pick,” young Mr. Baillie called out. “I’ve found her!”
Never in all her life had Cicely felt such relief.
“I saw a movement,” he explained as he led her to the center of the glass house.
She peered up into a palm tree and saw the quiver of green near the top.
“Kitty!”
“Mummy,” she called down.
“Don’t move,” the gardener called. “I’ll get a ladder.”
“Leave me be!”
Cicely closed her eyes, suddenly exhausted. The branches groaned as Kitty moved farther up the trunk.
“Don’t go too high,” Jacob Baillie warned. “The branches won’t support you.”
“Kitty,” she called out. “Stay where you are!”
With a sudden creak and snap, something broke. Kitty screamed as she tumbled, falling through the palm fronds, her arms and legs flailing, her mouth letting out several involuntary cries as she descended toward the cold hard earth.
“Kitty!” Cicely screamed.
She took a few steps, but the gardener was faster, cleaving the leaves of a tropical plant as he leaped forward. There was a grunt and then a small silence.
“It’s all right,” the gardener called out. “I caught her.”
The leaves parted, and there they were. Cicely lifted her daughter from the gardener’s arms, held her tight, and buried her face in Kitty’s hair. Her breath was jagged, and her tears quickly soaked the fabric of Cicely’s dress. Nothing mattered—not the house or the expedition or the money or her wounded pride—nothing but her daughter.
“I’ll tell the others,” said young Mr. Baillie. “Call off the search.”
“Don’t be angry with me,” Kitty said once he had gone.
“I’m not,” Cicely whispered. “Just glad you’re safe. Don’t ever do that again.”
Cicely placed her on the ground and examined her. Kitty’s arms and legs were covered in scratches, but apart from that she was fine.
“You know, I would never have let him hit you,” Cicely whispered.
Kitty frowned.
“What are you talking about?”
“Antonia’s husband.”
“Oh, him? I’m not scared of Malcolm,” she said with scorn. “He can threaten me all he likes.”
Cicely took her shoulders in her hands.
“Then why?” she said. “Why did you hide? Have you any idea how worried I’ve been?”
Kitty stared at the ground. Tears started to run down her cheeks.
“I want it,” she said.
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t be cross. Promise you won’t be cross.”
“What is it, Kitty. Has someone hurt you?”
“It was me,” she said in a rush. “I took the letter you were looking for. I threw it in the fire. I’m so sorry.”
Cicely let go of her. This was not
the answer she had been expected. She swallowed down a flash of fury.
“But why would you do that?”
“I was angry with you for making me go to school when I wanted to stay with my ayah.”
Kitty’s eyes glittered in the moonlight. Her hair was tangled with sticks and torn leaves. Cicely loved her with a sudden fierceness. She took her in her arms and held her.
“And I know what you’re going to do. Once you have Balmarra you’re going to sell it, aren’t you? To pay for my school. But I like it here. Daddy may not want this place, but I do. You can’t do it. Please don’t.”
“Oh, Kitty,” she whispered. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You never listen to me.”
“I will now, I promise,” she said. “But there are some things I can’t change.”
“Of course you can. You can do anything if you set your mind to it, remember?”
The door of the glass house slammed, and Antonia burst in, breathless.
“I just heard,” she said. “Thank goodness she’s all right.”
“She’s fine,” said Cicely. “Nothing that a hot bath and a cup of cocoa won’t fix.”
* * *
A card was propped up on the hall table when Antonia came down to breakfast the next morning. It was from Lorimer, a thank-you note for the vase. “There was no need,” he wrote. “Accidents happen.” He hadn’t, however, returned it. She tore it up and threw it away before Malcolm could see. There was no word yet from Henry. Maybe she had asked too much from someone who owed her too little, if anything at all.
It was nine o’clock. Cicely and Kitty had not appeared downstairs for breakfast yet, and the house was silent but for a rhythmic thump from the kitchen below. Antonia hoped it was not pastry. Cook’s touch was the same whether it was short crust or a roast that needed tenderizing: “Descended from a family of prizefighters,” her father used to joke.
Cook was expecting Antonia in her overheated lair to discuss the household bills and the week’s menus. It was a chore that she had undertaken ever since her mother’s death, and it was one she loathed. A pound over, a rise in the price of milk, Cook would inform her with great concern, a sack of tatties sprouted. Well, can’t be helped, Antonia would shrug, these things happen. And then it was on to food: Oxtail soup or chicken broth? Rice pudding or tapioca? Lamb chops or lemon sole? Anything you like, she was tempted to reply, as long as it’s hot. Or cold. Or wet. Or whatever the recipe states. But she couldn’t say that. She needed Cook on her side. Especially in the next few weeks.
“A what?” Malcolm had asked the night before.
“A social event,” she had clarified.
“The one you proposed at Lorimer’s? Surely you weren’t serious?”
“I’ve given it some thought, and I think it might be rather fun.”
Malcolm was silent, a sure sign of reluctance. It was almost eight, and they had both finished their evening nightcap—a whisky for him and a sloe gin for her. The measures were small, and it was more the routine Antonia relished than the alcohol consumption. They sat side by side on the divan as the fire burned down to embers.
“It would be a party for Cicely and Kitty,” she went on. “They are relations, after all.”
“They say they are.”
“Don’t start that again. We need to make it up to them, after what happened. So embarrassing.”
“I didn’t hit her,” said Malcolm. “I simply said I would, which is not the same at all. What were you doing up there anyway?”
She turned and looked at her husband.
“Me?”
“You said you were up there. In the attic.”
He waited for an explanation.
“You don’t really think that Kitty would steal from us, do you?” she said. It was a poor attempt to change the subject.
“Antonia,” he said. “What did you do with the vase? And the painting?”
There was no escape. For a second she thought she might tell him.
“Why do you care?” she asked.
“The vase is a Sèvres, very sought after and worth a thousand or so,” he went on. “And as for the painting, I’m sure your father said it was a William Etty.”
“Did he?”
Antonia felt her face turn pink. He had never told her he owned an Etty. The artist had fallen out of fashion, but his work must still be worth something. She rose, picked up the poker, and gave the glowing coals in the fireplace a prod. Could she ask Lorimer for the vase back? Hardly.
“You didn’t do anything foolish, did you?” Malcolm asked.
Antonia rose, wiped her hands on her skirts, and turned.
“I took them,” she said, “to get them valued. For insurance purposes.”
That seemed to satisfy him.
“Why didn’t you say so?”
She didn’t answer and instead placed their glasses on a tray. As she was putting the bottles back into the drinks cabinet, she heard Malcolm rise and throw some more coal on the fire. So, she thought, the night wasn’t over yet.
“Who did you ask?” he said. “To value the painting?”
Malcolm sat down again and folded his arms. There was something about his mouth she noticed, something provocative, which was unusual for him.
“Hmm?” she said as she rearranged the bottles. “Oh, an artist’s gallery. I asked the one who painted the house—what was his name?—to make an inquiry.”
It was as close to the truth as she could admit. She closed the glass door and turned. Once more, she decided, she would try and change the subject.
“Anyway, what I want to know is what possessed you to behave that way toward Kitty?”
Malcolm’s face seemed to close in on itself.
“How was I to know?” he said.
“Best if we put it all behind us,” she suggested softly.
She sat down beside him and laid a hand on his knee for a moment or two. It seemed to calm him a little. The fire crackled. The clock struck the hour.
“Anyway,” she said, rising to her feet once more, “the party. I thought we could hold it in the glass house.”
While he stared at the fire, she paced back and forth, describing her vision—the colored paper lanterns, the masks, the spicy food, the theme.
“You don’t know anything about India,” he interrupted. “You’ve never been.”
“I’ve never been anywhere.”
He leaned back on the divan and looked at her from beneath his brows.
“You’re not that sort, Antonia,” he said.
“What sort do you mean?”
“You know. Capricious, frivolous. Impulsive! A masked ball indeed!”
She rose, walked out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
“Antonia!” he called out after her for once. “Neither am I! As I said, we’re a different type.”
His words echoed in her head the next morning as Cook was reeling off her usual fare, milk puddings, cutlets and hashes, braised beef and potted hams. She’d made the same dishes for as long as Antonia remembered, and she still managed to burn or undercook, to dry out or curdle. Like her parents, Antonia did not want to offend her in case she took the hump and walked. Good, or at least adequate, staff were hard to find in these parts. She herself could barely boil an egg. Without a cook, they would have to live on toast. Not a bad thing, she sometimes thought when faced with a plate of glutinous mutton stew or leaden sponge pudding and lumpy custard.
“Couldn’t we try something else?” she said, the words out of her mouth before she could stop them. “Some new dishes, perhaps.”
“What was that?” said Cook, aghast.
“With some new flavors?” she added quickly with a small smile.
“No one has ever complained before,” Cook said, slamming her book shut and sitting back in her chair.
“It’s not a complaint, Just a suggestion. I was thinking of you, that you must be bored always cooking the same dishes.”
“Bored?”
Cook repeated.
Antonia swallowed. This was worse than she had imagined.
“You see, I have in mind an occasion,” she said. “An event in the evening, a social event.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Cook said before locating on a shelf an ancient book of recipes, held together with string.
“Savory jellies,” she announced. “Pig’s head in aspic. That’s what you’re imagining, I expect. I have all the recipes in here.”
Antonia hadn’t the heart to tell her that what she really had in mind did not involve a savory jelly. Instead she acquiesced, just to let Cook get used to the idea.
“Just the thing,” she offered.
“And what about the week’s menu? Is that all right for madam?”
Her words carried an accusatory undertone. How had they ended up here, Antonia wondered, with her, the mistress of the house, having to tread so carefully around Cook’s feelings?
“Perfect,” she said. “As usual. Thank you.”
With a scrape of her chair, Cook stood up, took a ball of dough from a bowl, and started to knead vigorously.
What “sort,” what “type,” were they? The sort that stayed in one place, rooted, like a tree? George’s words from all those years ago suddenly flooded back to her: “Seeing the world is the greatest thing a man can do.” How unfortunate to be born with a timid disposition and of the wrong sex. She had taken off her glasses, and the world had blurred. Had she fumbled through her life like this, seeing nothing but the faint outlines of things? Mistaking one thing for another, a bed for a divan, indifference for love, an entente cordiale for a marriage?
“Actually,” she said to Cook, “on second thought, could you hold off on the savory jellies? I have in mind a theme.”
Cook frowned.
“A what?”
“An Indian theme. You know, curry and the like.”
“Mrs. Pick,” Cook began. “Let me give you a bit of advice.”
“If you don’t feel able to cope?”
Cook narrowed her eyes. She was a woman who prided herself on being able to deal with any adversity.
“I am perfectly capable,” she said, her breath billowing up a small cloud of flour, “of mastering an exotic menu.”
The Glass House Page 15
