The Glass House

by Beatrice Colin

  “This is just on loan,” he clarified. “It arrived last week, and I’m quite in love with it.”

  Lorimer rushed outside and brought back a copper horn and a small stack of recordings.

  “Couldn’t carry everything all at once,” he said as he attached the horn to the machine. “Much heavier than they look.”

  “How thoughtful of you,” Antonia replied.

  “There’s some ragtime,” he said as she sorted through the discs. “A turkey trot, a cakewalk, and a bunny hop.”

  “Maybe you could choose one, Mr. Lorimer?” she suggested.

  But his gaze was fixed elsewhere.

  Cicely Pick was standing, quite still, at the door. She was wearing an ivory silk dress, and her hair was pinned up and fastened with pearl-encrusted combs. Her mask, the more lavish of the two Antonia had ordered, was white and embossed with pearls. With her head slightly tilted to the left, she appeared to be waiting for the answer to a question, perhaps. Lorimer seemed to pull himself back to the moment, to Antonia.

  “Anyway, lovely setup you have here!” he said.

  But she had seen his eyes even behind his mask. It was a look she recognized. Best pretend she hadn’t. That was the beauty of masks.

  “Thank you,” she replied. “We’re so pleased you could come.”

  She placed a drink in his hand and was just about to introduce him to the nearest guests when he stopped her.

  “I must pay my respects to Mrs. Pick,” he said. “Excuse me.”

  Soon the paths and dance floor of the glass house thronged with peacock feathers and taffeta, diamanté and satin. All the doors had to be opened to let in some cool air. When the band took a break, Antonia wound up the gramophone, and the glass house filled with the heady blast of trumpets and the trombones. At first no one danced. But then a few of the younger guests, people who spent time regularly in London or Paris and knew about the craze for animal dances, took the floor and demonstrated the steps. Soon everyone had their hands raised into claws as they danced the grizzly bear.

  At nine-thirty Dora rang the bell for dinner. A large table had been set with plates, cutlery, food, and wine so that the guests could serve themselves. And yet the dishes that had sounded so exotic in the kitchen only a few days earlier were less impressive in reality. Although it was flavorsome, Cook had not mastered the intricacies of a rice pilaf. It was so overcooked that the rice had the consistency of a pudding, and the raisins were either bloated or burned. Nevertheless that didn’t stop the guests loading their plates and sitting down at one of the tables.

  “Indian fare!” Malcolm said as he took a place opposite Cicely. “You must feel quite at home?”

  “Actually we rarely eat curry at home,” Cicely replied. “Our chef cooks in the French style.”

  Lorimer, who was sitting a few chairs along from her, let out a laugh. No one ate much of the mutton. A few people persevered, gulping down water in huge quantities, but most complained that it was just too spicy. Antonia’s mouth burned as she forced down a forkful, purely to make a point. They would be eating it for days, she joked. But maybe it didn’t matter. She drank a glass of punch and then another.

  “We should do this again,” said Malcolm. “Maybe at Christmas. If one celebrates Christmas in Bengal?”

  Antonia looked at him. Was he serious? He had been so against the idea. His face was flushed, and his eyes blinked a little too often. And then she saw he was staring at Cicely.

  “You could advise Cook in the matter of French cuisine,” he said. “If you’re still here, that is.”

  It was poised as an innocent remark, a joke even. And yet it wasn’t.

  “Malcolm!” she warned with a smile.

  “I’ve actually grown rather fond of the place,” Cicely replied. “Dunoon is rather gay when the paddle steamer docks. Even on a Friday afternoon, wouldn’t you say?”

  And then the most peculiar thing happened. Malcolm stared at her openmouthed and started to choke so badly that Lorimer had to whack him on the back with the flat of his hand. Antonia wasn’t a fool. Something had been revealed, something that Malcolm didn’t want anyone to know—especially, she supposed, her. And then she remembered the hotel receipt she had found. Port and lemon. Lemon and port. He might have taken a lady client out for a drink. It could have been perfectly innocent. But another narrative spun out in her head like a reel of thread that had been dropped. A woman drunk on port, the taste of lemon on her lips, the lace of her underwear transparent in the afternoon sun. She glanced at her husband’s hands, at his short, thick fingers folding his napkin into a smaller and smaller square. He was opaque, his heart invisible in his chest. He could do whatever he liked, and she would never guess.

  A breeze rattled the glass, and it started to rain so heavily that buckets were deployed to catch the drips from the leaks in the roof. Rather than detract from the atmosphere, the storm added to it, the guests shrieking as they dodged streams of water or were suddenly soaked. The masks made it impossible to read a face, and so people laughed more loudly, gestured more expressively, walked and danced and moved like players on a stage. The party was going better than she had hoped. And yet Antonia was suffused with disappointment.

  The plates had just been collected when they all heard the sound of the front door slamming. The man who appeared was wet through. His suit was badly fitting, and his wet shoes left prints on the iron grating. He wasn’t, all the other guests noticed, wearing a mask.

  “Can I help you?” Malcolm said, standing up.

  “So sorry I’m late,” he said, handing his hat to Dora. “I walked from Hunter’s Quay.”

  “You came!” Antonia said, leaping up from her seat to shake Henry Morris’s hand in welcome. “I’m so, so glad.”

  14

  Cicely was sitting at the other end of the dining table from Lorimer, but even so she was aware of him, had her ear tuned to his conversations to pick up the odd word. When the late guest arrived, they all shifted to make room, and this brought Lorimer a little closer. His eyes were liquid through the slits in his black satin mask. In a sea of badly cut wool, he looked elegant and relaxed. His suit was a perfect fit. A lick of his dark hair fell forward, and he kept sweeping it back with his hand. He noticed her looking at him and looked right back. Cicely blushed beneath her mask. No one saw, no one knew—no one but him.

  The food was finished, and the band was about to begin a second set. Antonia was deep in conversation with the late guest and hadn’t noticed. Malcolm was still in a fizz after her comment. She hadn’t meant to say anything, but he had put her on the spot. Lorimer leaned forward and seemed to be about to engage her in conversation. There were two options open to her: she could ignore him, which would be awkward for both of them, or she could initiate her own: She decided on the latter. The band called the Dashing White Sergeant. The dancers took their positions.

  “Mr. Lorimer, will you join me?” Cicely asked.

  “Keir, please,” he corrected. “And I’m sorry, but I don’t know any of these dances.”

  “Then I’ll teach you,” she replied.

  He hesitated but then relented. On the dance floor she took his hand and showed him the steps.

  “It’s really very simple,” she said.

  “Where did you learn to dance?” he asked.

  “At school,” she replied.

  “I didn’t go to that sort of school.”

  “What sort of school did you go to?”

  He didn’t answer. The dance began, but he was always on the wrong foot, two steps behind, confused, out of time.

  “Sorry,” he said. “So sorry.”

  The next dance was Strip the Willow. It was far simpler. The women danced with all the men, one after another, first Lorimer, then the doctor, then eventually Henry Morris, whose damp clothes still gently steamed on his body. At the end Cicely came back to Lorimer, who held her a little tighter than before. The next dance was about to begin. Lorimer suggested they go out for a breath of
fresh air to cool down a little.

  The rain had stopped, and the darkness was dense as velvet. The glass house had steamed up with condensation, and the colors of the paper lanterns, red and orange and green, and the flicker of candles blurred through the windowpanes. Cicely shivered. Lorimer offered his jacket, and she was glad of its many layers of silk and wool.

  “Smoke?” he asked, pulling off his mask. He lit two cigarettes and passed her one. She inhaled, then blew a pale stream into the air and watched as it rose up and drifted away. A burst of laughter came from inside the glass house. Someone was doing an impression of Prime Minister Asquith. “Malcolm was right,” Lorimer said. “You should do this again, here in the glass house.”

  “Maybe,” she said.

  Maybe the new owners would hold parties? Or maybe they would demolish it?

  “But your father-in-law is probably spinning in his grave,” Lorimer continued. “All these people having a nice time among his precious plants.”

  “Or he might have enjoyed it?”

  “Did you ever meet Edward Pick?”

  She shook her head no.

  “He wasn’t one for social occasions,” he said. “Although I’m sure there was a side to him, another side. He did love his exotic blooms. I’m sure he would approve of the collection.”

  “What collection?”

  Keir didn’t explain.

  “Why don’t you take off your mask?” he continued softly. “Or is that breaking the rules?”

  She took her mask off, feeling suddenly exposed.

  “That’s better,” he said. “I can see you now.”

  She watched as the smoke from her cigarette mingled with his. Her mind started to turn; if her father hadn’t met George in that bar in Darjeeling, if she hadn’t been taken on that very first hunt for plants, if she had not skipped all those lessons in piano and dancing, if she had not made all those choices, then where would she be? But she couldn’t regret any of it. If it hadn’t happened, she would not have had Kitty.

  “I never replied to your card,” she said.

  “I know.”

  He was standing close, so close she could smell his cologne and beneath it something else, the giddy hint of adrenaline that matched her own. Was it the dancing that made his breathing a little rapid? His jaw was clenched, his head bowed, and she felt a dissonance of contradictory impulses that made the air around them seemed to tremble. Why not go for a ride in his plane? In her place George wouldn’t have hesitated.

  “So,” she said, “is the offer still open?”

  “How about tomorrow morning?” he asked. “The forecast’s good. I’ll send a car for you.”

  The door closed behind them with a crash, making them both jump.

  “Have either of you seen Antonia?” Malcolm asked.

  Cicely shook her head, then pulled her mask back on.

  “If you do, please tell her that I’m looking for her.”

  The door slammed again. For a moment they stood perfectly still. The storm had passed, and yet Cicely could hear the rain pounding against the glass, like applause. Suddenly the door flew open and Antonia appeared.

  “Here you are!” she said. “Cicely, I have a surprise.”

  Inside the glass house the guests were clapping—it wasn’t rain—standing in a semicircle, looking at her with an expression that she could read only as pity. Antonia explained that she had orchestrated a collection for George’s expedition. As she went on to explain his plant-hunting trip in detail, Cicely stopped listening. She felt physically ill. It was like a whip-round—a charity collection.

  “I need to check on Kitty,” she said.

  “But you’re coming back?” Antonia said.

  She gave a small nod, even though she had already decided that wild horses would not drag her back.

  * * *

   Henry wore a frock coat and starched wingtip collar of a style popular in the 1890s. But then, he wasn’t the only one. Folded-down collars and knotted neckties of the type worn by Lorimer were still a something of a novelty outside Glasgow and Edinburgh. Maybe it had something to do with the way that time slid by so slowly in these parts that it almost felt as if you were standing still, caught in the amber of a moment where nothing changed. It was an illusion, of course. Everything was changing faster by the day. Motorcars were replacing ponies and traps, ships were sailing across the Atlantic at record speeds; the skies were filled with airships and airplanes. No wonder Antonia had the impression that she had been left behind.

  “Was I last to arrive?” asked Henry.

  Antonia waved her hand.

  “Last but not least,” she said.

  She had taken off her mask in solidarity with Henry, and it now dangled from her wrist by a cord and felt vaguely ridiculous. Henry seemed nervous. He complimented her dress, her hair, the decorations, the food—in fact everything thing he laid eyes on.

  “I must introduce you.…” she said but she didn’t clarify to whom. Her eye fell on Malcolm, who was sitting on a bench on his own. A tiny frown gave her away; Henry looked from Antonia to Malcolm and knew. His face registered sympathy, disappointment, concern. Yes, she had married the red-haired lawyer, who laughed too loudly and who did not care for painting or flowers or the distant slant of sun across a moorland. But then again, why not? Henry had not wanted her.

  The accordionist caught her eye. She had paid them to play until ten, and it was already a quarter to. How could time have passed so quickly? With a crush of the accordion, the fiddle player announced the final reel of the night.

  “Shall we dance?” Henry asked. The very last thing on earth Antonia felt like doing was dancing. She was, she knew, not talented in that art. Henry was still looking at her expectantly.

  “Why not?” she said.

  He held out his hand, and they moved, not without grace, around the floor.

  “It’s been years since I’ve been here,” Henry said. “I can’t remember the last time.”

  But Antonia could. It was the day he had promised to deliver the finished painting to her father. She had been waiting, hovering near the front door. The hours slipped by, and the daylight turned to dusk. When she finally went to dinner, there was the painting, hanging in the hallway.

  “Why didn’t you let me know he was here?” she asked her father. “Didn’t he ask to see me?”

  “The man was only here for ten minutes or so,” her father had told her. “Came in through the servants’ entrance. He was in a rush to get back. Didn’t want to keep him.”

  He had looked at her strangely then, a look that she had tried to replay in her mind many times.

  “What do you think of my painting?” her father had asked.

  At that point she was ambivalent. She shrugged.

  “It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” she had said.

  “Exactly so,” he had replied.

  She had written to Henry once, twice, three times, each letter a little less hopeful of a response, each one indicating possible reasons why he might not reply, such as, “You’re probably in Paris,” or “I imagine you have a show.”

  Weeks passed and then months, until finally she accepted that the excuses she herself had suggested had long since expired and he had not responded because he didn’t want to. She put away her paints and brushes. It would be a year and a half before she could look at a tube of burnt sienna and not feel bereft.

  And now he was here again, and her father was gone. She glanced at the painter’s face, his chin, strong beneath the whiskers, his ear, his mouth. Why had he forsaken her?

  “Can I tell you something?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “All those years ago, I wanted to see you again. I wanted to, but—”

  She lost count of her steps. She tripped over her feet.

  “What are you trying to say?” she said. “Could it be that maybe you shouldn’t?”

  He paused, he sighed. He clearly could not contain it. And so he told her.

&
nbsp; The room spun, a haze of blues and reds and greens. And suddenly she saw Edward Pick making his point with a wave of the hand and a good-bye where he never had the good manners to make eye contact. Henry had not known the paintings and sketchbooks her father had showed him were hers. He had been led on, encouraged, provoked. But then again, maybe he could have guessed.

  Antonia’s feet stopped. She stood still.

  “You mean it was you?” she said. “You were my father’s expert?”

  Henry stared at the string of paper lights as if trying to read a message.

  “You told him that I had no artistic talent?” she continued.

  He turned to her, and he looked as if he might be about to weep.

  “It wasn’t true, you know,” he whispered.

  Why hadn’t it occurred to her before? Because it was not such a stretch of the imagination to regard herself as unworthy.

  A sensation returned that she had buried deep, a moment from long ago: Henry’s hand on her shoulder as he pointed out something on the horizon—a bird, a boat, she couldn’t remember what—and the way it lingered there like the physical manifestation of an intention. He had been so close that she could feel his breath, the rise and fall of it, the buzzing hum of him only inches away. It was unmistakable, she saw that now, but somehow she had convinced herself it was paternal, platonic.

  “For a time I thought we might have eloped,” Henry said and looked her straight in the eye.

  A flash of anger sparked, then just as suddenly subsided. Would she have gone, abandoned all she had if he had asked her to? Would she have had the courage? She hadn’t had much of it then, not enough even to question her father or defy the so-called professional opinion.

  “We’d have ended up in limbo,” she said softly, “in some god-awful place like Eastbourne or Calais.”

  The last song finished with a sigh. Coats were collected, cigarettes put out, drinks downed. Cicely had not come back from checking on Kitty. And then it was a round of good-byes and thank-you-for-comings as the bucket at the door filled up with donations for George’s expedition. The band packed up their instruments and gave Henry a lift to the ferry. By a quarter past ten, everyone had gone, everyone but Malcolm, standing below an orange tree, finishing off a glass of wine.