The day had dimmed, the clouds silver, but thick black smoke was billowing from the north. She rose and headed to the main door of the hotel. A crowd had gathered on the pavement outside, staring at something in the distance. Someone mentioned Balmarra. At that moment she saw Jacob and the horse-and-cart approaching at full speed along the street. She stepped out, her arms waving. He pulled to a stop and helped her climb up.
Cicely could see the flickering light above the trees and heard the clanging bells of the fire truck ahead. When they reached Balmarra, the air in the driveway was full of falling embers, like burning snow.
They could feel the heat from one hundred yards away. Some of the panes of the glass house had cracked and turned black. Jacob was already providing buckets, and the firemen had formed a human chain to the river. But they could all see that it was too late: The fire had taken hold, and there was no stopping it. The house was a blackened frame lit up from within. Flames rose from the roof in a golden crown until there was a great crash and there was no roof anymore.
Malcolm arrived in his motorcar and came running.
“Have you seen Antonia?” he asked, looking around wildly. “Has anyone seen my wife?” Tears were streaming down his face. Cicely took his hand and held it. “My wife?” he repeated.
But no one had.
* * *
Antonia had been expecting help to arrive any minute. It was lucky that it was the servants’ day off; they would be safe. And then she remembered old Mr. Baillie. Embers from the house were coming down on the roof of his cottage. It might catch, too. She pounded on his door, but no one answered. Then she shouldered the door once, twice, three times, until, with a splintering of wood, it opened. The gardener was in his bed in the attic, fast asleep. He was a little put out to see her standing in his bedroom.
“Mr. Baillie, there’s a fire in the main house!” she yelled. “You must get out!”
“Where’s Tom?” he asked.
“You mean Jacob? I’m sure he’s on his way,” she replied.
Antonia took a couple of blankets, helped him down the ladder, and led him outside. The fire brigade had finally arrived, and they were doing what they could.
“Antonia!” It was Malcolm. His face was red, his eyes narrowed. He was clearly furious. But then he took her in his arms and held her.
“Thank goodness,” he whispered.
All they could do was watch the fire run its course. Luckily the Baillies’ cottage did not catch. Everyone was speculating about what had happened: a gas leak, a fire in the kitchen, a faulty electric connection? A confession was on the tip of Antonia’s tongue, but somehow she couldn’t actually voice it.
“No one was killed,” Malcom said more than once. “And at least we’re insured.”
She tried to remember if she had paid the last premium. So much had been going on, what with Cicely arriving and the party. Malcolm read her face.
“Don’t say it,” he said. “Don’t tell me we’re not?”
“I’m sure we are,” she replied. But the more she thought about it, the more she was convinced that they weren’t.
At least she had her journals. It was as she was brewing tea—these occasions always seemed to demand endless pots of tea—that she noticed old Mr. Baillie staring at the suitcase where she had stashed them. He picked it up and was about to head toward the kitchen table with it.
“Excuse me,” she said. “What are you doing with my suitcase?”
He stopped and turned.
“I’m sorry. My Tom had one just like it.”
It was a cheap old thing made of brown cardboard that was supposed to look like leather. Inside the lining was torn and the pocket ripped. Now that the house was gone, however, it was the only suitcase she had. And then she realized that apart from the journals, she had nothing left to pack. Everything she owned—her clothes, her books, her art materials, her childhood toys, her family heirlooms—was ash. The thought left her breathless, weightless, and to her surprise, ever so slightly exhilarated.
“You’re welcome to have it,” she said. “Once we get ourselves sorted.”
“I took them, you know,” old Mr. Baillie said. “And threw them away. Up the glen.”
“Threw what away?” she said.
How old was the man now? she wondered. He should have retired years ago. He tapped his nose, then passed the suitcase back to her. It was empty. Surely he hadn’t thrown away her journals? But no, there they were, stacked on the sideboard beside the parcel from the India Office.
At that point the front door opened and a crowd of people came in, Cicely and Malcolm followed by the firemen and Jacob. There weren’t enough cups or chairs for everyone, and some had to make do with bowls and stand. She almost offered to nip up to the house and get some more until she remembered that she did not have a house; there were no more cups or chairs.
It was dawn by the time everyone left. Antonia, Malcolm, and Cicely slept in one of the former servants’ cottages, the two women in the bedroom and Malcolm downstairs in an armchair.
“What a day,” Antonia whispered.
“Indeed,” said Cicely.
“I think I know why,” she continued. “Why my father did what he did.”
She turned to face Cicely. In the half-light she could see that her eyes were open. And then she told her about the painting in the attic of the black lady in blue and the inscription she had found on the back.
“Her name was Isabella,” she said. “Isabella Pick. She was my great-grandmother. If you want my opinion, I bet half of Glasgow has an Isabella in their past.”
“Does George know?” Cicely asked.
Antonia shook her head.
“I don’t know. Actually, there’s something else I need to tell you. A parcel arrived from the India Office. I saved it from the fire.”
“Did you open it?”
“I think you’d better do that,” she replied.
Antonia found Malcolm in the kitchen flicking through her journals. He looked up when he saw her.
“You’re very good,” he said. “I had no idea.”
She took the journals out of his hands and began to shove them back into the suitcase.
“How long have you been painting?” he went on.
“Malcolm!” she said. He was no doubt humoring her.
“Listen to me,” he said. “The reason I met Jacob Baillie’s mother was to give her a monthly allowance. It was what your father wanted.”
“What for?”
“I have no idea. There was nothing untoward going on. For a start, she must be in her fifties.”
He was gazing at her, his pale lashes fluttering like moths’ wings. But it was too late: The train, as it were, had left the station.
“What’s that?” Malcolm leaned across and pulled a piece of paper from the torn lining of the suitcase.
25
Cicely sat on a bench in the ruined glass house. She needed to do this alone. The parcel smelled of waiting rooms, of dust and sweat. This was it, the moment she had been dreading. If these things were George’s, they would have to wait for the discovery of a body. They could wait years and never find him at all. What would she tell Kitty? That her father was probably dead, but there would be no confirmation, no coffin, no burial.
She took a deep breath, then released it. Carefully she slipped the paper knife along the seam of brown paper and ripped it open. Inside were a few things: a pipe, a notebook with an address inside—Balmarra, Argyll—and a pocket watch, a name engraved on the back.
Antonia rose to her feet as Cicely entered the Baillies’ cottage. She had been making toast on the range.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
Cicely nodded her head and walked across to Jacob, who was rinsing cups at the sink.
“Jacob, was your father called Tom?” she asked.
He put down the cup in his hand and folded the tea towel.
“He was,” he said. “Why?”
“I’m so sorr
y,” she said, and handed him the parcel.
Tom Baillie had disappeared twenty-one years earlier. There had been dozens of rumors—he had run off with another woman, he was in prison, he had changed his name and was living in Inverness. Someone claimed they had seen him once on the Northern Line of London Underground.
In fact for the last twenty-one years his belongings had been lying in a remote valley in the Himalayas. Edward Pick had sent his gardener’s son on a secret trip to find rare specimens for his garden. No wonder he was so against his own son’s vocation. Did he feel increasingly guilty? In his last few months was he filled with remorse?
The Snow Tree must have been collected by Tom Baillie. The envelope containing seeds and a specimen that Cicely found in the library must have been sent to Edward Pick. Why hadn’t he registered it at the Botanic Garden? Why hadn’t he planted them? It made no sense.
Old Mr. Baillie wept when he saw his nephew’s belongings.
“I knew he was gone,” he said.
A boy arrived later with two telegrams for Cicely.
“Need funds,” the first demanded. “Send money now. Stop. G.”
“Coming home in a week. Stop,” said the second. “Love Kitty.”
* * *
In retrospect the previous six months had been the hardest but most exhilarating of Antonia’s life—Cicely and Kitty’s arrival, George’s disappearance, Henry, and the loss of Balmarra. But now she had been left with nothing, nothing but Malcolm. When she had floated the idea of the trip and he had thought she was joking, she was sure that her marriage would be the next part of her life to crumble.
In January she had been standing on the pier at Hunter’s Quay, her suitcase packed, waiting for the steamer, when she heard her name. Everyone turned and stared. Only she kept her eye fixed on the distant white speck that was plowing its way across the firth toward her.
“Antonia!” Malcolm called again. “Didn’t you hear me?”
He stood at her side, panting slightly.
“I’m not joking,” she said without looking at him. “I’m not changing my mind.”
Falling in love with a man, she had decided, was a gradual process. When they initially met, Malcolm had not struck her as someone she could care about, but slowly, week by week, she had found aspects of him to admire—the clear blue crinkle of his eyes, the curve of his calf, the unself-conscious joy he took in seemingly mundane things like a car engine, a shot of malt in a crystal glass, finding a penny on the street. It was his interest in her, however, the way he said her name, the small unsuitable gifts that made her laugh—a book on sheep husbandry, a pair of glove stretchers—but most of all his absolute certainty in the viability of the whole affair, that really cemented her feelings. To be chosen was intoxicating. By the time they were married, her head was turned. She was besotted, charmed, and in good faith, she had given him all of herself, she had opened up to him. And yet married life was not what she expected. No one, especially not Malcolm, could keep up such an intensity of feeling.
Falling out of love, she had discovered, was an altogether faster process. While the heart took time to soften, it could harden like a ground frost practically overnight. It was the little things, hair in the sink, the crumple of a shirt discarded on the floor for someone else to pick up, a sarcastic tone of voice. The vision he had of her, of which she had been unaware during their courtship, was as a woman who was inept, clumsy, indecisive, unsure of her own mind. And if she had remained, she could see herself shrinking into Malcolm’s version of herself: a woman without color, without shape, without merit.
The steamer grew bigger, and passengers began to lift their bags in anticipation of boarding. Malcolm’s face was white, tight, like the knuckles of a clenched fist.
“You have no idea about where you’re going,” he said. “You’ve never been there.”
“I’ve never been anywhere,” she said. “Malcolm, find someone else. Forget about me.”
In her pocket she had a map, Tom Baillie’s map, which she had found in his suitcase lining. Who knew, maybe she would also find her brother? If he was still there. Which was unlikely.
Malcolm took a deep breath, as if winded. And just for a moment she felt for him. People were glancing across at them, children’s faces turned away by mothers’ hands. The steamer was about to dock, and the crowd began to shift forward on the jetty. She picked up her cases and joined them.
“Antonia!” he said. “I won’t allow it!”
It was the proverbial cherry on the cake, a comment that summed up everything that was wrong with her, with him, with their relationship. She didn’t wait for more but started to walk up the gangplank. He would find out later that, with Mr. Drummond and the bank manager’s help, she had taken exactly half their savings.
The train to London was about to depart from Glasgow Central. Her luggage was stowed, her hat in her lap. She had made a reservation for luncheon in the restaurant car once they had departed from Carlisle, but in truth she had no appetite. The door drew open, and for just a fraction of second, she imagined it was Malcolm, come to bring her back.
“Is this Number 14?” an elderly man asked. “We have a reservation.”
“Where’s the ticket?” his wife demanded. “You’ll have to check.”
It was compartment 14, and they did have two seats booked all the way to Crewe. They settled into the compartment, fluttering tickets, newspapers, handkerchiefs, and a box of toffees that they kept on offering and she kept on declining. The whistle blew, and the finality of the situation suddenly hit her.
“Where are you heading?” said the elderly woman.
“India,” she had replied. “Or thereabouts. Have you heard of the Rong Chu? It’s a river. I’m going to find the Snow Tree.”
The woman’s eyes widened a little as she unwrapped a toffee and started to chew.
26
The new year had arrived, and with it the heaviest snowfall they’d seen in the Peninsula in years. The hills, the gardens, the trees, were covered with a muffle of white. Old Mr. Baillie passed away in his sleep. It was a blessing, everyone said. He was ninety-two. On Jacob Baillie’s instructions, the glass house was gone, dismantled and shipped by barge to Glasgow to be erected in the Botanic Gardens in the West End. The ring and clank of metal falling on metal had sounded out across the estate for three days as each pane of glass was wrapped in newspaper and labeled, each iron frame or pillar carefully cataloged. A barge was tethered in the water in front of the house, and using a small rowing boat that went back and forth maybe a hundred times, the glass house was loaded up and then sailed away. In the snow you could still make out its huge footprint and see the steps down to the boiler room, which was locked up now. Weeds would soon sprout in the cold damp earth. It could be planted anew with fragrant azaleas and flowering hydrangeas, or maybe it would be left to grow wild, to return to its natural state with foxgloves, primroses, and bluebells.
Cicely had moved into one of the former servants’ cottages on the estate. Once the chimneys had been swept and the fires lit, it was much warmer than Balmarra had ever been. She had become interested in studying law, like Christabel Pankhurst, and planned on applying to the University of Glasgow. Maybe that way she could become self-sufficient? Antonia had gone on a trip and asked her to take care of her journals while she was gone. Cicely had seen the journals before—they had been in the library. She had no idea that Antonia had painted them. The botanical illustrations were extremely accomplished.
“And if I don’t come back, give them to Kitty,” she had said.
Kitty had arrived back from school for Christmas, looked at the blackened pile of rubble that had been Balmarra, and been philosophical.
“We could always rebuild it,” she said. “Or maybe not. Maybe it’s the garden that I really love.”
Nobody was sure what was going to happen to the garden. Jacob Baillie didn’t have the funds to run it. There was a rumor circulating that Keir Lorimer might make an offer
, but there was another that he had proposed to an eligible young lady and was all set to move to Edinburgh.
One day in February, Cicely received a card from Lorimer asking if he could call. Although she’d seen his plane a few times, they hadn’t spoken since that day she had called on him in his office six months earlier. So much had happened since then, so much had changed.
Lorimer arrived in a new car with a large bunch of hothouse flowers. She invited him in, but even though he sat by the fire Lorimer didn’t take off his coat.
“Will you stay on at Balmarra?” he asked.
“For a little while. I want to be near Kitty.”
“And your husband? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“We have decided to live separately,” she replied. “The last thing I heard is that he’s living in Calcutta, trying to raise money for his next expedition.”
What did Lorimer think of her now? she wondered. She offered him tea. He declined. Maybe all he had been attracted to was the thrill of the illicit. Cicely picked up the flowers.
“They’re lovely,” she said. “I’ll put them in water.”
“Wait!” he said.
Lorimer was on his feet.
“It seems to me that secrets have a corrosive quality,” he said. “What’s the point if you take them to your grave? Life is so very short.”
She frowned. What was he talking about?
“Put your coat on,” he went on. “I want to show you something.”
The ground was covered in snow as thick as felt. A flurry fell from a branch; a crow rasped in a tree. They walked up the glen and then turned to the right. The path had been covered, and so Lorimer guessed the way, often taking them through thickets or pockets of deep snow.
“I wish you would tell me where we’re going,” she said.
“I saw something,” he replied. “From my plane. It had been all covered up, but the winter storms exposed it.”
The Glass House Page 24
