by Sophia Tobin
‘What is it like, being in the house?’
‘I’m staying here at present. I am not quite ready – to take ownership of it.’
His friend accepted this in silence.
‘The truth is, I have not been thinking of it,’ said Henry. ‘Work is distracting me, that is a good thing. Or it was. But now – these men. Always questioning, always presuming to know things. I have a hundred things to think of already; from stone samples to scagliola. I have a long list of things to attend to tomorrow morning alone. And now I will spend time trying to write a polite answer to these wretched men who know nothing of architecture and simply want to have their say, for the sake of having their say. Showing off.’
‘Maybe they do know things – just not the same things you know.’
‘I met one of them, at the accident today. Ashton Kinsburg. He’s a rising man, with a lot of money in the build. Quiet, before, generally supportive. I knew about him, of course I did – we’d nodded to each other at dinners – and he’s rich as Croesus, Perry. He has just finished remodelling his estate in Hertfordshire, Redlands.’
‘Good lord! Of course. I knew I’d heard the name.’
‘I should say so. How much did those alterations cost? It was a Queen Anne house, correct? And now, according to reports, it covers twice the area and has the interior of a French chateau – a fucking French chateau in an english shell. The dissonance, when one walks in! All the man can talk about is gold leaf. And today: he speaks up. This letter is written and signed by him. I cannot move, in this room, for his opinions.’
Peregrine frowned at his vehemence. ‘Well, knock him down a peg or two. Did you not see it coming? Was he quiet today, or had he found his voice?’
‘God damn him, he had found it. But I would not bring him down.’
‘Why not, just a little? It’s your site, and you have been commissioned to build it. You’re a gentleman, like him.’
Henry snorted. ‘Not quite. I don’t own a glass factory. I could have needled him a dozen times, but first: it is not my style, and second: his wife was sitting nearby, with her dead horse’s blood on her dress, the poor creature.’ He looked at his wine glass. ‘The wine’s gone. Where’s Foi when I actually bloody need her?’
Peregrine folded his hands in his lap; his stillness showed attention to the strange tenderness on Henry’s face at the mention of a woman. ‘Much as I always hesitate to say so, I think the dearth of wine might be a good thing in this case. Just for a minute or two. This is not like you. This Mrs Kinsburg. What was she like? Did she speak up?’
Henry frowned. ‘What? No, of course not. She was by the fire, trying to recover her spirits. I took her from the accident, trembling like a child that thinks it will be kicked – Kinsburg showed her hardly any kindness. She listened to the meeting, of course she did: I saw her eyes from across the room, watching us, trying to catch what we were saying. She seems a woman of sense. I would have welcomed her opinion.’
‘I see.’
The coolness of Peregrine’s voice halted Henry’s feverish annoyance.
‘What is it?’ he said.
Peregrine looked at his hands. ‘We came up here to see a plan,’ he said. ‘Would you care to show it to me? You mentioned the service rooms – the position of a scullery?’
‘Not until you tell me what’s set your mouth as prim as a governess’s.’
Peregrine sighed. ‘I don’t intend to meddle in your affairs, but this Mrs Kinsburg. Beautiful face, yes? Lovely eyes?’
‘She is a perfectly ordinary woman, whatever revolting direction you are going in.’
‘Ordinary sounds like a lie. And remember, Henry, I can tell when you are lying. My friend, you are raw at the moment. No, do not laugh – that is the word. If you prefer, you are – susceptible. If this Mrs Kinsburg and her pale and downcast face is causing your poor temper, you should cut it off right now. I mean it.’
Henry stared at him. ‘I’ll get the plan.’
‘Good chap.’
Henry went back to his desk. Unusually, the wine had gone to his head; he felt drunker than he had in years, and he was a two- or three-bottle man normally. He fumbled angrily through the drawer of his desk. He wanted to erase the day; to live it again, taking another route to the Mirrormakers’ Club site, a route which did not involve carriage accidents, or dead horses, or another man’s wife.
He had felt an attachment to her immediately, and he had reasoned that it had been the way they had been thrown together, in the aftermath of the crash: a sudden intimacy, which would fade. He had driven away from the meeting having barely nodded goodbye to her.
But nothing had faded. This evening, sitting at the table as Peregrine talked, he wanted to speak to Charlotte Kinsburg. He remembered the way she had watched the meeting at the lodge, her gaze bright and curious, now and then the hint of a smile on her face, despite the trial she had just been through. He wanted to ask her what questions she wanted answered: to tell her that she could ask him question after question. That he would tell her what she wanted to know; as long as she also spoke of herself.
‘Henry.’ It was Peregrine. He came to his friend’s side. ‘Can you not find it?’
‘You’re talking rubbish, Perry,’ said Henry roughly, but he did not look at his friend. ‘About the lady. I have no – intentions.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Peregrine, patting him on the shoulder. ‘You’re nothing but honourable, as the disappointed Foi knows. I’ll come for dinner tomorrow, and we can look at the plan then. Let’s go downstairs and have a brandy. And one of my father’s cigars. Yes?’
He paused, looking over Henry’s shoulder. ‘What’s that?’
‘The lighting plan for the Dining Hall.’
Perry whistled. ‘Six chandeliers. That’s a lot of glass. Imagine the potential for breakage.’
Henry sighed, and smiled at him bravely. ‘I think of little else,’ he said.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
1838
Charlotte leaned close to the chessboard, as her husband pushed a knight towards her. She did not hear a single sound of the city night. London was banished; they were behind their high walls, their ornamental gates.
‘Thank you for asking me to play,’ she said. ‘I thought you did not wish me to.’ He had never really liked the idea of her plotting, or game-playing, she was sure: he never really wished her to think more than sixty seconds ahead.
A little half-smile warmed his face. ‘An occasional game, with your husband, is not unproper,’ he said. ‘The London house looks well, does it not?’
‘Very fine,’ she replied.
It is a terrible place, she thought, everything white and gold and blue and red, imagined into life by Ashton. He was a man of definites.
He toppled her king, with satisfaction.
The chess game finished, they retired separately, her London maid – new, and taciturn – assisting her swiftly before retiring. Charlotte was sitting on her bed, listening to the tick of the clock, when his knock surprised her. She had assumed he would leave her to sleep, as the doctor had seen her. He was a fastidious man.
She called his name, and when he opened the door she saw hesitation in him, a rare thing. He was still dressed. He held a box in his hands. It was covered in brown leather bordered with ornate gold tooling.
‘My dear?’ she said, watching him, paused on the threshold, as though he were gathering his words. His eyes glittered; she had sensed his excitement about something throughout the evening, had thought his meeting with the architect must have pleased him.
‘I have something for you. From Hamptons. I meant today to be – a happier occasion. But you seem recovered. So – here.’ He handed it to her.
She took the box and opened it. There, on a bed of navy blue velvet, lay the largest diamond she had ever seen, cut into an asymmetrical pear shape.
She looked at her husband wordlessly.
‘Le Fantôme,’ he said, like a child who has opened a Christmas prese
nt. ‘Nearly thirty-five carats.’ He could not help himself; he took the box from her hands, and she saw then that the delight in his eyes had been caused by the diamond and his possession of it, and all that that possession said about him.
He was telling her its provenance. He spoke of a shipwreck, of royal houses, of private collections, of an unbroken whispered thread of history that this strangely cut diamond had. Named for the inclusion deep inside the stone, which had seemed so mysterious to its first owners, this was no modern gem. This thing had to be known, decoded, and treasured. And now it was theirs.
Charlotte smiled brightly. ‘It will be a wonderful addition to your collection,’ she said, watching the light from the diamond on his face. She could not help but think of its provenance with misgiving, of the generations holding it and then handing it on as something burning with history.
He looked up at her. ‘I will have it set in a tiara for you. It will be part of our family jewels. It will show what I have achieved. Redlands, our children, my growing influence in the City. I can see you in your green dress, or your red dress, with that diamond in your hair. You will seem a queen to those around you.’
‘I cannot possibly keep the diamond in my jewel box,’ said Charlotte.
‘Of course not! It shall go into a safe. But you are pleased, aren’t you? This diamond is for you. This diamond is for you.’ He sought a better reaction, she knew, from repetition. What should she do? Burst into tears? Feign joy and sink to her knees with audible prayers of thanksgiving? ‘I am so grateful, dear Ashton,’ she said, as strongly as she could, and yet all she could think was: I would give anything for my horse to still be alive. I would give this diamond to Hamptons, and this dress and this room, and this house which is not a home.
They climbed into opposite sides of the cold bed. She sensed she had disappointed him in some unnameable way, but that he was puzzled rather than angry. Their coupling was brief, almost chaste, and silent. They did not look at each other directly.
‘Are you looking forward to going home tomorrow?’ he said afterwards, rolling away from her.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I am like an old lady these days, only happy in my own little salon, with my own occupations.’
He kissed her on the cheek and climbed out of the bed. ‘You are still young, my love. I cannot imagine you ever being old. I will let you sleep. It has been a difficult day. I will take this.’ He closed the diamond into its box; it had lain beside the bed throughout.
She watched him go, and the sound of his footsteps faded immediately, so that it were as though he had never been there at all, except for the disordered bed, and the slight soreness he had left behind.
It was not difficult to get older, she found. She rather welcomed the idea of fading, and of her husband losing interest in her. What was difficult was remembering what it had felt like to be young: the sense of endless possibility, and the certainty of future happiness. Mr Dale-Collingwood had reminded her of the romantic dreams of her youth. She lay on her back, looking at the ceiling as her candle burned down. She remembered his kindness, the way he had guided her away from the scene of the accident. The instant sympathy which had seemed to connect them. Then she put it aside, and blew out her candle.
She had not lied to Ashton. She had been glad to leave Redlands to come to London, and now she was glad to leave London for Redlands. As a young woman she had hated leave-takings and goodbyes, but as a married woman she thirsted for them. Every time she travelled she courted the possibility of change. Then she would arrive and – smiling, greeting the servants, ordering the dinner, choosing a gown to wear – realize that everything was the same as it had been, as it would be, for ever and ever, amen.
*
The next morning, Charlotte left the scent of her perfume in the rooms of the London house. She had smothered herself with oil of lily of the valley: the flower that symbolized the return of happiness. Her pride had not failed her yet. She would be fragrant, leaving a sweetness that would take hours to fade as the staff shut up the house again, threw dust sheets over the furniture, and mocked her and her husband. These things, people remembered.
My mistress was a bitch, a trial, a whore, but she always smelt sweet.
The air was cold. A fresh pair of horses, and their travelling coach. The footman opened the carriage door, and she took her husband’s hand and jumped up the steps. She always took his hand with an exaggerated flourish, because she knew his love of a graceful gesture. Today, she saw from his dark expression that his mood had turned, and that she had irritated him. But her own husband was too powerful to be pitied. Even Henry Dale-Collingwood, she thought, is indentured into service, like me. Perhaps that answered why they had that strange kinship. The coach set off.
‘What did you do with your gown?’ Ashton said. He had been watching her expression, and she felt guilt pass over her face like a shadow.
She looked at the window, its blank black surface, shielded by a blind. ‘Which gown?’
A small sigh. ‘The one I sent to Paris for. The one you got the horse’s blood on. The one you knelt in the road in.’ She heard the rhythm of building annoyance.
‘It was ruined. I left it with Sarah.’
‘I see. So one of our London maids will be dressed in the finest day gown our Parisian dressmaker had to offer.’
‘It would have been impossible to get the blood out of it.’ At least in her mind, she would have always seen it there, the seeping stain. ‘I have said sorry.’
‘Yes, you have said sorry.’ He leaned forwards, balancing his weight on his silver-topped cane. ‘But I’m not sure you truly appreciate what you have done.’
She sat silently; it was impossible to interrupt at this point. The mismatch of their emotions, of their respective reactions to every situation, had been so charming and playful in their courtship, but marriage had rendered it dreadful.
‘Is this about the diamond?’ she said, in a low voice. ‘It is very beautiful, Ashton. If I did not show my feelings enough, it is only because I was tired.’
His eyes flashed at her. ‘It is about your ingratitude, but not about the diamond. I went to a great deal of trouble to order that gown. I ordered it, knowing you would suit it, knowing that you liked it, having shown you the fashion plates. The care I took over it, Charlotte. Imagining that you would be delighted to wear it; that you would take care of it.’
‘I was very grateful for the gown, and for the other gowns you ordered with it. I still am. I did take care of it. I did not mean to soil it. The whole matter was very unpleasant for me.’
‘You point out I bought you a lot of gowns, as if that lessens the offence. Don’t play that game with me. And please remember that the whole matter was very unpleasant for me too. In the midst of all the difficulties, you were another worry added to my list of worries, because of your indelicate behaviour.’
She tried not to let any expression cross her face.
‘Don’t do that!’
Her tone even, her face still. ‘Do what?’
‘Make your face small and tight and pinched like that.’
She closed her eyes. It was impossible; if her face showed her annoyance, it would provoke him; blank, it provoked him. The only possible defence was stillness, and silence. She must play dead, she must fake utter submission. Each beat that passed was hopeful, each moment when no words broke from him. But she would not weep.
‘You have been very ungrateful,’ he said eventually.
She kept her eyes closed. She knew now he would leave it, but that her own battle was not over. For now, in the sudden rush of relief, she would have to suppress the breaking wave of her own anger. When she opened her eyes, her husband was dozing, and she could not help but imagine satisfaction in the line of his mouth.
They made good time. The hours passed quickly in silence and reverie; in the late afternoon they were on the Long Drive, the straight, tree-lined avenue which led to the façade of Redlands. Charlotte knew it by the perf
ection of the surface and the straightness of the road.
‘Home,’ said Ashton. She saw the contentment in his face. She smiled slightly, enough to show agreement. She had lived here for the nine years of their marriage. Thanks to the endless repetition of the house’s routine, her memory tricked her into thinking it had gone quickly. And it was home, because here she had had her children. As always she glanced at the distant spire in a clump of trees, the parish church where her first child, Loveday, now rested. The twins, Isabel and Thomas, still lived.
How Redlands filled the sight. The central symmetrical body of the house had been added to with two long wings. Its windows glittered in the afternoon sunshine. She had seen it at its best on her first visit: in the midst of a ripe English summer, its lines softened by the green of abundant shrubs and trees, her eyes drawn by the blue of a cloudless midsummer sky. Intoxicating, it had seemed like a magical place. No other arrival had ever matched that first one.
The staff lined up to greet them. Charlotte smiled blandly, nodded, murmured, her hand on Ashton’s arm. Her own maid, Katie, was not in the receiving line: she would be upstairs, waiting, with lavender water.
The wood-panelled stone hallway was cool. Already she heard the sound of their son coming, the distant running footsteps in a strange rhythm, for he was galloping like a knight on a horse. He and his sister had rattled around this vast house for days. She would have to wait for him to reach them. Her son, with his large eyes, and his silken hair, and his plump cheeks. He was his father’s boy, and even as a baby he had looked at her with that uncomprehending, expressionless stillness that she could not fathom.
‘Papa!’ He stopped himself at the top of the first staircase – for there were many at Redlands. ‘Mama.’ His nurse caught up with him. Beneath an arch with a coat of arms above, he stood, their little prince.
‘My dear,’ Charlotte said. ‘Where is your sister?’