‘But why? If your brother has faith in the man then why not summon him?’ asked Mr Lakefield.
Cecil attempted to smile at them both. ‘Walter Balanchine is a conjurer. His place is on the stage, not at the bedside of a desperately ill man. Shall we leave? I do think we should give my brother a little room to breathe. It’s turning into a fine afternoon. Perhaps we should all take a walk in the grounds.’
*
Mama came downstairs eventually and joined them in the garden. They broke off into small groups, winding their way along the more formal paths.
‘You should tell the gardener to sort out these roses,’ Mama announced, absently waving her hand at some ugly, knotted plants. She seemed distracted; not quite the image of the demure hostess that she usually managed to conjure. Tamara noticed that Mr Lakefield was staring at Mama oddly again. His inquisitive eyes seemed to be ogling every inch of her; the man really knew no subtlety.
As they came around the side of the building, Tamara peered up at the south tower. She had little interest in the garden for now, but the old building, with its great fortified walls, drew her instinctively towards it. It would take very little to make a perfectly habitable bedroom up in the top room. What a wonderful release that would be from the damp dreariness of the rest of the house.
‘Let me take your arm, dear.’
She turned to find Mrs Lakefield, linking an arm into hers and drawing her in conspiratorially. Tamara tried not to appear too stiff in the woman’s clutches. She wasn’t an arm linking sort of person; it made it difficult to walk, especially with half a dozen small dogs now throwing themselves under her feet as well.
‘Now, this brother-in-law of yours,’ Mrs Lakefield began in a dramatic whisper that was almost certainly louder than her normal voice. ‘What is it exactly that ails him?’
‘No one really knows. His legs are a great problem and he is suffering terribly at the moment. We are all deeply concerned.’
‘I can see that dear. Your poor husband is quite devoted; nothing short of a saint in the way he tends to him! If only there was something we could do to help.’
Tamara bit her lip. Cecil was quite far ahead of them now, dwarfed by the figure of Mr Lakefield bounding along beside him.
‘It seems that the only person who can help him is this magician, Walter Balanchine,’ she said, cautiously.
‘I know, how extraordinary. But why on earth doesn’t Mr Hearst send for him then?’
‘He doesn’t believe in such things and I think that he might be a little upset with me if I overruled him. But if someone else were to send for him, as a sort of surprise perhaps, then maybe Cecil would see Mr Balanchine’s brilliance for himself.’
Mrs Lakefield squeezed Tamara’s arm very tightly. Her breathing quickened and she could almost feel the thrill of the plot rushing through the woman’s body.
‘Leave it to me then dear,’ she said coyly, ‘and we’ll say nothing more about it.’
*
The following day the tonic Mama had ordered for Daniel arrived. Cecil looked dubiously at the large brown bottle of liquid, but then insisted on administering it himself. The instructions specified that the medicine should be applied to the skin of the torso, especially over the area above the heart. Tamara and her mother assisted as Cecil stripped poor Daniel to the waist and wrapped bandages dipped in the liquid around his emaciated ribs. The tonic exuded pungent fumes, enough to make their eyes water even half way down the corridor from Daniel’s room.
‘A saint,’ muttered Mrs Lakefield, shaking her head in admiration every time she passed by.
The weather turned, giving them little else to do but play cards and take longer and longer naps. This was what it must be like to be lost in a desert, or locked in prison or left to drift out at sea, thought Tamara, staring out at the rain.
The day after the arrival of the tonic, Daniel took an even steeper decline. By the evening he was quite delirious and Cecil was almost constantly by his side. They ate their dinner to the sound of muffled screams as Cecil changed the dressings on Daniel’s ribs. The tonic had left them red and raw but Cecil insisted on continuing with the application. Tamara watched Mr Lakefield refill his wineglass over and over again. He was a naturally jovial sort of man, but this atmosphere of pain and anguish seemed to have unnerved him.
When dinner was over, Mr Lakefield loosened his collar and slumped back a little in his chair. The whites of his eyes had turned quite pink. His wife chattered to her dogs, quietly slipping morsels of food to them beneath the table that she’d collected in her napkin during the meal.
‘You know, it’s coming back to me, Mrs Huntingdon,’ slurred Mr Lakefield.
Mama’s eyes darted up.
‘Was it… was it abroad?’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Lakefield, I don’t know what you’re referring to.’
‘I could swear I…,’
The clock in the hallway began to chime and they all paused for the interlude to pass. Eight chimes. Rain lashed at the windows and a draught made the curtains ripple.
‘Oh, this infernal rain,’ burst out Mama. ‘Does it never stop raining in Somerset?’
‘I’ve got it!’ cried Mr Lakefield. ‘Paris! Oh, must be more than twenty years ago. You were, my God!’
The shrillest scream yet resounded through the house. It sounded no better than an animal being sliced at the throat and left to bleed. They all jumped to their feet and dashed to the source of the noise. At the same time Tamara heard a hammering at the front door. Saunders shuffled towards it. But the cries were enough for her to ignore whoever had arrived and rush with the rest of them to Daniel’s room.
Mrs Lakefield pushed the bedroom door open to reveal Daniel hanging off his bed; half naked and trembling. Cecil had removed the bandages and with them, it seemed, half the skin of his brother’s torso.
‘What is this tonic that you have provided us with?’ demanded Cecil, marching up to Mama and brandishing the brown bottle. His face was contorted into an impression of anguish, but Tamara knew him well enough now to see something else flickering behind the expression.
Mama took the bottle from him. She was chalky white. ‘It should have been used cautiously, in small measures,’ she said in a calm but quiet voice.
‘You have poisoned my boy, torn his skin to shreds!’ he cried. ‘What were you thinking of woman?’
Mama gasped and took several steps back. Her face began to tremble but she held her nerve. The Lakefields watched on, aghast, as Daniel wailed and moaned in the background. Tamara looked from her mother to Cecil. She could see the pleasure swimming in his eyes. She could tell how much he was glorying in this; how he loved being Daniel’s heroic protector.
‘There is nothing else I can do but wrap his wounds up again,’ Cecil retorted, shaking his head with dramatic despondency. ‘Tamara, find me some more bandages. I’ll do it now.’
‘No you will not.’
The voice came from behind them. It was soft but commanding and everyone turned in surprise at the sound of it. There, wrapped in a rain-sodden purple cloak, was Walter Balanchine, accompanied by a dark-haired boy.
Chapter 17
An astonished silence swept across them all. Daniel’s agonised groans gave way to tears.
‘Help me,’ he croaked.
‘Of course,’ said Walter.
But as soon as he tried to move towards his patient, Cecil barred Walter’s way.
‘You dare to step, uninvited, into my home?’ he spat.
Walter looked at him with a blank expression. ‘But I was summoned. Did you not know?’
‘Yes, by me!’ cried Mrs Lakefield, clapping her hands together in delight. ‘Oh you came, I knew you would. I’ve heard so, so much about you! How wonderful it is to have you here. Did you know that your fame has spread as far away as Constantinople, Mr Balanchine?’
Walter bowed his head. ‘No I did not, and it is a great honour to meet you too, Mrs Lakefield. Your note was very worrying; I was
right to come I see. Mrs Hearst,’ he said, turning to Tamara. ‘I trust you are well?’
He fixed her with one of his soul-searching glances, to which it was impossible to reply. In a moment she felt as if he knew everything, as clearly as if he’d seen it all unfold with his own eyes: the soggy, miserable wedding, the hours of solitude, the last remains of the bruise on her face. She had hoped and hoped to see this man again, but now the reality of his presence was utterly overwhelming. The effect was made even worse by the notable absence of Tom Winter by his side: his friend, his colleague. A dogged sob rose up in her throat.
Cecil’s hand brushed urgently across his scalp and then he flexed his fingers, as if they were fixing to fly out with a punch. His whole body seethed. Tamara could hear his short, sharp breaths, sucked in and then expelled through white-rimmed nostrils. The thought of what he might do next made her want to cower in a dark corner.
But Walter remained entirely motionless before this display of fury. His eyes were fixed steadily and almost unblinkingly on Cecil’s. The vision reminded her of a drawing she’d once seen of a snake-charmer mollifying a venomous beast. The dark-haired boy also remained quite still, just a step behind Walter. Tamara recognised him now as the young card trickster who’d performed with them on that night in Mayfair.
Cecil stepped forward and then faltered, as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do next. And then suddenly the suspense was shattered by a painful crashing sound: Daniel, swooning to the ground, his raw ribs knocking painfully against the floor.
Walter pushed past Cecil and raced to Daniel’s side. He lifted him carefully beneath the arms whilst the boy took his ankles. Together they raised him onto a chair.
‘Someone please find a servant to strip this bed and remove all traces of that noxious ointment,’ Walter commanded.
‘Yes, I will,’ came a voice. Tamara felt a stab of surprise to discover that it came from Mama, who instantly hurried out of the room. Her shoulder almost brushed against Cecil who was now slumped against a wall, eyes staring down at the floor. He seemed as lifeless as a puppet.
Walter removed his cloak. He was wearing a white smocked shirt, over which hung his chain of bottles and charms. He unscrewed one small bottle from the collection and emptied its contents into a bowl, to which he added water. Carefully he dipped a clean towel into the bowl and began, with gentle strokes, to dab at Daniel’s ribs. Although Daniel groaned with pain, the rhythmic action of Walter’s cleansing seemed to settle him. At last, when his bed was made clean, Walter and the boy (who answered to the name of Kayan) lifted Daniel onto the mattress and covered him in cotton sheets.
Cecil didn’t speak or move during the entire procedure. He remained exactly where he was, a brooding shadow against the wall.
‘Well, he looks far better already,’ chirped Mrs Lakefield with a nod in the patient’s direction.
‘You did very well my dear. Very well to call on Mr Balanchine here,’ added her husband.
‘He’ll need watching tonight,’ said Walter. ‘Kayan and I will take it in turns. You look like you need some rest, Mr Hearst.’
Cecil did not respond.
‘You must be hungry, Mr Balanchine. And your friend as well,’ ventured Tamara. She smiled at Kayan and he grinned back at her broadly. She felt her heart opening up to the boy. Had Tom been fond of him as well? ‘I’ll have a room made up for you.’
‘There will be no need for that. Kayan and I will be quite comfortable in the old tower, to which this … house … has been attached.’
Walter looked about him with a perplexed gaze that made Tamara want to giggle.
‘The south tower is hardly comfortable,’ said Mama.
‘It is far better than many places we have known, Madam. We will be more than comfortable there.’
‘You may stay in the south tower for tonight,’ murmured Cecil. The whole room seemed to hold its breath as he emerged from his stupor. ‘But I want your assurance that you and your boy will be gone in the morning.’
‘I cannot give you that,’ Walter replied. ‘We will remain for two nights. After that time my commitments, I’m afraid, force me to return to London. I will however send an excellent nurse in my place. She is extremely skilled at applying my methods when concerning both the physical and mental recovery of a patient.’
‘I refuse to pay for such a woman to live in my home.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of asking you to. I will pay for her services.’
‘Oh the kindness!’ exclaimed Mrs Lakefield, as her husband grunted his approval. ‘You couldn’t possibly turn down such a thing, could you Mr Hearst?’
‘I am more than capable of caring for my own brother,’ Cecil snarled.
‘Yes, and he is now bereft of much of his skin,’ replied Walter. ‘You also have business to attend to in Bristol and Newcastle in the next month and Daniel, I’m sure, will be in no state to accompany you.’
‘How on earth do you know about my affairs?’
A glimmer of humour twitched at the edges of Walter’s mouth. ‘They call me a wizard, Mr Hearst,’ he replied, raising his eyebrows and offering Cecil the smallest of shrugs.
*
When Tamara finally retired to her room that evening, she peered at her face in the mirror. It was flushed and sticky with sweat. She put her hands to her cheeks. They were so hot, feverish even. She drew back her curtains and opened the window, allowing the cool, damp air to pour over her skin.
Walter’s arrival had made her feel raw again. Her mind rushed with visions of Tom and the memory of his touch. She closed her eyes and tried to feel that beautiful time again inside her; when that small slither of hope had wrapped itself around her like a wonderful cloak.
With Walter’s return, could some remnant of that beautiful hope trickle back to her? She craved to talk to him, to reach out to this man and unburden herself in some way.
Her door clicked open and Cecil slouched in. For once he looked almost dishevelled. His tie was loose and his eyes had the lazy look of someone who’d had too much to drink. He was holding a small glass in his hand and, as he sauntered over to her, the familiar smell of the liquid sloshing about in it filled her nostrils.
‘You made her do it, didn’t you?’ he said, with a knowing smirk.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘You made the Lakefield woman write to that man.’
‘No!’
‘Don’t lie to me.’
He dropped into a chair and held the glass up to the light, swishing it about as if the substance inside were a fine wine.
‘Recognise this Tamara? Your mother’s excellent tonic?’
The smell of it made her feel nauseous now. She pressed her fingers against her nose.
‘She nearly killed my brother with it.’
‘No Cecil, you applied too much. You know that. I’m sure that small quantities would have been quite harmless.’
He drew his brows together in a look of bewilderment. ‘Harmless you say? Harmless?’
Cecil closed one eye and peered into the liquid again, as if searching for some sort of confirmation.
‘Well, well,’ he murmured at last. ‘If you think that this foul-smelling tincture is so benign, prove it to me.’
She felt her heart quicken. The sweat on her face had dried now and a shiver ran through her.
‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what you mean.’
He stood up and came towards her, holding out the glass.
‘Drink it,’ he said. ‘Show me how harmless your mother’s little gift is.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Cecil.’
‘Drink it and I won’t touch you again for a year.’ He held his other hand up to her cheek and stroked it tenderly. ‘How is your face? The bruises, have they healed now?’
Her lip began to tremble.
‘It is not a drink,’ she stammered. ‘It might… it could.’
His hand wandered down her cheek and then over her neck. The touch of his skin made her
stomach heave. He wound his fingers into her hair.
‘I can still smell it on you,’ he murmured. ‘All that filth you doused yourself in. My wife should be clean, not stinking like a farmyard.’
Her eyes fell on the glass in his hand.
‘And this hair, what a mess you’ve made of it,’ he groaned. He tugged at the back of her head so that her scalp burned.
She reached for the glass. The vapours made her eyes water.
‘So, you are going to drink it!’ he mused, a shrill, boyish excitement now entering his voice.
Her hand began to shake as she raised it to her lips.
‘Don’t be concerned my dear. It’s harmless, quite harmless.’
Delight danced in his eyes.
She could taste the tonic before it even touched her lips; such was the smell of the thing. Already she could feel a retching sensation in her throat, as if every muscle in her body was fighting against her resolve to drink it. She pressed the glass against her mouth.
Cecil’s face twitched expectantly. He had taken a step back, as if anticipating a quick escape from an ugly scene. It seemed peculiar that he should hold such fascination for the thing that terrified him most. Perhaps it thrilled him to dance with fear, safe in his own bubble, tucked away in his gleaming shell.
Just as the first drops of the liquid entered her mouth, scorching her tongue so that she howled in pain, a shadow swept into the room. It swooped towards Cecil’s face, a flurry of leathery blackness churning up the air around them. Cecil instantly fell to his knees, arms wrapped over his head, screeching like a child.
Tamara spat the contents of her mouth on the floor, smashing the glass down alongside it. She looked down at Cecil and began to laugh as the shadow, which she now realised was nothing more than a bat, repeatedly made for his head, swooping down at its target and fluttering frenzied wings in his face. Cecil was curled up on the floor like a baby, sobbing and wailing at the relentless attacks.
‘Do something!’ he yelled at her. ‘Do something!’
She collapsed on her bed and savoured the scene. Gradually the animal began to calm down. It returned several times to a dark corner of the room, in between hurling itself at Cecil, and then eventually settled itself there in a little mound of leather and fur.
Illusion Page 16