That broke the woman’s trance. Her astonishment at my presence in the kitchen became open alarm. The spoon clattered to the floor, and she moved like a barrel on wheels to the table, her dressing gown flapping. She snatched the creamer and the sugar bowl, moving them away from my reach, eyeing my chair as if she might like to do the same to it.
I began loosening the fingers of my left glove, holding tight to my hand, to prevent her seeing its slight shake. So, I thought, this was her domain, her kingdom, and I had just invaded. Well, well. Everyone had something they valued. Aunt Alice had money, Robert had toffee, and this woman had a kitchen. What I valued was respect, and I intended to have it. I took a deep breath.
“As soon as you have begun the tea, please inform the housekeeper that I will require a man to deal with my trunk. It was left at the front doors. Have it taken to my room immediately, if you please, and you may tell her that I will do my own unpacking.”
The woman released the sugar bowl and squinted. “Who the devil are you?”
“I might ask the same of you, ma’am, though I, of course, would never swear while doing so. I shall try to forget that you have. I repeat that I am Katharine Tulman, Mr. Tulman’s niece. Obviously you have not been told of my coming. I take it you are the cook?”
The woman frowned. “I do for Mr. Tully. My name is Jefferies, Mrs. Jefferies.” She watched me pull my fingers one by one from the other glove, then moved heavily to the stove and put the kettle to the heat, her eyes darting back to me every few seconds. “You’re never … you couldn’t be Mr. Simon’s child?”
“Simon Tulman was my father, yes.”
“Why, Mr. Simon couldn’t have been near this place for almost ten years.”
“Considering that he has been dead for sixteen, I would say it has been rather longer.”
Mrs. Jefferies nodded in thoughtful agreement, her double chin disappearing and reappearing as she sliced bread. But I knew she was watching, to see what I touched. She skewered the bread on an iron fork and handed it to the boy. He held it over the flames without comment or instruction, the fingers of his other hand still fondling the contented rabbit. “And what would be bringing you to us now?” she asked softly.
I recited my lines. “I have come to Stranwyne to be Mr. Tulman’s secretary.”
“Secretary?” Her lips pressed together, and she turned back to the stove. I kept a guarded eye on the bread knife. “This’ll be that Alice’s doing, the little …”
Mrs. Jefferies mumbled on, apparently believing the whistle of the teakettle to be masking the rather offensive word she chose to describe my aunt. As I could not disagree with her, I turned to the boy. “Your name is David?” I asked him.
The child smiled, one deep dimple appearing in his left cheek, but he said nothing. I wondered how he was not miserable so close to the fire. The room was oppressively hot. He flipped the bread, exposing the other side to the heat.
“And do you often play in the unused portions of the house, David?”
His expression went blank, his attention all on the perfection of my toast, and I decided not to pursue the matter. The normalcy of being in a room with a woman who despised me had restored some of my common sense. There was nothing to be feared in dust sheets or a porcelain figure or an inordinate number of clocks. In any case, this boy was only nine, possibly ten. Perhaps he had not intended to frighten me with his laugh, or at least, not as much as he had. I had no wish for him to receive another rap on the head. “What is your rabbit’s name?” I asked.
The dimple came back, but he did not answer.
“Bertram,” Mrs. Jefferies said, slapping a cup of tea on the table. “We call the beast Bertram.”
I stared at the hot tea, feeling a drop of sweat sneak down my back. “I take cream and half a lump, if you remember, Mrs. Jefferies.”
Mrs. Jefferies grabbed the cream, poured a scant measure and set it away again, out of my reach, plopped a full lump into the cup and slid it to me, tossing the bread the child had finished toasting onto a plate alongside.
“Buttered, if you please, Mrs. Jefferies. And I wonder if you have given any thought to my trunk.”
The child unfolded himself from the hearth, arranged the rabbit so that its front legs hung over his shoulder, and went silently through a door beyond the stove. I caught a whiff of cooler air and a glimpse of walled garden.
“He’ll be getting Lane,” said Mrs. Jefferies. “Lane’ll fetch your trunk, though I’m sure I don’t know what he’ll be doing with it. We’ve nowhere to put you, you know.”
As I was sitting in one of what must be a hundred rooms, I ignored this, took a sip of my tea, and bit back a cry. It was not hot; it was scalding. I set down the cup, noting that Mrs. Jefferies was not attempting to produce any butter. “When does my uncle take his evening meal, Mrs. Jefferies?”
“One hour, seventeen minutes. And Lord help us, Miss, if you’re making it any longer than that.”
I raised a brow. Then my uncle was an exacting man, like Aunt Alice. I looked to the window and the angling sun, and held in a sigh. “Well, perhaps you’d better take me to him now.”
Mrs. Jefferies spread her hands on her wide hips, her chest heaving with a sudden agitation I could not comprehend. She lowered her voice. “I know what you’ve come for.”
“Oh, I doubt that, Mrs. Jefferies.”
“I know it well. And I’ll be making it hard for you, Miss, just you mind that. I’ll be making it as hard as I can.”
I studied her with new interest. Graying hair, a broad nose, deep wrinkles around eyes that were faded and … shrewd. The woman’s brains might be in working order after all. I stirred my tea, sucking on my burnt lip. Maybe it really would be best to see my uncle as soon as possible. If he was doing anything odd — which seemed a distinct possibility given Mrs. Jefferies’s behavior — I might get what I needed at once, no need to stay at Stranwyne for even a night. There must be someone I could pay to transfer me to the coaching inn at Milton, and I could pay well; Aunt Alice had given me enough for a stay of two weeks, if needed. I felt my nerves calm at this plan, and I smiled at Mrs. Jefferies. She narrowed her eyes, and then the garden door opened.
The boy and the hare slid back into the kitchen, leaving a lean young man in a grease-stained shirt hanging on the door frame behind them. I guessed him to be about eighteen or so beneath the dirt on his face, gray eyes regarding me like two chips of stone.
“Well, Lane, what do you say to this?” said Mrs. Jeffries.
He hung there, lazy and tense all at once, like a cat, arms over his head, dark and sweaty hair just brushing the lintel. I wondered if he was leaving grease spots on the paint. “I’d say you burnt the porridge, Aunt Bit,” he replied. His voice was very low.
Mrs. Jefferies made a noise of disgust and ran to the pot that was no longer steaming, but smoking, as Davy sat back on the hearthstone, cuddling his rabbit. I met the gray gaze, and lifted my chin.
“I am Mr. Tulman’s niece,” I said. “I wish to see him without delay, please.”
Mrs. Jefferies hissed from the vicinity of the stove, but the young man merely regarded me, a crease in his forehead. “It’s Mr. Tully’s …”
“Playtime. Yes, I have been made aware of it.” I tucked my gloves beneath my arm, and stood. “Take me to him, please. Now.”
Mrs. Jefferies sputtered as if she wished to spit out the fire. “He’ll do no such thing.”
I looked to Mrs. Jefferies. “Yes, he shall.”
“You’ve no business giving orders in my kitchen, Miss!”
“And you, Mrs. Jefferies, have no business wearing a dressing gown at five o’clock in the afternoon.”
The woman’s mouth unhinged, and I glanced sidelong at the doorway. The crease on Lane’s forehead had become a scowl, and the arms were no longer hanging, but crossed. That battle was lost. But I had no intention of remaining in Stranwyne for the night. I ran a finger over the sugar spoon, to irritate Mrs. Jefferies. “Then perhaps Davi
d will tell me where my uncle is.”
“I’ll reckon he won’t.” This comment came from the doorway.
I turned to the child and smiled. “David, take me to Mr. Tulman. And if you do, I’ll have no reason to mention anything that … might have happened before.”
The boy hugged his rabbit. The odd, blank look was there again.
“I’m sure Mrs. Jefferies would not be pleased if I told her what you did this afternoon. Just show me where Mr. Tulman is, and then I shan’t have to.” I held out my hand, but the child scooted backward, dangerously close to the fire, the rabbit clutched hard against his chest. Lane left the doorway and came properly into the kitchen.
“Stop it,” he said. “You’re frightening him.”
My eyes widened slightly. Aunt Alice’s servants usually just hung their heads or ignored me altogether; they certainly did not reprimand. But I only replied, “I am merely trying to make a bargain, not frighten him.” I smiled again in Davy’s direction. “Which is more than I can say for you, isn’t that so, David?”
“What are you going on about?” asked Mrs. Jefferies.
“Well, David, are you going to take me to Mr. Tulman?”
The child stared, the seconds passing, and then without warning he convulsed backward, as if I had threatened him physical harm, bumping hard into the iron grate that held the coals. A shower of sparks flew up the chimney and I reached out a hand, but Lane had already scooped both boy and hare away from the flames.
“I told you to stop!” Lane yelled, the deep voice hitting me like a blow. He set the child on his feet, brushing away the cinders. “Why did you have to scare him like that?”
Silent tears were overflowing Davy’s eyes, and my face flushed. I didn’t understand anything that was happening, but after my experience in the chapel, the injustice of that last statement stung. I pointed at the child. “Why don’t you ask him why he wanted to frighten me?”
“I can ask as many times as you want, you little idiot, but it won’t do any good. The boy is a mute!”
My gaze went again to Davy. Other than the gasping breath, his crying was noiseless. “But if … he didn’t …”
In my mind, I heard the soft giggle, creeping to me through the room of stone. I took a step back. “Where is my uncle?” I demanded.
“It’s play —” began Mrs. Jefferies.
“Mr. Tully’s in his workshop,” Lane said, “on the other side of the estate.”
“He’s not … here?” I felt a tingling sensation pressing on my neck; it might have been horror, or it might have been my own hand. “Then who else is in the house?”
The faces looked back at me.
“Who else is in this house?”
“No one,” said Lane, his arm still around Davy. “There’s no staff, just me and Aunt Bit, and the workmen don’t come near, not if they can help it.”
I stepped back again. There was something not right here, like that laughter, and those silent tears. “Take me to Milton,” I whispered. “I can pay.”
“Can’t do that.”
I looked wildly about the kitchen. “Then let me ask someone else, I …”
“Makes no difference,” Lane said. “You can’t get back across the moors before dark.” His dirty face was brown and smooth, like the stones on the front of the house. “And there’s not another man or horse within half a mile.”
The sun was almost down, but in the windowless corridor it might as well have been midnight. There was no gaslight here. Lane’s back rose tall before me, only half lit by my guttering candle as he pulled the trunk along on some sort of flat wooden cart. He’d hoisted both trunk and cart up two flights of stairs without effort or speech, and he was silent still, our footfalls muffled by the roses woven into the carpet. He stopped abruptly, and I bumped into the trunk.
“Take your pick,” he said.
I examined my surroundings. The corridor was relatively short, and I thought I could see six closed doors in the darkness, all on the left. On the right, there were only portraits, one for each door. Like sentinels, I thought. Lane stood with his arms crossed, offering neither help nor hindrance. I had no idea where I was, or how to get back to the kitchen. I opened the nearest door.
The windows were full west, catching the very last of the sun before the moor hills shadowed it. Squinting, I could just make out shelves with books, a large desk, and some very dusty lounges. Two more doors, one on each end, connected the room with its neighbors. Not a bedroom, then, but a library or a study. I shut the door, noting the portrait of a bewhiskered gentleman in a ruff that watched me do it, and went quickly to the far end of the corridor. I had not liked the thought of those inner doors. A corner room should have only one interior door, rather than two. I put my hand on the last knob in the hallway.
“It leaks,” Lane said, startling the silence. “And that one, too.” I had taken a step toward the next door. My skirt swished as I made my way to the opposite end of the corridor, to the other corner room. I put out my hand.
“Mice,” he said.
I raised a brow, and grasped the knob anyway.
“In the bed,” he added.
I dropped my hand and looked again at the corridor, this time not at the doors, but at the portraits. One door down from the library, the picture was of an old woman. I held up the candle to look at her. She was gray-headed, simply but elegantly attired in a lace cap, face as expressionless as the others, and yet … most women would not have had their wrinkles painted, at least not so realistically. I opened her door.
A massive mahogany bed stood not against a wall but in the very center of the room, hung with pale pink curtains of satin and velvet that fell perhaps eight feet from the canopy to the floor. Matching material cascaded from four tall windows, the last of the sunlight illuminating a thick rope of cobweb that linked two upholstered chairs with the wood-paneled ceiling. There was a connecting door on the left-hand wall, but on the right was only a wardrobe, heavily carved with faces and foliage, covering the wall from the corner to the marble hearth. No door.
“This one,” I said, and I heard the wheels of the cart squeak as they entered the room. I set the candle on a painted dressing table and pulled aside one of the heavy drapes. Musty damp tickled my nose as I looked out on undulating hills, swaying grass, one or two trees, and a red-gold sky. No dwellings, not even a telltale pillar of smoke. I reached out a finger and touched the dust that lay soft and thick on the windowpane. I wondered if there was any regularity to dust, that if one could measure its depth, it would be possible to figure precisely how long it had taken to accumulate.
I dropped the drape and turned back to the room. The trunk was in the middle of the floor, the valise and my bonnet on its top. I ran to the door and looked up and down the hallway. I was alone.
I shut the door and leaned on it for a moment, then hurried to one of the heavy upholstered chairs and tugged, dragging it backward, making bumps and wrinkles in the filthy carpet. I pushed the chair up hard against the connecting door, gritted my teeth, and did the same with the other chair, wedging it tight against the door to the corridor. Recovering my breath and feeling somewhat better, I considered my stub of a candle. I ransacked each of the seven drawers in the dressing table, doing the same to a side table and an old trunk. I fingered the junked contents of many years before I found the polished box on the chimneypiece full of slender, white tapers, and in a ceramic jar next to that, a ring of keys. I had candles lit and the doors locked before the last of the sun plunged behind the hills.
The furniture was even darker in the flickering light, throwing high, hulking shadows against the walls. I looked at my hands, black with dirt, and then at my dress. “Gray woolen worsted,” I could hear Aunt Alice say. “Nothing is more suitable. It will last forever, and never show dirt….” What the material never did, in my opinion, was flatter the wearer. But it would have to be decent for the journey back to London, a trip I was determined to begin no later than midday, just as soon as
I had seen my uncle and gleaned the information that would ensure Fat Robert’s inheritance.
I wiped my hands on the inside of my skirt, where the dirt would not show, then peeled off the skirt along with all three of my petticoats and tossed them over my trunk. I jerked a corset string and let that fall to the dirty floor, swinging my arms wide in the freedom of only a chemise and an underskirt, filling my lungs to capacity for the first time since that morning. I turned my attention to the massive bed.
I pushed on it once, knowing full well there would be no way to shift it, but I dreaded the thought of sleeping with all that open space behind my head. The coverlets seemed relatively dust free, thanks to the hangings, though they felt clammy and damp beneath my hand. Thinking of dry linens, I went to the wardrobe and tugged on a door. Locked. I took the ring of keys and inserted them one by one in the keyhole, the clinking of metal loud in the quiet, and on the sixth key, the lock clicked.
The door swung open, and a scented air, like lilies and cinnamon, wafted over me. I tilted back my head to stare not at linens, but at dresses, stacks upon stacks of them, lying on shelves that stretched from the level of my waist to the top of the wardrobe. Silks of lemon, lavender, and rosebud shone against the dark wood, dotted here and there by a white lawn or a winter-blue wool with sleeve lace the color of cream. There was nothing of yellow fog, sooty bricks, or suitability about them. Nothing of London. They were from another world.
A little ladder folded down and outward from the bottom shelf and, like a child who cannot resist a shiny toy, I pulled it out and climbed two rungs. I reached far above my head for a satin that was neither green nor blue but something in between, a shade I’d only seen once, in a painting of the Caribbean Sea. I pulled the dress free, watching it glimmer as it slithered downward in the candlelight, smooth as water in a stoneless stream.
The Dark Unwinding Page 2