A moan sliced through the air, so close to my head that I nearly fell from the ladder. But it was only the wind in the chimney, a noise I’d heard a hundred times. A breeze must be picking up outside. I stepped down, mesmerized by the shining dress. I knew I should go to bed. The next day would likely require all my wits, and sleep in this room could be long in coming. I knew all this, but I slipped the dress over my head anyway, tugging it quickly into place. I tied the ribbon sash, then snatched up the edge of the velvet drape and wiped at the grime on the dressing-table mirror, gazing at the blurry image.
The dress fit, not just marginally, but as if I had been measured for it by a seamstress. The waist was high, in the style of decades ago, edged with ribbon that ran up and around my neck. The skirt flowed in long gathers, needing no other decoration than the fabric, touching just at the toes of my boots. The boots looked shabby next to all that color, but I did not. I touched my skin, no longer drab as when next to the worsted, but ivory and peach. I yanked out my hairpins, setting the curls free, and saw glints of auburn come alive in the brown. I had never been beautiful, and I still was not beautiful, but this was … striking.
I hurried back to the wardrobe, folded up the ladder, and found a key that would fit the first drawer below the shelves. The chimney wind groaned again, a low, lonely sound that I almost did not hear in my excitement. The drawer was filled with shoes, delicate slippers of varying shades, and there was a box of long gloves as well, many pairs, ending well above the elbow, a bit yellowed, but sound. I kicked off my boots and wiggled into ivory slippers with blue-and-green flowers stitched on their sides and almost laughed. They fit perfectly. I would pin up my hair next, and leave ringlets that would fall about my face. I twirled once, listening to the swish of the blue dress, and put the key into the bottom drawer of the wardrobe, hoping for bonnets. I pulled open the drawer and thrust in my hand.
Something cold and soft surrounded my fingers, many somethings tickling my skin. And then I saw that it was human hair, dark brown and curling, gathered in silken bunches. The curls twisted, writhing, one upon the other, like dead things thrown into the same coffin. I jerked back my hand. The tresses filled the drawer, bound with ribbon as blue as a tropical sea, and in the flickering light I caught glimpses of color, glints of auburn coming alive amid the brown.
I leapt backward, one hand on my own red-brown curls, slamming the drawer shut with my foot. I backed away, the same suffocating horror creeping up my neck as when I’d watched the child cry silently in the kitchen. The hair in the drawer was mine; somehow it was mine. The moan from the chimney gained in pitch, and a wild wail, a screech like a wounded animal, sounded from just outside the window. I spun about, and another howl, and then another, pierced straight through my head, and with each came a deeper resonance, playing on the edge of my hearing, a noise whose source was nothing living. I threw myself at the bed, clutching my knees, fear pinning my back to the mahogany of the headboard. The lament in the chimney and outside my window fell away only to rise back up again, doubling its intensity. I shut my eyes, and for once let the tears spill.
When the clock pinged its seventh chime the next morning, I was at Mrs. Jefferies’s table wearing my gray worsted, not one curl out of place, bonnet, gloves, and valise beside me, buttering my fourth piece of bread. The wardrobe was locked tight, the blue-green dress inside it, the chairs replaced and the coverlet spread neatly over the bed. Other than my trunk and some disarranged dust, the room, I hoped, would soon forget my existence. I wished I could do the same.
The kitchen door opened and Mrs. Jefferies, properly attired in calico and lace cap, entered and stopped short at the sight of me, a basket of newly pulled carrots balanced precariously on one hip. Her mouth fell open, and I held in a sigh. The woman’s constant surprise was wearisome.
“You found the kitchen,” she stated.
“Of course,” I replied. It had, in fact, taken half an hour, but that was beside the point. I laid down the butter knife. The night may not have given me sleep, but it had given me a plan, and there was no time to waste, not if I wanted to spend the night in Milton. “Mrs. Jefferies,” I said, “I believe I owe you an apology. My behavior yesterday was not what I could have wished. I was overtired from the journey, I’m afraid, and prone to upset.”
She waited for me to continue, wary.
“But I think we can both agree that it would be best if I were to see my uncle at once. I cannot return to London without having done so, not without angering my aunt, and she will only send me again, or come herself….” I was pleased to note Mrs. Jefferies’s displeasure at that thought. “And once I have seen my uncle I can be on my way, this very afternoon, if a carriage can be found. This would suit us both, I think.”
Mrs. Jefferies looked at me a moment. “There’s sense in what you say,” she said gruffly, “and Lane thinks the same. No use putting off what … can’t be helped. He’s coming to take you down to Mr. Tully as soon as … as soon as can be.”
“Take me where, Mrs. Jefferies? Does my uncle not sleep in the house?”
The woman shrugged as she set the basket on the sideboard, running her thick fingers over the dirt that still clung to the carrots. “Most times he sleeps in the workshop. We’ve a little couch for him there, set up for the purpose. Mr. Tully don’t like to be far from his playthings.”
“Exactly what sort of ‘playing’ does Mr. Tulman do in his workshop?”
She shrugged again. “You’ll see.”
She went on picking through the carrots, making what I recognized to be a heroic effort to ignore my doings at her table. I straightened my back and said, “Do you have wolves here at Stranwyne, Mrs. Jefferies?”
She turned to stare at me, snorting. “Are you daft, Miss? There’s no wolves in England.”
I lowered my eyes to the buttered bread. She was right, of course. But it was the only explanation I’d been able to conjure for that unearthly wail in the air.
The door opened and then Lane was filling up the square of bright sunshine. He was clean, his skin the color of a heavily creamed tea. He stood silent, waiting for me. I folded my buttered bread in half and wrapped it in a handkerchief, then slipped it into the valise and picked up my gloves.
“You can leave the bag here,” he said. “I’ve found a wagon for you. Your things will be in it when you’re ready to go.”
“And my trunk?” I inquired.
“That, too.”
I stood, steeling myself for the unknown ordeal of meeting my uncle, the ordeal that would allow me to go back to London and pretend that none of this had happened. I turned to Mrs. Jefferies. “Well, good-bye then, Mrs. Jefferies.”
The woman stayed hunched over the sideboard, her broad back to me. She did not answer.
It didn’t come to me until I was out of the kitchen, feeling morning sun and dew both hot and cool against my skin, that Mrs. Jefferies had not intended to be rude with her silence. Mrs. Jefferies had been crying.
Outside the kitchen was a walled garden, surprisingly well tended with neat rows of cabbage, lettuce, and beans, and one section showing freshly disturbed earth, where Mrs. Jefferies must have pulled the carrots. Once again I followed Lane’s back. I caught a glimpse of a boy’s brown head bolting away from me, into the safety of an iron-and-glass greenhouse, the legs of a hare flopping over his shoulder. I lowered my eyes to the crushed rocks of the path, my conscience pricking, until the path ended and Lane opened a door in the garden wall.
Then the moors were upon us, all tall grass, warm earth, and streaming sun. Wildflowers nodded, brightening the gray green with dots of yellow, and Lane, a red cap now on his head, took long strides down a well-beaten way through the swaying stems. I hurried to catch up with him, my wide petticoats an utter nuisance on the narrow track, setting flight to a family of linnets. Lane climbed a small hill and disappeared on the other side.
I stopped at the crest of the rise, already panting and my face pinked with the exercise. Beyond me a
small river cut an arc through the hills, sparkling in the sun, and at maybe a half mile distant I saw a village, stone buildings and rows of cottages clustered together, with little strips of gardens in between. I frowned. Why hadn’t anyone told me there was a town? If I could not have gotten to Milton, surely I could have found an inn here? I sectioned off what appeared to be a fourth of the village, counted the thatch peaks, and multiplied by four. Besides the larger buildings that were obviously public, there were roughly seventy-two dwellings before me.
The red cap was already at the bottom of the hill, rounding a bend in the path. I opened my mouth to call, and then closed it. I had no idea what Lane’s surname was. “Mr. Jefferies?” I tried, remembering his reference to “Aunt Bit.”
The red cap popped back around the bend, and then Lane was up the hill in seconds, springing like a cat. I pointed at the village. “What is the name of that place, Mr. Jefferies? I didn’t realize …”
“The name is Moreau.” My look must have been puzzled because he made a little rumble of impatience. “Not the village. Me. My name is Moreau.”
“But Mrs. Jefferies …”
“Is my mother’s sister. My father’s family was French. Moors, probably, sometime before that.”
I peered at him from beneath my bonnet brim. Moors, I thought. Then perhaps it wasn’t just the sun that darkened his skin. I wondered if it was paler in the winter. I shifted my gaze back to the vista. “And what is the name of the village?”
Lane pulled the cap from his head, twisting it in his hands, his face curiously stormy. I waited until the silence grew thick, and at length he said, “It doesn’t have a proper name.”
I looked to the little town and back. “Why ever not?”
“Because it’s not a village, it’s … part of the estate.”
My forehead creased. I was aware of no farm at Stranwyne, and if the little town housed servants, it was an incredible amount for a place so neglected. “And what, exactly, would bring so many people here?”
I watched in fascination as a muscle in his jaw popped in and out, in and out, until he finally forced out the words, “The gasworks.”
I cursed my own stupidity. Where had I thought all that light was coming from? “My uncle has built his own gasworks,” I stated.
The muscle worked in and out. “Yes.”
“And where is it? I don’t see the smoke.”
“Beyond the rise, by the water. We’ve a strong wind here.”
I nodded, my brain putting the pieces together like sums. “My uncle pays men to run the gasworks, and he built the village to house them. Is that correct?”
Lane crossed his arms. He would not meet my eyes.
“How many men are employed in the gasworks, Mr. Moreau?”
“Four or five, I’d say.”
“There are more than seventy cottages down there.”
The gray eyes shot to me, the appraising look I’d gotten the day before. “All right,” he said, “it could be more like twenty.”
“And how many men does my uncle employ altogether?”
He put the cap back on his head and stalked gracefully down the slope, utterly ignoring me.
“How many, Mr. Moreau?”
“Ask him yourself!” came the answer, yelled into a sudden gust of wind that would have taken my hat away completely had it not been tied beneath my chin. I gathered up my skirts and hurried down the path, leaving the bonnet to bounce against my back by its strings.
We walked a long way. Or rather, he walked; I ran. Down the path and through the village, past curious children milling before a schoolhouse and a staring woman milking her cow, past a loading dock at the riverside, and a barge full of coal. Dogs, wagons, donkeys, and men crossed our path, but especially men, talking, shouting, hauling loads, and generally conducting their business in a friendly way until they set eyes on me. My presence, it seemed, bred instantaneous silence.
Lane did not slow until we were well beyond the village and before the finest building I’d yet seen. Three stories of gray stone, slate-roofed, with two enormous brick chimneys spouting white smoke at the sky. Their shadows pointed at me like fingers. Lane turned the corner of the building and stopped at a door painted deep green. He pulled a chain, tinkling a small bell, and for the first time since our conversation on the hill, turned to look at me.
“Are you sick?”
I tried to speak, but found I had no sound. I was not used to running, and it was so unbearably hot beneath my dress; I clutched at the soaked fabric around my neck, panting. The door opened.
“Well, what have you done to her?” It was a cheerful question, from a man who was very proper, and very English, but the words were only an echo, spinning like the spots that swirled before my eyes.
When the spinning stopped, I found myself lying on a low bed in a corner of a dim, pink-plastered room. The curtains were closed but the windows were open, allowing a bit of breeze to pull the heat from my skin, while someone’s wetted handkerchief dripped water down my temples. A face appeared over mine.
“Never known the sun to be so savage. Dashed odd. Are you feeling better?”
It was the man I’d heard before. Long blond side whiskers, neatly clipped, a brown coat and trousers of modern cut, with eyes that were blue, round, and peering down at me from a face that seemed younger, somehow, than the voice.
“Yes, I am better, thank you,” I said, choosing not to relate the fact that my stomach was churning. I removed the wet cloth, and made to sit up. The young man straightened, watching with a frank, open stare as I tried to smooth my disarranged hair. My bonnet, I saw, was on the floor. “Where is Mr. Moreau?”
“He’s just popped in on Mr. Tully. You’re in luck, you know, it’s nearly playtime. I’m Ben Aldridge, by the way. And of course we all know who you are, Miss Tulman.”
I was about to ask why this was so when I heard shouting, indistinct at first, coming from a closed door a short distance behind Ben. I got quickly to my feet, arranging my skirt as the incoherent noise came closer. Aunt Alice had told me all about asylums, about the bulging eyes and drooling mouths, the human horrors that well-bred ladies paid their pennies to see. I straightened my back, heart hammering as the shouting became a bellow; it was just behind the door. I put out a hand for the back of a chair.
The door burst open, striking the wall behind it. I flinched, squeezing the chair back, but the doorway remained empty, nothing to be seen but the glow of a gaslight beyond it. I looked to Ben, questioning, and when I glanced back there was one very bright, very blue eye peering around the doorjamb. A short white beard appeared below the eye, slowly, and then a little man in a black dress coat eased into view, plucking at his jacket. He shuffled forward, as if he were being prodded from behind, his eyes on my feet, stopping not three inches from my person. I stood still, rooted to the floor. “Is it the one, Lane?” he whispered. “Is it her?”
Lane’s low voice answered an assent, though I did not know where it came from; I couldn’t take my gaze from the little man. The bright eyes dragged themselves up to me, as if in expectation of a demon or a gargoyle, and when they had lingered on my face for a fraction of a second, his hands darted out, snatching up one of mine. I gasped, but he only raised the hand to his lips, kissed it, then dropped the hand quickly, his eyes on the floor again, a sudden smile beaming like sun from an overcast sky. My own face, I am sure, was a study in astonishment.
“Simon’s baby,” he said, rocking on his heels. “Simon’s baby girl. But you are too many, much too many to be Simon’s baby girl. How many are you?”
“Seventeen,” I whispered. He was still uncomfortably close.
“Lane!” he shouted. I jumped. “Do I have a niece of seventeen?”
“Yes,” came Lane’s voice from the door.
The old man relaxed. “Then that is as it should be. Lane always knows when things are as they should be. Where is your father, little niece?”
Lane spoke before I could. “Simon is
gone away, Mr. Tully.”
A cloud passed over my uncle, shadowing his sun. “I am forgetful. Too forgetful.” He shook his head. “And you are very silent. I do not like silence. It leaves room for thoughts that are not nice. Tell me, little niece …” The bright eyes peeked up at me. “… do you like toys?”
Ben Aldridge watched with his hands in his pockets, his expression only curious. I looked to Lane, seeking guidance. “I am a bit old for toys …” I began uncertainly.
Lane’s dark brows came down.
“… but I do like them, of course. I’m sure I like them very well, indeed.”
My uncle’s sunshine burst forth again.
“Remember what I said about the lady not feeling well, Mr. Tully,” said Lane. He leaned on the door frame, the gray eyes on me as he spoke. “Another day, perhaps.”
I met his gaze, and defied it. “On the contrary, Uncle, I’m feeling quite well. I should like to see your toys very —”
“It is time!” my uncle shouted, again making me jump. He had gone stiff as a ramrod. He grabbed my arm, yanking me hard toward the door Lane blocked with his body.
“May I come, too, Mr. Tully?” This question came from Ben. My uncle stopped in his tracks.
“It isn’t Saturday,” he said, voice peevish. Then he let go of me and hurtled toward the door, as if Ben might give chase, or make a grab for his coattails. Lane moved aside for my uncle, and Ben gave me a halfhearted smile.
“I always hope he won’t know if it’s Saturday. Never hurts to try.”
I moved to follow my uncle, but Lane shot out an arm, holding me back. He smelled of soap and, oddly, of metal.
“Touch nothing, and do not ask how they work.” The warning in his whisper was clear.
“How what works, Mr. —”
“Do not touch, do you understand?”
My uncle’s shout ricocheted from the doorway. “Hurry, Lane! It is time! You must make her hurry!”
Lane straightened, slowly removing the barrier of his arm. I walked past him, both irritated and puzzled, and entered a small corridor. My uncle’s head popped out from the doorway on the left, blue eyes wide and looking for me. I followed him through it, and stopped.
The Dark Unwinding Page 3