The Dark Unwinding

by Cameron, Sharon

  Disjointed memories crawled through my mind, incongruent and certainly unreal, only they did not feel unreal. I remembered the smell of rancid mud, felt the grit of shattered porcelain in my hand. I thought of the parson blinking his broken eyes, and for the first time in my life I was truly frightened, not of what might be around me, but of what might lurk inside my own head.

  “You tossed your guts at about four in the morning, Miss, and you seemed to quiet a bit after that….”

  “Mary,” said her mother, “go and fetch me a kettle of hot water, and I’ll make the girl some of my special tea. A real lady’s maid might’ve thought of that already.”

  Mary leapt off the bed and ran from the room.

  “A good girl, that,” said Mrs. Brown, “though a bit lacking in sense.” She came and stood over me, hands on hips. “’Tis just you and me here, Miss Tulman, and I think you’ll find that unlike my eldest I can hold my tongue when needed. So, time to confess. Where is it? I’ve searched the room, and why ladies would go and keep old hair in a drawer is beyond my imagining, but I haven’t found it, and I’ll admit that you’re cleverer than me. But it’s best to get rid of it, Miss. I’m guessing you didn’t enjoy your little indulgence much, in any case. The screaming terrors don’t strike me as being all that pleasant.”

  “The wardrobe was unlocked?” I said stupidly. I thought I had locked away my grandmother’s things, and hidden the key beneath the doily on my bedside table. But then again, I couldn’t be sure of anything I had done, or not done, recently. It was an unfamiliar, horrible feeling.

  “Come now, Miss. Before Mary gets back. Let’s have done with it.”

  “Mrs. Brown, I swear to you, I have not even seen a bottle of spirits since I came to Stranwyne. I’ve drunk nothing but water and tea.” To my embarrassment, tears formed in my eyes. Mrs. Brown sighed.

  “All right, if that’s the way you’re wanting it. But …” She leaned forward over my prostrate form. “… let’s be laying it all on the table. If you’re telling me the truth, young lady, then there’s something wrong, something bad wrong, something that’s beyond my herb garden and tea brews. I’ve let Mary stay in this madhouse ’cause she’s silly, and ’cause there’s no harm in knowing what the enemy is up to, anyhow. Mary couldn’t hold her tongue if it begged her. But one way or the other you’re poison, young miss, and I won’t have my girl a part of it. She’s silly, but she’s my girl, and I won’t have …”

  Mary came back in then with the tea things, and Mrs. Brown straightened, crossed her arms over her ample bosom, and said no more.

  Mrs. Jefferies brought me a tray in the evening. I was dressed, my hair neatly pinned, seated in a chair before the fire, watching the hearth flames. I was thinking of other girls my age, the ones I saw preening in the park, carefree with their parasols and organdy and doting papas. Why had life singled me out for drudgery and isolation, and to be the instrument of others’ unhappiness? But my one boon, my saving grace, had always been my own mind, where I was free, where I could do as I would, without interference. And now that was being removed from me as well. I had seen the parson blink. I could admit that now. It wasn’t real, but I had seen it just the same, like the phantasms of last night, like the calm expression in a pair of sea-gray eyes. And I had my own teeth marks in the back of my hand. I had looked, unwinding the bandages and comparing the shapes in the mirror. Perhaps Uncle Tully and I were not so different after all.

  “Well, buck up, then,” said Mrs. Jefferies. She set down the supper tray hard, making the dishes rattle. “I daresay it can’t be as bad as all that. You ain’t dead.”

  I almost smiled. For Mrs. Jefferies, the words had been kindness itself. Mrs. Jefferies backed away to stand against the wall, and I realized she was going to watch me eat, to look out for her precious dishes, I supposed. I examined the tray. Bread, tea, and a steaming soup, dark, but smelling of chicken and onions. Then I saw a white square envelope next to the bowl.

  “Oh, it’s for you all right,” Mrs. Jefferies said, following my gaze. “Came on the noon boat.”

  I knew the handwriting well. Feeling as if I could sink no lower, I took the envelope, and slit it open with the butter knife.

  My dearest Katharine,

  Your lack of communication in this unfortunate circumstance is both surprising and distressing to me, as you were given explicit instructions on how and when to write. I must assume that your letter has been misdirected, as your disobedience in this matter would be an offense most grievous. Write instantly with the particulars of your uncle, that I may put an end to this sad business as soon as possible. The season is full this year, demanding much of my time, and t here are many matters about the house that await your attention.

  Fondly,

  Mrs. George Tulman

  I could hear the querulous voice coming straight at me through the ink. I sat up suddenly in my chair, letter still in hand. Mrs. Jefferies might be a difficult woman who disliked me, but she had spoken truth to me just a few minutes since, a truth I had never seen. I was not dead yet, and at this moment at least, in full control of my mind. And I had more than three weeks until I went back to Aunt Alice’s, twenty-two days out of prison. There was no reason on earth to squander that time. I could do anything I wanted here. I saw that Mrs. Jefferies was watching me, her face bewildered. I sat back in my chair, crumpled Aunt Alice’s letter, and threw it on the fire.

  The next morning I was already in the kitchen, an apron pinned over the worsted, when Mrs. Jefferies brought the early garden breeze in with her through the door. I ignored her gaping and said, “Good morning, Mrs. Jefferies. Did you have a pleasant sleep?”

  She closed her mouth and hugged a paper-wrapped parcel — meat, by its stains — to her chest, her eyes narrowing as they watched my hands move about the table.

  “I’ve made a bit of porridge. It’s on the back of the stove. Has Davy had his —”

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she interrupted.

  I looked up, feigning bemusement. “I am slicing cucumbers, Mrs. Jefferies.”

  “And where were you getting them from?”

  “The cucumbers? From your garden, of course.” I tipped my slices into a waiting bowl. “Do you have any more cream, Mrs. Jefferies? Ah, I see that you do. And what about lemon? I am very partial to dilled cucumbers with lemon.” Which is why, I felt sure, Aunt Alice had particularly forbidden them to be served. I dried off my hands, careful to avoid soiling the bandage on my right, and sprinkled salt over the contents of the bowl. I intended to eat cucumbers with dill every day I remained at Stranwyne. “Well, not to worry,” I said to the silent Mrs. Jefferies, “I’ll send for some lemons with the next boat. Should I get a pound, or perhaps two? Two, I think. They’ll go nicely with the tea.”

  I put a cloth over the bowl, set it in the larder, and allowed Mrs. Jefferies to stare while I wiped down her knife. Then I unpinned the apron, hung it on a peg in the corner, and smoothed my escaping curls. “Well,” I said brightly, “don’t forget about the porridge then, Mrs. Jefferies. I daresay it’s still warm.”

  I left her standing in the kitchen, in the same position she had assumed when entering it, and went to find Mary. We had plans to discuss.

  That afternoon in the workshop I asked, “Do you count your years, Uncle Tully?”

  It was playtime, and I was watching my uncle from a billow of worsted and a cushion on the floor. Lane stood at his workbench, a lean shadow in the gas glow, silent as he painted the last of the dragon scales with the cleaning sponge I had brought him. I had felt oddly reticent when handing him that sponge, not daring to look up and see what expression might be in the gray eyes, examining his boot tops instead as I explained my idea for using the sponge to paint without lines. The low voice had only thanked me, very polite, the Lane of the ballroom no more a reality than the ruined workshop I had also seen and touched. I was not surprised.

  “Count years, little niece?” my uncle finally replied. He was using a
hot iron pen to knit together two bits of brass with molten metal. “Oh, no. No. I do not count years. Seconds are very good to count, but never years. There is too much waiting for the next one.”

  I smiled at him. “Well, I like to count years, Uncle. When they’re my own. Soon I shall have been alive for eighteen of them.”

  “Two nines and three sixes, or nine twos and six threes,” Uncle Tully said.

  “That’s right. And my birthday is also the eighteenth day of July, in the year 1852. That is three different eighteens, Uncle Tully.”

  “Three eighteens is fifty-four.” The iron hissed, and wisps of lead smoke trailed into the air as he set the iron back in the little coal brazier that kept it hot. For the first time that day the gray eyes shot me an inquiring glance, a glance that moved from my face to the bandage on my hand. I slid the hand inside the folds of my dress.

  “And that’s why I am having a party, Uncle Tully. For eighteen. Would you like to come to a party?”

  His white eyebrows drew together and his mouth puckered, as I’d thought they might. I said my speech quickly, before he could decide to become upset.

  “Let me tell you all about it. Mr. Moreau shall be there …” I looked to him hopefully, but the dark brows were together, eyes down. “… and Mrs. Jefferies, and Mr. Aldridge, and Davy, Mary Brown, and myself. We shall have a splendid time….”

  The brass Uncle Tully had been working with clattered to the floor. “Mary Brown?” he said. “I don’t know Mary Brown. I don’t know….” I bit my lip. I had completely forgotten that my uncle would not know Mary. Uncle Tully’s head shook back and forth, and oddly enough, Lane’s was doing much the same, indicating that I should stop. But I did not stop.

  “I am so sorry, Uncle. I was forgetting. Mary Brown cannot come. Mary will go somewhere else. So that means Mr. Moreau, Mr. Aldridge, Davy, Mrs. Jefferies, and me. And I thought we’d have our little party in Miss Marianna’s rooms.”

  I watched the agitation on my uncle’s face fade to indecision. He picked up his little brass assembly.

  “You like it there, don’t you, Uncle? And you could play if you wanted, and we’d all be happy.”

  His gaze jumped up to me, suddenly alert. “Would you be happy, little niece?”

  “Of course.”

  The bright eyes went wide as they searched my face, looking, I supposed, for my happiness. “Then we shall do it,” he pronounced, a little too loud, “for eighteen!”

  I looked back into my uncle’s smile, something inexpressibly sweet in my chest. I had thought it would take long to convince him to step away from his routine, from the things that made him safe like one of Lane’s cocooning blankets. I had been ready to coax, cajole, wheedle, and even bribe him. Never once had I considered that he would do it just for me. “Look, Uncle,” I said impulsively, “you have made me happy already.” And I leaned over quickly and kissed him once on the forehead. Uncle Tully stiffened, the wheeled toy clattering back to the floor.

  “Playtime is over!” Uncle Tully shouted. He sprang to his feet and ran from the room, slamming the workshop door.

  “You really do have a way with him,” Lane said in the resulting silence. His tone had been amused, but his face was still brooding as he looked down at the green paint staining his hands.

  “Is playtime over?” someone whispered. I turned from my place on the floor to see Ben Aldridge. He slid through the workshop door like a sneak thief. “I thought I heard the sitting-room door shut.”

  “Mr. Tully was frightened away by a surprise bit of affection,” Lane said, going back to his paint.

  “Really?” Ben’s gaze moved to me with interest. “Would you enjoy a walk to the Upper Village, Miss Tulman? I believe you haven’t been there yet, and I am well acquainted with the general sights.” He smiled.

  “Oh,” I said, flustered. I was not used to having my company sought. “That is very kind of you, Mr. Aldridge, but I think perhaps it would not be … wise.” Public opinion being what it was, such a visit was likely to be unpleasant rather than not.

  “Tosh,” Ben said lightly. “Do come, Miss Tulman. You can observe the happy scenes of my childhood.”

  “Well …”

  Lane said, “I’d have thought you’d want to be in the workshop, Ben, while you had the chance.” He held up the last dragon scale to the light, examining its flawless finish of paint.

  “One can’t be working all the time, can one?” Ben turned back to me. “Do you need your bonnet, Miss Tulman?”

  “I’ll be locking up when I leave,” said Lane.

  “You do that, then.” Ben’s face was cheerful.

  I looked from one young man to the other, one a thundercloud, the other sunlight. There was something in the air, a strain that made me uncomfortable. I gathered my skirts and scrambled to my feet. “I’ll just wait in the hall, shall I, Mr. Aldridge?” I slipped out the workshop door before either one of them could answer, and quietly closed it behind me.

  Lane’s voice drifted through the door, low and angry, though I could not fathom why, and Ben’s retorting words were sharp. And then a soft creak across the hall caught my attention. Lane’s door was opening, very slowly, and I saw a frizzing gray bun and an expanse of calico through the ever-widening crack. Mrs. Jefferies was tiptoeing from Lane’s room, backside first. She held down the latch until the door was fully shut, releasing it slowly to avoid the click, then turned and started violently at the sight of me.

  We stared, both of us waiting for the other to speak, and I watched her broad face redden as something clutched in her hand went deep into an apron pocket. She straightened her dress.

  “Is playtime over?” she said finally, her small eyes looking everywhere but at me.

  “My uncle has gone to his sitting room,” I said. Lane’s voice rose, the words muffled through the walls of the workshop, and Mrs. Jefferies’s head darted up at the sound of it. My gaze strayed pointedly to the door behind her.

  “Socks,” she said suddenly. “For the mending.” And with that she barreled off down the hallway, wisps of hair trailing, and shut the door to the tunnel stairs behind her.

  I stood for a long time in the hall as the argument in the workshop dissipated, listening to the chug and thrum of the steam engines through the floor. I wondered what Lane and Ben had disagreed about. I wondered if Lane trusted his aunt. I knew I did not.

  Ben came out of the workshop, his cheerfulness unchanged, and took me down the hall and into the engine room. A blast of heat hit my face as soon as the door was opened, and the noise of the huge machine was not just a pulse in the air, but a racket that excluded all other sound. Five men stoked the two great ovens of the furnace, shoveling coal and arranging it in the red-hot glow. Bare backs bent and straightened with their work, and they were without faces, nothing but masks of burlap sacking where their heads should have been.

  Ben took my arm and marched me awkwardly forward and, as before, work stopped instantly at the sight of me. Soot-ringed eyes, only just visible through slits in the sacking, matched my stare. The lack of facial features made them seem grotesque, and somehow inhuman, like men before a hanging. One man doffed a very dirty cap as I passed, masked face expressionless, sweat running freely through the grime on his chest, and then a whistle shrieked and a thick vapor of white steam appeared from the valves overhead. The men jumped to their work as Ben hurried me through the cloud and the double doors, and then I was in the open air, the canal flowing placidly back to the river.

  “My apologies for taking you through there, Miss Tulman. But it’s the closest route to the canal path, and it doesn’t do to disturb your uncle when he has gone to his sitting room.”

  “Of course,” I murmured. I could hear excited talk and the scrape of shovels against the floor from the doors behind me.

  “It’s the heat, you know.”

  I looked up at him, head cocked.

  “The masks. That heat would melt the whiskers right off your face. Or my face, I supp
ose I should say.”

  I smiled vaguely at his joke. Those faceless men still had my mind on some half-forgotten nightmare. Ben offered his arm, and we started down the canal path. There was a slightly odd smell about him, acrid. “How far is it to the Upper Village, Mr. Aldridge?”

  “Perhaps half a mile, or a bit more.” He looked at me in sudden concern. “Are you up to the walk, Miss Tulman? I could find someone willing to lend us a cart.”

  I smiled in earnest at that. “I think you would find that no one here would be willing to lend me anything, Mr. Aldridge.”

  “And you might find that you are wrong, Miss Tulman. Word of your agreement to thirty days is now common knowledge in the villages. And as you have not yet left the estate, and have sent no letters to a woman named Alice Tulman …” His eyes crinkled at me. “Don’t look so surprised. This really is a small place, you know, and any movement of yours is of the utmost interest. But sugar, Miss Tulman, as opposed to vinegar, is now considered the optimal method of influencing your decision. If you should still wish a meeting with the committees …”

  I shook my head. The details of the business didn’t matter so much anymore. I was certain that if I insisted upon knowing the true numbers, Mr. Babcock would tell me. Whether he had meant to frighten me or not, he was no friend to my aunt, and he had made it perfectly clear that there must be some money left by running across England in the middle of the night. But I did not want to think about this. I had twenty-one days to not think of it. “Tell me about the Upper Village, Mr. Aldridge,” I said. “I understand they make porcelain.”