A Poisonous Journey

by Malia Zaidi

  As we move from the airy conservatory to the modest library, I wonder whether Briony ever intends to return to England. Jeffrey’s position at the museum is meant to be for three years, but both he and Briony have made a real home here, and the prospect of leaving it behind in the near future seems a pity.

  The house is larger than I had initially presumed, for at the back a further stairway to the servants quarters is located as well as an attic which Briony says she has thus far avoided for fear of exotic creatures lurking in the dust. They keep only a small staff of a cook, maid, and chauffeur. Though Briony is enthusiastic about the house, there is something bothering her, I can tell. As indicated in her letter, she appears to spend much of her day alone, and I am glad now to be here to offer her companionship and support. Wandering around, we come upon one room near Briony and Jeffrey’s own bedchamber, painted a pale yellow with a small crib below the window. She quickly closes the door, but not before I notice the flash of sadness flit across her doll-like features. I have the sudden sinking feeling nothing I can do might truly impact the void she feels. My cousin has always had the desire to be a mother, to fill her house with the pitterpatter of children’s feet, and it must pain her to have this large house still bare of those sounds she yearns to hear. Perhaps that is why she is so keen to fill it with friends and guests for constant distraction. She has never liked silence.

  My room is small, yet in no way lacking in charm. The large window, framed in solid dark wood, opens up to a grand view of the mountainous landscape to one side, while a teasing sliver of the dark blue sea sparkles faintly in the distance. Taking a deep breath, I sigh in contentment. It looks like a postcard. Picture perfect. The sort of image one lingers over longingly and never truly imagines being a part of.

  I slip off my shoes, which have begun to pinch. On an impulse, my stockings are discarded as well to enjoy the smooth polished wood cool below my bare feet. Standing here, I am almost in a daze, as though at any moment, Milly, my maid, will gently shake me awake, telling me I am late for tea and Agnes is fuming. Shaking my head, I rid myself of the thought. I am here, and they are there, and that is as it should be as far as I see it.

  After showing me the villa, Briony has left me in my room, so she can begin her supervision of the preparations for supper. I am glad to catch a moment to gather my thoughts before the evening of socializing and small talk ahead, and put up no contest.

  A breeze sweeps through the window, caressing my face like a gentle hand, and pulling at strands of my bobbed hair, causing them to flutter around my face. For a moment I wonder whether Aunt Agnes will try to contact me, quickly dismissing the thought. As soon as I am settled, I will send a telegraph telling my aunt that I have arrived safely and will remain with my responsible, married, civilized cousin for the forseeable future. I will tell her not to worry, and that I am well looked after. Yes, tomorrow I will ask to borrow the motor, or find some other transport into town and do it. Or maybe the day after … No, tomorrow. I nod to myself as if this gesture decides it.

  Despite her rigidity, despite the fact that I have never felt she truly wanted me, always a reminder of the sister she lost, or the reality that she herself remained childless, Agnes took me in when I was alone and vulnerable, and for that I will forever be grateful. She has not always had an easy time of it either, and as the years have passed, as I realized what our relationship is and what it never will be, I have come to accept it as such and not to expect more.

  Her husband, my uncle, Colonel Brandon Tremaine, died of the Spanish influenza seven years ago, and she has never remarried, nor paid attention to suitors, though there was more than one. His death came as a blow for me, too. With him gone, I felt the loss of yet another father figure. Perhaps my attachment to him caused an even wider rift in my relationship with Agnes. He accepted me as an adoptive daughter, something my aunt never was capable of doing. Upon his death he left me a yearly stipend. This seemed to fuel Aunt Agnes’ disdain for me, though she was not cheated, acceding to the ownership of both the Belgravia mansion and a manor in Kent where we hid away during the war. When I was home from school, I joined them there and remember the stories I overheard my uncle tell her before he died; of the battlefields, of the poor young lads, of the damaged lungs, the cut off limbs, the dead, the many dead men who were only boys. He cried then, the only time I ever heard him cry, such a big, strong man, and she whispered to him, words I couldn’t hear, the only time her voice resembled the gentle, soothing voice of my mother. Over time, I noticed that the boys in town, boys I played with in the summers when we holidayed there, had disappeared. The only males left were the old or the very young. I was myself too young to be of much use, only sixteen at the end of the war. I felt a gnawing shame everytime I was sent back to the safety and confines of my boardingschool when all around me the world was breaking into jagged pieces. Time has passed, wounds have healed, the dead have been buried, but the black cloud of that tragic past still manages to hover over us even now. Hopefully, this constant, merciless reminder will prevent such a horror from happening recurring. If I am still haunted, how must those who served, fought, nursed and doctored, suffer?

  I frown, willing these thoughts to evaporate, yet they recede only vaguely like phantoms, to the dark shadows of my mind, always threatening to come forth and bring with them the blackness of nightmares. But I am persistent. I am in a new place, soon enough my mind will catch up. Outside my window is the vast canopy of blue, cloudless sky. The demons suffocating me in England must stay there. I want no more grief. No more reminders of loss. Only memories of laughter, smiles, happiness will be allowed to follow the new Evie. Dragging in a deep breath of the scented sea air, I slowly release it, feeling the knot of tension that has crept up on me with the onslought of memories ease away. It will be all right. I will be all right again.

  With some difficulty, I pull away from the scene of rugged tranquility outside my window and sink down onto the bed, an elegant four-poster affair with a gauzy mosquito net draped around it. Fit for a princess. The excitement of my arrival and the utter newness of my surroundings have given me a rush of energy, which is now slowly wearing off. I gratefully lean back on the pile of soft, welcoming cushions and fall, almost instantly into a revitalizing slumber, only to be disturbed by the gentle knock of the maid three hours later, arrived to help me get ready for dinner.

  Niobe is a slim, dark-haired woman, just as I might have imagined Persephone, though I probably ought not tell her that. She cannot, I muse, be much older than myself. When I think of my dear maid, Milly, now probably being berated by Aunt Agnes, I feel disloyal as though I traded my English rose for this Grecian beauty, whose profile would not have disappointed even the magnificent sculptor Praxiletes.

  As it is, the present encounter feels vaguely discomfiting. Niobe barely speaks, and I am apprehensive. The silence takes up all the air in the room. Milly and I always chatted and joked, but now, any attempts at conversation on my part are only granted quick, monosyllabic answers. I know my cousin would not have taken on a maid who cannot speak English. Briony herself considers the Greek language nearly impossible to learn as she has reported in her letters. Maybe Niobe resents the lack of effort made to adapt to this, her native land, by foreigners such as myself? I think, watching her out of the corner of my eye. I suppose I would, too, in spite of Briony and Jeffrey surely being pleasant employers. Just as the thought crosses my mind, I hear an odd thump behind me. I swivel around. Niobe is lying on the ground!

  "Oh my!" I can’t help but exclaim aloud.

  I dash to her side, carefully brushing the thick black curls from the young woman’s face.

  “Niobe!” My right hand rushes to her neck. The pulse is strong, the skin warm. Just a faint, I think and experience a surge of relief. Having witnessed a fair number of such episodes in my close circle at home, I always managed to stay quite calm. But I will confess, the sight of a person lying unconconscious on the ground still has the power to rattle me. />
  Suddenly, as if on cue, she stirs and opens her eyes a slit. Blinking tentatively, her pupils adjusting again to the light, she looks up at me, a confused expressions on her face.

  “Oh dear, it’s all right. Don’t you worry,” I try to reassure the girl and help her to sit up, grabbing one of the overstuffed cushions from the bed and propping it underneath her back. Then, reaching for the glass of lukewarm water on my bedside table, I press it to her lips and continue, “You fainted that is all. How do you feel?”

  Smiling at Niobe, I attempt to reassure her. Some employers, I know, would consider even such an involuntary show of weakness grounds for a reprimand. Niobe is visibly anxious, though I know Briony would never penalize such vulnerability. Not even Aunt Agnes would be so hard-hearted.

  Niobe swallows the water I force on her and takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly. I still sit beside her on the ground. I have never fainted myself, well not really. Everyone does occasionally to get out of some of the more tedious social events and company, but I have simply never considered myself the fainting sort. As my deeply stoic aunt might say, it simply isn’t done.

  Niobe is starting to improve, her cheeks have regained some color and the dazed look on her face has disappeared. I am relieved, for a moment she had given me quite a fright.

  “Are you feeling better?” I ask, smiling what I hope is a heartening smile.

  “Yes,” Niobe nods. “Yes, I-I think it was the heat. I…this has never happened before.” Her voice is soft and slightly accented, her vowels just a little more pronounced, as though they come from somewhere deeper in her throat.

  “Yes, I suppose that must be it.” I reply, not quite convinced. It has by now cooled down remarkably, and I can see through the open window that the sun has almost entirely fallen into the sea. The darkening sky has become a vast canvas for spectacular streaks of violet, apricot and glowing pink. I offer the young woman another sip of water, watching her as she drinks. As my gaze lingers a moment, I cannot help but notice the vivid blue of her eyes. My mind flashes to the Greek superstition of the blue-eyed charm one wears to ward off bad omens. Oh, I am terrible! I chastise myself. Such pale blue is surely quite unusual in a native of this local, but perhaps I am simply an ignorant fool.

  We sit for another moment in silence, save for the rythmic hooting of an owl, somewhere unseen beyond my window. It is Niobe who makes the first move to get up, reaching for one of the beds sturdy wooden posts and pulling herself off the floor, brushing imagined dust from the simple cotton shift she is wearing.

  "Niobe, are you certain you are all right? I could tell Briony you feel unwell and need a rest. I’m certain she will understand." I say this as I, too, get up from the hard wood that is, as far as comfort goes, a far cry from the lovely bed I occupied not long ago. "I can certainly get dressed on my own, you need not trouble yourself on that account." There is an ever-present sense of guilt whenever I am allotted another human being to serve my every whim. I grew up with my own maid, nannies, a butler, and though many soon felt like part of the family—often more so than members of my actual kin—I never been at ease with the idea of servitude. Perhaps that is a good thing. I have yearned for independence and getting myself dressed for an evening is a rather pathetic beginning.

  Back in the present, I register Niobe shaking her head scattering long dark curls about her shoulders, awakening in me a stab of regret regarding to my own unromantically bobbed cut.

  "Thank you, Miss, I am fine. It was just a—" Niobe pauses, searching for the word, "a spell." She smiles, gratified, and returns to my unpacked chest. "I am better now."

  "Nonetheless, I truly can get dressed myself." I insist more firmly than intended. Niobe appears nervous, and I fear I have caused offense, so I lamely add, "Perhaps you could help me with the buttons." So much for independence! I open one of the trunks and pick out a pale yellow dress from the top of the heap, holding it up, the row of tiny perl closures shimmering in the low light. "Yes, perhaps you might be so kind. I think my own clumsy hands simply won’t meet the challenge."

  This has happened to me before. In an attempt to push aside formality, I risk alienating members of the staff who could never see themselves on an equal footing with the people upstairs. I will have to tread more carefully. It is strange how society dictates our behavior. I take one step forward, only to be pushed back as rules of right and wrong bar my way toward progress. Of course I am aware that Niobe, just like our cook and Harris, is performing a job. My problem goes deeper, stemming from the twinge of guilt I carry into every arena of my life. I was born into a completely unmerited existence of wealth and privilege; I was coddled and protected and despite my loss, never abandoned. I swallow, sensing the familiar lump at the back of my throat. That is the problem when I am left to think, my thoughts turn down dark and ugly alleys and do not venture where I want to steer them, onto the better-lit and broader avenues of my mind. Not now, I tell myself, pull yourself together. You must be poised and polished Lady Evelyn Carlisle tonight.

  I shrug off my crumpled traveling outfit and slip into the new one. While Niobe buttons up the dress, I try again to make some conversation, eager to ease the unavoidable discomfiture of these encounters. I ask about her family and am told they live in Miklos, not at all far from here, and that she has three elder brothers, upon which I express my only-child jealousy and make Niobe’s lips twitch into a smile. Though the young woman is reserved in her replies, I notice that she speaks an almost faultless English with only a pleasantly soft accent.

  "If you will pardon my curiosity, where did you learn to speak such excellent English?" I ask as Niobe finishes the last closure.

  "Oh, here and there, many on the island speak it well. We had quite a few people coming from England during the war and still. My father," a fractional hesitation before she continues, "he wanted my brothers and me to learn it, to find better work."

  There is a firmness to the way she explains, and she lowers her gaze, giving me the strong impression that the subject is a complicated one and therefore is to be closed. Not wishing to cause discomfort to my new acquaintance, I probe no further. Instead, I turn to view myself in the long, carved mirror leaning against the opposite wall, even taller than me.

  "Well, I say! I think I am fit to be seen now. Thank you, Niobe."

  It is true I am pleased to say, I look half-way presentable. The soft silk of the Patou dress skims my lanky figure rather becomingly, and the intricate beading of the bodice and hem sparkles like a mass of diamonds in the soft light. For a moment I am filled with a sort of giddy excitement, like a girl dressed up in her mother’s finest as I did so many years ago, to parade around and imagine myself all grown up. Happy memories are in there, too. I smile at my reflection, wondering whether I resemble my mother when she was my age. I notice Niobe in the reflection behind me. She is watching me, a vaguely curious expression on her pretty face, but she does not ask.

  "You look very beautiful, Miss Carlisle." She looks pleased, adding softness to the elegant angularity of her face.

  "Please, do call me Evie," then, remembering Yannick’s response, "well, at least when it’s the two of us." Niobe nods understanding, and I brush down the skirt of my dress and head to the door. "Wish me luck."

  CHAPTER 4

  The pale yellow silk dress I am wearing, one of the few pieces having survived the journey unrumpled, happens to be one of my favorites. I bought it on a weekend trip to Paris with Briony and her mother shortly before she left and have worn it only twice since! Around my wrist dangles my grandmother’s diamond bracelet, one of the few items of jewelry I took with me from London and the only one, aside from my parents’ wedding bands, I truly treasure.

  As I climb down the broad wooden stairs, I can already hear amplified voices coming from the hall below. Cheerful and masculine. A tiny shiver of excitement mingled with anxiety runs down my spine, and I cling to the solid bannister. It has been a long time since I was at a party of any kind without th
e watchful eye of my aunt or some other chaperone keeping me perfectly in line. Which is not to say I am white as a bride’s veil. There might have been a kiss snuck in, here or there. I am no nun, and this is 1925, after all. One learns to adapt.

  My sandals make a light clicking noise as I reach the bottom landing and step into the marble foyer. Following the sounds of chatter and laughter, I make my way in the direction of the main drawing room, a flutter of nerves, the proverbial butterflies busily flitting about in my stomach. Before entering, I carefully smooth the front of my dress and take a deep breath. Shoulders back, I cross the threshold. For a moment, no one notices the addition to their company, and they keep chattering happily. Quickly, I scan the room, taking in the figures of two tall men, one dark the other fair-haired. Jeffrey detects my presence just as I am about to launch into the old, but reliable cough-to-gain-get-attention routine. An inaudible sigh of relief escapes me. I am ususally not the socially awkward type, but I feel a bit out of my depth in this den of testosterone.

  "Ah, Evelyn!" He walks towards me, offering a welcoming arm. I could embrace him! "Come and meet the lads." The other men turn around as Jeffrey leads me to them. Briony was right in her assessment. They are handsome. Both look deeply suntanned, presumably from hours aboard a yacht with their new lady-friends. The tone of their skin offers a prominent contrast to the crisp whiteness of their starched shirts. "This is Daniel Harper," Jeffrey gestures at the dark haired man who nods at me and smiles without opening his mouth, "and this scoundrel is Caspar Ballantine. May I present my cousin, Lady Evelyn Carlisle. Evie, I’ve invited them both to stay for as long as they like, and I do hope they’ll behave like gentlemen." As he says this, Jeffrey claps Caspar on the back in a gesture of warning reproach.