The Last to Know

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  “Miss Fairfax!” I turned in the direction of that musical voice as my mother’s girlhood friend, Lady Mary Carsholt, hurried toward me, hands outstretched. “Child! How delighted I am to meet you at last. You have the look of your dear mama as a girl. But you must be so tired.”

  She was beautiful, you know, in her prime. And always elegantly dressed. Tonight, that famous wheat-gold hair was piled high, and diamonds flashed at her throat and in her ears as she turned this way and that, smiling. And her long, graceful gown of shot blue silk swirled like the sea over pearl-embroidered slippers. I recall smothering an abashed sigh. Would I ever embody such poise, such élan, such style? At the end of a long life, that is not for me to say . . .

  However, there was more to my hostess than her fine white skin, her delicate hands. If my mother’s words are true for all time and all places, Lady Mary that night was the epitome and embodiment of that quality my mother prized above all others. Graceful restraint. I did not know that then.

  As her gaze passed from mine to Kit’s, Lady Mary’s joyous expression did not alter. “And Kit! So delightful. An unexpected pleasure for us all. Now come, children, Henry impatiently awaits. He has been looking forward, so much, to this meeting.”

  Smiling and pressing my hand, Lady Mary swept us along in a whirl of happy half sentences and laughter. Through candlelight, past sideboards burdened with silver plate and bowls heaped with late roses, down a long gallery—from the wall of which stared down uncounted generations of Carsholts—we reached Sir Henry’s library at last.

  In this tall and noble room, a fire burned, and its heat was kind in that vast space. Ruddy light, caught from its flames, glowed on the cut crystal of decanters and silken Turkey carpets, and I breathed a happy sigh; the fugitive aroma of old Morocco-leather binding and the finest of rag linen papers was amongst my earliest, happiest memories, for I had always loved books. I still do.

  Do you recall, Cousin, how often I was chided for my love of the printed word? My mother was worried that I should become bookish, but my father stood firm against her in this—one of the very rare disagreements I remember between them. Thus, as a child, after my dancing classes and music lessons, after my dress fittings, my drawing master, my French mademoiselle’s conversation, and, finally, after deportment instruction, I came to be allowed free range of his book room. Library was rather too grand a term, though it was the one we used.

  Yet such an appellation was not grand enough for the space we had now entered. Here was a library indeed, a great and lovingly assembled collection of books, which, I thought at the time, one hundred years would scarce suffice to read.

  “Here she is at last, Henry. Here is our guest, Miss Elinor Fairfax, the eldest daughter of my old and dear friend.” Sir Henry Carsholt rose from his place by the fire, a copy of The Times in one hand. As Lady Mary had, he welcomed me with genuine warmth, but in this there was one signal difference: he did not look at his son, did not address him by name or acknowledge him in any way. And the fingers of his left hand convulsed on the pages of the newspaper with an audible crackle.

  He beckoned me. “Come here, come to the fire, where it is warm, sweet child. These nights, these nights you know, are treacherous!” A glance passed between father and son as Lady Mary clasped my hand and bustled me toward a deep and comfortable chair. Kit was left behind: left standing outside the circle of warm light.

  And in all the happy flurry, it took a little time for me to register the odd nature of the three-sided conversation which then took place. I began to be made uneasy by the strange silence that hung like a curtain between father and son. But after I had been offered delicate viands and delicious things to drink, it came to me in a rush that I felt both hazy with exhaustion and not a little faint.

  Corsets, dear Cousin, and strong emotion. An uncomfortable combination—and so they proved here.

  I believe that Lady Mary observed my discomfort and, excellent hostess that she was, rang the bell for my maid and hers to take me up to bed. Both arrived promptly, and under the supervision of Harriet—Lady Mary’s femme de chambre—Jane was permitted to escort me from the library. I curtsied to my host and hostess, and to their son, and expressed a wish that all in the house would sleep well that night.

  My final memory as the door closed behind me was the grim profile of Sir Henry as, from the shadows behind the chairs, his son drew near to the fire at last.

  And this I shall never forget. Kit Carsholt’s face bore the expression of a dog that had been cruelly beaten.

  ****

  I did not sleep well that first night at Carsholt Hall, though consider, Cousin, this was perfectly natural. I was exhausted but consumed by curiosity also. The bed, too, was not comfortable, since the mattress was more than a little lumpy. I quickly recovered, however, and in the morning sprang up gladly, washed impatiently, and grudged every moment it took Jane to lace me into my “country” morning dress, though it was certainly a charming garment.

  I remember that the skirt was of striped green and pink silk-satin—yes, I adored pink immoderately when I was young, as you so often told me; the bodice was sharply pointed and fashioned from figured silk velvet of a delicate cream, whilst the sleeves—puffed at the shoulder and then tight to the pearl-buttoned wrists—were of simple dark green faille. They were joined to the dress at the shoulders with a yet darker green and pink silk cord—a pleasingly rustic note—and the dress was surmounted by a fichu of white, embroidered muslin. Naturally, the hoops which held out the bell of the skirt were of modest and informal proportions, whilst my pink kid boots from the previous night did double duty beneath them.

  I have always enjoyed fashionable clothing—I admit it—and tried to contain this passion in my advancing years, with no great success. Ah, well. So little matters now.

  My room, upon close inspection by the light of day, was enchanting; I had never seen another like it. Lined with limed oak wainscot, it was high in a tower and had leaded casements so heavy it was a trial for Jane to push them open, though the view beyond the glass more than made up for this small inconvenience. There was a window seat placed inside the stone mullions—quite the lady of Shalott, I felt—and a tremendous fall of tapestry to cover the casements by night; such material could not be demeaned by the name of curtain.

  Everywhere in my chamber—excepting the mattress—there was beauty and luxury and comfort, and that made me very happy. In London, I might be a young lady who had “come out,” but my room was small and I still slept in the narrow bedstead of my childhood. Here, at Carsholt Hall, I felt grown up for the very first time in my life. I recall that feeling with a shiver of delight, even now.

  To continue. It was a mazy beginning to the day, though the mist was ever more wraithlike as the sun shone down. Gentle rain had fallen in the night, and the whole world seemed new made, for there were diamonds on every blade of grass, every petal in the ripe gardens of autumn.

  Cheered by all I saw, I went down to breakfast as soon as Jane finished dressing me. I recall a hope that I had not been laced so tightly as to prevent the swallowing of food.

  As an aside, I think one truly becomes a woman when whalebone, and even its less reliable cousins, has dampened, permanently, one’s appetite for food. Perhaps that is just an old woman’s fancy, but I feel I have consumed nothing more than air and Tokay wine for these many, many years . . .

  Once in the great hall, I was preceded to the breakfast room by Graveney in full state of starched white cravat and immaculate black broadcloth. I even forgave the butler the extreme slowness of his gait, for it allowed me more time to appreciate the glories of the house through which I was now conducted.

  The breakfast room did not disappoint; it was exquisite, though small. The pieces of gray moiré silk mounted on its walls were divided, one from another, by cascades of carved fruit painted a glimmering white.

  Lady Mary, presiding over the silver teapot at the far end of a long table, smiled warmly. “My dear, we have rarel
y received a more charming guest at our table. Your mother is to be congratulated.” Ever courteous, Sir Henry rose up from his chair and his dish of flambéed kidneys, and bowed. As I had seen my mother do on similar occasions, I curtsied as gracefully as I could and indicated that he should regain his seat. I could feel the blush as it mounted my neck.

  My hostess continued as if she had not noticed any momentary confusion on my part (manners such as these are rarely seen today, I find). “If you have not already partaken in your room, perhaps you would enjoy some tea or . . .” Her glance directed me toward an array of covered silver dishes on the sideboard nearest a range of tall windows. The aromas were most delectable.

  Cousin, had I but known it, this was to be the apogee of my visit. After this moment all, as you will shortly comprehend, changed.

  I became aware of a strange anomaly. Only three places had been set at the board in that gracious room. One for Sir Henry at the head, one for Lady Mary at the foot, and one for me—most advantageously placed in the center of one side so that I should have the view of the garden and the dreaming hills beyond.

  I served myself from the silver chafing dishes—two tiny quail eggs, poached and rolled in parsley; a little kedgeree, a morsel of brioche—and when I was seated, my skirts becomingly arrayed, ventured to ask, “And Mr. Kit? Has he breakfasted? Perhaps he is out riding already?”

  Cousin, I swear to you upon my mother’s wedding band that the look which passed between Sir Henry and Lady Mary was merely politely puzzled. But then Sir Henry asked his wife a very strange question: “To whom can the child be referring, my dear?”

  As I said, Cousin, their bewilderment seemed real to me, so, innocently, helpfully, I said, “But, Sir Henry, whom else should I mean but your son, Mr. Kit Carsholt?”

  Sir Henry ceased tapping at the hard-boiled egg which had succeeded the kidneys. He peered at me over the top of his pince-nez, and his cheerful face froze into something hard and cold. “To our lasting regret, Miss Fairfax, Lady Mary and I have remained childless throughout the length of our marriage.”

  I could not help but choke, and, most unfortunately, a piece of brioche lodged in my windpipe. That, coupled with Jane’s lacing, created catastrophe. I could not breathe and very soon slumped to the table. Pandemonium, my dear Cousin, was the result.

  Lady Mary saved me. She beat briskly between my shoulder blades, and, when that did not suffice to dislodge the obstacle in my throat, took a bread knife and sliced apart the lacing on my gown. Then, because I was at that time turning blue—Jane described the scene to me some time later—she took her doubled fist and hit my back, not once but several times. And I remembered no more . . .

  Cousin, perhaps you recall a favorite childhood story—the Princess and the Pea? As I recovered in my room a little later, half awake, half asleep, I became sensible that I was lying on top of a small but hard lump in my mattress, a lump that was the cause of great discomfort. “It hurts” was all that I could think to say.

  Seated patiently beside my bed, embroidering, Lady Mary leaned close. “What does, sweet child? Tell me.” I moved a little to ease my back, turning to my side. The sleeping gown I wore was very light, and Lady Mary saw what I would later see in the long glass: bruises, wine-red and purple, marching the full length of my spine on both sides of the bone.

  “Jane!” There was no brooking that tone. “Go to Cook, immediately. Comfrey and arnica, she must crush them together, a good quantity of each. Also beefsteak: I must have several thick slices of perfectly fresh meat. Hurry, girl.”

  As my maid rushed away, Lady Mary pushed her embroidery frame aside and leaned forward to lift me slightly. The pillows and the bolster were hot and needed turning. “My poor little Elinor. What a tiresome beginning to the day this has been for you.” I leaned against my hostess gratefully, my heart jumping beneath my ribs. We were alone, and, though every instinct warned against asking, I burned to know why Sir Henry had made his strange statement.

  Ah, truth. When I was young, I was always certain it existed somewhere, if I could only find its dwelling place.

  “Lady Mary, I am sorry indeed to have been the occasion of all this bother.”

  She smiled at me pleasantly whilst pummeling the pillows and helped me sit up. “How can you be a bother, sweet child? We are just so thankful it was not worse.”

  Impulsively I snatched up one of her hands, lacing my fingers with hers. Perhaps, unconsciously, I wanted to detain her. “But I am confused, Lady Mary. Why did Sir Henry declare you had no children?” Dear Cousin, in asking that question I let slip the dogs of her future and my own.

  Lady Mary’s eyes darkened. For a moment her hand struggled in mine, but then she ceased to fight me. Yet she said nothing, and though strong emotion roiled around us in that pretty room, I was silent also. It was for my hostess to speak next.

  Lady Mary shook her head and, gently detaching her hand from mine, walked to the casements. With some small difficulty she threw them open, and the scent of scythed grass sweetened the air. Distantly, I could hear blackbirds. All this as if the world were a safe and normal place.

  I do not know how I kept my nerve, dearest Louisa, but keep it I did until I felt once more the tiny hillock beneath the mattress which had only so lately added to the pain of my bruised back. Seeking to find what caused it, I burrowed between the layers of bedding.

  “Kit’s ring!” I could not help but stare as Lady Mary hurried from the window, tears spilling from her eyes. And yet she was right, for between my fingers I held the signet ring of Kit Carsholt, the one I had glimpsed on his finger the day before. This had been the cause of my pain.

  Morning light chased across the facets and glimmered in the depths of that pure stone, clearer than water from a brook, as, with trembling hand held out, Lady Mary implored me to show it to her. I placed the ring on her palm.

  “Oh, Kit.”

  Those whispered words said all that was required. Here was a woman bereft. “Lady Mary, where is he? Where is Kit?” Weeping, wordless, my hostess hurried to the bedroom door, the ring clutched tight to her chest. And I was alone.

  And so, dear Cousin, imagine if you will my situation. I was a guest at Carsholt, and now, unwillingly, I was deep within—nay, at the center of—some family tragedy of the very greatest seriousness.

  A knock heralded Jane’s arrival. Backing the door open, in one hand she bore a bowl within which was a pounded mass of fresh green herbs and, in the other, a large plate piled high with bloody slices of fresh meat beneath a starched white cloth.

  “Cook says I’m to bind the meat to the bruises on your back and then . . . Miss Elinor!” Jane ran to the bed. She had seen my distress.

  “Jane, we must find Mr. Kit. Something terrible is happening.” Dramatic words, Cousin, but I remember them so well. And I was right, as you shall shortly see.

  Over the protests of my maid, I insisted she dress me, but, as it was, with my general weakness and the pain of my back—which Jane insisted on treating with the herbs, if not the meat—more than the morning had fled before I descended, not without dread, to the ground floor of Carsholt Hall for the second time that day.

  But, to my very great surprise, as I walked through room after deserted room, a very Psyche in the halls of Eros, I found myself alone. Carsholt Hall was deserted; no servants, neither of my hosts, just Jane and I, wandering at will. Sending my maid to find at least one of her fellows, I set out to see where Sir Henry or Lady Mary might be.

  I have never in my life, from that day to this, been in a larger house. Once away from the very few rooms I knew, I quickly became lost. Somewhere, distantly, thunder began to mutter, and the skies beyond the shining windows darkened. An autumn storm was brewing. Perhaps this was the changing of the year at last, from heat to cold.

  “Lady Mary? Sir Henry?” To an observer, I might have resembled a ghost. A white lady perhaps, crying out to find her long-vanished family, for I was dressed in pale, simple voile sprigged with tiny flowers
. And since the day had become warm, my gown was very light and only delicately boned after the adventures of the morning.

  I ceased calling out, for I was frightened. It was as if my voice had disturbed ancient echoes of other voices that should, long since, have died away.

  Had I become caught in a dream perhaps, or was I like an insect trapped in liquid amber as it began to set? Perhaps the only way out was to pinch myself awake so that I should open my eyes in my bed at home in Portman Square, being bounced upon by my sisters? But this was fond fantasy, for I had now come to a part of the building which, in style, was closer, Cousin, to the heraldic towers at the gate than to the graceful, light salons of the newer parts of the house.

  It was dark where I found myself, for the windows were small and few, and perhaps that is why I began to imagine that human misery had been trapped here long ago and, being caught, had seeped into the walls around me. I sensed then that these low spaces had seen much sorrow, heard much crying in the night.

  The rooms were modest and somber, paneled in old wood, and all were connected—with each door opening directly into the next chamber. Mostly they were empty, but what furniture there was had been draped in white calico. The effect was shroud-like, and, beneath my feet, dust lay thick and soft. It had the effect of snow without the chill. All was muffled silence.

  “Lady Mary, where are you?” I whispered the words but heard my voice crack as courage leached away.

  It was then that the weeping began. In my anxious state, at first I thought the sobs were mine, but another moment altered that apprehension. I was no longer alone. It was the voice of a woman I heard—a woman in very great distress.

  I hurried toward the sound: it seemed to emanate from behind a low door of black oak. I pushed upon it hard, and, with a groan, the door gave inward upon a dim space whose only light was one wavering candle flame.

  The crying stopped. “Who is there? What do you want?”