I stare at his back. It won’t be all right, ever. I’ve killed a man. But it will be … better. From nowhere a picture flashes into my head: the secret compartment of my blanket chest. A bottle of brandy, William Langland, Lucian Darnay. Perhaps it would be better to rent a bank vault – like my family’s vault at Simpson’s, where my father’s share certificates and my grandmother’s diamonds moulder in the dark. But would I rest easy, knowing it was out of my reach?
Farmer has left me behind. I kick my horse, urging it to catch up. It accelerates into a weary trot. But Farmer stays ahead of me, quickening his pace so I can’t catch up. He doesn’t look round.
By the time we reach the house the moon has set. A wide cloudbank is sweeping in from the west, but with the stars and the snow there’s still enough light to see by. The horses trudge on. I’m almost asleep when at last Farmer stops and dismounts in front of me. ‘We’re here.’
My eyes are gritty with fatigue and cold. I wipe them on my sleeve. The house is bigger than I expected, thatched and half-timbered, with lattice-paned windows and a carved pattern on the front door. A mountain of snow has drifted up against the front wall, waist-height. An icicle clings to the tip of the bell-rope.
Farmer leads us round the side of the house into a yard. The house forms one side of the square. Opposite it there are storehouses and a stable. I take in the stone paving and the newish thatch. Whoever lives here, they’re not poor, but they’re lazy. A tuft of straw has blown free of the gable and hangs down, garlanded with beads of ice. The snow is deep here, too, marked by seams of bird-feet and rats’ paws. But the walls have kept out the north wind and the drifts are shallow. It’s easy enough for Farmer to get the stable door open and the horses inside. I help him haul the door through the last part of its arc. The place stinks of damp and rot. He grimaces. ‘It’ll be all right for a few hours. We’ll leave as soon as the sun comes up.’
I’m too cold to care. I huddle in a corner while he leads the horses into the stalls. He cracks the ice in a bucket. My brain has frozen. I can’t even think.
He glances at me, but doesn’t pause until the horses are comfortable and he’s given them a wipe-down with a handful of straw. Then he beckons to me. A path leads out of the yard and round the back of the house to another door. The marshes gape on the other side, so empty and white I can’t look at them. It feels like vertigo. I stumble inside, glad to be surrounded by walls.
But in here it’s just as cold. Colder, even. The air scrapes my throat as it goes down. It’s only now that I realise the house is empty. There’s a dead, stale smell in the air, and dry flecks of grass have blown in under the door. I follow Farmer numbly into a long room. There are tables and shelves and strange pieces of equipment. Needles and knives.
‘Give me the key, and we’ll go downstairs.’ He glances at me. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Just cold.’
‘Get the fire going. There’re matches on the shelf. Never mind, I’ll do it. Sit down.’ He starts to load logs into the stove.
‘Do you have any brandy?’
‘Drunkard.’ He straightens up to look at me and the grin dies off his face. ‘I’ll look.’
I nod. Every thought I have is limp and mushy, like a frost-bitten plant. I draw out a stool and sit. At last a faint tendril of warmth reaches my legs. I lean forward and pull off my gloves.
‘Here.’ I didn’t notice him go but now he’s back. He pushes a glass at me. The perfume of honey and lavender makes me cough. ‘Mead,’ he adds. ‘There’s no brandy. De Havilland drank all of it.’ He raises his own glass in a wordless toast.
It’s good. Medicinal. It feels virtuous and nourishing. Not like my father’s expensive stuff, which I drink to get drunk on. Heat and sweetness pool on my tongue. This is like drinking sunlight.
‘Better?’
‘Thank you.’
He takes his coat off and drops it on the bench. He leans against the wall next to the stove. He’s watching me. I watch him watching me. He smiles. He lowers his head to hide it, but he’s definitely smiling.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What?’
He raises one shoulder. ‘I can’t help it.’
‘You’re laughing at me.’
He inclines his head. He takes a mouthful of mead. ‘Not you.’ He stares at the stove. He’s left the door open and the fire casts red light on the floor. The flames are like ragged satin. He laughs under his breath.
I push my stool back and rest my elbows on the bench behind me. Now that I’m warm, the room reminds me of Esperand’s workshop, with its dummies and boxes and rolls of cloth. Or of our kitchen, the walls hung with pans and shape-moulds and the table scrubbed almost to silver … Nothing here is luxurious; and because of that, it’s beautiful. Even the painted tiles around the stove have a reason to be there. I try to make out the patterns of leaves and animals. Lamplight plays on Farmer’s face. It glints gold off his eyelashes. There’s a tiny scar on his top lip.
He spreads his hands over the hottest part of the stove. Then he lowers them, slowly, until he’s nearly touching the metal. My own palms tingle. He pulls back, catches my eye, and laughs. ‘Right.’ He drinks the last mouthful of mead. ‘Are you ready?’
‘What for?’
‘For your book, of course. You’ve got the key?’
‘Yes.’ I dig it out of my pocket. It falls to the floor.
Farmer scrabbles for it. His movements are clumsy, but he’s eager, not afraid. When he picks it up he looks up at me as if he’s expecting something else. ‘All right. Let’s go.’ He straightens and moves towards me as if he thinks I need his help to get to my feet. When I catch his eye, he shrugs and steps away.
He picks up the lamp, unlocks the door at the end of the room, and goes through. It smells like a tomb but the air beyond the doorway is mild, almost warm. I can imagine mould and spongy growths on the walls. I follow him quickly because otherwise I’ll be walking down the steps in the dark.
We’re in a storeroom. It’s a mess. Boxes are stacked against the walls. Tools I don’t recognise are scattered everywhere.
Farmer puts down the lamp, glances at me and sets his jaw. ‘Ready?’
‘I’ve already said so.’
His cheeks are flushed. Sweat glints in his hairline. He fits the key into the lock. I reach out and take hold of the edge of the table. My pulse twangs like a bow-string.
The lock clicks and the whole wall swings on hidden hinges. Behind it there’s a dark room lined with empty shelves. Farmer catches his breath. Slowly he reaches out and puts the key down. He misses the table and it falls to the floor. The clunk is answered by a tiny echo from the darkness beyond, as if the safe has its own voice.
There’s nothing there.
I turn on my heel and go up the stairs. Farmer says my name but I don’t look back. The darkness sucks at my heels like mud.
Footsteps come up the stairs behind me. He stops at the top, in the doorway. The silence goes on and on.
‘Damn, damn, damn.’ He’s breathless. He thumps the wall with his fist.
I pick up my gloves. The chill makes them feel damp, as if the leather has only just been peeled off the carcass. Beside them on the bench there’s some kind of knife. It’s half the length of my forearm, the blade cut at an angle. Streaks of stove-light dance on the bevelled edge.
I put my gloves on, lacing my fingers together so that the seams fit well between my knuckles. I pick up my hat. Then, finally, I turn and look at him.
‘Naturally,’ I say, ‘there’s no question of payment.’
He stares at me. ‘What?’
I smooth my hair off my forehead. I check my hatband isn’t creased and put my hat on. ‘Shall we go?’
‘Lucian …’ He takes a step towards me. ‘Wait. I didn’t know. I thought it would be there.’
I shrug, with tight shoulders.
‘De Havilland must have changed his mind. Come back later – while I was ill, mayb
e – and taken them all. Sold them.’
‘To whom?’
‘It could be anyone. Any collector.’ He rocks back and forth. Then he kicks the bench so hard it jumps a few inches sideways. ‘There’s only one person who would know.’ He raises his eyes to mine. ‘And he’s probably dead by now.’
He doesn’t say that it’s my fault. He doesn’t need to. A glimpse of the alley, de Havilland’s body.
I adjust the brim of my hat. I don’t want him to see my face. ‘I’m going home.’ I’m dreading the cold ride back to Castleford so much my bones feel like lead. ‘No point in staying here.’
He turns away. A gust of wind rattles the windows.
‘Are you coming?’
He doesn’t answer. Outside a curtain of snow blows across the marshes. We have to leave now, before it gets worse. I’m getting married the day after tomorrow. If I get trapped here …
‘Come on. Let’s go.’ I wait for him to move. When he doesn’t, I pick up his coat from the side and thrust it at him. ‘I need to get the horses back to the livery stable.’
There’s a silence. He doesn’t take his coat. My coat. I drop it on the floor.
He glances down, but he doesn’t bend to pick it up. ‘What if we don’t go back?’
‘What?’
He turns and meets my eyes. ‘You don’t have to go back.’ There’s something in his expression that I don’t understand. ‘You don’t have to.’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘We could …’ He gives a small, helpless shrug. ‘If we stayed here …’
‘Of course I have to go back.’
‘Lucian.’ He reaches out for me.
‘Stop calling me that, damn you!’ I knock his arm out of the way and try to push past. But I’m clumsy and drunk and my hand hits the side of the bench, hard. Pain blazes down my wrist and my fingers. I reel sideways and collapse on to the workbench, trying to breathe.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing.’ I cradle it against my chest. Automatic tears sting my eyes.
‘Lucian, you’re bleeding – your glove—’
‘I know.’ I exhale, inhale slowly, exhale again. ‘It wasn’t you.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know.’
‘It’s nothing.’ He reaches out and takes hold of my wrist. I tense.
‘Let me see. Please.’ He stays still, watching me, until I nod. Then he pulls me gently toward him. He peels off my glove. He drags up a stool and sits down. All the while he’s holding on to me.
‘That looks painful. What happened?’
‘I—’ I clear my throat and wipe my eyes on my cuff. ‘I broke some glass. I was trying to …’ I stop. He waits. ‘Nell hanged herself. I was trying to cut her down.’
‘Hanged herself? Nell? The one who – the one I bound?’
‘Yes.’
There’s a silence. He stands up. For a moment I think he’s walking out. But he only goes to the end of the room and picks up an empty jar. He opens the window and scrapes snow into it. He puts it on the stove to melt. We watch the white feathers collapse into water. Then he brings it back to me, picks up the bottle of mead with his other hand and nudges the window shut with his elbow. Without a word he dips a bobble of sponge into the water and cleans the blood off my palm. Then he wets the sponge with the mead. ‘This will hurt.’
It does. But after a second the burn softens to warmth, and the pain eases. Farmer rinses the sponge. I don’t look up.
‘Are you all right?’
I nod.
‘Are you sure?’ He puts the sponge down on the bench. He leans forward. I tense, waiting for him to touch me, but he doesn’t. ‘I’m sorry.’
I shake my head. Snow crackles against the window.
I say, ‘I could have saved Nell, if I’d tried harder.’
He shifts his weight, but he doesn’t answer.
I draw in my breath. ‘They killed de Havilland because of me. Because I lied to my father. That’s my fault, too.’
He’s very still. ‘You didn’t kill him.’
‘I knew what would happen. I knew, when I said it.’ In spite of myself I meet his eyes. He doesn’t waver. I’m the one who glances away.
After a while he says, ‘I’ll get a bandage.’
Suddenly I think of my father, knotting the ends of white linen neatly around my thumb. ‘No.’ I curl my fingers over the cut. ‘It’s fine.’
‘But—’
‘No!’ I get up. ‘Thanks. I have to go home.’
‘It’ll bleed more, if you don’t let me—’
‘Please, will you just stop—’ My voice breaks. I shut my eyes. Now he’s on his feet, closer than arm’s length. I can feel the heat of his body.
He takes hold of my wrist. He unfolds my fingers, very gently, one by one. It sets off a fierce dangerous ache in my heart and throat, nothing to do with the cut. He tilts my palm to look at it. ‘Fine,’ he says, at last. ‘But keep it clean.’
I’m so tired. I have to pull away. If he looks at me, he’ll see … But my head is spinning. If I fell now, he’d catch me. A gust of wind whines in the chimney and blows cold air down the back of my neck. Slowly, as if something inside me is dissolving, I lean forward. My forehead touches his shoulder. I feel him freeze. We stand still, hardly breathing. Every part of me is concentrated on the place where my skin is against his shirt.
‘It’s all right.’ His voice is very low.
It isn’t all right. But he grips my shoulders and holds me steady. I let him take my whole weight. I can hear his heartbeat. When I raise my head he stares at me, eyes intent and hesitant. It sends a sting of exposure through me.
That’s the moment when I should move away. But I don’t.
XXVI
Sometime in the night, the blizzard stops. When I wake, the bedroom is quieter than anywhere I’ve ever slept. There’s only the wind humming in the roof, and my own breathing, and Emmett’s.
The bed is next to the window. The light kindles from dull to bright and back again as clouds blow across the sun. There’s a blue patch in the corner of the sky. It moves sideways, shredded by the wind. Sunlight glints off an icicle and throws rings of light on to the bare floorboards.
I untangle myself, trying not to wake Emmett. He sighs and draws his knees up to his chest, nestling into the blankets. His face is buried in the pillow. All I can see is his ear and the curve of his cheek. My lips tingle with the memory of his skin: hot and slightly rough, tasting of sweat. A faint warmth runs through me, an echo of last night. I want to do it all again, over and over. I want to forget everything else: my life, my father, my wedding, my book.
For a moment I let myself imagine staying here. If I missed the wedding, my father would probably disown me. But that might not be so bad. My mother would miss me, but she’d have my sisters. She’s good at turning away from unpleasantness, at pretending. I look sideways at Emmett’s body curled under the covers. If I nudged him now, rolled him over to me and told him I couldn’t bear to leave … He stretches, and his eyes flutter open. He sees me, smiles, and goes back to sleep. I almost kiss him. I shut my eyes. My heart is beating too fast. I’ve never known anything like this before. Last night it was exhilarating, the way desire swept me away. I wanted him so much I didn’t know who I was. I didn’t care any more. I gave in to it. And he went with me, like a dance – he let me, he made me … As if he knew me already, knew my body right down to my bones. I cried out at the end as if I was lost. But now, in this cold light, a spasm of shivers passes through me. He’s a stranger.
I wish I could believe that last night mattered. But what he showed me wasn’t tenderness; it was experience. When he first kissed me I thought – in spite of everything – he was innocent. As if he’d never touched anyone else. But that’s absurd. No one fucks like that unless they’ve done it a lot. Even if he hasn’t asked me for money, yet … He’s more like me than I thought. If I told him I wanted to stay here with him, he’d laugh in m
y face.
And even if he didn’t … there’s de Havilland. Nell. My book. I don’t deserve any better. None of this, nothing, no matter what happened last night, can change that.
The floor is like ice. Most of my clothes are in a pile under the window sill. When I drag them on they’re clammy. My teeth chatter and my hands fumble with the buttons. In the end I leave my collar open. I shove my cravat into my pocket. I pick up my boots and tiptoe out of the room. I go down the stairs. A loose piece of thatch rattles against the front door. It makes me stop dead. No one there.
The stove in the workshop has gone out. In the soft white light the room looks like a still life, one of those bare Northern interiors, all drab brown and ivory. My cloak is hanging over a tall press.
I unhook it with numb fingers. As I turn to leave I nearly trip over Emmett’s shirt. It lies where I dropped it before he led me upstairs. I pick it up, remembering the way he shivered when I unbuttoned it. I was shivering too, but not from cold. Now the linen is soft and chilly against my face. It smells of him, the cedarwood and pepper of his sweat. I want to put it on.
No. Suddenly it’s as if I’m outside the window, looking in. I can see myself: red-eyed, unshaven, languishing over another man’s dirty shirt. A man I can’t trust. How my father would laugh. One fuck has turned me soft inside, like an infection. I drop the shirt and kick it out of the way. It slides under one of the wooden chests. If Emmett looks for it he’ll see the trail in the dust. He can fish it out with a ruler or something. It’s cheap, anyway. Old. Hardly worth him kneeling for.
I have to shove the back door open. A drift has built up on the doorstep and for a few seconds I’m not sure I’ll be able to get out. I wade out into it and the wind bites me almost in half. Tiny particles of ice hiss against my face. My cheeks sting. I trudge, knee-deep, round the side of the house. The hinges on the stable door are coated with ice. I have to kick the door-frame to break it. I pause and look at the horses contentedly chewing their straw. If I leave one here, I’ll have to tell the livery stable to send the bill to my father. If I take them both, Emmett will be stuck.
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