The Snow Globe

by Judith Kinghorn

  Now, standing in front of the long mirror in her dressing room, with Nancy—once her maid, now her housekeeper—looking on, she allowed herself to smile back at her reflection. She reached up to the strands of pearls Nancy had fastened at her neck and then fussed over and arranged about her bosom.

  “They are rather lovely, aren’t they?” said Mabel, feeling the perfect imperfection of the pearls beneath her fingers.

  “Oh yes, and I have to say, ma’am, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you looking lovelier.”

  Nancy was being kind, Mabel thought, because years ago she had surely been lovelier. And she wished for a moment that Reg had known her then, in that time of youthful loveliness, so that he had a memory of it, of her. Instead, Howard had all the memories, and they were quite wasted on him. And yet it pleased her and made her feel better about herself as she was now that Reg held her in such high esteem, that he listened to her, clearly valued her opinions and looked at her with such . . . What was it? she wondered. A sort of intensity that made her feel as though she were naked in front of him, completely and utterly exposed; as though he could see into her mind and read her thoughts.

  She had forgotten this, was relearning it now and in so doing realized that she had known it before, many years ago. The closer she and Reg became, the more vulnerable she felt in his presence, and it was the intensity of his attention, his determined, resolutely steady focus—undiluted by the distractions of spouse or family—that seemed to draw her in and seemed increasingly hypnotic. She wondered if others were able to see it, too. Not that Reg would or could necessarily mesmerize them, but that they would somehow be able to see his effect upon her.

  It had been like that today. She could not recall the last time she had felt so at ease in another’s presence. Any silences in their conversation had simply been a blissful pause in which to languish. On the way to the cemetery they had talked about Daisy, in the main, her behavior of late. Reg said that she was simply growing up, that she had reached that place of— What did he call it? Disenchantment? Disillusionment? Something like that. “She’s watching us all, figuring us and everything else out,” he said. And then he’d told her that Daisy was the one most like her and that he had no doubt at all that she would “get there.”

  Later, back at the house, at lunch and afterward, Mabel had felt the thrill of a new intimacy between them, and each time she’d caught his eye she had felt her heart palpitate. The thought of seeing him again this evening, and in minutes, made her heart do a little flip.

  “Your cuff, ma’am?” Nancy said, interrupting her thoughts and holding out the diamonds, the ones Howard had given her two years ago, on her fortieth birthday.

  Mabel stared at the diamond cuff and then at the dazzling array glinting from the open jewelry case. Howard had always been very generous. Each year and for so many years, he had presented her with expensive jewels, when the only thing she’d wanted was a little of his time, the reassurance of his love and affection. Instead, as she and their marriage withered, she had been given tokens, costly tokens, things Howard liked to see her wearing, so that he could admire them, feel proud of them—his gifts to her. And she had capitulated. She had worn his diamonds, his pearls, his rubies and sapphires, and then felt grateful when he admired them.

  “No. I think not. Only these tonight,” Mabel said, lifting her fingers once more to the black pearls. And she watched Nancy carefully place the cuff back on the tray and close the case.

  Nancy had been with her at Eden Hall from the start. She had seen it all: each announcement and celebration, each and every loss or gain. She had been the one to pick Mabel up from the blood-soaked bathroom floor one windswept stormy night, tenderly bathing her, wiping away her tears, drying her and then helping her into her bed, saying, “There’ll be another, ma’am. There’ll be another.” She had been the one to move Howard’s personal possessions from their bedroom to his dressing room and explain to him what the doctor had said, that there could be no more babies for Mabel.

  For all of these reasons and more, Mabel trusted Nancy, and right at that moment she’d have liked to be able to confide in her and tell her of her plans, but there was a line one never crossed with servants. And so instead Mabel moved over to the jewelry case, opened it, pondered for only a moment, and then—stretching out her hand—she said, “This is a Christmas present, and a thank-you, Nancy . . . for everything.”

  Mabel knew the rubies were worth enough for Nancy to be able to buy herself a house, a small house perhaps, but something of her own.

  Chapter Twelve

  There was a bad smell in the hallway. One of the dogs had made a mess by the tree, and Howard, already agitated about the lights—two of which had gone off—and unable to wait for Blundy, had taken it upon himself and was bent over, in white tie and tails, with the dustpan and brush from the drawing room fireplace.

  Daisy held her hand over her nose. She had ignored Iris’s advice and wore her new dark green velveteen dress. The dress fit her well enough, but her red petticoat hung down beneath the hem and her bun—despite her wrestling with brushes and hairpins—was lopsided and insecure, and she could feel it slowly unraveling, slipping down her neck each time she turned her head. Thus, glancing about the hallway—trying not to turn her head—she saw Margot, with Lily and Miles, again; Reggie with the Singhs, both looking shy, their eyes cast downward; and the Knights and a number of other neighbors. She caught Valentine Vincent’s eye and quickly removed her hand from her nose and smiled back at him. He was distractingly handsome, she thought, glancing between him and Ben and realizing Benedict Gifford could never compete in looks.

  As Nancy, Mr. and Mrs. Jessop and the others began to emerge from the passageway, whispering, all of them looking in the direction of their famous houseguest, followed by Howard, back from the yard and smiling tightly now, a hush fell and heads turned as Mabel descended the staircase. Reggie put down his glass, swiftly moved over and took Mabel’s arm. And as song sheets were passed about, everyone arranged themselves in a semicircle round the tree, where Howard was once again busying himself with the electric lights, switching them off and on and on and off and looking back at Blundy for the thumbs-up that all were now working. This went on for some time, and people began to sigh and shuffle, not least Noonie, who loudly pointed out that people had come for carols, not a light show.

  Eventually, after another of the lights popped and the whole lot went out, carols were begun and sung, with Old Jessop’s baritone leading the mass in “Away in a Manger.” There then followed “Silent Night,” “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,” “The Holly and the Ivy,” and “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” But it was during the penultimate verse of the final carol—“Ding Dong Merrily on High”—that Daisy noticed Stephen, his eyes almost closed, his body swaying perilously close to the unilluminated tree. He appeared to be rotating: going round and round in circles without moving his feet, while all the time mouthing words. Daisy glanced over at Mrs. Jessop, who, like her husband, appeared lost in the moment, oblivious to anything other than the rapture of the verse.

  When the singing ceased, the glasses of champagne and sherry and the tiny mince pies laid out on silver trays were passed round the hallway by Mabel and Iris and Lily. Daisy, too, should have been on duty. That’s the way it was done at Eden Hall on Christmas Eve: The family—that is, Mabel and the girls—waited on their servants and guests. But as this was happening, as Howard stepped up onto the staircase, chimed on his glass with a spoon and then began to speak, Daisy had already moved over to Stephen Jessop.

  She tugged on his sleeve: “Stephen . . . ,” she hissed. He seemed to be asleep on his feet. She pulled once again at his arm and he opened his eyes.

  “Amen!” he said—in a voice loud enough to make Howard pause his address and look over, along with everyone else.

  As Howard cleared his throat and continued, “And so I’d like to extend my thanks to all of you
who work here at Eden Hall . . . ,” Daisy led Stephen into the passageway.

  “Are you ill?” she asked, staring at him as he blinked—once, twice, three times. “My God, you’re owled . . . aren’t you? Oh, Stephen, what are we going to do with you . . . ? You can’t go back in there like this.” She glanced down the passageway. The only thing for it was to get him back to the coachman’s flat. And so she took his hand in hers and led him toward the kitchen, and on.

  Mabel stood clutching a plate of mince pies, and she smiled and nodded as Howard extended his thanks to her. But he seemed reluctant to stop.

  “Next year, my wife and I will celebrate twenty-five years of marriage . . .” Howard paused long enough to allow the few claps to subside. “A silver wedding anniversary is—I think we’d all agree—a great cause for celebration, and a time of gratitude and perhaps reflection . . .” He paused again, and Mabel so wished he’d stop there. “So twenty-five years . . . ,” he rumbled on, “a quarter of a century and three wonderful daughters later, I’d like to ask my wife to come up here and join me . . .”

  Howard beckoned to Mabel, and Mabel handed the plate to Nancy, then moved through the huddle, smiling, nervous, wondering what was to come.

  Howard took her hand as she stepped up to him; he kissed it, and then, staring back at her, he continued. “Tonight, I’d simply like to take the opportunity to say thank you to my dear wife,” he went on in an uxorious fashion, “for not only providing me and our beloved children with an extraordinarily happy home, but for making Eden Hall such a wonderful place for us all.”

  There were a few shouts of “Hear! Hear!”

  Then Howard said, “Ladies and gentleman, please join me in raising your glasses to my wife, to Mrs. Forbes.”

  “To Mrs. Forbes!” everyone echoed, glasses held aloft.

  Daisy opened the door, ran her hand over the rough plaster wall and flicked a switch. A naked bulb threw a murky glow over the steep staircase. The small lobby smelled of mold and damp and Jeyes Fluid. She took Stephen’s hand, pulled him inside and kicked the door shut behind him.

  “Daisy,” he said, standing against the wall, staring back at her, “I’m fine. I know what I’m doing.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “And I know so.”

  He reached out, pulled her nearer. There was a new intensity about him—in his face, his eyes, his whole demeanor—that both excited and frightened her, and made her heart beat faster. And as he lifted a finger to her face, tracing its lines, following each contour—across her brow, her eyes, down her nose to her lips, her chin, her neck; his touch as delicate as the brush of a butterfly’s wing, as warm as the summer evening sun—she felt herself begin to fall, fall once again into a deep, dark place, an unfathomable rippling vortex.

  Then he took hold of her hand and led her slowly up the stairs.

  Because of the carols, the dinner bell had not rung that evening. But when Mr. Blundell struck the small gong in the hallway at precisely eight thirty, where the family and their guests stood about the tree clutching their glasses, Mabel noticed Daisy’s absence and asked Lily to fetch her down from her room.

  “Kindly ask Mrs. Jessop to give us five minutes,” said Mabel to Blundell. It was Christmas Eve; there was no rush.

  “She’s not in her room,” said Lily, minutes later, descending the stairs.

  “She’s probably just stepped out for some air . . . I’m quite sure she’ll be back at any minute,” said Iris.

  “Some air? It’s freezing out there,” said Mabel.

  As Iris and Howard went off to check other rooms, Lily turned to Mabel: “Oh my, what if she’s had another one of her turns? We all know what she’s like, and she has been acting queerer than usual . . . She may very well have amnesia—after that fall she had. I’ve read that it can sometimes be delayed . . . She may be out there, wandering about and lost in the snow.”

  “These sorts of things always happen at Christmas, don’t you find?” said Noonie, turning to face Margot’s ruffled lace bosom. “People disappearing . . . murders . . . suicides . . .”

  “Mother!”

  Iris reappeared in the hallway. “She’s not anywhere downstairs.”

  “Well, if she chooses to miss Christmas Eve dinner, that’s her own fault,” said Mabel, beckoning people toward the dining room door. But as they began to move, Howard appeared on the staircase. “She’s not in the house,” he said, loud and solemn. “I’m going to look for her.”

  Everyone stopped and stared as Howard moved swiftly across the hallway to the outer lobby and reached for his coat. Suddenly, there seemed to be the vague hint of something more sinister in their midst.

  “I hope she hasn’t been kidnapped,” murmured Noonie.

  Then Reggie called after Howard, “I’ll come with you, old chap.”

  Within seconds the other men stepped forward, as though it were a call-up for another war, and Reggie was in his element, directing them hither and thither.

  Mabel smiled at Margot. “Always a drama with Daisy,” she said, rolling her eyes heavenward. Then she took a deep breath, turned and headed for the kitchen to inform Mrs. Jessop that dinner would need to be delayed.

  Stephen released Daisy’s hand at the top of the stairs and stood aside to let her enter.

  The room was sparsely furnished, lit by a single lamp. The paint on the walls had bubbled and was peeling off the plaster. Daisy wasn’t sure what to do or say. She had never been in this place before, never been in this situation before, with him or with anyone else. She turned to him. He stood next to a bookcase, his head slightly bent, staring back at her, biting his lip. A new sensation swept through her, and she took a step backward, away from him.

  “I need to talk to you,” he said, and then gestured to a chair by the unlit fire.

  She sat down in the old armchair, one she vaguely recognized from a time before. “Is it about Mrs. Vincent?” she asked, glancing about the room. “Because if it is, I’m not sure I want to hear.”

  “No, it’s not about Mrs. Vincent,” Stephen replied.

  He moved over to her, sat down on the rug at her feet, crossed his legs and looked up at her.

  She watched his eyes move down her body to her legs, her feet, felt his touch again, tracing the front of her stocking, her ankle, and then the warmth of his hand encircling it.

  “Not about Mrs. Vincent . . . ,” she said.

  He raised his eyes to hers. “No, it’s about you . . . you and me.”

  “You and me,” she repeated.

  He smiled. She felt his grip on her ankle tighten.

  “I love you, Daisy. I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember, and I know I’ll love you till the day I die.”

  At first, Daisy thought she might be dreaming, and she pinched the flesh on the back of her hand, once, twice, three times . . . She wasn’t dreaming. And she was pleased she was sitting down, because she was trembling, shaking and shivering—and not from any coldness. She wanted to say, “I love you . . . I love you, too.” But the words wouldn’t come.

  “And I want you to come with me . . . to New Zealand,” Stephen was saying now, and she realized he’d been talking for some time. “I know it’s the other side of the world,” he went on, “but just imagine it, imagine the possibilities . . .”

  Daisy stared back at him: the tousled thick hair and dark eyes, the curve of his beautiful mouth and long jaw. She loved him, how—in what way—she still wasn’t sure, but she couldn’t go with him to New Zealand. How could she? Her father would go mad. Literally. It would kill him. She pictured herself high up on the deck of a ship, waving down to her parents and Iris on a quayside through a blizzard of streamers: her mother sobbing, Iris blowing kisses and Howard waving his fist. Then she took herself out of the equation and placed Stephen on the deck, waving down to her as the ship sounded its horn and moved slowly
away . . .

  And as her silence continued, as they sat staring at each other, his smile faded. He tilted his head to one side, breathed in deeply, then looked away and shut his eyes.

  “I had to tell you,” he said. “And I’m afraid it required some Dutch courage.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “But did you not realize?” Mabel demanded. “Did you not think?”

  “No. I’m sorry, I just lost track of the time.”

  “Really, Daisy, how can you forget the time—and then stand about the yard in the freezing cold—for almost an hour . . .” Mabel reached out and grabbed hold of Daisy’s hands. “But your hands are warm.”

  “Well, I wasn’t out there the whole time. I moved about, kept coming inside,” Daisy went on, aware of both Iris’s and Lily’s scrutiny. “I just felt sick”—she shrugged—“and thought it best to keep out of the way.”

  “You’ll have pneumonia next, my girl,” said Noonie, unusually stern faced. “I hope you’re wearing a vest.”

  Mabel glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. She raised a hand to her head. Almost nine o’clock. They had never eaten this late before, certainly not on Christmas Eve. Now all of the men were missing. And it was entirely Howard’s fault, she thought. Such an overreaction to Daisy’s absence, and no doubt brought on by guilt, she mused, heading back to the kitchen.

  It was shortly after half past nine by the time everyone—or almost everyone, because Miles had failed to reappear—had been rounded up and herded into the dining room by an unusually shrill-sounding Mabel. The meal, she knew, had quite literally gone to pot, and Mrs. Jessop, who normally emerged from the kitchen on Christmas Eve to receive the family’s thanks, refused to come through to the dining room.