by Anne Corlett
“Here.” When Jamie reached for his cravat, Finn flinched but then held still.
“I couldn’t do it.”
“I’m not sure I’m going to do any better,” Jamie said, holding the loose silk ends. “Shall we leave it off?”
“The lady said I had to wear it.”
“You don’t have to do anything. Not if you don’t want to.” She looked around. She remembered this room. It had a single canopied bed, and there were toys scattered about the place. At the far end, there was a narrow ladder leading up to a little gallery lined with dollhouses. On the floor, ranks of lead soldiers faced off, as though about to join battle. The formation was broken in one corner, with a clutch of red-coated figures scattered facedown, balancing awkwardly on their protruding muskets and swords.
“I’m sorry.” Finn had followed the line of her gaze.
“Don’t be silly,” Jamie said. “They’re just toys.”
Finn continued to stare at the prone figures, rubbing one finger and thumb together in a compulsive, repetitive gesture.
Jamie looked at him. “Do you want to stay here?”
He gave her a quick glance, a hopeful light flickering in his eyes.
“I could get some dinner sent up,” she went on. “If you don’t want to come down.”
“Yes, please,” was all he said, but just as she turned away, he reached out a hesitant hand and tapped her arm with his fingertips.
She turned back, thinking he wanted something, but he was already kneeling back down by the fallen soldiers. It took her a moment to realize that it had been an attempt at affection or thanks. She watched as he reached to pick up one of the little infantrymen, setting it back on its feet with infinite care.
“Okay?” she said.
He nodded. “Okay.”
CHAPTER
22
When she left Finn, Jamie walked around the gallery to the stairs. A single flight of steps led down to the middle floor, and then the stairs split, meeting at a landing halfway down, before merging, grandly, into their final curving descent.
As she walked down the right-hand flight, Callan was just reaching the landing from the other side. He paused, one hand on the banister, and looked up at her. Jamie was surprised to see him dressed in a morning suit, complete with wing collar and a cravat of the same wine red that had defeated Finn.
“I didn’t have you down as the dressing-up kind,” she said, as she reached the landing.
He raised an eyebrow. “What kind did you have me down as?”
She busied herself straightening her hem.
“I just mean . . . this whole thing is so odd, I thought maybe I was the only one daft enough to go along with it.”
Callan shrugged. “It’s one night, and then we’ll be off again.”
“But it’s not just one night. Not for them. This is how they live.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “It’s just another way of editing things to something they like better. And for us it’s just one night.”
And what did that one night mean for him? What part of his life was he editing, standing there in his dress suit, in a place he’d never wanted to come?
“What about Mrs. Lawson?” Jamie said.
Callan gave another shrug. “I offered her a chance to come with us. She said you’d tried as well. I guess she’s made a choice. Just like that girl back in Alnwick. Just like Mila.”
“I know,” Jamie said. “It just feels wrong.”
“I know.” Callan echoed her words with a small smile. “But like I said, just one night.”
He lifted his hand from the banister, stretching it out toward her, palm up. For a moment she didn’t understand, and then he gave her another of those lopsided little smiles and tipped his head toward the next flight of steps. Her heart gave a hard thump, and then she stretched out her own hand and placed it in his. For a second it just rested there, and then he closed his fingers around hers, dipping his head in an ironic little bow.
Just one night. They could let go, pretend none of it had ever happened.
“They’re probably waiting for us,” he said. “Shall we go down?”
She let him escort her down the stairs and around the gallery to some open double doors, through which she could hear a low hum of conversation and the descant clink of glasses.
They stepped through the door into a dark-paneled room, in which ranks of flickering candles vied with the low rays of the sinking sun. A heavy mahogany banqueting table was laid with what must have been the best china: cream with an oriental pattern around the edge. Four steaming tureens sat at equally spaced intervals, and each place setting had the full ceremonial array of forks and spoons and more knives than anyone could possibly use.
“Miss Allenby, Mr. Jacobs.” Mr. Hendry hurried over to greet them, bowing over Jamie’s free hand. “So glad you could join us. Will your companions be down soon?”
“Finn won’t be coming,” Jamie said. “I was going to ask if he could have a tray in his room.”
“Of course.” Mr. Hendry bowed again. It was beginning to get on Jamie’s nerves. “I’ll ask Lawson to see to it.”
“I can take it up,” Jamie objected, but Mr. Hendry wafted his hand.
“Lawson will be happy to oblige. And the others? Mr. Lowry, Ms. Casella, and the other lady, I didn’t catch her full name.”
“I’d stick with Gracie.” Callan gave a faint smile. “She’s not one for standing on unnecessary ceremony.”
“Of course,” Mr. Hendry said. “Whatever you think is best. We want all of you to be comfortable.”
“If you want them to be comfortable, then you’ll stop talking in the doorway and get them a drink.” One of the older women came over, leaning on a walking stick topped with what looked like ivory, yellowed by age and the rub of many hands. She had a slight stoop but she moved briskly enough, despite the stick, and the gaze she turned on Mr. Hendry was sharp and disapproving.
“Of course,” he said. “Red or white?”
“Red, please,” Jamie said, thinking that this could have been one of those interminable parties on Alegria. Everyone talking about nothing, and drinking to take the edge off it all.
“Red’s fine for me,” Callan said.
Mr. Hendry walked over to a heavy wooden sideboard, where dusty wine bottles stood in a row.
The woman turned to Jamie and Callan with a malicious grin.
“Might as well keep him busy,” she said. “He’s terribly tedious when he gets into his stride. I sometimes think he really believes all this”—she wafted her hand vaguely—“whatever you want to call it.”
Jamie felt a little sag of relief, as though the woman’s words had created a crack in the façade of this strange situation.
“You don’t like it?”
The woman shrugged, adjusting her weight on the walking stick. “I wouldn’t go that far,” she said. “Cora Barton, by the way. I don’t think we’ve been introduced. All these manners and affectations getting in the way. No, I wouldn’t go as far as saying I don’t like it. It passes the time. If we didn’t have something to take our minds off it, we’d just be sitting around waiting to die.” She lowered her voice. “Don’t let them hear me say that, mind you. It’s pretty much blasphemy. Most of them are still twenty-one inside their heads.” She nodded toward one of the other women, fluttering a fan in front of her painted smile, her head tilted coyly to listen to something one of the men was saying. “See what I mean? Still, it’s harmless.”
“Harmless?” Callan said. “Would Mrs. Lawson agree?”
“Ah.” The older woman tipped her head to the side. “You think we’ve got her imprisoned here, scrubbing the floors, while we ugly stepsisters swan around in silk and flounces.”
“Pretty much.” Callan leaned back against the wall, his gaze flickering around the room.
>
Cora shook her head. “It’s not like that. It’s all part of the game. It’s been ramped up for your benefit, of course. Most nights, the majority of us eat in the kitchen. Mrs. Lawson too. We compare our varicose veins, and Mrs. Zechiel over there puts her feet up on a chair, and Mrs. Sutton makes tea and it’s all very ordinary. One or two of them . . .” She jerked her head toward Mrs. Denby. “They insist on eating in here, every breakfast, lunch, and dinner, but then they’ve always had a stick up their backsides.”
“But you only let her stay if she waited on you,” Jamie said. “How is that a game?”
“Is that what she told you?” Cora asked. “Well, I suppose you could interpret it like that.”
“What if she’d said no?” Jamie pressed.
“She didn’t.” There was a certain wariness in the other woman’s eyes, and Jamie suddenly wanted to take a step back from her. This place, all this playacting, how could you ever know what was the truth and what was just part of the show? The room was stuffy and close. Too many bodies. Too many layers of stiff, starched clothing. Why didn’t they open one of the French windows?
Mr. Hendry returned with two large glasses of wine in his hands.
“A good vintage, this,” he said. “We’re fortunate to have a well-stocked cellar.”
As Jamie took a sip of her wine he watched her, eyes bright with expectation.
“Good?”
She nodded, then turned at the sound of footsteps as Lowry and Rena entered the room. Lowry was wearing a plain gray suit, the trouser cuffs turned up to accommodate his small frame. Rena was dressed in a dark red crepe dress, long-sleeved and fitted, with black lace at the collar and hem. It suited her, giving her shape where there was none and lifting her pallor a little. For the first time Jamie wondered what the other woman had looked like a few years ago, before she’d been worn down to just skin and nerves. There was something about the tilt of her head, the play of light and shade across her features, that made Jamie think she might have been almost beautiful.
Rena and Lowry were followed into the room by Gracie. Mr. Hendry did an almost comedic double take, eyes widening in clear disapproval. Gracie was wearing a man’s gray morning suit over a cream silk shirt and cravat. Her short hair was smoothed down, and the suit hung perfectly from her tall, broad-shouldered frame. There was a stiff, uncompromising beauty to her, although Jamie suspected she wouldn’t have thanked anyone for such a compliment.
Callan gave his engineer a quick, conspiratorial smile just as a chime sounded nearby. Jamie turned to see one of the men holding a small silver handbell.
“Ladies, gentlemen. Will you please take your seats. A quick head count has revealed equal numbers of men and women this evening, so please do adhere to the traditional seating arrangement of gentleman-lady, and perhaps our guests could spread themselves out, so that we have a good conversational mix.”
As people started tugging high-backed wooden chairs out of the tight ranks, Jamie hesitated. Two round-faced old men were beaming at her, gesturing to the seat between them. She’d have to squeeze in, all clashing chairs and clumsy apologies, and then they’d sit wedged together, unable to move or turn without pressing against their neighbor. Was it too late to make an excuse? She could say she felt unwell. She could go up and sit with Finn. But somehow she was still walking toward the table, as though social convention were as strong as gravity.
Don’t make a fuss. Don’t offend.
Fit in, however many of your edges you have to rub away to get there.
A hand cupped her elbow, steering her toward the end of the table.
“Here.” Callan let go of her arm to pull out two chairs.
Mr. Hendry fluttered over. “I don’t think . . . Would you not prefer to sit . . .”
“These are fine.” Callan gave him a bland smile. “We’re comfortable here.”
Mr. Hendry hesitated, then inclined his head. “Very well.” He marched away to the middle of the table, where he took a place next to Rena. Lowry was at the far end, with Gracie a couple of seats along from him. She was beside a man who was quite possibly entirely deaf, judging from his vague smile and the way he kept nodding in response to nothing at all. On her other side, there was a tall, elegant-looking man, one of the younger members of the group—although that still put him at least in his seventies. He was leaning in to speak to her, and Jamie thought she could detect a hint of admiration in his face.
The tureens were uncovered and plates handed along. Jamie was relieved to see that Mrs. Lawson wasn’t expected to serve them. While she was waiting for her own portion of what seemed to be a vegetable stew of some sort, Jamie turned to Callan, searching for something to say.
He was already looking at her, and when their eyes met, he tilted his head in a mocking impression of Mr. Hendry’s repeated bows.
“So, do you come here often?”
She glanced along the table at the close-pressed mass of wool and silk and papery skin.
“It’s my first time,” she said. “How about you?”
“Oh, all the time. But I think standards are slipping a little. I don’t think I’ll come again.”
“Any better offers?” Jamie said.
“I’m holding out for one. But we’ll see.”
Mr. Hendry clinked his knife against his glass. “Grace,” he said.
“Here.” Gracie raised her glass.
Callan gave a quick laugh, and a couple of the women tittered. Mr. Hendry ignored the interruption, turning to Lowry. “Would our visiting clergyman be so good as to lead us in prayer?” He folded his hands and dropped his head in an ostentatious gesture.
“Of course.” Lowry cleared his throat. “Beyond the stars, beyond the sun, beyond the ending of the worlds there is life and hope and love. We give thanks for those blessings. In the name of all gods. Amen.”
There was a muttered chorus of Amens and then the woman next to Lowry turned to him.
“What church did you say you were from?”
“None,” Lowry said with a smile. “Freelance, you might say.”
“How unusual.” The woman picked her fork up and poked at her food. “This smells wonderful. Lawson really is amazing, isn’t she?”
All around the table, people were making the usual empty social noises. The food. The state of everyone’s health. Would it rain tomorrow? Might they take tea in the garden?
There was an invisible barrier separating the wood-paneled room from the world outside, and it seemed to be stretching thinner and tighter.
Any minute, Jamie thought, any minute now and it will snap.
Callan spoke up, his voice loud enough to carry to the far end of the table. “So what are your plans?” The conversation fell away as all heads turned toward him. Only the old man next to Gracie kept smiling and nodding.
“I’m afraid I don’t follow,” Mr. Hendry said.
“What next?” Callan said. “You can’t be planning on staying here.”
A woman laughed, a nervous scatter of sound. “Why ever not?”
Callan rested his elbows on the table, oblivious to the little chorus of disapproving sniffs. “Do you know how few people are left? It’s not a question of just waiting till someone comes to rescue you. You need to be thinking in terms of years, not just living day to day. What will you do when your food stocks are exhausted? What if you need medical help?”
Silence. No one was looking at him anymore.
“Lovely wine,” a woman said, eventually, tilting her glass to examine the bloodred liquid. “What year?”
The conversation rose again, a swift, relieved surge.
Callan stared around the table for a moment, then shrugged and picked up his cutlery.
• • •
When the meal was finished, Mr. Hendry herded everyone into the hall, where a modern music dock sat, incongruously, on top of a
harpsichord.
“Unfortunately none of us play,” he said.
Jamie glanced at Gracie, but the engineer was leaning against a pillar, arms folded.
When a formal, baroque melody started up, several of the old people paired up and commenced circling the hall in a slow, arthritic minuet. There was a sort of dignity to the scene, despite the ludicrous costumes and the garish makeup. With a pang of pain, Jamie thought of Mila, and how the girl would have loved this. She would have been among the dancers, smiling, flirting gently, never thinking of anything but how wonderful the moment was.
“Top-up?” Callan appeared at her elbow with the remains of a bottle of red. “I’m told it’s a good vintage.”
“What does that even mean?” Jamie lifted her glass so that he could fill it up. “Did the winemakers tread them for longer? Use better corks?”
“Don’t know.” Callan discarded the empty bottle on a nearby sideboard, with supreme disregard for its antique veneer. “It’s one of those things where you should just nod and pretend to agree.” He took a slug of wine. “Like that Beltran caviar that everyone raves about. I met a trader who’d transported some and swiped a tin. He said it tasted like an old man’s feet.” He shook his head. “Never asked him how he knew. You get all sorts on the outer trading runs.”
When Jamie laughed, Callan gave her a sidelong look.
“I don’t dance,” he said. “Fancy getting out of here?”
“Where to?”
“You know this place,” he said. “You said it was beautiful. Show me.”
• • •
It was easy enough to slip away. All eyes were on the dancers. As they walked down the drive, the sun was setting, and the air was that odd blend of fading heat and burgeoning chill: not cold enough for an extra layer but cool enough to make you shiver every now and again.
The path to the woods was across the road. Jamie glanced both ways and caught him looking at her.
“Habit,” she said, defensively.