“If it’s stew I won’t eat it,” said the girl.
“Kitty!” her mother warned. “Remember your manners.”
Antonia stood at the door for another few seconds. What was she waiting for? Gratitude, or at the very least, recognition, but neither was forthcoming. It seemed that manners had been forgotten by both.
“I’ll tell Cook,” she said. “We breakfast at eight. Just so you know, the nursery is across the hall. You might find something of interest to play with.”
Cicely Pick gave a single nod, then lit the cigarette with a match. Kitty didn’t respond. She was staring at herself in the mirror, pulling faces. Although Antonia was tempted to point out that the wind might change and the screwed-up face would stick, she turned and quickly let herself out. She paused at the top of the stairs and took a deep, tobacco-smoke-infused breath. To have a sister, even in-law, was a complete surprise. A niece even more so. It was a turnup for the books, a cause for celebration. I am an aunt, she told herself—twice, so it would sink in. And yet they were nothing like any other relative living or imagined. The Picks as a family were fair skinned and blue eyed. Their hands were wide, their feet flat, and they shared a certain pragmatism of both physique and personality. Not only were George’s wife and offspring dark skinned and fine boned, their clothes were fashionable but flimsy, cut to be admired rather than to keep a person warm. And Cicely herself? She looked exotic, too exotic, too fragile, too delicate for either a man like George or a place like Balmarra. But what business was it of Antonia’s whom her brother married? He had always done exactly what he wanted without a thought to the consequences.
Antonia tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. It was forever escaping its pins, especially in damp summer weather. She had spent a lifetime smoothing and straightening, pinning and arranging, but had given up dressing it unless she went out. Most of the time she wore it in a long plait that hung to her waist. When it was loose, her hair fell in curls and ringlets, a halo of blond frizz quite unlike anyone else’s in her family. Unless she was mistaken, Kitty had inherited the same curse. She hoped that, unlike her, she could learn to tame it.
The wind rattled the window that illuminated the stairwell. She felt a sudden impulse to turn around and rush back to the guest rooms, to throw her arms around Cicely and Kitty Pick, to hold them tight and whisper in their ears, “I’m so glad you came.” From outside, however, she heard the crunch of wheels on gravel: A motorcar was approaching along the driveway. It must be Malcolm. He would know what to do, he always did. It was one thing her father had always commented on. But as she approached the door to greet him, she heard the sound of raised voices.
“No, we are not expecting a delivery,” Dora was saying to someone on the porch.
It was not her husband but a small van from the Caledonian Railway. In the back were four large trunks belonging to Cicely Pick and labeled with Balmarra’s address. Antonia, it seemed, had been wrong about the fleeting visit.
2
When she opened her eyes, Cicely had no idea if it was day or still night. Only a little light penetrated the gaps in the curtains. A noise had woken her, a disturbance, dragging her from the depths of sleep. She had slept more soundly, however, than she had in weeks. The mattress was soft, the quilts thick, and the air in her room so chilly that it would take a great deal of willpower to actually climb out of bed.
But then she heard it again, faint at first, the sound of raised voices. Antonia and a man—her husband, she presumed—were having a blazing row in a room somewhere on the other side of the house. Undoubtedly their unexpected arrival was the subject of the conflict? Cicely rolled onto her back and tried to ignore the clutch of anxiety in her chest. It was going to be much harder than either she or George had anticipated.
The voices suddenly fell quiet, and then there was the shudder of a door slammed. From outside came the crank of an engine and the crunch of gears as the motorcar sped up the driveway to the main road. Back home, automobiles weren’t seen much yet outside Calcutta. In the hill stations European women were still transported in carriages, with their turbaned servants and pairs of ponies, or if they were very unlucky, the palki. Since she could ride, Cicely never had to bear the humiliation of being carted around on a boxed-in seat carried on poles. But she knew plenty who had, their voices rising half in hilarity, half in desperation, as the servants tipped the seat back and forth, accidentally on purpose.
In Darjeeling they had let all the servants go except the groom, and paid the rent until Christmas. Her horse would be cared for, ridden twice a day, and fed the occasional sugar lump. Everything else had been packed away, dust sheeted, and locked up. It was something of a relief. Even though she had been the memsahib for eight years, she still found it hugely complicated—only certain castes could sweep a floor or drive a carriage—and although they employed fourteen male servants, she could never work out why so many of them seemed to be so idle. But she lacked the energy of her mother’s generation, who spent their lives monitoring the minutiae of their domestic situation. Who could be bothered to check the stock in the storeroom once a week, taste a sauce, dust the piano, or track every single rupee? Yes, she was glad to have left it behind—the responsibility, the requisite air of authority, the cost, even for a short time. When they returned she would have to hire all the servants back again—all, that is, except Kitty’s beloved ayah. The less said about that the better.
At that moment she missed their khidtmatgar, the boy who brought tea on a tray every morning at seven. She missed the noises of home—people working, laughing, cooking—the cries of the wild monkeys in the trees, and the calls of birds who filled the forest with their chatter. She missed the scent of orange flowers in the foothills, the fragrant flush of the tea plantations, and the clear sharp wind that rushed down the valley from the high peaks, rattling the windows and rising through the floorboards, filling the air with the smells of bare rock and fresh snow. Here, apart from the car, the world was so still, so quiet, so reserved.
“Mummy?” Kitty called from the next room. “Are you awake?”
Had Kitty heard the argument, too? If she asked about it, what would Cicely tell her? How could she explain that under normal circumstances she would never dream of arriving the way they had, unexpected and uninvited? But these weren’t normal circumstances.
“Almost,” she said. “Give me another minute or two.”
She looked across at the clock on the mantelpiece; it was already ten.
Two settings had been laid on the table in the breakfast room. Cicely poured herself and Kitty each a cup of tea from the pot only to find it was stone cold. Porridge was brought wordlessly by the housemaid. It had a slightly burnt taste. Was this all they were being offered? No toast, no marmalade, no jam, no eggs?
“It’s horrible,” whispered Kitty.
Cicely sweetened the porridge with sugar and rang the bell to ask the maid for more tea. As they waited, they heard tires on gravel and the slam of a car door.
“Eat up,” she said.
“You try it,” Kitty replied.
She raised a spoonful of porridge to her mouth but couldn’t bring herself to actually taste it. It had the consistency of glue.
“Peaches!” A man stood in silhouette in the doorway with a newspaper under his arm. He was dressed in a tweed suit, driving gloves, and a flat cap. “Mr. Baillie, our head gardener, picked these this morning from a secret tree. Only he knows where it is, and he’s not telling.”
He strode into the room, put the newspaper on the table, took off his cap and gloves, and began to empty his pockets, placing three small fruits on the tablecloth.
“Please help yourself.”
“You must be Antonia’s husband,” Cicely offered.
“That’s right. The name’s Malcolm. Antonia’s better half.”
No trace of bad humor remained on his face from the argument earlier. He let out a blurt of a laugh at his own joke, and his face concertinaed.
“Anyway, good morning! Or should that be good afternoon?”
She put down her spoon.
“We overslept,” she said. “Our long journey seems to have caught up with us.”
“Don’t apologize. Sleep as late as you like. I, however, have already been out for a spin in the Stuart. It has 15hp, a twin-cylinder engine, and a Cardan shaft drive. Lovely model.”
There was something faintly ridiculous about Antonia’s husband. Maybe it was the theatrical curl of his mustache or the redness of his cheeks that gave him a vaudevillian air. Kitty tried to catch her mother’s eye. Cicely ignored her, took a peach, and picked up a knife.
“Allow me?” Malcolm extended his hand.
“I can cut up a peach,” she replied. “And I have been known to peel a mango.”
His eyebrows shot up and he sat back. Then he laughed as if she had cracked a great joke. She cut two slices, gave one to Kitty and ate the other herself. It was surprisingly sweet.
“I don’t suppose there are many peaches to be had in India?” he asked. He was looking at them as if they had just arrived from the moon. At home, in fact, they had fruit trees in the garden including peach, orange, fig, pomegranate, and mango.
“A few,” she lied. “And if we’re really lucky, a couple of oranges at Christmas—that is, if the tigers don’t get them first. Luckily we’re rather fond of mangoes.”
Kitty’s shoulders shook once, a contained spasm of laughter. Her eyes darted like minnows as she tried to fix on something, anything, before focusing on her porridge spoon and lifting it to her mouth. Antonia’s husband, thankfully, was oblivious.
“As I thought,” he said. “A mango tree! Now there’s an idea. I’ll speak to Mr. Baillie.”
“It won’t grow here,” said Kitty.
“And why do you come to that conclusion, young lady?” Malcolm asked.
“Rotten weather.” She shrugged.
“Well, we’ll see about that! Impossible things do happen. The weather isn’t always rotten, you know, and we have the glass house. We can grow just about anything in there we choose. Might take a few years, but we’re not going anywhere.”
He looked directly at Cicely, and she was forced to glance away. Was it a pointed remark? Did he know more about the situation than his wife? Kitty pushed the porridge to one side of the bowl and then laid down her spoon.
“Aren’t you going to eat that?” he said, pointing at the uneaten porridge. “Waste not, want not.”
Kitty stared down at the bowl and didn’t answer.
“Anyway,” Antonia’s husband continued, “mustn’t linger. Some of us have to work for a living to support the fairer sex. Anything you need?”
“More tea would be nice,” Cicely replied.
Malcolm placed his hand around the teapot.
“It’s cold. How novel,” he said. “You know we drink it hot in Scotland?”
Kitty opened her mouth to speak, but when Cicely widened her eyes in warning, she closed it again. When the maid appeared, Cicely stood up and smoothed her skirt.
“Could we have another pot? And you know, I think I’ll try it hot this time!”
Kitty let out a bubble of uncontainable laughter. Cicely knew that she should reprimand her, and yet she too struggled to keep a straight face. Where did he think they came from? The deepest, darkest jungle?
“If you could bring it my room,” she continued, “I’d very much appreciate it.”
The maid’s face fell. Clearly it was not done to take morning tea—at any temperature—in one’s room.
“Oh, by the way, your trunks arrived,” Malcolm said. “All four of them. Nothing like traveling light!”
He laughed. She smiled politely. Four trunks for two people was considered light. Most people wouldn’t leave India without at least four each.
“I expect you’ll be wanting to see the gardens?” he suggested.
“I would,” she said, because it seemed expected.
A blast of wind hit the window, and rain began to lash the glass. A draft whistled through the curtains.
“As the old man used to say, we can’t be held hostage by the weather,” Malcolm went on. “We’ll go, rain or shine. What time would suit?”
In India no one would dream of going out in the rain. But then she reminded herself why they had come and what she must do, and so she mustered a smile.
“In an hour?” she suggested.
“An hour,” he confirmed.
The fires were newly lit in the bedrooms but spat sparks and barely heated the still-frigid air. A single white rose stood in a vase on the writing desk. During breakfast their trunks had been brought to the rooms and unpacked. The beds had been made, the blankets and sheets tucked under with such precision that it would take more strength than either of them had to unmake them and climb back in again, no matter how much they wanted to.
“Could you plait my hair?” Kitty asked.
Cicely sat down on the bed and undid her daughter’s hair. Unlike her own hair, which was dark and had to be waved using curling irons, Kitty’s was fair, like her father’s, and curly. Cicely brushed it out, divided it into two sections, and began to plait.
“How long are we staying here?” asked Kitty.
“Not long,” she replied. “Why don’t you take a look at the nursery when I’ve finished?”
“Tighter,” said Kitty. “You know my ayah does it much tighter.”
Cicely started again, pulling each strand of hair as tightly as she could. Kitty let out a small cry.
“That hurts—you’re not doing it properly!”
Despite her daughter’s protestations, Cicely kept going, pulling and tugging until she had fashioned the hair into two plaits.
“There,” she said.
Kitty examined the results silently in the mirror. It was clear to both of them that once again it wasn’t up to her usual standard.
“Will you play with me?” asked Kitty.
Did her ayah play games? Whatever she did she was always better, according to Kitty.
“I don’t think so,” Cicely replied. “I have important business to attend to.”
“No you don’t.”
“Excuse me!” she said. “You have no idea what I must and must not do.”
The girl’s face started to redden. She stared at the floor.
“I need to bathe and wash my hair,” Cicely said. “And then I need to sort something out for Daddy.”
“What shall I do, then?” she whispered.
“Use your imagination. You have got one? Or did you leave it on the train?”
“Of course I have,” said Kitty, her brow furrowing. “I wish Daddy was here.”
“Well, he isn’t,” she replied. “And wishing won’t change that.”
George had left his family home in Scotland fifteen years earlier and had never returned. Now she began to understand why: There was something stifling about Balmarra, the grandeur of the architecture, the polished wood, the faded chintz, and the parsimonious flower arrangements. There didn’t seem to be enough oxygen in the air to breathe. Although deceased, Edward Pick looked out from almost every wall. He must have commissioned at least a dozen portraits, some when he was young, but mostly when he was middle-aged, signaled by a paunching around the jaw and collar. In all of them he appeared austere, judgmental, staring out at the world as if about to give his opinion, sure in the knowledge that he was most definitely correct. As for the gardens, from what she had seen so far, they were nothing special. Though it had been the fashion in the last century to get rid of all the native species and replace them with species from elsewhere in the British Empire, and from China and America, Balmarra seemed to have done a poor job of this. Not that Scotland had many native species. According to George the only one it could claim was the primrose.
Also, George and his sister had never been close. What were the words that he had used to describe her? “Naive,” “provincial,” “dull”? It was true that although she was in her midt
hirties, Antonia seemed younger than her years, unripe; she was tentative and, at the same time, overenthusiastic. Her wardrobe, for example, had been chosen with a very conservative hand. Even in India, European women did not wear skirts that reached the floor anymore unless they had given up on appearances or were too old to care. Worst of all, she wore her hair in a long plait like a teenage girl.
But it was more than that. Even though Cicely felt a little sorry for her and wished she had not made such poor choice of husband, she didn’t want to get to know her: It would make the whole process harder in the long run.
Cicely locked the bathroom door and turned on the tap in the bath. At least there was hot water. As she took the pins from her hair and unwound her chignon, she tried to decide on a course of action. In her pocketbook she had six guineas in change. The plan had been to sell the orchid seeds to a collector in Glasgow for a hefty sum to give them some disposable income. Maybe they hadn’t been properly packed. Maybe their luggage had been left in the sun. Maybe she should have taken better care of them. But hopefully it wouldn’t matter. The orchids were a single drop in a sizable ocean.
Ever since they had first met, George had referred to his legacy, to the nest egg that was slowly maturing. Money could be spent, loans taken out, favors asked because sooner rather than later he would inherit his fortune. Over the years George and his father had occasionally corresponded. George had told him about his expeditions, his marriage, and the birth of their daughter. It was strange that his father had not passed on any of this information to Antonia. As for the legacy, it was all in the letter that George’s father had written him a year earlier. He instructed that the estate was not to be broken up: It must remain a single entity. Furthermore, he wrote, he was leaving it to his son. Edward Pick was a traditionalist; he believed in primogeniture, that wealth and property be handed down the male line.
In the twelve months since his father’s death, they had been expecting a lawyer’s letter to arrive any day. When nothing came, Cicely went to the main post office in Darjeeling to make sure it hadn’t been mislaid. They checked and checked again, but no letter from Scotland had arrived. First George was puzzled, then angry. What underhand games had his sister and her husband played? Was it possible they had swindled him out of what was rightfully his? How was one to find out?
The Glass House Page 3