The Glass House

by Beatrice Colin

  “But you did it,” she reminded Kitty. “You swam.”

  “And then he carried me all the way home.”

  She pictured George with Kitty on his shoulders, both wet through, their clothes sticking to their skin and their hair dark with lake water. She recalled how Kitty had clung to George’s chin for balance, and the grip George had on Kitty’s slender ankles. This was her family, her husband and child, laughing and ducking as they walked through the forest, and her heart chimed in her chest with the memory of that afternoon, the beautiful autumn day, when the birds sang and the wind soothed.

  “I want to swim,” Kitty said, her voice edged with a whine.

  “Well, you can’t,” she replied. “Not here. You’d freeze.”

  “No I wouldn’t.”

  “I’m not going to argue about it,” Cicely replied, her voice level.

  Kitty’s mouth clamped shut, and her eyes narrowed.

  “You never let me do anything!” she said before storming upstairs.

  After that day at the Senchal Lake, there were no more picnics. The situation in China took precedence. George spent his days writing letters and planning, while the mountain wind rushed through the house and banged the shutters. It made no difference: George wasn’t completely there anymore, she knew, but already halfway up a mountain in his imagination. He was distracted, distant, silent.

  One evening, however, he noticed her staring at him instead of reading her novel.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Perhaps when you come back,” she said, “we could move back into town, take a place near the Mall?”

  “Or we could travel,” he suggested. “Go to London and Paris.”

  She didn’t answer; she had heard this before.

  “I know how hard this is for you,” he said. “You worry that I’m wasting my time, that I won’t find anything, but I always find something.”

  This was true. He never came back empty handed from his plant-hunting trips. Recently, however, the amount had decreased. The days of finding whole valleys of orchids were over.

  “Maybe you could find a patron,” she suggested, “who could sponsor the trip?”

  “And give them all my seeds, my discoveries? Not likely.”

  Everything she suggested was immediately rebuked. Sometimes he was impossible. She turned the page of her book and continued reading.

  “Just for the sake of argument,” he said, “imagine that this time I don’t find anything.”

  “All right,” she said. “What then?”

  “Then this will be the last expedition,” he said. “I promise.”

  Finally she looked up.

  “You don’t mean that?”

  “I’ll learn how to cultivate tea as you suggested,” he replied. “Start a family business.”

  He came over and knelt down in front of her.

  “With all the children we haven’t made yet,” he whispered and kissed her hand.

  His lips were cold against her skin. He knew none of the details of Kitty’s birth; he hadn’t been there. He had no memories of the throb of blood on the white sheets and the taste of death overlapping the smell of new life. Her hips were narrow, her placenta flimsily attached; after so narrowly surviving the first birth, she was certain then that another would kill her.

  “We already have Kitty,” she replied. “Why would you want more children?”

  George dropped her hand, picked up his pen, and turned his back to her.

  “I can’t win,” he said. “Whatever I suggest is somehow unpalatable to you. But yes, one day I want a son. Or two. Perhaps three. Is that really so surprising?”

  She imagined a motherless brood, for if not the first, then the second or third birth would do it, out there in the foothills of the mountains.

  “Everything hinges on this trip,” he continued. “And if it doesn’t work out, I’ll need sons to help run the business.”

  “Couldn’t Kitty do it?” Cicely asked.

  “She’s a girl,” he replied as if stating the obvious. “Besides, I’m rather good at making babies.”

  In hindsight the audacity of his words was quite striking. She hadn’t read all of George’s letter to Kitty because there was a separate sheet with “Confidential” written in his tiny hand along the top. Once Kitty had clattered up the stairs and slammed the nursery door, Cicely unfolded and reread it.

  Dearest Cicely, I know I should have told you this before and I apologize. I am afraid I have an admission to make that may be relevant with respect to my father’s last will and testament. I would not put it past him to change the terms, hence the prolonged delay. Several years ago I had an affair and there were consequences. I kept it from you to spare your feelings.

  Here it was—the unforeseen complication. A small bay gelding was tied up outside the stables. Cicely asked Bill, the groom, to saddle him up. He frowned at her.

  “This one isn’t for riding,” he said.

  “Well, which ones are?”

  He shook his head. Balmarra’s horses pulled the trap and nothing else. Well, she would have to make do with what there was. Cicely took the reins, stood on a box, hitched up her skirt, and mounted the bay. There was no saddle that fit, so she’d ride him bareback. It wouldn’t be the first time. She’d been riding for almost as long as she could walk. She gave the pony a sharp clip with her heels and he bolted, as ponies do, clattering out of the stables, the gardens, the valley, then up, up, following paths at random, first through trees, then over grass, then across moorland, climbing higher and higher until the paths petered out. Still the pony flew forward, following ancient trails that only he could sense, his ears peaked, half in irritation with the load on his back and half with the sheer exhilaration of being able to run beyond the limit of the paddock. Soon his coat was slick with sweat, his tail a flag in the wind. Riding without a saddle, all Cicely had was the rhythm, the rush of the animal’s pace, to hold on to. She was ten years old again; she was free. Up and up they went until they were so high they broached the cloud line. Soft white pillowed around gray crags. The air had a sharp mineral taste. Her hair was loose, her cheeks pinched with cold, her heartbeat rose up in her chest.

  The grouse rose without warning, a burst of squawk and fluster. The bay swerved, and before she could help herself, she was falling, head over the pony’s ears, tumbling onto the soft, damp ground. For a moment she lay there, motionless. She was not hurt, nothing was sprained or broken or bruised except her pride, but as she watched the pony trot home without her, she found herself weeping. For what? Not for herself or Kitty or George, but for the whole sorry mess they had made. Not that it mattered—there was no one to see, there was nothing for miles, no one to hear her or see her curl up into a ball like a child and sob. They had never been honest with each other. Both had hidden the truth from the other: She didn’t want any more pregnancies or children, any more milk-filled breasts or sleepless nights, and was flushed with relief at every monthly bleed. And he had been keeping secrets from her for years. How many other women had he loved? Were there “consequences” from any other relationships? Was their marriage a sham? How could she not have known? It was then that she considered the possibility of leaving George Pick. In whatever circumstances, rich or poor, maybe she would be better off alone?

  It was dark by the time she reached Balmarra. The heels of her hands were grazed, her tortoiseshell combs were lost, the hem of her skirts damp and streaked with mud, but she was calmer than she had been for weeks. On the mountain she had watched the light change, purple shadows ascending like the slow indelible spread of a wine stain. The wind lifted her hair. A skylark sang. And she had been filled with calm, with serenity, with a new certainty. All the lights were on inside the house. Antonia opened the door as soon as she approached it.

  “At last!” she said. “When the pony came back without you we all thought you’d been thrown. We were about to send out a search party! What happened? Are you all right?”

  “I’
ve never been better,” Cicely said. And for once, it was true. “Is Kitty—?”

  “Right as rain,” she replied. “We gave her a nursery tea, and Dora has been reading her bedtime stories.”

  “She’ll like that.”

  Antonia barely glanced at Cicely’s disheveled clothes. There were clearly more important happenings afoot.

  “Now. An invitation has arrived by hand from Keir Lorimer,” her sister-in-law announced. “He says you met in Dunoon?”

  “He introduced himself in the post office.”

  “Well, you must have charmed him, because he’s invited us all for dinner.”

  Antonia’s eyes were liquid in the lamplight. Her hands almost fluttered as she showed off the invitation, a thick card with an embossed crest.

  “He told me he was a friend of your father,” Cicely explained.

  “News to me,” she said. “As far as I knew they were sworn enemies, especially when it came to plant collections. Anyway, I’ll need to find something to wear. Heavens!”

  This was clearly not just a dinner.

  “I was wondering,” Antonia continued. “Would you be able to come with me to the dressmaker? I need help to choose an outfit for the dinner.”

  Cicely’s mind was immediately drawn back to the contents of George’s letter. Her stomach turned just at the thought of it. But it had to be done, the sooner the better.

  “Certainly,” she replied. “You have one in Glasgow, I presume. I don’t expect you’d be able to find anyone decent around here?”

  Antonia swallowed. Clearly she was still going to the same dressmaker her mother went to, with the same drab fabrics and out-of-date fashions.

  “I’d have to try for a last-minute appointment,” she replied, “but if I can, would tomorrow suit?”

  “Tomorrow would be perfect.”

  “We can take the train together. Thank you, Cicely.”

  It was the first time Antonia had used her first name, and she half whispered it, like a secret.

  “My pleasure. Is Mr. Lorimer—?”

  “Rich? Why, yes.”

  “I was going to say ‘good company,’” Cicely finished.

  “He’s in threads,” said Antonia as if that explained anything. “He’s a self-made man by all accounts. It’s just as well he dabbles in philanthropy or one might be tempted to despise him. He owns that big castle on the coast, but he’s always dashing to London or wherever to meet eligible young ladies.”

  “The one you can see on the road to Dunoon?”

  “That’s right,” she said. “The huge place on the coast. He has hothouses, a fernery, a whole avenue of Sequoioideae and a dozen gardeners to look after them. Makes Balmarra look like a summer pavilion.”

  * * *

   To Antonia the city of Glasgow tasted of oiled steel, of puddles and cold tea. That day it was smudged with smoke and steam and condensation. The rigid grid of the streets, the hunch of men inside the public houses, the crosshatching of railway bridges and cantilever cranes straining on their rivets were all blurred, rendering the whole place as nebulous as a painting by Whistler. Typically there was little flora on display, just a few decorative plantings outside the public parks. At first glance the only green was the livery of the corporation buses that wheezed down Jamaica Street. But it was there if one looked for it; cascades of foliage sprouting from gutters and brickwork or reaching up through tiny gaps in the cobblestones in the narrow back lanes. While the city gave the impression of being barren and monochrome, it was in fact teeming with plant life of the kind that clung to every drop of moisture or inch of soil and reached for a sun that was more a memory than a physical presence. And occasionally, if the spring was particularly clement or the summer drier than usual, there were fronds of vivid purple lilac waving from building sites, and the brief yellow joy of dandelions on waste ground before the heads turned fine and white and blew away.

  Antonia’s appointment with the dressmaker was at half past two. She had written the day before and received notice of a cancellation by return. She didn’t come up to the city often, unwilling to pay those inflated prices, but for dinner at Lorimer’s she needed to look the part.

  With an hour or so to spend before the appointment, Antonia and her sister-in-law strolled the length of the Argyll Arcade and back again, past the jewelers, drapers, glovers, and hosiers, the booksellers and toymakers. The arcade was the city’s most expensive covered street and was filled with light from the glass panes in its ceiling. The two entrances were lined with mahogany paneling, the names of the shopkeepers picked out in gold paint. Outside a westerly wind kept most of the smog at bay, and the air in the arcade was heady with the smell of roasting coffee from the grinders on the corner and the scent of soaps and colognes that wafted from the counter of Penhaligon’s.

  It was a Saturday afternoon, and the place was packed with people, strolling, laughing, clustering around shopwindows, most displaying their wealth in the cut of their clothes or the width of the hats. Some of the ladies wore huge bows or enormous bunches of fabric flowers on the brim. Others bared their ankles in skirts that were daringly short. Antonia had to steel herself, take many deep breaths—crowds unnerved her and she didn’t care for being jostled by strangers. Nevertheless, once one became accustomed to it, she discovered, one could enjoy the atmosphere. If you wanted to save money on women’s periodicals, Malcolm used to joke, take a walk down the arcade to see the styles on Bond Street or the Champs-Élysées. It wasn’t strictly true, or so she had heard. Glasgow was a long way from London and Paris and tended to lag behind by at least a year or so, but it was graphic confirmation, should she need it, that her own clothes were woefully out of fashion.

  “And what will you wear?” she had asked Cicely.

  “I think I have something suitable,” she had replied with a dismissive wave of her hand.

  Why had Keir Lorimer invited them? Antonia wondered. Had Cicely caught his eye? She would stand out in the small town of Dunoon. George’s wife carried herself as if she was somehow beyond the quotidian, as if she had seen places and sights, as if she had experienced emotions and sensations that other people hadn’t. Even here in the Argyll Arcade, men stared openly; women glanced around at them from beneath their ridiculous hats. They were a strange couple, she supposed, both noticeable for quite different reasons.

  The glovemaker’s window displayed gloves for all occasions made of satin or leather or lace. Inside, Cicely picked out a pair of sage-green kid gloves and tried them on.

  “They’re pretty but I’m not sure I need them,” she said.

  “Let me buy them,” said Antonia. “As a gift.”

  Cicely tried to dissuade her, but she was insistent.

  “Well, thank you,” she said. “How kind.”

  “Do you want them wrapped?” the girl asked.

  “No, I’ll wear them,” Cicely replied.

  Antonia tried on several pairs in the palest pink, lilac, and burnt copper.

  “What do you think?” she asked. “You hate them, don’t you?”

  Cicely’s face was expressionless.

  “I like the pink,” she replied.

  Antonia wasn’t sure. She thought they made her skin look jaundiced, and the light color of the leather would show every mark.

  “I think you found the best pair,” she told her sister-in-law as she paid the bill, which was larger than she had estimated.

  “Have them,” Cicely said and started to remove the left glove.

  “Oh, no,” said Antonia. “No.”

  It was the same in the milliner’s. As soon as they crossed the threshold Antonia was overwhelmed by feathers, ribbons, veils, and fringes.

  “It’s so hard to choose,” she said.

  Cicely took one glance around and pointed to a small but perfect blue velvet hat at the back.

  “I’ll try that one,” she said.

  “I didn’t see that one,” said Antonia.

  Cicely placed the hat on her head, tying
the ribbon under her chin and adjusting the hat to sit at an angle.

  “Suits you,” said the milliner.

  “I don’t think so,” said Cicely, taking it off again. “I have one a little too similar already.”

  “Can I try it?” asked Antonia.

  And yet although Antonia tied and tilted the hat several times over, it didn’t look the same as it had on Cicely.

  “Maybe you need a softer line,” the milliner suggested and brought out a straw hat in a plainer style.

  “No, I’ll take the blue,” Antonia instructed.

  She knew she would return it before they had even stepped out of the shop but she bought it anyway.

  The dressmaker was on the third floor of a block in Buchanan Street. As they waited in the salon, Antonia flicked through the periodicals and paused at fashion plates. Cicely, however, had grown increasingly fidgety.

  “What do you think of this gown?” Antonia had asked, passing over a copy of The Queen.

  “Fabulous,” Cicely said, with a glance.

  Ever since she had taken one of the horses and disappeared for a few hours the day before, Cicely had seemed preoccupied.

  The noise from the street rose up to the dressmaker’s open window: a train letting off its low whistle before it departed, the clatter of a tram, the shout of a newspaper seller. From the closed door of the fitting room, however, came a resolute silence.

  “She must be running late,” Antonia suggested.

  “It certainly looks that way,” Cicely agreed.

  “Bright colors suit you,” said Antonia, glancing down at Cicely’s new gloves. “You have such a lovely skin tone.”

  “My grandmother was from Calcutta.”

  Antonia turned to face her sister-in-law.

  “So she was—Indian?”

  “It was not unusual in those days for British soldiers to take an Indian wife, which is what my grandfather did.”

  Malcolm had been right after all. Cicely and Kitty had mixed blood.

  “So she wasn’t Christian?” Antonia asked carefully.

  “No,” she replied. “She was Hindustani.”