The Glass House

by Beatrice Colin

It was a benign question, but even so it caught her unawares. She drained her glass of champagne, and it was immediately refilled.

  “Soon,” said Cicely. “There are a few things that I have to sort out here.”

  “But you are enjoying your time in Scotland? Even out here in the sticks?”

  “Very much,” she replied.

  “I always liked Balmarra. Haven’t set foot in the place for years,” Lorimer said. He looked along the table, catching Antonia’s eye. “I was just telling Mrs. Pick here that I’d love to take a look at that glass house of yours again.”

  “Well, you must come,” Antonia said. “You must all come!”

  Everyone turned to Antonia.

  “Perhaps I could throw a party,” she continued. “In the Oriental style. In honour of my sister-in-law, Cicely Pick.”

  Malcolm stared at his glass of wine and then drank it down in one gulp.

  “Isn’t it just the most perfect idea?” Antonia said to Malcolm.

  Malcolm cleared his throat and forced his face into a smile.

  “Fine by me,” he added. “Absolutely!”

  The conversation turned to the coronation and George V’s love of hunting.

  “I hear he got quite a haul,” said Lorimer. “Twenty-one tigers and eight rhinoceroses in Nepal. Personally I had no idea there were any rhinoceroses in Nepal.”

  “Well there won’t be for much longer,” Cicely replied. “Not if the king keeps shooting them.”

  Lorimer threw back his head and laughed out loud. Her glass was empty again, and she couldn’t remember finishing it.

  “You’re witty,” he said. “Can’t say the same of many people round here.”

  “I’m not usually,” she said. “It’s just the champagne talking.”

  “Well then, have some more,” he said. “The champagne is clearly enjoying herself.”

  The problems that had seemed insurmountable earlier that evening had melted away. Her glass refilled, she began to feel lightheaded, even a little drunk. As she swallowed another mouthful, an idea occurred to her, an idea so seemingly obvious that she wondered why she hadn’t thought of it before.

  “Mr. Lorimer,” she said.

  “Mrs. Pick?” He bowed his head and leaned toward her. “Has the champagne got a message for me?”

  “No,” Cicely said softly. “This time it’s me. I have a proposition for you.”

  He turned and looked at her briefly. He moistened his lips.

  “Really?” he said.

  “A business proposition,” she clarified. “Can we have a word in private?”

  “Of course,” he replied. “But not tonight. We can meet during the week if you’re not busy.”

  “Thank you, yes.”

  “I’ll be in touch,” he said, then turned and began to speak to the doctor. On Cicely’s other side the hotel owner was deep in conversation with the doctor’s wife. Cicely picked up her glass of champagne, then felt the pull of someone’s gaze. While Antonia was shouting into the old woman’s ear trumpet, Malcolm was staring at her. As soon as she looked back, he glanced away. Then he pulled out a crumpled handkerchief and blew his nose loudly. What did Antonia see in him? In the right clothes, with her hair dressed, Antonia could be striking. She had a natural grace that she didn’t seem aware of. But Malcolm? He had all the grace of a turnip. Why hadn’t she chosen someone more charismatic, someone like Lorimer? Lorimer and Antonia. But even the imagined image of the two of them together filled her with an emotion she would not admit. As soon as the thought passed through her mind, Lorimer turned to her and for a second she was sure he had read her mind.

  “Everything all right?” He laid a hand briefly on her forearm.

  She nodded yes. Her voice was gone, swallowed up.

  “It’s time for the men to depart to the smoking room and for the ladies to drink coffee and eat sweet things,” he said. “What would happen if I wanted to drink coffee and you wanted to smoke? A truly stupid custom, but there you are. I wouldn’t continue it personally, but people expect it. In truth I would far rather stay and talk to you.”

  Slowly she raised her eyes to his. A jolt ran through her, from her eyes to the base of her spine, in the opposite direction as a bubble in a glass of champagne but with the same velocity, the same small pop as it reached its spot.

  * * *

   Three other female guests and two dogs were arranged on sofas and easy chairs around a roaring fire. The dogs were huge and slightly smelly—hunting dogs, Antonia suspected—and she was reluctant to shoo them from the cushioned hollows in which they so comfortably curled and sit in the slobber and hair left in their place. And so she pretended to be particularly interested in the ceramic vases that were displayed on plinths, and tried not to draw attention to herself.

  As soon as they had stepped into the reception room of Lorimer’s mansion, she realized that she had dressed for a ball and not a formal dinner. What had she been thinking? Her eyes burned. Cicely should have said something, she could have pointed out her folly.

  “No one cares about your shoes,” her father had once said when she dithered at the door before going out. “No one’s looking.”

  Maybe this time, too, no one cared; no one was looking. But that was merely wishful thinking. The other women her own age, the wives of the doctor and the owner of the hotel, wore long tunics with high waistlines in shades of gray and cream. They were looking; she saw the way they glanced at her. Much too old to wear that shade, the arch of their eyebrows seemed to say. Too many ruffles for someone so plain. She wished she could change, take the dress off, and pull on something more comfortable, more fitting, more suited to her looks. Now she saw that her dress was wrong in every way. It had been designed to be worn in a different season, a different occasion, by a different woman, for a party with enough guests to thoroughly warm a room.

  The fire cracked and she shivered. Like Balmarra, Lorimer’s mansion, once you left the fireside, was freezing even in summer. Who could survive Scotland without cardigans and slippers? How long must they remain here before it would be polite to leave? Dinner had been lengthy, and the food served in very small portions. She was still hungry despite eating six courses. She also had the distinct feeling that there was a pecking order in place and that she and Malcolm were near the bottom. Even Lorimer’s elderly aunt, who was both deaf and seemingly demented, had been given a place nearer the center of the table than they had. Her brother’s wife, however, had been seated at Lorimer’s right, a queen to Antonia’s castle, and now she felt sure that this was how she appeared to the world—all sharp angles and crenellation. And then there was the matter of Lorimer’s announcement about visiting Balmarra. What had possessed her to suggest they throw a party? Her heart stampeded at the thought of it. She no more knew how to throw a party than to sing a madrigal. And the cost? However would they pay for it? Cicely had gone to the lavatory and not returned. She was always absenting herself, disappearing. It was infuriating.

  A silence had descended in the drawing room. She glanced over her shoulder to find the three women and two dogs staring at her expectantly. What had been asked? She had no clue. Did she take milk and sugar in her coffee? Did she want coffee at all? Not really, was the answer; what she desired more than anything was a stiff drink, a malt whisky, like the men were knocking back in the smoking room. But it wasn’t done. Women didn’t drink the hard stuff. Not in public anyway. They sipped weak coffee from china cups, ate Turkish delight, and made meaningless small talk.

  “Sorry,” Antonia said. “Did you ask me something?”

  “Are you going on,” the doctor’s wife asked, “to another occasion?”

  “How lovely to have two events on the same night,” said the other wife and took a small gulp of her coffee.

  “Same night?” echoed the elderly aunt.

  “Oh, no,” Antonia said with a laugh. “Just this. I so rarely…”

  They waited for more. No more words came. Antonia swallowed and cleared he
r throat.

  Grace, that’s what she needed, grace and self-assurance. Who cared what they thought? Had they nothing else to think about? Were their lives so dull that the dress of another guest was worthy of extensive pondering? It was pathetic. In an act of modest defiance, Antonia took a handful of skirt, of the bright purple, sumptuous, expensive silk, and spun around. Only she forgot the train, the beautiful train that made her look so elegant, the dressmaker had said, and the force of her sudden movement propelled the train into the plinth in a tidal wave of fabric. The vase wobbled on its stand and then fell forward, bouncing once before exploding into a million pieces on the polished parquet floor.

  The women’s hands flew to their mouths, the dogs’ ears dropped, and the pressure in the room suddenly changed. To Antonia the walls curved, the windows seemed about to crack, and her eyes began to ache inside her head.

  “Was it—?” she began.

  “Sèvres?” one woman exclaimed.

  “Probably,” said another.

  “Oh dear,” said Antonia. Could the evening get any worse? At least Malcolm wasn’t in the room to witness it; that was some consolation.

  The butler was summoned, and he removed the dogs, placed Antonia in an armchair, swept up the broken china, and refilled every coffee cup, all with a minimum of fuss.

  “I once broke a side plate in the Dorchester Hotel,” said the doctor’s wife. “But they had plenty more.”

  There was another short silence, this one even worse than the first.

  “It was so nice of Mr. Lorimer to invite us,” Antonia began in a desperate effort to change the subject.

  “Yes,” said the wife of the hotel owner. “It was.”

  Everyone sipped at once.

  “We were both wondering where your friend hails from?” said the doctor’s wife.

  “India. She’s George’s wife, actually. My brother.”

  They looked at her blankly.

  “George is a botanist, a hunter of rare plants. Just an excuse to go tramping into the middle of nowhere for months on end, if you ask me.”

  She laughed. Alone.

  “How long will she be with you, Antonia?” asked the doctor’s wife.

  “Oh, not long, I expect. She’ll be wanting to see Edinburgh. And her daughter starts school here in September.”

  “Where is she going?”

  “Glenrannoch, I think?”

  There was a small bewildered silence. It seemed that no one had heard of the school either. One by one the women glanced at the door, as if expecting Cicely to walk in at any moment. Where on earth was she? Surely no one could spend that long in the lavatory?

  “How nice of you to throw a party in her honor,” said the hotel owner’s wife.

  “Yes,” said Antonia before draining her coffee cup.

  “Lovely-looking woman,” she went on.

  “She has an interesting appearance,” the doctor’s wife added. “Exotic. In fact, if one didn’t know she was white, one might assume—in a dark room, that is—that she, you know—”

  “Touch of the tar brush,” agreed the hotel owner’s wife.

  Antonia stared at her. The woman met her eye and then looked away. They suspect, Antonia realized. And she was suddenly both amused and relieved. The dress, the broken vase, the seating arrangement at dinner, the proposed party, all paled into insignificance. They didn’t care about any of it. This was what they would talk about in the days ahead: the color of George Pick’s wife’s skin.

  “My sister-in-law’s grandmother,” said Antonia, “was Hindustani.”

  No coffee cup was left unslurped. A log cracked in the grate, making every woman jump a little in her seat.

  8

  Cicely locked the door of the lavatory behind her. Like everywhere else in Lorimer’s house it was lavish: a huge room with a wooden stall and a large wash-hand basin with French lavender soap. On the walls were prints of racehorses. Had he chosen them himself or had he hired someone to do it for him? There was nothing personal, no hint as to the type of man he was or where he had come from.

  She washed her hands, then her face. Her hair was still in place, rolled up and away from her forehead. She could hear the guffaws of laughter from the men in the smoking room. The women, in the drawing room, were much quieter, their voices barely audible. From downstairs came the clatter of crockery as the scullery maid washed the dishes. She was singing as she worked. She had a sweet voice, high and light, almost unaware of itself. How lovely, Cicely thought. The singing stopped suddenly. A door shuddered shut. Someone had come in. What a shame.

  In the hallway, footsteps approached the lavatory. The door handle turned. The person, a man by the sound of his tread, sighed, then walked away. She should hurry. She picked up a hand towel, dried her hands, then raised it to her face and sniffed, searching for any trace of Lorimer in its soft folds. What was she doing? She was married. She had a child. This was not the thrill she had felt when she first met George, the crazy churn of infatuation. It was something else, something altogether more complicated. She placed the towel back on the rail. He had probably never used it. He was bound to have his own personal lavatory and his own personal hand towels. She must get back. She unlocked the door and stepped into the hall.

  Lorimer was waiting at the foot of the stairs. Was it he who had tried the door? He looked as surprised as she felt.

  “It’s you!” he said.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, “to make you wait.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” he said. “Listen, I was thinking. When we meet next week, would you like to come with me for a ride in my plane?”

  She blinked.

  “It’s quite safe,” he said. “I’ve had my license for four years now.”

  “Is it a good idea,” she asked softly, “to mix business with pleasure?”

  “In my experience,” he said with a smile, “it’s the only idea.”

  * * *

   When Cicely finally appeared in the drawing room, her face was flushed and her eyes were glassy. Had she heard the women’s conversation? Had she been lurking outside listening? Thankfully it didn’t appear so.

  “Is that coffee?” she asked with a smile. The pot, however, was empty.

  Space was made on the sofa for her to sit down. But only a few moments later the butler summoned them to the smoking room to join the men for a spot of musical entertainment. The room was a fug of blue smoke. Antonia found it hard to stop herself from coughing. Even Malcolm had succumbed to the lure of a Cuban cigar, and it did not suit him. She glanced sidelong at her sister-in-law and could see in her dark hair and brown eyes what the other women meant.

  “Are you all right?” Antonia whispered to Cicely.

  “Why do you ask?” Cicely replied. “I’m fine.”

  The doctor had discovered the pianola and was excitedly thumbing through the scrolls.

  “We know this one,” he said to his wife. “And this!”

  The doctor started to pedal, and even though the player piano was out of tune, his wife began to sing.

  “Well, this is rather jolly,” Lorimer said to everyone. “I don’t think anyone’s played that thing for years!”

  The song had many verses. Once it finished they raced straight into a second.

  “It’s rather late,” whispered Cicely. “Shall we head home soon?”

  Antonia had wanted to leave for the last hour. But first she needed to apologize for the vase. Her heart pounded in its cage of whalebone, her palms were clammy, her head felt light. She would offer to pay for it, to replace it. Now she knew the name, Sèvres, and had an inkling that it was French. Surely it couldn’t have been that valuable: It was an ugly thing, shaped like an urn with two handles like thin arms propped on hips. It certainly wasn’t a receptacle for flowers. What was it for? she wondered. And how much was it worth? Judging by the other women’s reactions, it was an antique. Maybe there was something similar in the attic at Balmarra? In fact she had the distinct impression that s
he had seen a vase just like it in the tea chest she had sorted.

  Malcolm accepted a top-up of malt. He already looked intoxicated, his face rosy and his red hair brassy in the gaslight. He turned, caught her eye, and raised an eyebrow. She swallowed and wiped her palms on her skirts. This is why, she told herself, they never went anywhere. Later she would have to admit to Malcolm what she had done, that she had broken the vase. She braced herself internally. And once he knew, she was sure, they would never go anywhere again.

  “Antonia?” Cicely was standing at her elbow, her hand on her arm as if she was just about to pinch it.

  “What is it?” Antonia replied in a tone a little harsher than she had intended.

  Although she tried to hide it, her sister-in-law’s impatience was palpable.

  “We don’t want to overstay our welcome,” she said. “Do we?”

  “Neither do we want to be the first to leave. And I, for one, am having a wonderful time.”

  For a moment Cicely was silent. She stared at the doctor’s wife with a small frown as she began a third song. They seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely, though it was doubtful that anyone else was. The fire had burned down, the whisky decanter was empty, and the butler hovered at the back with his eyes closed. On and on the doctor’s wife sang as the guests’ attention span was stretched to its limit. At the end of the song they clapped, more in relief than as an expression of enjoyment.

  “I think they liked us, David,” the doctor’s wife said. “One more for the road?”

  To Antonia’s horror, before they could begin Cicely stepped forward and announced that she was leaving.

  “Many thanks, Mr. Lorimer,” she said, “for a splendid evening.”

  “It’s been a pleasure,” he replied. “And I look forward to the party at Balmarra.”

  “Wait a minute!” Antonia blurted out. “We’re not ready to leave quite yet.”

  “You stay, Antonia,” she replied. “I’m going to walk.”

  “In the dark?” the doctor’s wife exclaimed. “Surely that isn’t safe!”