The Glass House

by Beatrice Colin

  “I’ll look out some recipes, then,” said Antonia.

  “No need,” said Cook. “I have plenty.”

  She had done it. She had managed to get Cook on side. It was the first hurdle, and she had jumped it—inelegantly, it was true, but effectively. The food for the party would be Indian. Or an approximation. As she headed back up the stairs to the hall she heard the sound of bicycle tires on the gravel of the driveway, followed by the doorbell ringing. It was the postman. There was a parcel from India for Cicely, and a letter addressed to Antonia from Henry.

  She took it upstairs to her bedroom, closed the door, sat at her dressing table, and opened it. It contained a promissory note for one hundred guineas and a card, a small sketch of the Clyde in pen and ink. She turned it over and read: “A, I found a buyer in Glasgow. Best of luck to your brother’s venture, H.” It was far less than she might have hoped, but at least it was something. The guest room door closed with a slam, and she heard the faint sibilance of voices as Cicely and Kitty headed to the breakfast room. Antonia rose to her feet, adjusted her spectacles, put the check in her cardigan pocket, and hurried downstairs to deliver the good news.

  12

  Wrapped in brown cotton that had been sewn along the seams, George’s parcel smelled of sea salt and railway stations, of rotting vegetation and fresh growth. Cicely took a pair of scissors and cut it open. Inside were a sketchbook filled with botanical illustrations in George’s hand, as well as a number of pressed leaves and petals flattened between tissue paper. The writing was tiny, lines and lines of explanation, of dates, of map locations. Much of it was almost illegible. There was a letter, too. Cicely laid it flat on the dressing table, the tiny copperplate looping and dashing in slanting lines across the page, the writing dense and spotted with blots, crossings-out, annotations, and corrections.

  “My dear Cicely,” George wrote:

  Here are the pressed samples from the plants I mentioned, including the early flowering Buddleia. Take them to Edinburgh to the Regius Keeper at the Botanics immediately for preliminary identification. I am sure I am onto something with a few of them. Later in the year I will go back for seeds. Speed is of the essence. I am not the only Scotsman in the area. Another plant hunter by the name of Magnus Hayes has recently appeared. At one point last week I could see his camp from ours, I smelled roasting meat and heard laughter. He is, you see, so much more well-equipped than we are.

  This was what George had dreaded. This was why he had left so quickly. To get there first. But now he had competition.

  We are presently staying in a small village next to a river. The villagers talk of a valley, accessible only by a threadbare rope bridge, that has been unexplored by Westerners and which, they say, is full of flowers from February to August. Once you have sent word from Balfour, I will decide whether to wait here for autumn and go and collect the seeds or to leave the mules and carry on alone by foot, taking only the essentials, specimen jars, cameras and basic supplies. I hope the situation at Balmarra has been resolved. If my sister is dragging her heels then I would consider hiring a lawyer to do our bidding. I have found a coolie to take my post back to Lhasa and wait for your next telegram.

  A small knock sounded at her bedroom door. Antonia opened it and poked her head in.

  “Can I have a quick word?”

  She had managed to get some money, she said, one hundred guineas from the sale of a painting. Cicely tried to look pleased, but it was only a fraction of what they needed. It would barely pay for a term at Kitty’s school. She would wire the whole amount to George. It would keep him afloat but not for long. Every day she waited for a letter from Mr. Drummond, the solicitor, but nothing came. The thought of going back to his office in Dunoon filled her with dread. There must be other ways, other means, surely?

  “Is that parcel from George?” Antonia asked.

  “It is,” she replied. “I’m taking his specimens to the Botanics in Edinburgh tomorrow.”

  Antonia picked up the notebook and inhaled its cover.

  “Years ago Father made a hefty donation to the Botanics,” she said. “So maybe they’d be willing to support my brother’s expedition in some way.”

  Would she be able to persuade the gardens to invest? If the specimens were impressive enough, there had to be a possibility?

  “Thank you, Antonia.”

  The next morning Cicely and Kitty left at eight in the pony-and-trap and caught the eight-thirty ferry. It had been fair when they had woken up, but when the boat reached Gourock, it had started to rain. Kitty carried a leather satchel she had found hanging in the cloakroom and which she packed with a book, a pack of cards, and a couple of apples. Cicely took a day purse and George’s specimens in a large brown-paper envelope.

  “The envelope’s getting wet,” Kitty said. “Why don’t you put it in my satchel to keep it dry?”

  On the train Cicely rehearsed in her head what she would say, and imagined the Regius Keeper’s reaction while Kitty stared out of the window. If he pledged enough, then maybe they wouldn’t have to sell Balmarra. But what about school fees? It wasn’t a perfect solution by any means, but it was better than nothing. By the time they were approaching Edinburgh, she had already concluded the deal in her head.

  Arriving at Waverley Station felt like stepping back into the civilized world as she had left it. The door of the train swung open, and Cicely took a deep breath: steam and smoke, gray stone and freshly mown grass. Below it all was the sweet smell of freshly brewing coffee. How she longed for a cup. How tired she was of the pale-amber liquid that they drank at Balmarra that bore very little resemblance to the tea she was used to.

  Princes Street was packed with people strolling through the Pleasure Grounds or along the wide streets, stopping to admire the Scott Monument, the Floral Clock, and the castle, set into its rock above. There was a tangible sense of leisure in the air, of time to waste and money to spend. The Royal Botanic Gardens was on the other side of the New Town, a five-minute ride in a taxicab or tram, a passerby informed them, or a fifteen-minute walk, recommended if the weather was fine. The sun shone as if on cue. Kitty’s hand slipped into her own; all was right with the world. As they crossed George Street, however, Cicely wished she had not worn her tailored woolen coat. Summertime in Scotland was changeable, and they had dressed in layers.

  Dundas Street was a very fine row, with art galleries and photographer’s studios. One caught her eye, a studio with an image of a well-dressed couple on their wedding day in the window, the man looking at the woman with an expression that could not be read as anything other than complete infatuation.

  “Can we?” Kitty begged, “Can we have a cabinet print taken to send to Daddy?”

  The interior of the photographer’s studio was dark after the brightness of the street. Once their eyes grew accustomed, she saw that the interior resembled a junk shop or the backstage of a theater, with its random props—a chair, a bench, a vase, and its drapes, velvet curtains, and painted backdrops of gardens, forests, or the seaside. The photographer was young and charming and offered them a special rate, even though they were of a mind to get a portrait taken anyway.

  “What would you like?” he asked. “Portobello Beach? Falkirk Palace?”

  The backdrop was Kitty’s choice. Cicely posed in front of a wooden flat, painted to look like the door of a train. The words “First Class” were picked out above the words “Edinburgh to Glasgow.” Kitty stood at the window above as if looking out of the carriage. Then the studio lights were illuminated, hot and yellow as the Indian sun, and the photographer pulled his black hood over his head and focused the lens.

  “Hold still,” he called out. “Don’t move an inch while I count. Five, four, three—”

  Her chin was raised, her breath held. Kitty’s too.

  “Two, one!”

  The image was taken, their faces fixed on a plate of treated glass, and they could step down. They paid him two shillings and could pick up the prints next time the
y were passing.

  The Regius Keeper was an elderly man called Isaac Balfour. He was the professor of botany at Edinburgh University and looked exactly as Cicely expected he would, with heavy, hooded eyes and neatly manicured whiskers. He was sitting at his office window in the Royal Botanic Gardens, staring out onto a square of perfect lawn, deep in thought. His desk was bare but for a pile of correspondence in a tray and a vase of asters. The door had been left ajar, but she knocked anyway.

  “Enter!” said Professor Balfour.

  “Cicely Pick,” she said by way of introduction. “And this is my daughter, Kitty. I think you may be acquainted with my husband’s work. His name is George Pick.”

  He rose to shake her hand and smiled.

  “What a pleasant surprise,” he said. “And you’ve come from—?”

  “Darjeeling,” she supplied. “We arrived in Scotland a few weeks ago.”

  “You’re staying at Balmarra, I suppose? Please, do sit down.”

  “You know it?” she asked as they sat down in two large chairs before the desk.

  “Oh, yes. And I knew your husband’s late father, Edward, a man of—how shall I put it?—charming but uncompromising temperament. So what can I help you with today?”

  She explained that she had received a parcel from her husband who was on an expedition in the Himalayas, collecting specimens.

  “I have heard that the political situation in China has had consequences for the whole area.”

  “Correct. George was compelled to take advantage and leave as soon as he could.”

  “And he has a patron, I suppose?” said Professor Balfour. “A venture of this type is not inexpensive.”

  He was smiling broadly, but something in her hesitation made him blink.

  “Hard to put in place in a hurry,” he added.

  “That was what I wanted to talk to you about,” she said. “Is this something you ever consider?”

  “It is,” he said. “Although usually at an earlier stage. But I would be very interested to see what he has found so far.”

  This was, Cicely told herself, all going well. It was all going to turn out fine.

  “I received his first package a few days ago,” she said. “He sent a book of illustrations and a number of pressed specimens. My daughter has it.”

  But Kitty was staring straight ahead with a look of horror on her face. It was then Cicely noticed that she was not carrying the brown leather bag.

  “Kitty?” she said softly. “Where is your satchel?”

  “I think.…” she whispered. “I’m sorry, Mummy. I think I must have left it on the train.”

  Edinburgh blurred as they walked back up the hill to Queen Street. Balfour had invited her to come back and see him as soon as she located the specimens. And they both agreed that they were undoubtedly not lost but just misplaced. She had told Kitty several times that it wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t the end of the world. But she could tell by the turn of her daughter’s mouth and the slant of her shoulders that she didn’t believe it. They rode in silence most of the way back, all the joviality of the outward train journey gone.

  The satchel was handed in to the stationmaster’s office in Aberdeen. It took a week before he sent it by rail to Greenock Station. It was another week before she was informed that it had arrived. A few days after that she stood once more in the Regius Keeper’s office in Edinburgh. It was raining heavily outside, and she had not brought an umbrella.

  “Would you like something to drink?” Balfour asked. “A cup of tea?”

  “No, thank you,” she replied as she pulled the brown envelope from her bag.

  “I should warn you that shortly after your visit I received a package from an agent representing a man called Magnus Hayes.”

  Cicely sat down. Her hat dripped into her lap.

  “He found some interesting new species in, I think, the same area as your husband was looking.”

  “But not these specific plants? I mean, they could be others?”

  “I very much hope they are,” he said. “If you leave this with me, I’ll let you know as soon as I can.”

  She closed her eyes. Her head had begun to hurt.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a cup of tea?” he asked.

  * * *

   All of Antonia’s initial enthusiasm for the party had turned into a rising sense of dread. She woke up every morning with half a mind to cancel. But fifty invitations had been delivered and forty-two replies received, not a single one informing her that regretfully they could not attend. Also, the sundries had been ordered and her mask and evening gown, of a more modest cut and color this time, were in the finishing stages. And yet, what else could it be but a disaster? She had no experience as a hostess, no natural gift for wit or for grace on the dance floor. What had she done? What had she let herself in for? Not only the cost, which would be a good deal higher than her initial estimation, but also the inevitable public humiliation. The only reason people had accepted, she suspected, was to come and have a good laugh at their expense. And she rolled over in her single bed and tried to tell herself it was an ordeal that would soon be over.

  After breakfast she walked down to the glass house and tried to see it as others might. An area next to the rose garden had been cleared and a small dance floor installed. With a band in the corner, the glazing capturing the last of the evening light and the sway of candles in lanterns hung in the trees, it might, she considered, look not too bad. But what if the guests, eager for a glimpse inside a house that few had ever set foot in before, noted the damp stains on the ceilings and the warp of the floorboards? She could already hear the whispers: seen better days, dilapidated, decrepit, deranged. No, she told herself, if she imagined disaster, she would be almost responsible if it came to pass. She must seize the proverbial nettle, screw her courage to the sticking place, and throw herself wholeheartedly into making Cicely’s party, as she called it in her head, a success.

  The masks would make the event exotic, colorful, avant-garde. She had bought, in a more positive mood, ten bolts of silk in lemon yellow, brilliant orange, vibrant green, and turquoise, that she intended to wind around the pillars or drape from the roof at the entrance to create an exotic effect. As for the food, it would be spicy—kedgeree, curry, and rice pilaf; the punch laced with cardamom and slices of bottled peaches. All they needed now, she told herself in attempt to lighten her mood, was an elephant.

  But what of the party’s special guest? Ever since she had given her the money for George, Cicely had been distracted, making several trips to Edinburgh and spending the rest of her time walking around the gardens or sitting in the library with a novel. When Antonia had tried to involve her in the planning, asking her opinion of the menu or the decorations, she had feigned interest but offered no view of her own.

  “What will you wear?” Antonia had asked.

  “I’m sure I have something,” she replied.

  Antonia had twice been on the point of offering to pay for a new outfit, for she suspected that Cicely’s funds could be running low. But something in her sister-in-law’s manner prevented her.

  “I’ve ordered two masks,” Antonia mentioned. “Maybe you would like one of them, your choice. But anyway, you wear clothes so well that it doesn’t really matter what you wear. You would look beautiful in a potato sack!”

  Cicely looked at her for a moment and then glanced away. Had she really, Antonia asked herself, just suggested that Cicely’s clothes resembled bags for vegetables?

  “The dressmakers in Darjeeling are clearly masterful,” she went on in an attempt to cover up her faux pas. “And so inexpensive!”

  Cicely started to laugh.

  “Antonia,” she said, “I know you don’t mean to say the wrong thing, but somehow you always do.”

  Antonia felt a hot flush rise up in her face. She fought her first impulse to be offended. Cicely wasn’t trying to hurt her feelings; she knew that now.

  “It’s a skill of mine,” she
said. “Honed over many years. Kick me if I start to say something inappropriate at the party.”

  “I’m sure that won’t happen,” said her sister-in-law.

  Antonia was a silent for a moment, willing her to continue. But finally, when she was certain that no offer of help was forthcoming, it came.

  “You don’t need help with anything, do you?” asked Cicely.

  “Actually,” she replied, “I do. Any idea where we can get an elephant at short notice?”

  She kept her face straight. Cicely frowned.

  “That’s a tall order,” she replied. “Would it have its own suite of rooms?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Ten bottles of champagne?”

  “Let’s make it twelve.”

  “Leave it with me,” she said.

  “I’ve never seen an elephant,” said Antonia. “Maybe one day. Did the gardens agree?”

  It was such a sudden change of subject that Cicely started.

  “They will let me know,” she replied.

  “Really?” Antonia replied. “I would have thought, that under the circumstances—”

  “He’s not alone,” she said. “There’s someone else in the area.”

  “Oh,” she said. “That’s unfortunate.”

  In the low light from the window, Cicely looked so utterly defeated, so crushed, that Antonia was tempted to reach out to her with both arms. She held back; it would only be awkward, unreciprocated. An idea occurred: Instead of using the party to announce her presence on the social scene, she would use it to raise charitable donations for her brother, George.

  13

  The letter from the Regius Keeper arrived the day before the party. It was propped up on the hall table, a crisp white envelope with an embossed crest on the back and her name, or the name she went by, in copperplate writing: “Mrs. George Pick Esquire.” For a moment she held it in her hand, measuring the weight of it, which was heavier than it looked. It was the kind of stationery that projected a certain authority, the sort used by registrars and magistrates, advocates and tax inspectors—thick and slightly rough under the fingertips. She slipped the envelope into her pocket and hoped no one else had seen it.