It was midmorning, and despite a chill breeze, the sky was blue and the light had the clarity of a high altitude. Outside Kitty was in the garden throwing sticks for Maisie, the gardener’s dog. Antonia was fussing over the drinks, Pimm’s or punch? Cicely had promised to help; there was still so much to do, so much to organize. But no one would miss her, she hoped, for a little while at least.
Cicely opened her bedroom window, lit a cigarette, took a long, slow draw and then exhaled, the smoke rising and curling into the air. She rarely smoked anymore unless she needed something to calm her. This was one of those occasions, and so she closed her eyes and imagined a white prayer flag, a windhorse, or lungta, as they were called. In the center was a drawing of a horse with three flaming jewels on its back. Her ayah had taught her what this meant: It was a prayer for transformation from bad to good fortune. She pictured the flag high up on a mountain path, rippling in the wind. She prayed to the gods, to the three flaming jewels that signified the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha. Then she prayed to Saint Christopher, to the Virgin Mary, to God. Outside the wind blew and the trees whispered and settled. Her hands shook as she slit the envelope and extracted the folded letter. Finally she opened it.
Unfortunately, Isaac Balfour wrote, her husband’s package had indeed come too late. The specimens collected were duplicates of Hayes’s. Cicely closed her eyes. Her prayers hadn’t been heard. Neither God nor the Buddha nor any other deity had been listening. She folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. How would she break the news to George; how could she tell him that all his effort, all his hard work, all his time, had so far come to nothing? But there were more plants, surely, and in the next batch there might be new specimens, new discoveries? But how could they afford for him to remain there? One hundred guineas wouldn’t go far.
She heard Kitty’s voice below. She was making up complex imaginary games with many characters. Cicely loved the way her daughter played, blocking out everything that was happening around her.
“Not here!” Kitty called out. “We must head to the hills!”
Without income from the sale of Balmarra, Goerge would have to abandon the expedition, Kitty’s education would be canceled, and they would have to borrow the money for their passage home. George would become a tea planter, and her life would be over, quite literally. No, Cicely decided, she couldn’t let that happen. She must stick to her original plan. Kitty would be disappointed, but she would get over it. It was the only way. There was a knock at the door. It was Antonia, wondering if she’d be able to help Cook get the flavoring right for a party dish.
“You mean now?” Cicely asked. “Right now?”
“What better time than the present?” Antonia said. “Are you all right? You look a little pale.”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
Cicely closed her door and followed Antonia down the back stairs to the kitchen.
“It smells delicious, don’t you think?” she said. “It was hard to get Cook to agree. Between me and you, she could do with a challenge. She’s a little stuck in her ways, I’d say.”
A large pot was bubbling on the kitchen stove. Cook was stirring it crossly.
“I don’t know how it’s supposed to taste,” she began immediately, as if answering an accusation neither of them had made. “I’ve never eaten anything from the Orient.”
“What about kedgeree?” Antonia said. “That’s an Indian dish, isn’t it?”
Cook ignored her and kept on stirring as if trying to mash out lumps. Cicely peered into the pot and sniffed. It smelled like ordinary stew.
“What do you think?” Antonia said. “I want it to be authentic.”
“Do you have spices?” Cicely asked Cook.
She nodded her head toward a small packet of curry powder that lay on the kitchen table.
“Had to get it sent from Glasgow,” Cook complained. “They don’t have the likes in Dunoon. Cost a pretty penny too, by the bye.”
“Is this all you have?”
“How much do you need?” Cook asked in alarm.
“Well, our cook doesn’t usually use powder. He uses fresh turmeric, coriander, and cumin seeds that he roasts and then grinds. But I don’t suppose you have those here.”
Cook looked at her as if she had suddenly started speaking another language.
“Perhaps you have some ginger?”
“Ginger?” repeated Cook. “We have ginger beer.”
“No, that won’t do.”
Cicely tore open the packet and poured most of the golden-brown powder into the stew.
“What is she doing!” said Cook, her voice rising. “That’s sixpence’ worth!”
“Now taste it,” said Cicely.
Cook raised the spoon to her mouth and tentatively licked it. Her eyes widened, her face flushed, and she rushed to the sink, poured herself a glass of water, and drank it down. Antonia seemed to be struggling not to laugh.
“Are you all right?” she managed.
Cook nodded but screwed up her face.
“Too hot for you?” Cicely asked.
“Don’t know how people can eat that Oriental fare,” Cook said eventually. “You can’t beat a nice mutton stew. Why go and ruin it?”
Antonia, however, was delighted. She tried a mouthful and claimed it was delicious.
“It has to be the real thing,” she said. “Not some great fakery or trick. I’d like your opinion on the decorations too. Malcolm hates them.”
The glass house was festooned with garish fabric. In bright greens, pinks, and blues, long swaths were draped and looped to form an elongated tent shape.
“It’s supposed to look like a harem,” Antonia explained. “I’m going to cover the floor with cushions.”
Cicely wondered if Antonia had any idea what a harem actually was.
“Well? What do you think?” she asked.
“It’s certainly eye-catching,” Cicely replied.
Antonia looked pleased at her response.
“I thought you’d like it.”
Antonia remained in the glass house, draping and redraping the silk. Cicely passed Malcolm at the top of the stairs on the way back to her room. His face was ruddy, and his left eye twitched.
“She doesn’t know,” he said quietly. “Has no clue.”
Cicely peered at Malcolm in the half-light of the hall.
“I’m sorry?” she said. “Know about what?”
Malcolm took a step closer, then glanced over his shoulder to check he wouldn’t be overheard.
“Know why you’re here.”
Cicely opened her mouth to reply, to deny anything he could accuse her of. But then she swallowed. What was the point? Why deny it?
“But if you ask me, you have some cheek!” he went on.
She raised her chin.
“I’m sure,” she said, “that we can sort something out.”
He wasn’t placated. Instead he almost laughed.
“If you think we can ‘sort this out,’ then you don’t know the half of it—”
He would have gone on, she could tell by the look on his face, but he seemed to bite the words back, to swallow the urge to play a winning stroke.
“It’s just not right,” he said. “Turning up on our doorstep like that. I mean, did you really just expect that you could waltz in here and take everything from under our noses? Did you?”
She was silent. He went on; he couldn’t help himself.
“Because there are other individuals involved, I’ll have you know,” he said. “It’s not as simple as you might assume.”
And with that, he gave her a look and headed down the stairs.
In her room Cicely looked out at the sea loch corrugating in the breeze. The woods were a confusion of color, as bright as a child’s painting. It was hard to imagine what the hills would look like once the season had turned and the leaves had fallen. Why had Malcolm waited until now to confront her? Had he too paid a visit to the solicitor? And what did he mean, other peo
ple were involved? A feeling of unease crept through her. She would have to see the solicitor again after all as a matter of urgency.
* * *
The paddle steamer had just docked at the pier when Cicely arrived in Dunoon. The town was full of day-trippers from Glasgow: ladies with parasols, children in their Sunday best, and men in straw boaters and bow ties. A brass band was playing at the bandstand in the Pleasure Gardens, and blankets were being spread out on the grass for picnics or to lay down babies.
Unlike last time, Dunoon’s post office was empty. Although there was a small crowd of young men in caps hanging around outside the billiard room across the road, it appeared that most local people planned their days in the summer according to the paddle-steamer schedule and absented themselves as soon as one docked. The man behind the counter looked pleased to have something to do and glanced over her words quickly, calculating the price of the telegram rather than reading.
“Since it’s international it’s four shillings,” he said apologetically.
She paid, then wrote down the name of the telegraphic office in India that George wanted it sent to. Should she have cushioned the blow? She still hadn’t forgiven him completely for what he had asked her to do, and part of her wanted him to experience something of her ordeal. And yet she felt a pang of guilt despite the fact that he would never have to know about the misplaced satchel.
“Is there any mail for me?” she said.
“Not today, Mrs. Pick.”
This wasn’t a town where a person went unnoticed or unremembered. Several people had greeted her already, giving her a nod of the head or a tip of the hat. She smiled in return even though she had no idea who they might be. Mr. Drummond, the solicitor, however, acted as if he had never seen her before.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said once the secretary had shown her into his office.
He clearly did mind and gathered up a pile of paper as if she had caught him in the middle of something.
“You don’t have an appointment, do you?” he asked.
“No. I was just passing by and was wondering how everything is progressing.”
She hoped to keep her tone light; it didn’t have the desired effect. The solicitor stood up, hurried around the desk, and tried to usher her toward the door.
“I’ll write when there is news,” he said. “Until then—”
“Mr. Drummond,” she said, holding out her palm. “We need to know how long it will take. Last time you assured me that it would take no more than a week, or at most a month.”
“I said no such thing,” he replied, his eyes bulging just a little with affront. “I do not have a crystal ball, and I must say it doesn’t do any good to come barging in like this. It’s just not how we do things here.”
For a tiny moment she considered tears. But that would only cement what he clearly already thought of her.
“At least tell me why it is being held up?” she tried. “There must be an explanation, surely?”
“I’m afraid that is strictly confidential,” he said as he opened the office door. “All I can say is that my client’s affairs are rather more complex than they first appeared.”
What could be complex about Edward Pick, she thought as the solicitor closed his door behind her. He was an old man, in his eighties, by all appearances. But who were the individuals Antonia’s husband mentioned? Had he said it just to throw her off or was there some truth in it? Her hand formed a fist, and for an instant she was tempted to pound on Mr. Drummond’s door, to insist he explain. Everything depended on the will, the legacy, and yet the one element that George had assured her was solid, fixed, certain, was moving away from them, evaporating before her eyes.
“Can I help you?” Mr. Drummond’s secretary, a small woman with a large folded umbrella in one hand, was standing behind her on the stairwell.
Cicely’s hand dropped; she shook her head and pulled on her gloves.
“No,” she said. “No thank you.”
She started to head back down the stairs, but the woman had no doubt seen her desperation. At the bottom her ears strained to hear the solicitor and his secretary. But she could not make out the words through the door, just the tone, and it was disparaging.
Once she had straightened her hat and composed herself again, Cicely stepped out into the street, walking at twice the pace of the other pedestrians, past children staring at window displays and queues for ice cream. At the end of Argyll Street she looked up to check for traffic, and saw Antonia’s husband mingling with the paddle-steamer crowd on the other side, his hat pulled low on his brow. She ducked into a shop that sold animals made of seashells and sugar mice, and pretended to look at the postcards. At Malcolm’s elbow, her head bowed to listen to what he was saying, was a woman. She was no longer young but elegantly dressed in a white blouse and a wide gray hobble skirt. As Cicely watched from behind the rack, they entered the Argyll Hotel together. Before he let the door close behind him, Malcolm quickly surveyed the street as if to make sure he hadn’t been spotted. Poor Antonia. It appeared that her husband wasn’t quite as devoted to her as he liked to make out.
* * *
Antonia hovered in the entrance of the glass house, adjusting the drapes and checking her hair with her hand. Her dress was a heavy silk crepe in a caramel shade with gold-thread embroidery around the bodice, her shoes were made of matching silk, and her mask was decorated with beads and feathers. Despite the fact that Malcolm had refused to join in and had not visited his tailors to procure a new outfit or bought a mask as she had asked him to, everything had fallen into place. She had taken off her glasses and pinned up her hair, she would dance a polka or two and drink the rum punch, she would inhabit Pick’s Palace as its owner, not its caretaker, for Balmarra, as her father had always promised, was hers.
The evening wind was light, and the candles in the paper lanterns that hung on strings along the driveway barely flickered. Every windowpane, every column, every iron grating of the glass house had been swept or washed and polished. Five tables had been pushed together at one side, and fifty places had been set. In the garden, the lawns had been mowed, the bushes cut back, and even the main gates had been repainted. There was wine from London, flowers from a nursery in Kent, plus stone fruit from glass houses in East Lothian. Everyone had pulled together, the Baillies, Dora, Cook, Bill, plus a couple of local girls brought in to help.
It was just after seven. The guests would be arriving soon. Cicely was still in the house getting ready, and Malcolm was at the drinks table supervising the creation of the rum punch. They had barely had a moment alone since the argument. It remained within her, a rolling boil of tension and disquiet that would not cool down no matter how much she ignored it.
“And you just gave it to Lorimer?!” Malcolm had shouted. “Without any consultation?! Without telling me?!”
“I knew how you would react!” she said. “Besides, I broke his vase.”
“But how do you know his was of the same value? It was probably a copy!”
“Malcolm, I’m sure that if it was, he would have said.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” he replied. “He’s a wealthy man for a reason.”
And he had shaken his head as if she were a badly behaved schoolgirl instead of a fully grown woman about to hold a sophisticated social event.
“Anyway,” she had said, “maybe my father’s was the copy.”
They both knew that this was unlikely. The one thing that Edward Pick was a stickler for was authenticity. He was adept at spotting fakes and liked to boast of how often he had avoided being duped. After that, the subject had been dropped.
She had decided that she would tell him the truth eventually, that she had sold the Etty for George. What business was it of his? Weren’t they hers to sell anyway? And then, on a whim, she had written a card—she had invited Henry. She doubted he would come. She wondered if she had seen the last of him. Was it merely sympathy that had brought him to Hunter’s Q
uay a few weeks before? She hoped not; she hoped that he had come because he had wanted to see her again as much as she him.
The band, an accordion and a fiddle player, were in the kitchen drinking tea. She had wanted something more contemporary, but in Dunoon, there was only one kind of musician and that was traditional. And now she wondered if she should have pushed the proverbial boat out and hired a string quartet? She took a final look round the glass house. Maybe the colored drapes were a little over the top? Too late now, she told herself. It would all have to do.
The minutes inched by, ten, then twenty, then thirty minutes past the hour. Her anxiety rose. Maybe she should take ill, call it all off, send everyone home, blow out all the candles, close all the doors. It was sure to be nothing short of a disaster, one of her own making.
Finally she heard a car approaching followed by the slamming of its doors. She pulled her mask over her face. It was an old couple from Kilfinan who had been friends of her father’s. They looked slightly aghast at the decorations and the masks, but Malcolm quickly engaged them in conversation about the shooting season. Antonia hovered near the door as another couple of motorcars arrived and then a pony-and-trap. By eight there were two dozen guests and the band had started to play their first set of three. Apart from the first couple, most people had risen to the challenge, Antonia was pleased to see, and wore masks decorated with beads, feathers, and glitter. Laughter mingled with the music, a faint breeze lifted the colored fabric, the punch bowl had been refilled twice. It was all right, Antonia told herself. It was going to be all right.
“Good evening, Antonia!”
Keir Lorimer was dressed in an evening suit with tails and a black satin mask. He had brought a magnum of French champagne, a spray of orange orchids, and a large wooden box tied up with a pink satin ribbon that he placed in a chair.
She untied the ribbon and lifted the wooden lid. It was a gramophone.
The Glass House Page 17