“You know why everyone came, don’t you?” he said.
Antonia decided that would not rise to the bait, she would not react. But it didn’t matter what she did or said: He was going to tell her anyway.
“It’s your sister-in-law,” he continued.
“What about her?”
“Can’t you see?”
“Whatever are you talking about, Malcolm?”
“Her color,” he said. “They all want to see it for themselves.”
Antonia remembered Lorimer’s party with a lurch. The tiny triumph she had felt when she had revealed Cicely’s mixed blood seemed pathetic now. She was sure it hadn’t taken long for the news to spread; George’s wife was part Hindustani.
“What color are you talking about?” she asked, knowing all too well.
“Dark,” he whispered theatrically. “Mixed race, half-caste, a sambo. Her ancestors were not all white, that’s clear. Same goes for your niece. And then you top it off by asking for a handout on her behalf.”
“Not for her, for George.”
“Same difference. Making her look like a charity case.”
“Surely she wouldn’t think that?”
“Why do you think she rushed off and didn’t come back?”
Malcolm seemed on the brink of saying more. His red hair seemed to stand on end, his fingers seemed to curl in on themselves, his teeth clenched. She would not agree, acquiesce, or submit to him this time.
“You know,” she said lightly. “I don’t really care why people came, but the fact is that they did. And I, for one, had a wonderful time.”
15
Cicely woke in the gray light of dawn, her mind going over and over the same facts, her body twisted up in the sheets, too hot, too restless, to sleep. Images of the night before came unbidden into sharp focus—the glass house from outside all lit up in the dark, the table of untouched food, Lorimer’s face in the half-dark, the humiliation of Antonia’s collection.
She opened her eyes, rose, dressed quickly, and crept into Kitty’s room. Kitty was still sound asleep, her breathing steady, a small smile on her face. She had no idea how fragile the world was, how close it was to falling apart. Once Cicely had kissed her gently on the forehead, she tiptoed down the stairs, along the hall, closed the front door quietly behind her, and headed up one of the paths that led to the glen. She had to be outside, to feel the cold, clean air in her chest, to clear her head, to pick over the confusion she felt, to try to make sense of the night before.
The ground was damp with dew, and a fine mist hung in the air. Everything was more intense than her memory of it—the vivid orange bracken, the evergreen trees, and the deep dank smell of the earth. She’d had only one glass of punch the night before, but even so her head hurt, her hands trembled, her heart wouldn’t stop churning. A light sweat bloomed at her hairline and around her neck, but the skin immediately cooled.
When she finally looked up she found herself in a small clearing. A makeshift shelter of sticks had been built against a bank. It was a child’s den, with a small doorway just large enough to duck through. Kitty must have built it. Cicely ducked inside, where there was a log to sit on and a biscuit tin very like one she had seen in the kitchen. Was she intruding? Kitty need never know. She pried the tin open. It contained a collection of dried petals and a pair of secateurs, a couple of stale biscuits, and a penknife. She imagined her daughter playing at plant hunting, collecting, and harvesting just like her father. A knot formed in her chest, a tangle of pride and love and sadness. George would have been proud of her if he had been there. But George wasn’t there. In truth, he hadn’t been a part of their lives for a long time.
The glass house had been swept and tidied, but some of the detritus of the party remained. Lorimer had left his gramophone and all the records. No doubt his coachman would come and pick them up in the next few days. She picked up a disc at random, placed it on the velvet-covered turntable, and gave the handle a few cranks. Then, carefully, as Lorimer had, she placed the needle in a groove. The music blared out, louder than she expected, wheezy with brass. The sound bounced around the huge glass house, drowning out the dripping pipes and the rumble of the boiler, and just for a moment she imaged herself transported to another place, another country, another life. All she had was this one, however, and she had to find a way to make it work out.
“Mrs. Pick?” a voice rang out above the music.
Young Mr. Baillie was standing a few feet away. His shirt was unbuttoned at the throat. She lifted the needle from the black celluloid.
“Sorry. Did I startle you?” he said.
“A little,” she replied. “Isn’t this a wonderful contraption?”
He nodded. Cicely suddenly felt foolish, listening to Lorimer’s gramophone alone and so early in the morning.
“I was wondering,” she said. “Did you lend Kitty some gardening tools?”
“I did,” Baillie replied. “She’s started collecting specimens with a passion. She takes after her father.”
Carefully Cicely placed the disc back in its paper sleeve. She didn’t want to scratch or damage it.
“The seeds are doing well,” he added. “Whatever it is, it’s not native. I’ve looked everywhere, and the closest I can find is Davidia Involucrata, but the leaves are a slightly different shape.”
What was he talking about? She had a vague memory of another conversation with him, earlier that summer, but couldn’t summon the details. A car was approaching along the driveway.
“What time is it?” she asked.
“Around nine,” young Mr. Baillie replied. “Are you expecting anyone?”
“Heavens, I forgot!” she said. “Yes, I am.”
* * *
Keir Lorimer’s driver held the back door open as she climbed inside. The early-morning mist had burned off, and patches of blue sky appeared above. The wind was light and the air was crisp. And yet Cicely barely saw or felt any of it. Was she properly prepared? Was this a good idea? All the certainty she had felt the night before had now evaporated.
The airfield was exactly that, a field with a mown strip down the middle and a covered shed at one end. Lorimer was waiting for her beside his biplane, a wood-and-canvas construction with two cubbyholes for a pilot and passenger. In his hand he held a spare pair of goggles and a leather flying cap.
“I missed you last night,” Lorimer said. “When you didn’t come back.”
Cicely smiled but didn’t respond. She wanted to put the memory of the previous night behind her—lock it in a box and throw the key away.
“Anyway, here she is,” he said. “I call her Baby.”
The plane looked as fragile as a child’s toy. Cicely was suddenly apprehensive. The newspapers were full of stories of planes crashing and aviators being killed.
“It is safe?” she asked.
“I’m a much better pilot than I am a dancer,” he said.
He smiled at her, and she had no doubt that this was true.
“Hand me the glasses,” she said.
“The goggles,” he corrected. “I’ll lend you a warm jacket. And push your hair into the cap. It can get a little windy up there.”
She pulled the flying cap over her head, then the goggles, and put the jacket on. It was so big the sleeves covered her hands. Lorimer helped her up into the passenger seat, then climbed into the seat behind. The engine roared to life, loud, much louder than the car. They jerked forward and headed to the top of the field.
“Ready?” Lorimer shouted. “It’ll be a bit rough until takeoff.”
As they raced across the bumpy ground of the field, the plane rattled so violently that she was sure it was going to fall apart. And then, just when she was about to beg him to slow down, to stop, they lifted into the air. The field, the road, the land all fell away. Below, the loch stretched out blue and black beneath the ruffled surface. The coastline, a crinkled edge frayed with weed. As they passed above Dunoon people stopped in the street to look up and watch t
hem. Children waved hello. They flew over Lorimer’s place, then Balmarra and Karrasay, then skimmed the green-and-purple velvet hills behind, sending deer in all directions, the white of their tails flashing against the bracken. Eventually they turned, a great looping semicircle, and flew west, over nameless peninsulas, islands, headlands, and lighthouses to the open sea. Here there were fishing boats and gulls, tiny islands and a score of black shags, and then only the scud of the surf and a vast swell of blue.
High, high above the world, she felt every inch of herself tingle. She was aware of Lorimer’s eyes on the back of her neck, of his body behind her. Both were strapped in tight to this construction of leather and wood, paper and steel: they were part of it, two living souls against the mechanical whir of the motor, the propeller chopping the air into a silver blur. If only they could remain here, now, in this moment.
They made another turn; the sun was in her eyes, her throat narrowed, and she was glad he could not read her face. The landscape became familiar, and she recognized the Clyde and their rippling shadow on its surface. And then the peninsula, the town, the airfield. Landing was worse than taking off. She closed her eyes and couldn’t look; she wasn’t expecting the jolt and jar as the wheels hit the ground, and let out a scream. They were going so fast that for a moment she was sure they would crash or catch fire or hit the fence at the edge of the field.
“It’s all right!” Lorimer yelled from behind. “We made it!”
Once the engine was switched off and the propeller whirred to a standstill, the silence seemed louder than ever. Lorimer helped her down and lifted the goggles from her eyes.
“Well?” he said. “Glad you came?”
“I don’t think I’ll ever see the world in quite the same way again,” she said. “Thank you for showing me.”
“Now you see why I’m addicted,” he said. “It’s like nothing else.”
The wind blew across the field and seemed to stroke the unmown parts like a hand over a pelt. Two shafts of sunlight fell from the clouds into the loch, turning the water to molten silver. With the wind, the sun, the silence, the moment seemed to slow down, to frame itself.
“It’s beautiful down here too,” she said.
“But everyone can see this,” he replied.
“Not everyone does,” she replied.
Lorimer took a deep breath and let it out. She pulled off the flying cap, handed it to him, and shook out her hair. He took it, and for a fraction of a second before letting go, she felt the current from his hand, through the cap, to hers.
“It must be beautiful in the Himalayas too,” he said. “All those remote valleys.”
What was he suggesting? She had a sudden desire to tell him everything, about her broken marriage, about George.
“Keir—”
“Tell me,” he interrupted. “Have you heard of the Snow Tree? It grows out there, in the middle of nowhere, in the Himalayas. In the breeze its white leaves look like a snowstorm.”
“I suppose you want it for your garden,” she said.
“Everyone wants the Snow Tree,” he replied.
He was staring out at the fields. The clouds had closed over, and the light was gone.
“Keir?”
“I have a man out there,” he continued. “Looking for it, amongst other things.”
“A man?”
“His name’s Magnus Hayes. You know him? Or perhaps your husband does? He was recommended.”
Cicely’s vision suddenly pricked with spots of light. She placed her hand on the car to steady herself.
“Are you all right?” said Lorimer. “Mrs. Pick?”
“I’m feeling a little faint,” she replied. “Actually, could you drive me home?”
* * *
Antonia had taken down all her journals and sketchbooks from the top shelf and was looking through them one by one. Illuminated by the morning sun that streamed through the library window were pages and pages of watercolors, drawings in ink and pencil, of the hills, of flowers, of trees, of heathers and hedgerows, years and years of work. What might she have become if she had gone to art school and been tutored? What direction might her work have taken? Her father had conspired to keep her close, to instill such a lack of confidence in her that she had never left him. And despite the fact that she had loved him, she suddenly saw him for what he was: a vain and selfish man. She felt the singe of sadness. What was the point of all his wealth, his land, his gardens, his good fortune, if he could not use them to nurture others?
There was a light knock on the door. Kitty was standing on the threshold.
“Can I come in?” she asked.
“Of course.”
Kitty glanced down at the sketchbooks, picked one up, and carefully began turning the pages.
“Who did these?” she asked.
“I did,” Antonia replied.
“They’re very good,” she said.
“You think so?
The letterbox banged shut as the post arrived. Dora brought up two letters both addressed to her. One was a bill from the dressmaker. The other was from the India Office in London. It could be a circular, a plea for charitable donation, or something else equally benign, and yet Antonia felt something plummet within her. Kitty seemed to sense it.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Oh, nothing, just a bill.”
“Can I borrow some of these, Aunt Antonia?”
She started, unused to being addressed thus.
“Sorry, yes, as many as you’d like,” she said.
Once Kitty was gone, she sat down, inhaled deeply, and then let the breath go. Then she slipped her thumb underneath the flap and opened the letter. It seemed that George, her brother, had gone missing. Some belongings identified as his had been found in a remote valley. The India Office would write again as soon as there was more news. They had attempted to inform his wife, but their letters had been returned. Could she pass on the news?
16
Cicely woke up in the late afternoon. The light outside was a flat solid gray that seemed to press down on her head like granite. She was lying on her bed still fully dressed. She could barely remember the drive home. A fever had plastered her hair in damp strands around her face, and her skin was covered with a film of sweat. She sat up, nudged her legs over the edge of the bed, and tried to stand. A wave of nausea hit her. She was going to be sick. She placed both feet on the floor and slowly rose. If only she could get to the bathroom she might be all right. But the bathroom at the end of the corridor suddenly seemed so far away, farther than she could possibly walk. She launched herself across the floor, each step taking a Herculean effort. What was wrong with her? Had it been the plane ride? That terrible conversation with Keir? Her limbs were as heavy as stone, she couldn’t catch her breath, the carpet was treacherously far below.
Dora found her on her knees in the hallway. She gathered her up, took her back to her room, helped her undress, and put her to bed. Then she brought a damp cloth and a bowl full of cool, clean water. A note was immediately sent to the doctor, and he was there within the hour.
“I’m sorry to tell you that it looks like malaria,” he said once he had examined her. “Easy to become infected on the Indian subcontinent, but it can take weeks, sometimes, to flare up.”
Cicely remembered the long hot journey across the plains from Darjeeling. She remembered the chug and rattle of the train as they passed through rice fields and across low-lying water. A signal changed, and they had stopped next to a stagnant pond at dusk, the sky reflecting like a disk of light in the dark, for some time. The air had been gray with clouds of mosquitoes that shifted and bloomed like smoke. Kitty had been curled up in her lap asleep. Cicely knew that she should have closed the window, but she didn’t want to wake her daughter—she looked so peaceful, so serene, the smooth skin of her cheek warm and soft—and instead covered her up with a scarf. Later, she recalled, Cicely tried not to scratch the raised angry red welts of dozens of bites on her arms and ankles wh
ile Kitty, thankfully, had none.
Dora helped her sit up as the doctor gave a spoonful of medicine to deal with the fever. Within a few minutes her eyelids were so heavy that she had to close them. When she opened them again, the doctor was gone. How long had she slept? It felt like minutes but could have been hours. Time seemed to slip, to skip and jump. It was the dead of night and then the morning again; the doctor was there in a different suit urging her to swallow more medicine. But still her muscles ached, and her head spun. One moment she was so hot that her skin ran with sweat and salt; the next she was chilled right through, her teeth chattering. The light hurt her eyes, and so the curtains were closed all the time. Days lost their shape. At one point everything seemed to shrink until all she was conscious of was the spoonful of liquid, the bitter taste it left in her mouth once, twice, multiple times. Her heart wasn’t keeping time anymore, but losing it; her head felt leaden, her hands huge, and she couldn’t distinguish between dreams and consciousness.
Sometimes she woke to find Nani, her Indian grandmother, sitting beside the bed, draped in a sari rather than the dress she usually wore. The rattle of her glass bangles and the smell of her perfume, jasmine and cloves, filled the room. Once she took Cicely’s face in her hands, her rings cold against her cheek, and comforted her, whispering words in her ear that she didn’t understand. But Nani had been dead for years.
“Hush now,” said an unfamiliar voice. She opened her eyes. It was not Nani but Antonia. How long had she been there? It was dark outside, the middle of the night. Antonia was in her nightdress. Had she cried out in her sleep and woken her?
“How are you feeling?” asked Antonia.
“Strange,” Cicely replied.
“You must rest. It will take a while, the doctor said. You’ve been very ill.”
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