Cicely licked her lips and found them cracked. Her head was too heavy to lift off the pillow.
“My grandmother was here,” she said. “In this room.”
Antonia’s mouth fixed, and she started to plump her pillows and straighten the sheets.
“You’ve been dreaming,” she replied.
It was no use; she didn’t have the strength to argue.
“If I die—” Cicely began.
“It hasn’t come to that,” she interrupted.
Cicely swallowed and gathered all her strength.
“If I do,” she said. “Will you look after Kitty for me?”
Antonia blinked, and tears formed in her eyes.
“Of course,” she replied, then took her hand and held it tight. “But that won’t happen, I promise.”
* * *
Antonia sat beside Cicely until she fell asleep again. A fire had been kept burning in the grate, and the windows were closed. The heat was oppressive and made Antonia feel light-headed. The truth was that the doctor hadn’t been that optimistic. Malaria was a serious illness. Complications were common: organ failure, fluid on the lungs, or swelling of the blood vessels in the brain. Cicely’s face was pale, and one arm lay above the covers, folded across her body as if it were a corpse. Antonia fought down a rise of panic. How would she get word to her brother if Cicely died? And where was her brother? He had probably gone off alone—it wouldn’t be the first time he had shed most of his belongings and continued on with just a rucksack. But what if he had had an accident, his body lying at the bottom of a ravine or in an unreachable valley? How would she face Kitty? The girl would be an orphan. It was just too awful to contemplate. And why had she promised something she had no power to influence? Antonia felt an absence in the room already, a stillness to the air. She listened to Cicely breathe, in and out, in and out, as regular as the tide. Was that a rattle? She hoped not. Please get better, she silently prayed: Don’t leave us.
“We’ll just have to send the girl back to India,” said Malcolm over breakfast the next morning.
“By herself?” Antonia replied. “Out of the question!”
“What have you told her?”
“Kitty? I haven’t told her anything.”
“Do you think she knows?”
Antonia shook her head. How would a child that age know?
“Well, we can’t keep her here indefinitely,” Malcolm said. “She must have relatives.”
“We’re her relatives,” she replied.
Why couldn’t they adopt her, if it came to that? Kitty was her niece, after all. And who else did she have?
“We must do for her what her mother wanted,” she replied and rose from the table. “I’ll check on her now.”
Kitty was sitting on the nursery window seat, staring out. It had been raining all night, and the garden paths were muddy. Since Cicely had been ill, Antonia had been spending more time with her niece, first at mealtimes and then in the afternoon when Malcolm was at work. They played jackstraws, worked jigsaws, and Antonia pulled out some of her favorite books, Treasure Island and Heidi, and promised to read them aloud to her.
“Good morning,” Antonia said brightly. “What are your plans for today?”
The girl shrugged.
“It’s so wet outside. And my boots are still damp from yesterday.”
Antonia sat down beside Kitty, who leaned back so her body was resting against her. It was such a trusting gesture, so instinctive, that Antonia had to resist the urge to hug her tight, to comfort her as a parent would. But, she reasoned, it might be the wrong thing to do; Kitty might object, push her away. She had never been around children, did not know what they wanted.
“How is Mummy today?” Kitty asked.
“She’s sleeping,” she replied.
“She’s always sleeping.”
“It’s the body’s way of getting better,” Antonia replied.
For a moment they were both silent.
“Is that true?” Kitty asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Is she going to get better?” Kitty’s voice broke. “I mean, it’s been ages.”
Without thinking, Antonia pulled Kitty into her shoulder as she started to cry in big gulping breaths.
“She’s going to be fine,” she whispered. “I promise.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” she replied.
Now she had made two promises, neither of which she was confident she could keep. Once Kitty’s sobs had subsided, she laid her cheek against Antonia’s shoulder for a moment before pulling away, wiping her face with her sleeve and then staring out of the window again.
“I wish it would stop raining,” she said.
“You must be bored here,” Antonia said. “With no one to play with.”
“I was supposed to go to school,” she replied.
“You still can. In fact, you must.”
Kitty pulled back and looked at her.
“And leave Mummy?”
“You can still come home at the weekends and see her. It’s what she would want.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely.”
Kitty cocked her head to one side.
“I suppose I could,” she said.
“We’ll need to buy you a uniform. There’s a shop in Glasgow we’ll need to go to get you kitted out. And I’ll write to the school today and let them know the situation and find out the dates. How does that sound?”
Kitty nodded. Antonia stood up. It was good to do something, to have a plan.
“As long as you’re sure Mummy wouldn’t mind.”
“I’m sure. I know she wouldn’t.”
“Thank you, Aunt Antonia.”
Antonia nodded; she couldn’t speak. A lump had risen up in her throat. The poor girl, one parent at death’s door and the other God knows where.
“Whatever happens,” she whispered, “you have me. You know that, don’t you?”
17
Cicely was dreaming of snow, a blizzard of white that softened and blurred. How easy it would be for it to envelope her. She heard voices in the hallway speaking first her name, then George’s. Was it the minister come to pray by her bedside for recovery, for mercy? Or was it the undertaker come to measure her for a casket? Then an echo in her ear, a voice.
“Mummy,” said her daughter. “Don’t leave me.”
And then, as if being dropped into the moment from a very great height, she woke up. The world seemed to stop spinning, to fix itself. There was no one in the room, no snow. She was alone.
“Kitty!” she called. The light hurt her eyes, and she covered her face with her arms. She climbed out of bed, surprised at how weak she felt. Her bare feet on the wooden floorboards sensed every groove, every splinter. Carefully, tentatively, she walked toward her daughter’s bedroom. The connecting door had been left ajar, as she always insisted. Her daughter’s bed was made, but the room was empty.
“Kitty!” she called again. “Kitty?”
She didn’t care who she woke or what time it was. Anxiety filled her chest like air. Where was her girl?
“Get back into bed!” It was Dora, her hair in a loose plait, wearing her nightclothes.
“Kitty’s not here,” Cicely said.
Dora wouldn’t meet her eye as she propelled her back to her room.
“Where is she?” she insisted. “Dora!”
“I’ll tell you in a minute, but first let’s get you sorted.”
Once Cicely was back in bed, the sheets and blankets shaken, the covers tucked, Dora sat down on the chair beside her.
“School,” she said. “She’s gone to boarding school.”
“But she doesn’t start until September.”
“It’s already September,” Dora explained. “We’ve all been worried about you, Mrs. Pick.”
“I need to go to her, to make sure she’s all right.”
“But it’s six in the morning. You can’t go anywhere. Not no
w, at least.”
Cicely took a deep breath and let it out slowly. How could so much time have passed? How could so much have happened and she not be aware of any of it?
“How are you feeling?” Dora asked.
“I’m not sure. I don’t remember anything,” she said.
“The doctor gave you medicine. He said it might cause memory loss. I’ll make us both a cup of tea, shall I?”
Cicely did feel as if something had changed—a slip, a blur, the world not quite what it had once been. She glanced around the room. Two huge vases full of flowers stood on the dressing table, and a fire was burning in the grate. There was a small pile of books next to the bed that she didn’t recognize. She closed her eyes for a second, and when she woke again it was midmorning. A cup of stone-cold tea sat on her bedside table. Someone was knocking at her door.
“Come in!” she called.
“I heard you’d woken up,” Antonia said. “If you sit up I’ll fix your pillows.”
“Where did all the flowers come from?” Cicely asked as Antonia fussed with the bedding.
“Lorimer’s been sending them every week,” she replied. “We’ve practically run out of vases. And I suppose you heard from Dora that Kitty’s started school?”
“How can that be? I haven’t paid the school fees, Antonia,” she said. “Or bought the uniform.”
Cicely’s eyes filled with tears. Antonia sat on the bed, took off her glasses, and started to polish them.
“That’s all been dealt with,” she said. “She’ll be home at the weekend to see you. She spent hours sitting at your bedside, you know.”
Cicely lay back on the pillow. She didn’t have the energy to object. She closed her eyes.
“I’m so tired,” she said.
“Just work on getting better.”
“Any word from my husband?” she asked.
“From George? No,” she said.
When she woke again it was dark outside. The house was silent; everyone was asleep. She climbed out of bed, pulled on her robe and slipped her feet into a pair of shoes, took the lamp and, pausing frequently to catch her breath, crept downstairs and out the front door. The night air was chill on her bare skin, but at least there was no wind. Inside, the glass house was warm and damp. There was something comforting about the smell of earth, the steady roar of the subterranean boiler, and the rattle of the iron pipes. And there, in a square of moonlight, was a small seedling with tiny white leaves.
* * *
Antonia arranged the roses, taking one out at a time and returning it to the vase in a slightly different position. They were tea-scented Chinas, pale pink and vibrant yellow, with full heads that drooped if you weren’t careful, like overtired debutantes at a dance. She paused and listened for movement from Cicely’s room. The house was quiet. Nothing moved but the curtains that occasionally swirled in a draft. It was best to keep everything calm, she had decided, to wait until her sister-in-law was sufficiently recovered before giving her the news about George.
Antonia suddenly missed Kitty. She missed her laughter, even missed her slamming of doors and the crash of her boots on the stairs. At first the violence of the girl’s presence had horrified her. Petals would fall before they should, their heads snapped off by a jostling shoulder or a careless arm; her flowers would literally wilt, the buds die without opening, the leaves crisp and turn brown, as Kitty passed by. Over the weeks, however, she had become accustomed to listening for her voice and the funny little songs that she sang. They had grown close, shared jokes, and admitted a common love for Peter, the goatherd from Heidi, even though he was only a character in a novel.
And now Kitty’s absence rang out like the peal of a bell. Antonia had begun to see Balmarra through the girl’s eyes, to see it as a place to be explored, to be claimed through games and treks, through adventures and crusades. Now the estate had reverted to what it had been before, beautiful but isolating.
The clock struck the hour, eleven, and then fell silent again. The moment stalled, as if waiting for something to happen. Nothing did. She ran her finger down the stem of one of the roses, the prick of a thorn sharp. A bead of blood appeared on her skin. The triumph she had felt after the party had been short-lived. She had raised sixty-two pounds for George’s trip, not much in the overall scheme of things. Maybe the offense she had inadvertently caused was greater than the value of the gesture. Likewise, as time passed she began to question her original intentions. Yes, she could play the part of landed gentry, she could roll her hair and carry off a silk gown; she could dance a waltz and entertain the gin set. But she was still stuck in the same skin, the same body, the same life. Her father had cheated her, taken the one element that could have bloomed and snipped it off like a bud. Hearing that he had used Henry to do it only made it worse.
Cicely’s arrival, however, had forced her to change; she had felt braver, stronger, more determined. Although she hadn’t yet told Malcolm that she was paying Kitty’s school fees, she would when the right moment arose. They would have to make savings somehow. But where? Cook would complain if she cut the household budget—she was always hinting that she needed more, that she was having to scrimp and save, use tea leaves twice and buy cheaper cuts of meat. Maybe they could all wear an extra cardigan, heat one room, and save money that way? The coal bill was a huge expenditure. She suddenly saw herself at fifty, wrapped up in chrysalis of woolens.
A door closed upstairs, and the rush of air made the rose petals shiver just a little. Someone was coming down the staircase slowly, one step at a time, like a child. Cicely appeared at the doorway dressed in her coat and hat, so thin and angular that the eye was drawn immediately to her wrists and her cheekbones.
“Should you be out of bed?” Antonia asked. “So soon?”
Cicely seemed to sway slightly in her boots.
“I’m going to Edinburgh,” she said.
“What? Why?”
“Because I need to,” she said. “I need to see the Regius Keeper at the Botanics urgently. Could you arrange the pony-and-trap to take me to the ferry?”
Antonia shook her head.
“You’re not going anywhere,” she said. “You’ve been very ill.”
Cicely, however, was adamant.
“If I can’t use the pony-and-trap, I’ll walk.”
Buttoning up her coat, her sister-in-law began to head toward the front door. Her skin was pale as chalk. Antonia had no doubt at all that she would do as she proposed.
“Cicely,” she said. “Wait. Wait a minute.”
Cicely turned, sensing something in her tone of voice, something ominous.
“What is it?” Cicely said, her eyes searching her face for an answer. “What’s happened?”
Antonia was sure that Cicely could read her expression like a newspaper headline. She should tell her about George. It wasn’t fair to keep it from her. But her courage deserted her; her mouth would not form the words, her mind blanked. She would tell Cicely tomorrow. Or the day after. A few days would make no difference.
“Nothing’s happened. I’ll ask Bill to hitch up the trap,” said Antonia. “In fact, I’ll take you to Gourock on the ferry, and perhaps I’ll come to Edinburgh myself.”
Cicely closed her eyes for a second, relief written all over her face. Then she gave a small nod.
“Thank you,” she said. “Gourock would be perfect.”
“Are you sure? It’ll be almost a day out,” she said. “I think I shall rather enjoy it.”
“I would rather go to Edinburgh alone, if you don’t mind.”
“Very well, but the offer’s there.”
Cicely glanced down at the bowl of roses.
“You grow the loveliest of flowers,” she said softly.
Antonia plucked a rose from the arrangement, a yellow damask, its petals jeweled with dew, the flower tightly budded but just on the brink of opening, and threaded it through Cicely’s buttonhole.
“Here,” she said. “For my dearest sister-in-law
. You had us scared for a while.”
18
Cicely stared out of the window as the train sped through the Scottish countryside, the roads at right angles to the tracks like lengths of silver ribbon, the fields crowned with haystacks. Winter was coming, and she could taste it in the air, the sweetness of woodsmoke and leaf mold. Before she boarded, Antonia had suggested once more that she might come to Edinburgh too, but Cicely had used all her energy to insist that she didn’t, that Gourock was far enough. Now she felt drained, exhausted, as if she had no reserve left to draw on, and she wondered if she’d made the right decision in coming alone. Several times she felt the rise of fever in her blood, and she had to wipe her brow with her handkerchief and breathe deeply until it receded. A few of the other passengers looked at her for a second longer than was polite, but there were others on the train who were more noteworthy than she—a man with a parrot in a cage in the next compartment and a young woman who spent the whole journey sobbing into her sleeve.
After finding the seedling in the glass house she knew she would not be able to sleep anymore. She had crept into the library and lit a lamp. By breakfast time she had not only found an account of the French priest’s discovery and loss of the Snow Tree, she had come upon a beautifully painted illustration in a notebook. She took the leaf and seed sample and compared them. Unless she was mistaken they were the same. Where had they come from? This must have been what Jacob was trying to tell her, the seeds he had been growing from the envelope she had dropped all those weeks ago in the glass house. She could only guess that they had belonged to Edward Pick, a specimen brought back by a plant hunter, and he hadn’t realized what the envelope contained.
By the time the train arrived in Edinburgh, her body felt weak, unconnected, vague. The seedling in its pot grew heavier by the minute. She had felt so tired on the walk to the Botanics that she had to grab a railing and hold it for a moment or two to catch her breath. Once she had regained her composure she saw that she had stopped in a familiar place. It was Dundas Street, the photographer’s studio just a few doors down. And there they were in the display window: a girl staring out of a railway carriage while a woman stood in front of the door. Cicely barely recognized herself. She looked happy, elegant, and—compared with all the other subjects—several shades darker. In India, where people were all shades from white to dark brown, they were on the paler end of the spectrum. Here they were brewed tea amongst a sea of faces as white as milk.
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