“Mr. Lorimer wanted to purchase the Snow Tree seedling,” she said. “For his collection. He was willing to pay a great deal of money for it. And so you see I thought I had found another way that would suit everyone.”
Antonia inhaled sharply. She remembered the clouds of steam and slow hiss of cooling metal.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she said. “That you needed money?”
Cicely smiled and shook her head.
“I did,” she said. “And you were very generous. But it wasn’t enough.”
“And where did the seeds come from?” Antonia asked. “And the illustration?”
“Well, therein lies the mystery,” she said. “They fell out of a book. The one you gave me from the library.”
“Really! But what were they doing there?”
Cicely shook her head.
“I was hoping you might have an answer to that,” she said.
A car horn blew: Malcolm was ready to go.
22
The room the solicitor had booked at the Argyll Hotel faced the street. It was, Cicely guessed, a private dining room—a large oak table took up most of the space. Cicely sat at one side of the table and Antonia and Malcolm at the other. A coal merchant’s horse-and-cart passed by outside. The long low blast of the paddle steamer sounded as it approached the harbor. A clock ticked. A tray of tea sat in the middle of the table, but nobody touched it. The door opened and they all turned at once. They had been expecting the solicitor, but it was a woman, the same woman Cicely had seen with Malcolm. Close up she was older than she had first appeared, but she was undeniably well-preserved. She nodded to Malcolm, then took a seat at the foot of the table. All the color drained from Antonia’s face. She stood up and started pouring tea into cups.
“Would you like one?” she asked the woman.
“Yes, please,” she said as she removed her gloves. “Wild weather we’ve been having.”
Once Antonia had handed it out, however, the tea sat in its cups. Cicely glanced at Malcolm. He was staring straight ahead. What was going on? Who was this woman, and why was she here? F inally, at quarter past the hour, Mr. Drummond, the solicitor, bustled in, papers escaping from his clutch.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, even though he did not seem remotely sorry or provide an explanation as to the cause.
“Now,” he said, once he had poured himself a cup of tea, stirred in two sugar lumps, and taken a large gulp. “We are here to discuss the last will and testament of Edward Pick. As you may or may not know, he changed his will often, but I have the latest, one that he drew up in May 1911, only a week or two before he passed. As his executor it has fallen upon me to make sure that, without prejudice, his estate is distributed according to Scottish law.”
Cicely’s mind started to drift; she hadn’t slept well the night before, and the lawyer’s voice droned on in a monotone. She closed her eyes and pictured George on a distant mountainside, Kitty at school, the view from her bedroom window in Darjeeling.
“Mrs. Pick?” said the solicitor. She came back to the moment. Everyone was staring at her.
“Edward Pick left his estate to your husband and his descendants.”
She took a deep breath and let it out. She knew this already; it had been in the letter. But finally it was confirmed. She would instruct Mr. Drummond to deal with all the legal issues and find a buyer. Maybe she would even take a room here at the hotel until she had a passage booked.
“On one condition,” he went on.
Cicely cocked her head. No condition had been mentioned before.
“Here’s where it gets a little awkward,” the solicitor said, pushing his glasses to the bridge of his nose. “My client was a man of certain views, views that many of us do not share in Scotland. He was an industrialist, a sugar man. Refining was in his blood. Mrs. Pick, I’m sorry to place you in this position but I need an honest answer. Are you or are you not…”
He stopped and swallowed.
“Am I what?” she asked.
“Pure,” he replied.
“Pure?” she repeated.
“I need clarification that you are British, that you have no tarnish,” he clarified.
“Tarnish?” Cicely couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. “Could you explain?”
Mr. Drummond turned beet red, and his voice took on an angry tone.
“We all know what I mean,” he said. “Do I have to spell it out?”
“I’m afraid you do,” said Cicely.
Antonia sat forward in her seat.
“This is ridiculous,” she said. “Cicely, don’t admit anything.”
“You’re asking me if I am … white?”
“That’s right,” he said. “As in, not black, not one drop of native contamination. Your word will be good enough.”
Antonia stood up.
“Let me see that,” she demanded.
The solicitor handed over the typed page. There was a split second when Cicely was tempted. It would be so easy. Who could prove it otherwise? It was nothing more than a lie, a little white lie, to be specific.
“Well,” said the solicitor. “Mrs. Pick?”
She hesitated. A valve opened in her heart, and a rush of pressure was released.
“I am most certainly not,” she said.
“Not?” said the solicitor.
Cicely swung her legs to the side and stood up. She couldn’t do it, not for George or for Kitty. She could not deny everything she was, and they would have to live with the consequences. Edward Pick must have guessed this would happen. But what kind of man takes such animosity to his grave? What had made him so bitter, so vindictive toward someone he had never met? She would send George a telegram and let him know it was over. But first she needed a drink, a gin, perhaps. And a cigarette.
* * *
Once Cicely had left, the room suddenly felt cold. And it was not just the draft that came from the open front door of the hotel. Antonia turned to Malcolm. He was staring straight ahead, but under the table his knee was bouncing up and down.
“Did you know about this?” she whispered.
“Let’s talk about it later,” he said.
Antonia’s mind was reeling. How could she continue to live in the house, knowing what her father was? What would Cicely do now? Antonia was the one who had put out the boiler. It was her fault that the seedling had died. A waitress came into the room to refresh the tea.
“Let’s talk now,” Antonia insisted. “Because if you knew, why did you keep it to yourself?”
“Antonia,” Malcolm scolded.
Once the maid had finished, Mr. Drummond whispered something to her. She gave a small nod and left the room. The solicitor cleared his throat; he was staring at Antonia over his spectacles.
“My client, in anticipation of this outcome, had other beneficiaries in mind.”
The door opened, and she jumped. Jacob was standing there with his cap in his hand.
“Oh, no,” Antonia said. “We’re not finished yet.”
Mr. Drummond, however, ignored her.
“Do come in, Mr. Baillie,” he said. “And sit down.”
“Hello, son,” said the woman.
Son? Malcolm leaned his head forward just an inch or two. What on earth was going on?
“And so,” said the solicitor. “It is my duty to inform you that there are two main beneficiaries of Edward Pick’s estate: Mrs. McCulloch and Mr. Baillie. The house and all its contents go to the former, and the gardens to the latter.”
Jacob’s mother clapped her hands over her mouth, and tears welled up in her eyes. He, however, didn’t respond at first. And then he shook his head and mumbled something.
“What was that?” said Drummond. “Speak up, man.”
Jacob Baillie stood up and put down his cup.
“I didn’t know about this,” he said to Antonia. “And to be honest I don’t think I can accept it.”
“It’s legally yours,” said the solicitor. “To d
o with as you wish.”
He looked at her with some concern in his eyes. He wasn’t a bad person. This wasn’t his fault; it was her father’s. Did he think it was funny? Was he laughing somewhere?
“Mr. Baillie. Jacob,” said Antonia. “It seemed he wanted you to have it. You should accept.”
Jacob frowned, then turned and walked out of the room with a slam of the door.
“Jacob!” His mother rose to her feet. “I’ll be right back.”
After she left, Mr. Drummond considered his papers.
“Why did he leave it to Jacob Baillie?” Antonia asked.
Mr. Drummond’s face closed.
“Really,” he said, “that is none of my concern.”
“Malcolm?” she asked.
But her husband’s gaze was fixed on the rim of his teacup, and he would not speak.
23
After she put out her cigarette, Cicely sat and stared out at the loch. The waves were crashing against the pier, great explosions of froth that rose up and fell back on themselves until they were absorbed by the swell and undercurrent of the next wave. She had finished her second gin and placed the glass back on the table. How would it feel to surrender to the tug of the tide, to let go of everything, to submit to the deep dark blue? As she watched, she saw a section of seawall suddenly crumble away, leaving exposed earth and broken stone. Another wave came and then another.
“What you did—”
She started. Antonia was standing at her elbow.
“Took real courage,” her sister-in-law continued. “I’m so sorry.”
Cicely sipped from her glass even though there was nothing left but icewater and lemon.
“At least Balmarra is officially yours now.”
“Only the house. He gave the gardens to Jacob Baillie. It seems my father had some connection with his mother.”
They sat and watched the rain fall onto the sea in great gusts and squalls. Cicely remembered Malcolm and the woman that summer afternoon when the town was full of day-trippers. It must have been hard to keep a secret like that in a small town. Maybe Antonia was the only one who didn’t know.
Antonia paused—her whole body, her hands, still—her eyes cast down. Was there something else she wanted to say?
“Cicely, I meant to tell you this before. But I didn’t want to worry you unduly.”
“Worry me?” repeated Cicely.
“It’s George. The India Office wrote to me. They think he might have gone missing. Some of his belongings were found abandoned. But as you say, he’s done it before. I’m sure he’s absolutely fine. But then a parcel came. I couldn’t open it. I’m sure … however … you know George. Against the odds and all that.”
Cicely closed her eyes.
“How long have you known?”
“Only a couple of weeks.”
“You should have told me,” Cicely said.
Antonia gave her a look.
“I could say the same to you,” she replied.
* * *
It was strange to arrive back at Balmarra in the knowledge that part of it would soon belong to someone else. Malcolm had been silent for the entire drive home. They passed old Mr. Baillie on the driveway pushing a wheelbarrow filled with debris from the storm. As they parked the car they heard a whirring from above. A small biplane passed by overhead, almost skimming the treetops. Lorimer was out for a spin again. Life went on. George had done it once again: He had disappeared just at the point where his presence was most necessary. Poor Cicely. Poor Kitty. As she was about to get out of the car, Malcolm reached for her hand.
“Antonia,” he said. “He wasn’t a bad man, your father.”
“Wasn’t he?” she said. “I mean, why would he leave the estate to the gardener?”
“He must have had his reasons,” he replied.
Her mind spun with reasons: illicit affairs, illegitimate children.
“He’s not my brother, is he? Jacob Baillie, I mean?”
“No,” said Malcolm. “He’s not.”
Antonia let herself out and slammed the door behind her. Was it sinful to be ashamed of one’s family? Of one’s husband?
“How can you be so sure?” she said. “You lied to me.”
“Not exactly lied,” he replied.
“Surely I should be the judge of that.”
Malcolm turned in his seat. He adjusted his driving gloves.
“Can we talk about this later?” he said. “I have to go to work.”
“Now? You’re going now?”
“Some things never change,” he said. “We can’t live on air, Antonia.”
The hint of blame in his words, the suggestion that she did nothing all day, riled her. He glanced over, waiting for her to react. She suddenly felt defeated, as if all the air had been pumped out of her. She did not have the energy to argue.
“Whatever you say.”
Malcolm swung the car around to face the opposite direction and drove back toward Dunoon.
Antonia had a headache. Her mouth was parched. She needed a glass of cold water. She took the back stairs, the servants’ entrance. In the kitchen Cook was bashing something in a bowl and Dora was chopping onions. Antonia stood at the sink, poured herself a glass from the tap, and drank it down. She could feel them exchanging glances.
“Will you make time later to do the week’s accounts?” Cook asked.
“Not today,” Antonia replied. “Tomorrow?”
Cook’s gaze dropped to whatever she was pummeling in the bowl. She hit it with more force than before.
“As you wish,” she replied. “The pennies don’t count themselves.”
“I’m fully aware of that,” Antonia snapped. “But one day? Does one day really matter?”
Dora stopped what she was doing, and Cook paused for a fraction of a second, then resumed.
“Anyway,” Antonia continued. “I’ll be in the drawing room if anyone’s looking for me.”
“We’ll be here until five,” Cook said. “It’s a cold supper tonight, seeing as it’s Thursday.”
It was their evening off. She had forgotten that.
Antonia sat in her mother’s favorite chair and stared at the unlit fire. The clock ticked, then struck five. The kitchen door slammed. She heard Cook’s and Dora’s voices receding as they walked down the driveway. Malcolm wouldn’t be back until much later, and she had no idea when Cicely would return. Would she come back at all? She thought of Henry. He had changed the color of her, like a shade on a lamp. Was he in Paris yet? Nothing had changed, and yet everything had. Well, she could make changes too. She would start by clearing out the attic, throwing away all the useless things, the rubbish and detritus held on to for purely sentimental reasons. She would let it all go. And then she would turn to her marriage and do the same thing. It was about time.
The attic was pitch-black. The gas lamp in her hand lit up the tea chests and the stack of oil paintings but little else. Had she really seen a portrait of a black woman, and if so, who was she? The painting was still there, just as she remembered it. This time she examined the back of the canvas. It was labeled, the script faint but legible. She read it once and then read it again just to make sure.
This moment. She wanted to mark this moment, to take a small pause, to stop her mind from racing. Her father had kept a box of cigars and cigarettes for guests in the drinks cabinet in the drawing room. It was full—proof, should it be needed, that his guests were either nonsmokers or nonexistent. She picked a cigarette at random, placed it in her mouth, and lit it with a match as she had seen Cicely do. The first puff caught in her throat, and she had a small coughing fit. The second went down more smoothly and filled her with a sense of calm. She closed her eyes. She was suddenly more tired than she had ever been.
Antonia awoke feeling deliciously warm. The room was bathed in flickering light. And then the taste of burning filled her mouth. She leaped up. The carpet was on fire, the curtains too, in great licks of yellow and orange. She ran to the curta
ins, to a swath that was not on aflame, and pulled. It came down with a crash of sparks and embers on top of the divan, and within moments the divan was on fire too.
“No, oh no!” she said over and over.
Next she ran to the bathroom, emptied out a potted plant into the bath and began to fill it from the tap. It was pitifully small. When it was full she ran back to the drawing room. She had unfortunately left the door open, and the lintel was ablaze. She threw the water, but it had barely any effect. The flames were already leaping toward the banister above. At the top of the stairs, in the library, were all her journals, her sketchbooks, her life’s—such as it was—work. In her head she could hear Malcolm’s voice telling her not to be so stupid; nevertheless she took the stairs two by two. There was time. Time enough.
There were too many journals to carry. An old suitcase was stowed in one of the cupboards. She opened it and crammed them in. She took one last look at her beloved library and then ran down the stairs. Part of the carpet near the bottom was on fire. She was going to be burned alive. A headline suddenly appeared in her mind: ARSONIST DIES IN COUNTRY HOUSE FIRE. She threw the suitcase to the bottom of the stairs, bundled her skirts into one hand, took a deep breath, and jumped. She landed on the wooden floor on the palms of her hands and her knees, skinning both. She barely felt it. She picked up the suitcase; she didn’t look back. At the door she hesitated: Henry’s painting hung on the wall. She could carry one more thing. And then she remembered the parcel from the India Office. It was in the hall cupboard beneath the blanket where she had left it. Just one more thing.
24
There came a point when Cicely knew she must stop drinking. She lit her last cigarette and tried to empty her mind of everything and everyone: the will, George, Antonia, Lorimer, the Baillies. She had come to Scotland believing that the whole process would be quick and easy. How could she have been so naive? And now everything that once was solid had evaporated into thin air. She exhaled the last of the smoke in one long stream, then put out the cigarette. The smell of burning remained.
The Glass House Page 23