Charlotte Markham and the House of Darkling (13 page)

CHAPTER 10

A Dangerous Game

T
he next afternoon, I took the children back to the House of Darkling. A young man of sixteen or seventeen years was already waiting for our party on the other side of the swirling mist. He bowed before us in greeting, and I nearly introduced myself to him. But Paul touched my arm.

“Is that Duncan?” he asked.

I observed the young man's face as he rose back to full height. There were certainly traces of the impish, mute little boy in the appearance of the stranger, as they both wore the same frozen, knowing smiles, but we had only been gone a matter of days and the pigmentation of this young man's skin was more like that of a human, whereas Duncan had retained a distinctive shade of orange. I could not believe that the two were the same until the young man brought a finger to his lips.

“Have we really been gone that long?” I said softly, my mind wandering to thoughts of Lily Darrow, alone in Darkling for what must have felt like years, though it was probable that the Whatleys kept her busy with Olivia's education, and there was certainly enough mischief to keep her occupied were she not otherwise indisposed. I wondered how she passed the time, and then I remembered the room with the gauzy silk veils, and Mr. Samson strapped to the chair. I shivered against the coolness of the air and warmed myself by keeping pace with Duncan.

“How do you know when we're coming through?” I asked.

He gestured to the trees with long, spindle-like fingers, and as he did, the branches twitched and swayed. The hanging pieces of fruit turned to face us, drawn to Duncan's presence. He escorted us the rest of the way out of the orchard and into the house, leading us past a room filled with the softest, most beautiful music I had ever heard, though there were no obvious musical instruments visible in the space. We found another room whose windows looked out onto a sunlit mountaintop that was, as far as I could tell, nowhere near Mr. Whatley's estate. Another room was shaped like the inside of a gazebo and made entirely of glass, and as we passed through it, I was certain that I could see the town of Blackfield in its reflection. I had no time to dwell on this, for Duncan guided us briskly through the house, the slow, languid pacing of his youth replaced by the urgent certainty of adulthood.

We found Lily and Olivia in a small parlor, both of them seated before easels with panes of painted glass identical to the ones in Mr. Whatley's collection. Lily was helping the girl mix a particular shade of green for a rolling hillside when we entered, and as she saw us, she dropped her palette in a splatter of paint. She could say nothing for a moment as she extricated herself from behind her canvas, kneeling down to hug both of the children with an audible sigh of relief. When she rose she greeted me with a polite peck on the cheek.

“You've returned,” she said, slowly recovering from her daze.

“Of course, Mother. We missed you!” James buried his head in her skirts.

She smiled weakly and stroked his cheek before turning to her pupil. “Olivia, will you excuse me for a moment? There's something I want to show the children.”

The girl nodded with her typical cool indifference, too involved in the creation of her landscape, which seemed to move even as she refined the details.

Lily led us from the parlor, across a drawbridge set between two cascading, lavender-scented waterfalls, through a room where it was snowing and I had to pull the boys apart as they pelted one another with balls of ice, and finally into an empty banquet hall that could have been lifted from some medieval castle, the ceiling supported by roughly hewn wood beams, and the walls made of crumbling, porous stone. There was a door at one end, a ghastly thing forged from black wrought iron that snaked around the frame like ivy, with a silver knocker set in the center.

Lily stood before it. “Now, tell me what you see.”

“It's a door,” said James.

“Yes, but what kind of door?”

“A heavy one, made from oak,” answered Paul. “With metal rivets set in the wood.” His little brother shot him a look unique to siblings, a combination of disbelief and pity that he could possibly be related to someone so dim.

“That's not it at all. What about the gargoyles?” James pointed to the top of the door, where I could see nothing but black metal loops like vines.

Lily stepped between them. “The door is different for everyone. To some it might show the thing you need most, to others, a version of your life that you did not live. Some say it can even tell the future. Shall we find out what it has in store for us?” I was about to object, for there are some things that children are not prepared to know, but she had already opened the door. There was darkness on the other side of the threshold, and it descended upon the stone hall to surround us in a singular void. I could still make out the Darrows as a dozen points of light circled around them, taking the shapes of framed paintings.

The first depicted Lily in a sickbed at Everton, one hand to her forehead, the satin sheets rumpled and positioned like something out of a romanticist's studio as a doctor took her pulse. Suddenly the picture came to life, startling the four of us as the doctor's voice echoed through the abyss, hollow and distant.

“Madam, I do believe you shall recover!”

The scene ended, and the trio proceeded to the next moving frame, where it was Christmastime at Everton. The house was decorated with an attention to detail that I could never hope to match. Lily sat by the fireplace observing her family. An older version of Paul carried a little boy in his arms, and the woman who might have been his wife held a little girl by the hand as they helped the children choose their toys from the magnificent Christmas tree. A teenage James was on the other side of the room, trapping a giggling young woman beneath the mistletoe and kissing her scandalously on the cheek. Mr. Darrow joined his wife by the fire and took her hand in his. I blushed. These were private moments, and yet they would never, could never happen.

My discomfort was readily visible and threatened to change into something else altogether. I could not put into words the anger I felt in that moment. I had been betrayed. The children were supposed to say good-bye to their mother. That was what I had brought them for, but instead Lily allowed them to wallow in their loss, to obsess over the things that could never be, the lives that could not be lived. And yet, was I so very different? Did I not dream of Jonathan or my mother or father every night? My anger shifted to myself. There was a danger in what we were doing.

I backed away from them and sought my way out of the room. There was another point of light in the distance, and I moved toward it, hoping for some sort of exit, but unfortunately it was another of the floating frames. Then I realized that was wrong. I could see myself in its surface, fractured a million different ways. These were not paintings; they were mirrors, and a piece of this one was missing. Even in the splintered looking glass I could see the look of understanding as it crossed my face, curdling into revulsion, and then anger.

I remembered the blood on Susannah's hands, and the sound of Nanny Prum's scream as it cut through the night all those weeks ago. But most of all I remembered the man in black; the phantom from my youth who had followed me into adulthood, striking down everyone I had ever loved.

A man waits for you. He watches you.

Were the specters from my past and present one and the same? How had a relic from the House of Darkling found its way into the basement of St. Michael's Church, and why had it been used against Susannah?

I willed myself out of the darkness, groping about for solid walls until I felt the edges of the door and slid back into the empty stone room. Duncan was waiting with a small piece of parchment that declared Mr. Whatley's desire to speak to me in private.

The young man led me deep into the great house, down many flights of stairs to a room that resembled a Turkish bath. Despite the copious veils of steam wafting through the air, I could see Mr. Whatley at the other end of the chamber, half-submerged in a murky mineral bath. He tilted his head back until the ends of his hair trailed through the water. The pool was large, and ripples formed where it was impossible for him to make them. I noticed something gliding beneath the water very much like an eel or a snake, and then I realized that it was a tentacle. There were at least a half dozen of them traveling away from Mr. Whatley's body, dipping in and out of the water in a languid, thoughtful sort of way. Yet his face was still human, as rough and wild as it had been upon our first meeting.

“Ah, Mrs. Markham.” He smirked at my discomfort in seeing him in such casual repose.

“Mr. Whatley,” I said sharply. I took a breath in an effort to calm myself, and he pointed for me to sit on a marble bench at the edge of the water with a hand that still resembled a man's. I knew I should have been horrified to see such a creature, especially on so intimate a level, but I felt nothing like terror, as I was too angry to have any fear. It had burned away the moment I found the shattered looking glass and connected the specter of the man in black to the House of Darkling. Who else but a collector such as Mr. Whatley would have possession of an oddity like the mysterious, ever-changing door?

“I know I should apologize for calling on you in what I'm told are improper conditions in your culture, but I won't.”

“Should I be impressed by your rudeness?”

“Perhaps. I only share my daughter's interest in the human fashion where it suits me. Otherwise I am only ever myself.”

“How lucky for you. May I ask the purpose of this meeting?”

“It's rare that both Lily and the children are preoccupied. What did you think of their little game?”

“I found it somewhat less interesting than the one you're playing.”

“Is that so?” He splashed at the water, playfully distracted as I narrowed my eyes at him.

“I think it unlikely a collector such as yourself would let any of his antiquities be put to work without some notion of how they were to be utilized.”

“It sounds as though you believe part of my collection has been put to ill use,” he said with his sideways smirk.

“There are things happening in Blackfield that defy explanation, unless the answer lies in our recent excursions to the House of Darkling. The timing is rather suspicious.”

“Perhaps the two are merely a coincidence?”

“Or it is as I've said, and a game is being played.”

The master of Darkling tilted his head to one side in a brief moment of contemplation. “On that point I must disagree with you, for a game cannot be played alone. There must be two players.” He stared at me from across the water, something hungry in his gaze that weighted the statement, twisting it into a kind of invitation that hung in the air with the currents of steam, chilling the heat of my anger and confidence until I began to shake. I folded my arms in an effort to mask my nerves. I had not been entirely prepared for his boldness, but I refused to be intimidated by him. I thought of Susannah, and straightened myself as I replied.

“I would imagine there to be stakes involved?”

“Naturally. If you are able to prove a connection between Darkling and Blackfield, then I can promise you that whatever is happening will come to an end.”

“And if I fail?” I kept my voice even.

“I do not enjoy being accused of treachery in my own home.” His expression suddenly grew dark, and the water became still as if in response to the change in his temperament. “If you fail, I will take something from you of my own choosing to add to my collection. Are you sure enough of yourself to take such a risk?”

I stood from the marble bench and knelt down to the lip of the pool, lowering myself over it to look into the black pits of his eyes. “That would depend on the rules.”

“The only rule is to win.”

“Very well.” I rose and flicked the condensation from my hands. “Then how do we begin?”

“With a question: Do you think you'll continue to bring the children here?”

“After today I'm not inclined to.”

“They'll come to hate you for it.”

“That is a sacrifice I'm willing to make.”

“How brave of you. I doubt that would please Mr. Darrow.”

“I was under the impression that you've never had the pleasure of his acquaintance?”

“I feel that I know him already. It is a very familiar story, is it not? The widower who hires a beautiful young governess to tend to his children. The secret romance, social barriers broken, a spectacular wedding at the end. They all live happily ever after.”

I tried to read his face to gauge the intent of his words, but the steam was too thick and his eyes retained their vacant, unreadable blackness. I folded my hands and walked along the edge of the shallow pool.

“It may be a familiar story, but it is not one that I've had the privilege to live out. I know very little of happiness.”

“And you won't if you do not let Lily and the children end on their own terms. They must be the ones to finish it.”

“You insult my integrity. My only interest is in the well-being of the children.”

Mr. Whatley dipped beneath the surface of the water and swam to the other end of the pool. Duncan stood near the stairs with a robe. Whatley stepped out of the pool, his entire body unabashedly visible to me, completely human, completely male, muscular and imposing. I felt myself blush and was glad for the darkness. He stepped into his robe, and Duncan handed him a cigar.

“Do not insult my intelligence. You would be a fool not to hope for such a union. Besides, what the children need is a mother. Preferably one who is of the living.”

I could not argue against that. I thought of Mr. Darrow and our conversations in the music room, and our midnight tea parties. With a shock of revulsion I wondered if our relationship was genuine, or if it was something I had, on some subconscious level, planned from the start as a game of my own. The gentleman bit off the end of the cigar but did not seem to spit it out. Duncan lit the tip of it, and Whatley deeply inhaled the smoke.