The Dark Unwinding (25 page)

I
stayed with Mary that night, the two of us squashed into her little bed, and when the sun rose, so did we, I think without either of us having slept at all. The trogwynd had blown until just before dawn, as loud as I’d ever heard it. I could only hope my aunt had not closed her eyes either. Mary helped me dress in silence, pulling my corset strings tight, slipping the worsted over my many petticoats and smoothing my hair. By a quarter till seven, the mirror showed the girl I had been when I first came to Stranwyne. Though I knew I would never really be her again.

“Good-bye, then, Miss,” Mary whispered. I hugged her tight before I left.

When I entered the drawing room, I found that Aunt Alice had anticipated me. She was sitting before the cold hearth one hour before her time, the early sun shining through the pink of the drapes, and with Mr. Lockwood by her side. I looked from my satisfied aunt to the distressed Mr. Lockwood, my last hopes shredding.

“Ah, Katharine. Good morning. You know Mr. Lockwood, I gather.”

“Miss Tulman,” he said, and stood hastily to offer me a chair. I had no idea what conclusions he might have drawn about me or my current situation, but the robust, businesslike man now struck me as thoroughly cowed.

“Thank you, Mr. Lockwood.” I took the seat opposite my aunt, and we all looked at one another. Lane, now clean and shaven, came with an armful of kindling and stopped at the door, surveying the group.

I turned to Mr. Lockwood. “I am very glad to see you well, and that you were not caught in any of this terrible flooding.”

“Yes. Though I hear you were, Miss Tulman. A most remarkable accident. I am very pleased to see you looking so healthy and well.” He placed particular emphasis on these words. Lane came across the room and began laying the fire.

“Mr. Lockwood has been telling me that there are hundreds upon hundreds displaced on the estate, Katharine. How extraordinary that there would be so many. We shall have to find suitable places for them to go as soon as may be, shall we not?”

A lump of wood crashed hard into the hearth, causing Aunt Alice to jump.

“I rather think that decision will be up to my uncle Tulman, Aunt.”

Mr. Lockwood looked uncomfortable.

“Mr. Lockwood has also been telling me, my dear, about the strange circumstance that brought him to Stranwyne. My, my, but you have been having a busy time. Small wonder if she found no time to write, wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Lockwood?”

“Well …”

The fire was crackling, and Lane was only busying himself now, unwilling, evidently, to leave.

“But it is a rather lovely old place.” Aunt Alice looked happily about the room. “Sadly neglected, of course, but men never think of such things.” She reached over and placed a delicately gloved hand on Mr. Lockwood’s. “It takes a woman’s touch, don’t you think?”

My eyes widened. Aunt Alice was truly playing all her cards. I looked to the fireplace. Lane did not need to see or hear any more of this; I didn’t trust his temper. “Thank you, Mr. Moreau. Would you tell Mrs. Jefferies that we’re ready for breakfast?”

Lane inclined his head, gazing at me for a long time as I pled with my eyes for him to go. He moved reluctantly toward the door.

“Katharine has such a way with the servants,” my aunt whispered loudly. “They just seem to give her whatever she wants.”

“Miss Tulman,” said Mr. Lockwood, the bushy beard turning my way. “Let’s stop the shilly-shallying. I am going to have to see Mr. Tulman. We both know that.”

Lane was in the doorway beneath the stairs, and he stopped again, his back rigid. “I’m afraid that is impossible, Mr. Lockwood,” I said.

“And why is that?”

“Because my uncle is quite ill.”

“Ill or no, Miss Tulman, I will be seeing him.”

My aunt’s eyes went demurely to her lap, the little pursed smile on her lips. Lane’s long body melted away through the door, and I knew he was running, getting ready to move my uncle. “I truly believe that seeing my uncle would be a grave risk, Mr. Lockwood. Are you sure you don’t wish to wait a few days, to be certain?”

“Certain of what?”

“Why, the nature of his disease, of course. Perhaps you aren’t aware, Mr. Lockwood, that our resident surgeon is concerned about an outbreak of typhus?”

“Typhus? I saw nothing of …”

“Such diseases often follow flooding.” I smoothed my skirt. “But perhaps you are right, perhaps it is nothing but a cold. Or cholera.”

“Cholera? Really, Miss Tulman, I …”

Mrs. Jefferies came in then, with her lace cap on and a tea tray clattering over the various rugs. We watched her come in silence, and then turned as one to the door. It was not just the tea cart jangling, there was a rattle from the drive as well. A carriage rolled past the front door, which in less than thirty seconds was thrown open.

“Hello! Hello, all! A thousand apologies for my late arrival.” Mr. Babcock threw down his hat and came hurrying across the room, tossing a satchel to the floor beside my aunt’s chair. “Miss Tulman,” he said, leaning forward to kiss my hand. “Enchanted, as always. And Mrs. Tulman.” He turned to my aunt and bowed his oddly shaped head. “Keeping a stiff upper lip, I see. And you are, sir?”

“Mr. Lockwood, this is Mr. Babcock, the Tulman family solicitor,” I said. My aunt gave me a dark look, reminding me that he was not her solicitor. I ignored it. “Mr. Lockwood is a county magistrate, Mr. Babcock.”

“Of course, of course,” said Mr. Babcock, pumping his hand. “A pleasure, sir. An infinite pleasure. Ah! Breakfast!” He settled with a slight thud on the settee that contained Mr. Lockwood, and took the cup handed to him by Mrs. Jefferies. “A tower of strength as always, dear lady,” he said to her.

Mrs. Jefferies set the tea tray on the low table at the center of our little gathering, and Mr. Babcock slurped his tea with an enjoyment that seemed to preclude all other thought. “Just before you arrived, Mr. Babcock,” I said, “I was telling Mr. Lockwood and my aunt about the outbreak of disease we are experiencing on the estate.”

“Were you indeed, Miss Tulman?” The shrewd eyes met mine over the teacup. Mrs. Jefferies paused briefly in her ministrations.

“Yes,” I replied. “It is most unfortunate.”

“Cholera or typhus?” Mr. Babcock asked. My aunt raised an eyebrow.

“Mr. Cooper isn’t certain,” I said firmly.

“My niece is so considerate of my health,” said Aunt Alice. “She feels it would be unwise for Mr. Lockwood or myself to even be in the same room with Mr. Tulman.”

“These country doctors,” said Mr. Babcock, helping himself to a roll, “always looking out for epidemics and whatnot, when likely it’s all down to nothing but a bad bit of beef.”

I closed my mouth and looked hard at the little lawyer. “I think,” I said slowly, “that it would be wise to follow Mr. Cooper’s recommendation, Mr. Babcock.”

“Tosh, young lady. I am surprised at you. No reason why Mr. Lockwood shouldn’t have a peek at Mr. Tulman, and if Mr. Tulman is indeed ill, the assistance of his family might be appreciated. Do you have him in Miss Marianna’s rooms, then? That’s as good a place as any for being ill.”

Mrs. Jefferies dropped a plate to the floor and it shattered, feeling as I did, no doubt, the depth of Mr. Babcock’s betrayal. He was giving my uncle away, handing him over to Mr. Lockwood. I would never have believed it possible. I banged down my cup and stood quickly, looking down on my aunt’s triumph and Mr. Lockwood’s concern. Mr. Babcock chewed his roll.

“Then I will just let him know to prepare for visitors,” I said icily. “But please do finish your breakfasts, and then Mrs. Jefferies will show you the way up. Mrs. Jefferies?” She looked up at me from the floor, where she was collecting the broken bits of plate, tears rolling from her eyes. “Take them by way of the clock room. I think that’s fastest, don’t you?”

She opened her mouth once to protest, but then only said, “Yes, Miss.”

I left the drawing room at a dignified pace, and as soon as the door was shut, I ran.

When I flung open the door to Marianna’s room, my uncle was in the same attitude as before, staring at the canopy. Lane looked up from the bag he was stuffing.

“They’re coming,” I said. “Ten minutes at the most. Does he have any clothes up here?”

“All in the workshop.”

“No matter.” I shoved the soiled linens under the bed while Lane scooped Uncle Tully into his arms, but my uncle chose that moment to show his first signs of life in hours. He yelled like a banshee, flailing so hard and suddenly that Lane dropped him back on the bed.

“Hush, Mr. Tully. It’s all right, everything is —”

He struggled and wailed, one of his wild arms striking Lane’s face. He didn’t appear to be seeing what was in front of him.

“I’ll have to drag him,” Lane said, raising his voice over the noise. “I won’t be able to carry him when he’s doing that!”

“Uncle!” I shouted, coming around the bed. “Uncle Tully, look at me! Do you remember what Marianna said?”

He went instantly still, and I got in his line of sight, so that his eyes could focus on me. I had no idea what Marianna might have said, but surely she had said something to benefit the occasion. “Yes,” he said slowly.

“Such behavior is not good, Uncle, even when you are frightened. It is not splendid, isn’t that so?”

“Yes,” he whispered. His lips were dry and cracked.

“Lane and I are going to take care of you. We want to help, do you understand that? Now, I’m sure you are hungry, and thirsty, and that you haven’t had your playtime, or your toast and tea. Take my hand and come with me.”

And he did. He was weak and tottering, but he took my hand firmly enough while Lane held his other arm. We started across the room.

“What is thirty-four times twelve, Uncle Tully?”

“Four hundred and eight.” He took one step and then another, his skinny legs sticking out of my nightgown.

“Four hundred and eight times nine?”

“Three thousand six hundred and seventy-two. There was water,” he said shakily. “I saw water….”

“Yes, Uncle.” We were entering Mary’s room, though she wasn’t in it. “You will have to build new things now. Eighty-eight times naught?”

“N-naught. New things, little niece?”

“Oh, yes, think of all the lovely new things to build. All brand-new, and right out of your head.”

My uncle’s face lightened, he was moving quicker, and some of my fear had actually begun to ebb when we entered the library and he spied the box of toys. Uncle Tully jerked away from both of us and charged for the box, flinging it open.

“Uncle, no. Not now! Tea first, and toast, remember?”

“We had it in here before,” he said stubbornly, rummaging through the box.

“Yes, but not this time. This time we —”

“The boat is gone away! It was just right, and now it’s …”

Lane was speaking low into my uncle’s ear, trying to pull him upright. There were voices coming down the corridor.

“Uncle, please!” I pleaded. “Thirty-five times fourteen?”

“Gone! It’s gone! No, NO!” he shouted, his face turning red. “It’s not George’s, or Simon’s! It’s mine! Mine, mine!”

“Ah, here we are,” I heard Mr. Babcock say.

When the library door opened, I was clinging hard to my uncle.

S
ad,” Mr. Lockwood mused, leaning back into the settee in the drawing room. “Very sad.”

“Truly,” said my aunt. “The fall of a great man.”

I wished my gaze could do anything I wanted. I wished with one look I could drop my aunt into a puddle of mud, or perhaps dung, or boiling oil. And Mr. Babcock, I wished I could flay him, or twist his thumbs…. Mr. Babcock drained his third cup of tea.

“So, Mr. Lockwood,” said Mr. Babcock, his large jowls shaking, “is it your opinion, sir, that the head of the Tulman estate should be declared incompetent?”

“I don’t see how it cannot be so,” said Mr. Lockwood, studying his hands. He, at least, was not enjoying this process. I could almost forgive him for shooting Bertram. “Mr. Tulman is in no fit state to make decisions of finance or to provide for his own welfare. It is my opinion, sir, that he must be institutionalized, for his own safety.”

“Ah,” replied Mr. Babcock, “very judicious of you, I’m sure, very prudent. But that particular decision will be made by the next head of the estate, will it not? If Mr. Tulman is declared incompetent, the estate passes downward.” Mr. Babcock smiled and turned to my aunt. “Is that not correct, Madam?”

My aunt inclined her curled head, her tight smile threatening to burst its bonds. “But as the heir of Stranwyne is not of age, Mr. Babcock, I, of course, will have to stand in that stead.” She leaned toward Mr. Lockwood. “It is a great burden, and one I feel keenly, I assure you.”

Then her hard little eyes moved from Mr. Lockwood to me, and my aunt and I reached an understanding. My position had been made all too clear. Not another penny would pass my way in her lifetime, or ever, if she could help it. I looked into my teacup, and began drafting an advertisement in my head.
Young lady, well educated — no, perhaps moderately educated — seeks work as
… I had no idea what I could seek work as. I realized Mr. Babcock was talking.

“… and as such is a sentiment bravely felt and bravely spoken, my dear lady. I commend you! But it is a burden, I am happy to tell you, that you will not have to bear.”

I looked up, wondering what Mr. Babcock could be talking about. My aunt’s smile did not falter.

“You are probably not aware, sir, that the heir of Stranwyne is merely a child. He will not come of age yet for several years.”

“Ah! You will forgive me for contradicting you, Madam, but the inheritor of Stranwyne has come of age. I’m sure I have the paperwork here somewhere …” He began rooting through the satchel he had brought while my aunt frowned, craning her neck to try and see each paper that was ruffled. Mr. Lockwood sat back and crossed his arms as Mr. Babcock prattled to himself in an infuriating manner.

“Sir!” said my aunt, finally exasperated. “I am quite certain I know the age of my own son, no matter what sort of paper you might have in your bag!”

“Oh!” said Mr. Babcock, looking up from his searching. “Mrs. Tulman! Your son! I am … well, I am most discomfited, dear lady. But what an embarrassing mistake you have made! Surely you were not under the impression that Robert Tulman is the heir of his uncle?”

Something akin to paralysis fell over the drawing room, and the striking of the clocks came faint through the walls. I counted them. One …

“You ridiculous little man!” hissed Aunt Alice. “What do you know about it?”

“Really, Madam!” Mr. Babcock perched a pair of spectacles on his nose,
tsk-tsk
ing as he searched through the papers. “I know quite a bit, as a matter of fact! Your son, Robert, is second in line to the estate.”

Two …

“My son, Robert, is the only one in line for the estate, sir!”

Mr. Babcock chuckled. “Oh, I think not,” he said amiably, eyes on the shuffling papers. Mr. Lockwood crossed his legs.

Three …

“Now, let’s see, ah, yes! George Tulman, born fifteenth February of the year 1800, third son of Martin Tulman, eldest child, Robert …”

Four …

“… and then we have Simon Tulman, born October … October, what was the day, what was the day … third day! Yes. October, year 1798, second son of Martin Tulman, eldest daughter, Katharine …”

Five …

“… and then we have Frederick Tulman, born January, year 1794, eldest son, becoming legal inheritor of said Tulman estate ninth November, 1814. Sad day …”

Six …

“… and do hereby declare … yes, yes … as said Frederick is without issue or progeny, henceforth … that brings us to … logically … and therefore …”

Seven …

“Ah! Bringing us to Miss Katharine Tulman, eldest grandchild of Martin Tulman, who according to her grandmother’s will came of age on July eighteen, thereby making her the heiress of her uncle and the Stranwyne estate.”

I blinked once as Mr. Babcock looked over his spectacles. Eight o’clock in the morning. My aunt leapt to her feet.

“The Tulman estate is entailed, you bloody fool! Only males may inherit!”

“Dear me, Madam.” Mr. Babcock mopped his head with a handkerchief. “Please arrange yourself. Your loss of composure is distressing Mr. Lockwood.”

Mr. Lockwood drank his tea as my aunt sat down hard in her chair, her face murderous. More papers appeared from the satchel.

“Forgive me if I should have explained this sooner, Mrs. Tulman, but the entail on the Stranwyne estate was broken by Marianna Tulman three days after the birth of Simon’s eldest child.” He leaned forward apologetically. “And here, I am afraid, is where I must admit myself to be most mortified. Through the negligence of a faulty clerk, long-since sacked, this paperwork was only proved in court this past week, when, as you know, Miss Katharine Tulman came of the legal age, as stipulated in the will signed by Frederick Tulman, year 1835 …” Paperwork was piling into my aunt’s lap at an alarming rate. “… long, of course, before he was declared to be incompetent, clearing the way for a female to inherit, which is, quite clearly, this young lady, here.”

My aunt was staring at her lap in confusion, her face blanched.

“So,” Mr. Babcock said, turning to me, “now that you are of age, my dear, you spare your aunt a mighty burden. The income and debts of this estate are yours, along with the difficult choices concerning your uncle’s future. As well as the allowance from your father, of course …” He went back to digging in the satchel. “… as stipulated in his will, from the year …”

“Wait,” I commanded, finally spurred from my stupor. “What allowance from my father?”

Mr. Babcock peered over his spectacles, for once, I think, caught by surprise. It was an event I’d wager did not happen often. “Your allowance from your father, my child. The interest on his income earned by trade, the bulk of which you have inherited as well, of course, having no siblings, and now that you are of age.”

I gaped at him, and then we both looked to my aunt. Unbecoming blotches of red dotted each cheek.

“Oh, dear me, Mrs. Tulman,” said Mr. Babcock. “Your memory is as faulty as my clerk’s, I fear.” Mr. Lockwood smiled.

“Excuse me,” I said. I stood, and walked out the front door.

I sat right down on the front step, feeling the sun burn my face and watching the breeze blow the grasses. Mr. Babcock’s horses, carriage, and driver were biding their time a little ways down the drive.
Someone should show them the way to the old stables
, I thought. Perhaps there might even be hay. I would tell Lane or Mrs. Jefferies. Then my eyes moved from the carriage and I observed a family of hares on the hillside, grazing above the black hole that was the tunnel. If Davy had been here, we could have caught him one of the babies to raise.

And then it occurred to me that the tunnel I was looking at was mine. The stables were mine, the rabbits and the grass mine; the step I sat on was mine. My uncle would never have to go anywhere else. I never needed to go anywhere else. I took a breath, and discovered I needed another, and another. I covered my face. I could not seem to breathe properly at all.

The door opened behind me, and Mr. Babcock came out. I could hear the squeakiness of his shoes. Or perhaps it was his knees. With difficulty he placed himself on the crumbling step beside me.

“Well, well, Miss Tulman, great fun! And nearly two decades in the making! The best kind, of course. Nothing like it!” He waited for a moment, then continued when I did not respond. “I have left your aunt perusing paperwork that she appears to find distressing. Truly, the language of the legal profession can be difficult to comprehend.”

I could not make a sound. He dug in a pocket and handed me his handkerchief.

“Did you really not know about your father’s money, my dear? Did you think you had nothing?”

I nodded, dabbing at my eyes.

“And therefore thought I was asking you to choose a wretched life beneath your loving aunt’s thumb! My apologies, Miss Tulman. I was in a hurry. I assumed. It is a lesson to me.”

I turned to look at his balding head and worked up the breath to speak. “You don’t have a negligent clerk,” I told him. “You would have suppressed every bit of that paperwork, and my grandmother’s wishes, had I not been …”
How had he put it before?
“… sympathetic.”

Mr. Babcock smiled slightly and shrugged. “Perhaps I would have. But it is your grandmother’s wishes that have always been my guide, and your grandmother’s wishes have always been to the good of your uncle. No disrespect to you, of course.”

“But what made you … How did you know where my … sympathies lay? I think I gave you no encouragement last time.”

“Never forget that the law has eyes, Miss Tulman, eyes everywhere! I tend to know which way the wind blows at Stranwyne.”

Which meant Lane and Mrs. Jefferies wrote him letters. I looked back at the waving grasses. “I think you must have loved her very much.”

The voice beside me softened. “She was ten years my senior and this long time gone, and yet never have I forgotten her. I hope you understand, my young heiress, that always, no matter what, I do my utmost for the house of Tulman.”

The sound of glass breaking made both of us glance back at the house.

“Mr. Babcock,” I said. “I think I shall need your advice very soon, on several matters, some of which are … quite beyond me. You will stay the night? Would tomorrow morning be convenient?”

“Yes, indeed! I shall stay for several nights, I think. We have quite a mess to mop up, my dear, quite a mess!”

Something else breakable shattered. I handed Mr. Babcock his handkerchief and got to my feet. “Would you like to come inside with me, Mr. Babcock? I am going to tell my aunt to leave my house.”

“I think it would be wise, my dear. She seems to be breaking your ornaments.”