The Gilded Cage (12 page)

“Thank you,” I say dully. I know nothing will come of his promise. He's just as fearful as Grace, just as unwilling to accept that something so terrible could happen at Walthingham Hall.

The faint patter of melting snow outside my window makes my skin crawl. With every drop I envision the evidence melting away into mud. I realize I left the paintbrush on the table downstairs, but it hardly seems to matter now. I know that it will be gone when I return, spirited away by a servant who will take the stains on the handle for paint.

Elsie comes in carrying a tray of toast and a hot milk posset. Though she
tsk
s at me to let it cool, I take hot gulps, welcoming the sear of heat in my chest. Henry stands aside while she serves me, inspecting the combs and effects arrayed on my dressing table with polite indifference. Even though he shares a home with Grace, he's an old bachelor, and a soldier to boot—he seems unused to being around a woman's things.

Finally, Elsie retreats, but Henry stays on. “Bucked up, Katherine?” he says with strained heartiness, his concerned eyes trained on mine. When I don't answer, he takes a seat beside me.

“I don't know where McAllister is staying these days—the old lodge must be too drafty now for even an old hound like him to squat in.” He holds his hands to the fire, his face stony. “But I'll catch him out. He won't threaten you again. And he won't humiliate me, not with the shoot about to begin.”

“Henry, please.” My voice sounds faraway, and I wonder if Elsie put some drowsy-making herb in my milk. “Don't talk to me of hunting now—how can you even think of it? How can it not be a disgrace to our house, to forget my brother so soon?”

The face he turns toward me is contrite. “I understand you must think us cold, Katherine. Your loss comes so quickly on the heels of mine—of ours. My uncle, your grandfather: He raised me after my own father died.” His face twists a moment, like he's tasted something bitter. “My father was dissolute, a drinker, but your grandfather taught me how to be a man. A
public
man. Our lives are not entirely our own, living on display as we do. We must lose ourselves in routine, and so lose our grief. And if we give our neighbors less reason to gossip, so much the better.”

“Is the hunt so important?” I ask wearily.

He shrugs slightly, staring at the fire. “Not the hunt, but what it stands for. For Walthingham Hall and its decades of tradition. For strength in the face of terrible adversity. For soldiering on when you want only to give up.”

I'm tired, too tired to argue. I let my head drop back onto my chair. “I understand, Henry. Just, please, let me sleep now.”

As he stands and softly exits the room, I'm already drifting away.

The light when I wake slants low through the windows. My head is still fuzzy, but I finally feel as if I could eat. Under a covered tray on the table near the fire I find two hard-cooked eggs, a roll, still warm, and stewed rabbit in dark gravy. My stomach turns at the sight of the meat, but I keep the rest of it down.

With one hand to my aching head, I write a note to Jane, asking her to come see me before the shoot. I would feel guilty, asking her again to tend to me in my mourning, but I know she'll welcome the chance to see Henry.

Soon Grace comes in, and I see her relief that my wild mood has calmed into mere wretchedness. She reads over the note before folding it and sending it off with a footman; I know its mundane contents must comfort her.

While she does so, I move to the window to gaze out onto the grounds. Twilight hovers like purple haze over the tree line. The snow has all but melted away.

 

CHAPTER 13

E
LSIE LOOKS AT
me, unsure. “Bring this note to John, Lady Katherine? To footman John?”

I watch her blandly, making my face as blank as paper. “Yes, Elsie. Please deliver it to him at once.”

She's too perplexed walking out to remember to curtsy, though she dashes back round the corner a moment later to bob a quick one.

My note is simple:

If you're ready for your first lesson, meet me at the entrance to the servants' quarters in an hour.

If I have to lie in bed any longer, to think and cry and wonder, I'll go insane. I can, at least, discharge my promise to John. And I
want
to see him, though I'm scarcely willing to admit it to myself.

Before our appointed meeting time, I dawdle through the house, touching the shining surfaces of things and wondering at its all being mine. Before George's death, it was easier to think of it as
ours
—indeed, as his and his future wife's. Now it's near impossible to believe I am the sole owner of Walthingham Hall and all its holdings.

George and I had made plans in hushed voices the night after we arrived, tired beyond reason but too excited to sleep. When we docked in Bristol we saw, among the richly arrayed parties of London-bound travelers, scenes of terrible poverty. Worst were the children, malnourished and filthy, tugging at our clothes in the hopes of handouts. Grace had looked straight ahead, clutching her rich coat; Henry had patted one small girl awkwardly on the head when she would not make way for him. George, though, had emptied his pockets, giving them coins and candies. His eyes were damp when we boarded our carriage, and their great need was still on his mind when we arrived at Walthingham.

Now I inspect the family silver, largely unused but kept at a high shine; the books standing in jewel-colored rows, unread. If I was the one lost, and George left behind, what would he do? Would he sell all the contents of Walthingham, gift them to the destitute? Could he still bear to paint after losing me, to have his show at the Academy?

I hear a clock chiming the hour from far away, and it brings a flush to my cheeks. I hurry to find John, half hoping he won't be there.

He is. His shirt, worn thin with starching, is so clean and white that I wonder if he changed it before meeting with me. He doesn't speak for a moment, looking down at his shoes.

“Is there a quiet room we might sit in?” I ask. “Where we won't be disturbed?”

“Perhaps the boot room, my lady? There's a bit of space to sit, and we can carry in a candle.”

“Yes, that's perfect,” I say, my voice sounding terribly formal in my nervousness. “I'll wait for you here, while you fetch a light.”

He nods and strides quickly around the corner. I have time only to contemplate the broadness of his back under pliant white cotton before he's returning, slightly out of breath, a lantern in hand.

Our classroom is close with the smell of polish and shining leather, and an underlying tang of damp earth. John peels back the oilcloth covering a small table, and we sit on footstools, pulled close together within the ring of lantern light.

I empty the contents of my pockets onto the table: ink and paper, a quill and a small book. “Let's start with the letters of the alphabet,” I say brightly. “You can show me what you know, and I can fill in the gaps.”

He nods and leans his whole body over the page, his brow heavy with concentration. The pen sits clumsily in his hands, staining his fingers with ink, and the letters he forms are marred thickly with blots.

I'm watching the page, nodding, when he drops the pen in disgust. “That's about the length of it, Lady Katherine.”

“Don't be frustrated,” I say. “Our lesson has just begun.”

He leans far back on his stool and pinches the bridge of his nose, leaving smudges on either side. “Might we talk a minute instead? It's close work, glaring at the paper like that. I don't envy those who make their life around it.”

I seize the opportunity. “Yes, let's talk. Yesterday, before I met you, I saw old McAllister—the poacher. We … didn't speak, I just saw him from afar. Perhaps you can tell me what you know about him.”

John watches me warily. “You ought to steer clear of the old man. He frightened me as a child, and if I were honest I'd admit that he frightens me even now.”

“But why?” I say. “What was he like?”

“Much like he is now, I suppose. But back then he had the trust of Lord Randolph. He was stern and strict, even cruel. At least, it looked like cruelty to a young boy. I remember one time…” He trails off, looking at his hands.

“Tell me,” I prompt him.

“Well … it might sound a small thing to you. When I was a child I found an injured fox kit, a little thing with red fur and nice tufts to her ears. Her leg was broken, and she should have bitten me when I found her, but she didn't. She could tell I was going to help her.”

His voice has gone tender in the telling, his eyes soft. “I brought her to McAllister, asked him to help me make her a splint, to tell me what she might like best to eat. McAllister, the old bastard—pardon me, lady, I should not have said that. But you see, he smothered her. Quickly, with his hand in its old leather glove. She kicked her feet and turned her eyes on me, but I was frozen on the spot. I couldn't do anything but cry—only later, though, once I'd run away. While he was killing her, I just stood there. ‘Her leg wasn't going to set right,' he told me. ‘She'd never be able to hunt for herself again.' Perhaps he was right. But after that, I never went near him if I could help it. I couldn't bear to look at those mean black gloves he wore.”

I've never heard John speak so much in one go, and my heart aches for the child he was. “Whether he was right or not, he needn't have killed something you asked him to protect, as you looked on. That was unkind.” The story's shaken me, though more than once I'd seen my own father—even George—putting down an animal that had come to the end of its usefulness. I'd cried my own share of tears over those necessary deaths. Once again, I'm reminded of how much more I have in common with the likes of John and Elsie than with my own cousins.

I'm about to say so when John speaks. “Perhaps we can start our lesson again, Lady Randolph?”

I pull the paper toward me and write my name neatly across it, below his jumble of soupy letters. “Here, this is my name. Will you write your own below it?”

He does so, with relative facility. “That's one I can do,” he says. “Before my mother passed, she worked my letters with me a bit. But not any more than a man of my station would need—my father saw to that.”

“Let's start with simple words, then, and we'll see what you remember.” I turn to the small book of Bible verses, opening it flat on the table. Over the next hour John copies them out under my watchful eye:

No one can serve two masters.

Man is born to trouble, as the sparks fly upward.

The Lord knows the way of the righteous, but the way of the wicked will perish.

Do not be afraid, for I am with you.

“Do you remember what you asked me that day?” I say quietly. “At the funeral, I mean.”

“I think I do.”

“You asked whether the dead really watch over us, whether they can be with us still. And I think that my answer is no. Not in any real way. Not in any way that can possibly matter. My mother, my father, my brother—they're all dead. And I am alone.”

John places his warm, inky hand over mine as my vision blurs with tears. “I feel like the truth is slipping away from me,” I whisper. “About my brother's death. I feel I'm going mad … like I'm completely alone, where no one can touch me, or believe me when I say that something about his death is terribly wrong.”

I'm crying now, and John pushes the whole heavy table away with one quick motion; in another, he's caught me up into his arms. He smells of soap and smoke and horses—he smells of my life in Virginia. Our faces are suddenly close together, and we grow still, looking at each other as if across some great divide. Then he pushes forward and across, and I lean forward to meet him, and we're kissing, his mouth soft, insistent, our bodies pressed as close as we can make them. He picks me up with ease and places me on the table, and by some instinct I wrap my legs tight around his hips. My mind is racing, racing, my scattered thoughts trying to pull themselves back together, but I can't heed them. I think only of my mouth on his, his hands on my face, on my neck, then under me, supporting me, as he moves his mouth down over my throat. My body feels like one great heartbeat, a pulse of longing; I whisper something, but he doesn't hear. “We shouldn't be doing this” is what I say, but I say it not wanting him to hear. I hook one hand into his pale hair, pulling his mouth back to mine, then reach a hand back to steady myself—and knock over the inkpot, sending black ink swirling over the uncovered table.

John curses, untangling himself from me, as my dress soaks up some of the damage. I can't meet his eyes, until the sound of Mr. Carrick through the door shocks us both upright. “What's going on in there?” he calls in his arrogant voice. “Who's that making such a racket?”

John moves silently to a rack of boots behind us, pulling it out from the wall to reveal the unused door just behind. “I'll take care of Carrick,” he says grimly. “You go left out of here. The corridor will turn a few times, but you'll find yourself soon enough.”

“No,” I say. “You go. Mr. Carrick can't send me running in my own house. I'll be in far less trouble with him than you will.”

He considers this for a moment, then nods. “Thank you for the lesson, lady,” he whispers as he slips through the door.

When he's gone, I stand dumbly a moment, staring at the space where he was. Then I smooth down my hair, ball up the practice paper in my hand, and unlatch the door for Mr. Carrick.

“What in the world…” he says, surveying the ink-stained table, the disarrayed boots, and me. His eyes catch on the two stools, pushed close together by the table. Slowly he brings his gaze to mine, his eyes cool with understanding.