Charlotte Markham and the House of Darkling (11 page)

T
he noises in the house never subsided, but I was able to escape them with the help of the books from the library. The lines of strange calligraphy in the volumes translated themselves into the sights and smells of India. I wandered through the streets of Lucknow and Bombay, traveled through the courtyards of the Taj Mahal dressed in nothing more than my nightgown, a barefooted ghost unobserved by all. Each page took me to another part of the country, and I explored each of them until my legs were ready to give out from under me. I closed the book and returned to my room at the House of Darkling, where I immediately dropped onto the bed and fell into a deep sleep.

I dreamt that my mother walked along a windswept moor in nothing but a nightgown identical to the one that I wore, still dead but walking all the same. I tried to convince her to come back inside, to a house in the distance, but she told me to let her be. The wind continued tearing at her, stripping off her clothes, her hair, and then her flesh as I looked on in horror, helplessly grasping at her against the storm, crying out as she literally ran through my fingers.

I was already dressed when there was a sharp knock at the door to my room.

“Yes?”

A maid entered. She was young, with the same sallow, peach-colored complexion as Duncan. She motioned for me to join her in the hallway. I checked on the boys, but their room was empty. My chest tightened. I swept down the grand staircase, across the segmented foyer of the entryway, lights flashing and dimming with each step, and found the dining hall at the other end of the house.

When I entered I felt as if I had stumbled upon some medieval banquet. The massive table was laid out with slabs of meat still on the bone, platters of sliced fruit, tureens filled with egg and cheese, urns of coffee and tea, great heaps of fish, and a number of other delicacies that I could scarcely identify.

James and Paul were seated next to one another, across from their mother. A pale teenage girl with sleek blond hair sat next to Lily. The heads of the table were occupied by two gentlemen. The first I recognized as the large man from the night before, seemingly recovered from the previous evening's indulgences as he dined on a tray of sausage and ham. The second I could only assume to be the oft-mentioned Mr. Whatley. The two men stood from their chairs.

“Charlotte, so good of you to join us,” said Lily. “May I introduce you to Mr. Samson”—the heavyset gentleman bowed his head, still chewing—“and of course, Mr. Whatley.”

I nodded congenially. Mr. Whatley was imposing, not in terms of weight or girth, but in proportion, not quite a giant, but oversized compared to what one would think of as normal. His substantial hands picked up a napkin from the table and dabbed it at the corners of his mouth, his thin lips framed by a rugged face, the kind that is never completely clean-shaven. He had a windswept look about him, his hair wild and disheveled, his clothing very fine but rumpled, his shirt not entirely tucked in, his collar askew, yet the most interesting thing about him was his eyes—so dark that no light escaped them, giving off no reflection. They were unreadable, and as we looked at one another from across the table I felt a swell of apprehension. He was not a man to trifle with.

“Welcome, Mrs. Markham.” His voice was deep and commanded the same power as his eyes, yet there was a swagger to it, as if he couldn't be bothered to take anything seriously. “Please. Sit.”

It sounded less like an invitation and more like a command, and so I hovered for a moment just to see what he would do. Whatley had gone back to his breakfast, and when he noticed that I had not complied with his request, he leaned forward and spoke to me again.

“So good of you to bring the children.” He gestured with his hand at the chair Lily had offered me.

“Children need their mothers, little boys most of all,” I said. I nodded imperceptibly to Mrs. Darrow and took my seat next to James and Paul. I did not wish to come off as impertinent or as a troublemaker, at least not just then. I wanted to test him, and so I had. He seemed patient, the sort of predator that prefers to lie in wait.

“Alas, there is not a strong maternal feeling among the people of The Ending, Mrs. Markham,” said Mr. Samson between bites.

“Then I am sorry for you.” I placed my napkin on my lap and began to serve myself.

Mr. Whatley smirked at me, his thin lips pulled to the left corner of his mouth. “Are you now?”

“Yes. There is nothing like a mother's love. One must value it while one can.” I nodded to the boys and to Lily.

“So long as it benefits the child?” said Mr. Whatley in a more serious tone.

“Naturally.”

“Then it's for the best that most of ours depart. Some mothers have a hunger for their children that can't be satisfied by love.” He said this with relish, his face an expression of mock sympathy in everything but his eyes, which observed me without emotion like a reptile's. “It's not without precedent, even in the world of the living.”

Samson cleared his throat and brought a napkin to his lips. “Come now, my friend. Must you use that phrase? ‘World of the living,' indeed. We are just as alive, are we not?”

“Perhaps even more so, as we do not die. But then again, most of us do not exactly live, either.”

The large man chortled at this. “Conserve some of that wit, Whatley, for when I finally convince you to join us.”

“Please, sir. No politics at the table.” The pale, blond girl seated next to Mr. Whatley spoke up with refined enthusiasm. She was severely beautiful in a cold sort of way, with arched eyebrows and an upturned nose. Her eyes were so pale that they were colorless, and they shone with enough light to compensate for the dark opacity of the man who sat to her right.

“You have my apologies, my dear.”

“Quite all right, Mr. Samson. My father hardly needs the encouragement; he can be ever so boorish as it is. I've tried to train him the best I can, but he's simply hopeless.”

“I prefer impertinent,” said Mr. Whatley.

“It's all the same to me. It will never do at all if you hope to marry me off.”

“Perhaps I don't want you to marry, Olivia.”

“Of course you do, Father. Don't patronize me. I simply detest being patronized. You want me married as much as I do or you would never have procured a governess, let alone a human governess.” She looked at Mrs. Darrow and smiled gratefully before patting her hand. “Father demands the best for me.”

“The best?” I asked. It felt a strange sort of thing to say, using mankind as an indicator of quality, like the mink in a fur coat, or a particular kind of tea.

“Humans are the height of fashion.”

“For now,” said Mr. Whatley dismissively.

“Whatever for?” I asked. I was most confused.

Mr. Samson folded his hands together and placed them beneath his lack of chin. “We are immortal things, Mrs. Markham, and there is nothing duller than eternity. To pretend for a time that we know what it is like to be mortal is a mercy, however short-lived it might be.”

“One must stay current with the trends of society.” Olivia sipped on her tea, pinkie extended.

Mr. Whatley leaned back in his chair with lazy pompousness. “On the contrary, I could do without society altogether. It's such a tiresome thing.”

“All I require of you is that you're mildly agreeable until after my coming-out ball,” said the girl to her father.

“I have already agreed to your terms, my love. Am I not wearing this silly thing?” He plucked at the skin of his face so that it stretched and snapped back into place like a rubber mask. Paul jumped in his chair, while James cackled maniacally at the display. For myself I pushed my plate away, having thoroughly lost my appetite.

“You wear it, but not well,” Olivia went on.

“Then you must be more specific the next time you make a bargain. One must be careful with what one agrees to.”

“A valuable lesson,” said Mr. Samson as he stood from the table.

“Leaving us so soon?” asked Mr. Whatley.

“I'm afraid I must be on my way. Thank you again for your hospitality. You shall not forget what we discussed?”

“I shall consider it, nothing more.”

“That will be acceptable. Good day to you all.” The large man departed the dining room, leaving a lull in the conversation that I was eager to break.

“I'm afraid the children and I must shortly return to Everton. Their father will soon begin to worry.”

Mr. Whatley leaned over the table and sipped at his tea. “Mr. Darrow, you say? What is he like? Lily has been rather cryptic.”

Mrs. Darrow jumped in immediately with a flash of an innocuous, sociable expression. “Mr. Whatley, why don't you show them the main collection after breakfast? It is ever so interesting.”

“Splendid idea!” If he noticed Lily's obvious intrusion into the conversation at the mention of her husband, he pretended not to, although his eyes remained darkly mysterious.

“What do you collect, exactly?” I asked out of politeness more than curiosity, and in an effort to divert attention from the apparently uncomfortable topic of Mr. Darrow.

“It's better to show than to tell.” Mr. Whatley winked at me without any regard to propriety, and I looked down at my plate as I blushed, completely unprepared to deal with such a person. I had expected some cold, hard miser, the sort who would flourish in an eternal night like the one present at the House of Darkling, stifling all beauty and withering all life. But Mr. Whatley was strangely playful and in control of a quiet power that, when taken with his disheveled appearance, was quite striking and a contrast to the beautiful melancholy of the master of Everton.

When everyone else was finished eating, Mr. Whatley stood from the table. “Well then, by now you must have seen some of the eccentricities of the house?” He didn't wait for a response. “A cabinet of curiosities is enough for some. A small wardrobe with antiquities and keepsakes from the places one has been. But a true collector lives and breathes his collection.” He began to leave the dining hall, continuing to talk as he went and expecting us to follow close behind, which we did. At the end of one hallway, beneath a portrait of an austere-looking woman with tentacles instead of hands, he pointed out a stone dais that held a statue of a man, the shadow of which passed over a circle of markings with various labels, like
CHILDHOOD
,
YOUTH
, and
MIDDLE AGE
. In another room there was a spinning wheel that spun water, and a vase that, when held and turned clockwise, changed its pattern so that it was always different.

“The House of Darkling is my life's work, full of oddities and marvels, some of them trinkets and some of them more . . . useful.” He led us into the library and up the spiral staircase. When we reached the top level of the library, he went across the bridge and, after turning back to us with a dramatic pause, opened the door to his collection.

“This way, if you please.”

The room was like a mausoleum, starkly furnished in ivory, opal, and alabaster, with a tall ceiling that opened up into a glass dome identical to the one found in the library. The natural light of the evening sky was enough to illuminate the gargantuan room, which extended along the entire length of the house, branching off every now and then into corridors with similar items on display, galleries within galleries, like chapels in a cathedral.

“A collector is only as good as his collection, they say. This place holds all of my more valuable items. These are my Emotions.” Mr. Whatley pointed to the first section. Both sides of the hallway were lined with alabaster statues lit from behind in small pools of light. They were ancient things, reminiscent of the golden ages of Greece or Rome, naked, handsome figures, over four dozen of them, each one in a different pose. I approached one labeled
Envy
. The statue was of a man, his arms folded and his eyes looking sideways at something with an expression of distaste. As I looked at it I began to feel very insignificant. Mr. Whatley had certainly accomplished quite a lot if he had the luxury to work on such an expansive personal compilation of relics and antiquities, whereas what had I done but lose every person I had ever loved? I folded my arms and began to watch Mr. Whatley from the corner of my eye, before Lily pulled me away from the statue. The sensation left me as quickly as it came, and I was myself again.

“It's best not to get too close to some of them,” she said.

We continued down the corridor, and I kept an eye on the boys so they did not linger too long before any of the statues, especially the ones like
Lust
that were too obscene to warrant a description. Beyond the display of emotions were landscapes painted on panes of glass. They seemed to provide their own illumination, pulsing faintly in the gloom.

“These are perhaps some of my favorite pieces,” said Mr. Whatley.

“What are they?” Paul spoke up as he peered at a painting of a sprawling metropolis.

“Places. Or doorways to places.”

Paul reached out to touch the glass picture of the landscape, but Mr. Whatley grabbed his hand away with gentle control. “They're not to be touched, unless you wish to become stranded there without any hope of returning. Besides that, they're incredibly fragile and easily ruined. If you find one that piques your interest, simply ask and I can create a doorway in the orchard, like the one to Everton.”

“Are you familiar with Everton, Mr. Whatley?” I asked.

“Only from Lily's stories. I have not yet had the pleasure. Perhaps someday soon you would be good enough to give me a guided tour?”

I was so taken aback by this that all I could do was nod tersely in agreement.

Olivia gave a dramatic sigh. “Father, must you show them everything? My lesson with Mrs. Darrow was supposed to begin twenty minutes ago.”

“Whatever love wants. There will be plenty of time to see the rest, and there is still much more to see.” He led everyone out of his collection and locked the door behind us. As we went down the staircase to the bottom of the library, Lily pulled me aside and spoke to me as we walked.