Chime (18 page)

I drew off the cork. “How does one drink it?”

“Right from the bottle.”

“A swig?” I said. “I’ve never had a swig.”

I drank. The smell shivered against the roof of my mouth. I wiped my mouth with Eldric’s coat sleeve, just like a bad boy. “I’ve swigged.” I handed the bottle to Eldric. “Or is it swug?”

“Swug,” said Eldric. “It is in bad-boy circles, at least.” He swug. “It tastes much better outside church.”

“It’s the picnic principle,” I said. “Things taste better outdoors. And if it’s a forbidden thing, so much the better.”

“I’m sorry I called you irritatingly ethical,” said Eldric. “I was clearly mistaken. Now back to my idea, from which you are clearly trying to distract me. I’m not saying that Fraternitus members mayn’t have secrets from each other. Sometimes that’s inevitable. But don’t you think we can trust the other and ask for help?”

There was no point in saying what I really thought. I nodded and swug again.

“Perhaps our initiation will bind us in mutual trust and aid.”

“I’ve been waiting and waiting,” I said, “but no initiation.”

“Keep waiting,” said Eldric. “Now that I’ve mentioned it, I shall have to delay it for months. The initiation must never come when you expect.”

We were most companionable, passing the bottle between us. I made myself forget about the next day. We leaned against the wall, very gradually sliding toward each other. I leaned my head on his shoulder; he rested his head on the top of mine; and the astonishing thing is that it wasn’t at all awkward.

I wouldn’t worry about tomorrow. I’d let today be enough.

We laughed a lot and I grew warmer still, lovely and warm. I do realize that some of that warmth was due to the wine, but there was much more to it than that. There are two distinct aspects to Communion wine: one aspect is the wine itself, the other is the idea of communion. Wine is certainly warming, but communion is a great deal more so.

“I don’t like all one color,” said Rose, “but I like our frocks.”

I knew she did. She’d been saying so all day. She liked the way they matched up with themselves, which is to say they were white, white, white.

But that’s what young ladies wear to garden parties. White.

Rose was to attend the party. Dr. Rannigan said she might.

“Robert will like the way I match.” Rose turned so I might do her buttons.

I pressed my lips together so I wouldn’t say what I’d said so often in the past few days. That Robert might choose not to come; that he might feel awkward; that he wouldn’t have any friends at the party.

But Rose had heard me often enough. “I’m his friend. He would come because I’m his friend.”

“You’re all buttoned, Rose.”

Once, I would have called her Rosy.

Or Rosy Posy.

Funny how I kept thinking of our pet names since that rainy Two-Pint Friday at the Alehouse, when Father called me Briony Vieny.

“I look pretty,” said Rose.

She did, too. The dress was drifty and Grecian in shape, with a high bodice that flowed into a great shoulder bow. Mine was identical. The party had proved to be a lot of work, and in the end, Pearl abandoned her plan to design two dresses. We’d look like twin Grecian oracles, rather pale from staying in our cave. Also minus the prophetic powers, which was a pity. If I could look into the future, I’d know how I saved Rose from the swamp cough. I hadn’t had a single idea, so far. Two weeks and no ideas.

“Do you suppose Robert’s here yet?”

“Why don’t you go see,” I said, which left me to do my own buttons, but that was better than going mad. “Don’t forget, Dr. Rannigan says you must wrap up well, and that you mustn’t stay at the party past ten o’clock.”

It also left me with some brain-room to think about how to save Rose. One needs an entire absence of Rose to be able to think about her. If she died, I could think about saving her all the time.

There’s a riddle in there. I’ll suggest it to the Sphinx.

Rose came dancing over the moment I descended the stairs. “Leanne is here, and because of my eye for color, I said her frock is Persian green, and she said, ‘Right you are!’ ”

Her cheeks were actually faintly pink. Rose smiled her pearl-strand smile, her real-girl smile.

“I asked her how old she was,” said Rose, “and she said she was very old indeed. Father said it was rude to ask, but Eldric said Leanne was joking and I mustn’t believe her. He said she’s just his age, which is twenty-two.”

Rose led me through the kitchen, which was a most peculiar feeling. Usually it’s I leading Rose.

“Eldric has decorated the garden in blue and white. He said it was inspired by the Orient, but Leanne said it was
À la Japonaise
.”

We stood at the kitchen door. “May I open it now?” Eldric had forbidden any of us even to peek at the garden. He’d been most secretive about his arrangements for the party, and had taken to skipping meals in order to work on the final details.

“I see you put on your shawl,” I said. “Very good.”

But Eldric had taken dinner with us yesterday—I suppose he couldn’t very well not show up, as Father had invited Mr. Clayborne. Mr. Clayborne said it looked as though Eldric was working hard; and Eldric gave him a gray little smile and said he was; and then Mr. Clayborne had to go and say he wished he could once, just once, see Eldric work hard at something useful, such as university, or a profession.

“I prefer that you open the door,” said Rose.

Blast Mr. Clayborne! Why did he have to go and refer to his blighted hopes, with Eldric looking as though he’d worked himself to death? He was still six or seven feet of boy-man, but he no longer hummed with energy. I don’t know how a great boy like Eldric can look translucent, but he did. He was burning out, all wick and no wax.

“I prefer that you open the door,” said Rose.

The door? I came back to the world. Sorry Rose, yes, the door.

This is the difference between Eldric and me. Had it been my job to transform the garden, I would have removed the clothesline. Clotheslines always make me think of undergarments, and although I’ve never been to Japan, I don’t imagine a memory-whiff of undergarments is at all
À la Japonaise.

But Eldric had added clotheslines, strung them all about to encircle the garden. From them hung sheets, lined up hem to hem, and tethered to the ground with stakes. He’d created a three-sided walled garden. The fourth side opened to the river.

I hadn’t known Eldric could paint. The sheets were white, the paint was blue, and together, they blossomed into a blue-and-white landscape: cranes and spray-foam seas and snowy mountains and cherry blossoms.

The western sky was bright. Eldric’s shadow slouched against the garden wall, quite dwarfing him. I bounded toward him, bursting to tell him he was a genius—as much a genius in his own Eldric way as Fitz was in his own Fitz way—but then slithering up the wall came a second shadow, all bouncing ears and shell-like hair.

I un-bounded at once, which was both embarrassing and un-oracular. Where was my Delphi cave? I needed to hide.

The garden was filling with
Oohs
and
Aahs
, which were accompanied by guests and the rustle of evening wraps and little tendrils of scent. Pearl appeared bearing a great roast beef, and the energy of the crowd surged toward the banquet table. Corks popped and glasses clinked and Father, who’d been put in charge of the roast beef, said “Ouch!” as he cut himself.

I wandered to the river. Paper lanterns dotted the apple tree, where the swings had once hung. It was a crabbed little thing. It’s hard to imagine Rose and I were ever small enough to swing from it.

Footsteps came up behind me, with quite a bit of pounce. Eldric?

“Champagne, milady?”

What a dreadful thing, to have confused Cecil with Eldric.

But Cecil was pouncy all over. He seized my hand and said, “I’ve had a rather interesting thought.”

Imagine, a thought!

The sun was orange and setting fast. Its reflection oozed up and down the river in thick marmalade ripples.

“Don’t you want to know what it is?”

“Don’t you think,” I said, “that Eldric ought to have built one of those curly little bridges over the river?”

“I beg your pardon?” said Cecil.

“It would have fit in so well with the Japanese theme. My theory is that the rivers in Japan are only an excuse.”

“Come sit down and talk sensibly for once.” Cecil tugged at my hand. “The food is lovely and you might quite like my idea.”

“An excuse, you see, to build those cunning little bridges. Eldric would have painted it blue, of course.”

“Damn it all, Briony! It’s always
Eldric this
and
Eldric that
with you. I don’t wish to speak of Eldric. I wish to speak of us.”

He scooped up my arm, swung me round.

“Let go, Cecil,” I said. “I’ve a strange dislike of being forced.”

“But Briony,” he said, “I’m so full of good spirits. I could walk to London, I think!”

Why didn’t he?

After a moment, I realized we’d turned into an audience for the production of
Garden Party
, by Eldric Clayborne. The stage was illuminated with candles and paper lanterns and glowing cigars and little fires just starting up in a half-dozen braziers.

To the left unfolded the drama of Father and the Carving Knife.

Sorry. Stage right is what I meant to say.

Upstage center unfolded the drama of Mrs. Trumpington’s heel and a bit of soggy earth.

On stage left unfolded the drama of Rose and the absent Robert. She stood between Eldric and Leanne, and although I couldn’t hear her words, I knew she was inquiring after him, and I imagined Eldric was probably saying that no, he didn’t think the invitation could have gone astray.

How tiny Rose was between the two of them. I saw exactly how I’d look should I ever stand next to Leanne, which I shall endeavor not to.

Rose looked like an underdone sugar cookie.

Downstage center unfolded the drama of the Brownie and Mad Tom, both making straight for Briony Larkin. “Black-eyed girl!” called Mad Tom. The Brownie was silent.

“I’ll get rid of the fellow!” Cecil knotted his fists and sprang forward. It was all I could do to catch at his coat.

“It’s only Mad Tom!” I said.

There was a tacit understanding among the villagers that he might wander in and out of parties and weddings and other private events. But
tacit
implies the ability to make inferences, which is why Cecil didn’t know.

“It be you what taked my wits,” said Mad Tom. “I knows it by the blackness o’ your eye.”

And it had been Mad Tom who’d carved the sunflowers and daisies on Mother’s tombstone. Well, not exactly Mad Tom, but the person Mad Tom used to be before he went mad.

“I needs ’em, black-eyed girl. I needs ’em sore, I does.”

“I haven’t got them. But if you take yourself there”—I pointed to the banquet table—“you shall have bread and roast beef.”

And a bit of the Reverend Larkin’s blood.

“I’ll get us a table, shall I?” said Cecil. “In one of those warm nooks. I know milady is often cold.”

I liked the word
warm,
but I disliked the word
nook,
as it meant sharing a small space with Cecil. And there was still his idea to endure.

He took up too much space in the nook. Not his body, although it was large enough, but his energy. I’d seen him like this upon several occasions, but I’d never been trapped with him.

“You’re out and about so much more these days,” said Cecil. “Why don’t you join us on Blackberry Night?”

This was his great idea? “You’re mad!”

Good girls didn’t romp about on Blackberry Night. Father has strong opinions about it. His biggest, fattest sermon of the year is all about Blackberry Night, which is also Michaelmas, when is also when the Archangel hurled the Devil from Heaven. Naturally, this annoyed the Devil considerably, and he goes about on that night, spoiling the blackberries.

“I’ll protect you,” said Cecil, laying his hand over mine.

I whipped my hand away. “Cecil!”

On Blackberry Night, the lads and lasses run barefoot through the swamp, pretending to try to catch the Devil; but it would appear the Devil catches them instead, for they consume quantities of beer and wine, and they shed their clothes, and there are always a number of surprise weddings come Advent.

How does Father feel about Blackberry Night?

He’s against it.

“I’m so in love with you,” said Cecil.

I looked into his fallen-angel eyes. How convenient if I could fall madly for him. I could marry into stained glass and a lawn made of money.

“All the more reason I should decline your kind invitation.” What did regular girls see in him that I didn’t?

“I won’t touch you,” he said. “I’ll protect you.”

Some girls choose to marry into stained glass without the madly-fallen bit. But I, at least, would need quite a lot of stained glass.

“I can protect myself.”

“You don’t know Blackberry Night,” he said. “You’ll find, I think, that your father has kept you rather ignorant of the world outside the Parsonage.”

There wasn’t enough stained glass in the world that would convince me to marry Cecil Trumpington: aspiring highwayman and prig.

“I know more than you give me credit for,” I said.

This was the wrong thing to say. It was provocative. It made Cecil lean in still farther and say, “Do you,” with a most unpleasant inflection on the
do
.

Cecil teased me to reveal my worldly knowledge, and I found amusing ways to sidestep his questions, and on we went with this for quite a while until it occurred to me that this is what is called flirting.