The Dark Unwinding (2 page)

The inevitable color of this room was softened by smoke stains, peeling plaster, and a faint orange fire glow. Copper pans and braided onions hung from the ceiling, clouded by a fog of steam that blurred the outlines of the furniture. But I could see a woman, stout and in a pale blue dressing gown, standing with her feet apart before a stove that needed blacking. She had just clouted the child in front of her on the head with a spoon.

“… will be taking you straight to the bad place for such lies, Davy …” She looked up then, and her mouth dropped open. “Well, who the devil are you?”

T
he child put two long-lashed, inky eyes upon me, grinned, took four steps, and folded himself onto the hearthstone. He carried a massive hare, brown-and-gray speckled, that settled into his lap like some sort of long-legged cat. Here, I thought, was my giggler.

“Well, who are you?” the woman repeated.

I held tight to the valise. “Please be so good as to inform my uncle that his niece, Katharine Tulman, has arrived. I’m afraid there was no one to meet me at the door.”

The boy fondled the ears of his rabbit while the woman stared, her spoon dripping. Either she was hard of hearing, or her brains were as addled as my uncle’s. Hoping for the former, I cleared my throat and spoke louder.

“Would you please have my uncle Frederick Tulman informed that his niece, Katharine, has arrived?”

“Who?” the woman squeaked.

I turned to the boy. “Could you take me to Mr. Tulman, please?”

The boy lifted those dark eyes to me again, his face curiously untroubled as he stroked the hare. He did not answer.

“But it’s playtime,” the woman said.

I turned again to look at her.

“Mr. Tully’s at playtime. You can’t go and be bothering Mr. Tully when he’s at playtime.”

I could not think of a suitable response to that. Steam spouted from a pot on the stove, and behind it I spied a kettle. “Is that Mr. Tulman’s tea you are preparing?”

The woman gazed at me as if I were an insect that had just crawled from her pudding.

I raised my voice. “I said, are you making tea?”

Her eyes flicked once to the kettle.

I set down the valise, wondering if the entire household needed to be sent to an asylum. “Well, I should like some tea, thank you. I’ve been traveling since early this morning and find myself much fatigued. I’ll have cream and sugar — half a lump, no more — and buttered toast, if you please.” I came down three steps, pulled a chair from the table, and sat on it.

That broke the woman’s trance. Her astonishment at my presence in the kitchen became open alarm. The spoon clattered to the floor, and she moved like a barrel on wheels to the table, her dressing gown flapping. She snatched the creamer and the sugar bowl, moving them away from my reach, eyeing my chair as if she might like to do the same to it.

I began loosening the fingers of my left glove, holding tight to my hand, to prevent her seeing its slight shake. So, I thought, this was her domain, her kingdom, and I had just invaded. Well, well. Everyone had something they valued. Aunt Alice had money, Robert had toffee, and this woman had a kitchen. What I valued was respect, and I intended to have it. I took a deep breath.

“As soon as you have begun the tea, please inform the housekeeper that I will require a man to deal with my trunk. It was left at the front doors. Have it taken to my room immediately, if you please, and you may tell her that I will do my own unpacking.”

The woman released the sugar bowl and squinted. “Who the devil are you?”

“I might ask the same of you, ma’am, though I, of course, would never swear while doing so. I shall try to forget that you have. I repeat that I am Katharine Tulman, Mr. Tulman’s niece. Obviously you have not been told of my coming. I take it you are the cook?”

The woman frowned. “I do for Mr. Tully. My name is Jefferies, Mrs. Jefferies.” She watched me pull my fingers one by one from the other glove, then moved heavily to the stove and put the kettle to the heat, her eyes darting back to me every few seconds. “You’re never … you couldn’t be Mr. Simon’s child?”

“Simon Tulman was my father, yes.”

“Why, Mr. Simon couldn’t have been near this place for almost ten years.”

“Considering that he has been dead for sixteen, I would say it has been rather longer.”

Mrs. Jefferies nodded in thoughtful agreement, her double chin disappearing and reappearing as she sliced bread. But I knew she was watching, to see what I touched. She skewered the bread on an iron fork and handed it to the boy. He held it over the flames without comment or instruction, the fingers of his other hand still fondling the contented rabbit. “And what would be bringing you to us now?” she asked softly.

I recited my lines. “I have come to Stranwyne to be Mr. Tulman’s secretary.”

“Secretary?” Her lips pressed together, and she turned back to the stove. I kept a guarded eye on the bread knife. “This’ll be that Alice’s doing, the little …”

Mrs. Jefferies mumbled on, apparently believing the whistle of the teakettle to be masking the rather offensive word she chose to describe my aunt. As I could not disagree with her, I turned to the boy. “Your name is David?” I asked him.

The child smiled, one deep dimple appearing in his left cheek, but he said nothing. I wondered how he was not miserable so close to the fire. The room was oppressively hot. He flipped the bread, exposing the other side to the heat.

“And do you often play in the unused portions of the house, David?”

His expression went blank, his attention all on the perfection of my toast, and I decided not to pursue the matter. The normalcy of being in a room with a woman who despised me had restored some of my common sense. There was nothing to be feared in dust sheets or a porcelain figure or an inordinate number of clocks. In any case, this boy was only nine, possibly ten. Perhaps he had not intended to frighten me with his laugh, or at least, not as much as he had. I had no wish for him to receive another rap on the head. “What is your rabbit’s name?” I asked.

The dimple came back, but he did not answer.

“Bertram,” Mrs. Jefferies said, slapping a cup of tea on the table. “We call the beast Bertram.”

I stared at the hot tea, feeling a drop of sweat sneak down my back. “I take cream and half a lump, if you remember, Mrs. Jefferies.”

Mrs. Jefferies grabbed the cream, poured a scant measure and set it away again, out of my reach, plopped a full lump into the cup and slid it to me, tossing the bread the child had finished toasting onto a plate alongside.

“Buttered, if you please, Mrs. Jefferies. And I wonder if you have given any thought to my trunk.”

The child unfolded himself from the hearth, arranged the rabbit so that its front legs hung over his shoulder, and went silently through a door beyond the stove. I caught a whiff of cooler air and a glimpse of walled garden.

“He’ll be getting Lane,” said Mrs. Jefferies. “Lane’ll fetch your trunk, though I’m sure I don’t know what he’ll be doing with it. We’ve nowhere to put you, you know.”

As I was sitting in one of what must be a hundred rooms, I ignored this, took a sip of my tea, and bit back a cry. It was not hot; it was scalding. I set down the cup, noting that Mrs. Jefferies was not attempting to produce any butter. “When does my uncle take his evening meal, Mrs. Jefferies?”

“One hour, seventeen minutes. And Lord help us, Miss, if you’re making it any longer than that.”

I raised a brow. Then my uncle was an exacting man, like Aunt Alice. I looked to the window and the angling sun, and held in a sigh. “Well, perhaps you’d better take me to him now.”

Mrs. Jefferies spread her hands on her wide hips, her chest heaving with a sudden agitation I could not comprehend. She lowered her voice. “I know what you’ve come for.”

“Oh, I doubt that, Mrs. Jefferies.”

“I know it well. And I’ll be making it hard for you, Miss, just you mind that. I’ll be making it as hard as I can.”

I studied her with new interest. Graying hair, a broad nose, deep wrinkles around eyes that were faded and … shrewd. The woman’s brains might be in working order after all. I stirred my tea, sucking on my burnt lip. Maybe it really would be best to see my uncle as soon as possible. If he was doing anything odd — which seemed a distinct possibility given Mrs. Jefferies’s behavior — I might get what I needed at once, no need to stay at Stranwyne for even a night. There must be someone I could pay to transfer me to the coaching inn at Milton, and I could pay well; Aunt Alice had given me enough for a stay of two weeks, if needed. I felt my nerves calm at this plan, and I smiled at Mrs. Jefferies. She narrowed her eyes, and then the garden door opened.

The boy and the hare slid back into the kitchen, leaving a lean young man in a grease-stained shirt hanging on the door frame behind them. I guessed him to be about eighteen or so beneath the dirt on his face, gray eyes regarding me like two chips of stone.

“Well, Lane, what do you say to this?” said Mrs. Jeffries.

He hung there, lazy and tense all at once, like a cat, arms over his head, dark and sweaty hair just brushing the lintel. I wondered if he was leaving grease spots on the paint. “I’d say you burnt the porridge, Aunt Bit,” he replied. His voice was very low.

Mrs. Jefferies made a noise of disgust and ran to the pot that was no longer steaming, but smoking, as Davy sat back on the hearthstone, cuddling his rabbit. I met the gray gaze, and lifted my chin.

“I am Mr. Tulman’s niece,” I said. “I wish to see him without delay, please.”

Mrs. Jefferies hissed from the vicinity of the stove, but the young man merely regarded me, a crease in his forehead. “It’s Mr. Tully’s …”

“Playtime. Yes, I have been made aware of it.” I tucked my gloves beneath my arm, and stood. “Take me to him, please. Now.”

Mrs. Jefferies sputtered as if she wished to spit out the fire. “He’ll do no such thing.”

I looked to Mrs. Jefferies. “Yes, he shall.”

“You’ve no business giving orders in my kitchen, Miss!”

“And you, Mrs. Jefferies, have no business wearing a dressing gown at five o’clock in the afternoon.”

The woman’s mouth unhinged, and I glanced sidelong at the doorway. The crease on Lane’s forehead had become a scowl, and the arms were no longer hanging, but crossed. That battle was lost. But I had no intention of remaining in Stranwyne for the night. I ran a finger over the sugar spoon, to irritate Mrs. Jefferies. “Then perhaps David will tell me where my uncle is.”

“I’ll reckon he won’t.” This comment came from the doorway.

I turned to the child and smiled. “David, take me to Mr. Tulman. And if you do, I’ll have no reason to mention anything that … might have happened before.”

The boy hugged his rabbit. The odd, blank look was there again.

“I’m sure Mrs. Jefferies would not be pleased if I told her what you did this afternoon. Just show me where Mr. Tulman is, and then I shan’t have to.” I held out my hand, but the child scooted backward, dangerously close to the fire, the rabbit clutched hard against his chest. Lane left the doorway and came properly into the kitchen.

“Stop it,” he said. “You’re frightening him.”

My eyes widened slightly. Aunt Alice’s servants usually just hung their heads or ignored me altogether; they certainly did not reprimand. But I only replied, “I am merely trying to make a bargain, not frighten him.” I smiled again in Davy’s direction. “Which is more than I can say for you, isn’t that so, David?”

“What are you going on about?” asked Mrs. Jefferies.

“Well, David, are you going to take me to Mr. Tulman?”

The child stared, the seconds passing, and then without warning he convulsed backward, as if I had threatened him physical harm, bumping hard into the iron grate that held the coals. A shower of sparks flew up the chimney and I reached out a hand, but Lane had already scooped both boy and hare away from the flames.

“I told you to stop!” Lane yelled, the deep voice hitting me like a blow. He set the child on his feet, brushing away the cinders. “Why did you have to scare him like that?”

Silent tears were overflowing Davy’s eyes, and my face flushed. I didn’t understand anything that was happening, but after my experience in the chapel, the injustice of that last statement stung. I pointed at the child. “Why don’t you ask him why he wanted to frighten me?”

“I can ask as many times as you want, you little idiot, but it won’t do any good. The boy is a mute!”

My gaze went again to Davy. Other than the gasping breath, his crying was noiseless. “But if … he didn’t …”

In my mind, I heard the soft giggle, creeping to me through the room of stone. I took a step back. “Where is my uncle?” I demanded.

“It’s play —” began Mrs. Jefferies.

“Mr. Tully’s in his workshop,” Lane said, “on the other side of the estate.”

“He’s not … here?” I felt a tingling sensation pressing on my neck; it might have been horror, or it might have been my own hand. “Then who else is in the house?”

The faces looked back at me.

“Who else is in this house?”

“No one,” said Lane, his arm still around Davy. “There’s no staff, just me and Aunt Bit, and the workmen don’t come near, not if they can help it.”

I stepped back again. There was something not right here, like that laughter, and those silent tears. “Take me to Milton,” I whispered. “I can pay.”

“Can’t do that.”

I looked wildly about the kitchen. “Then let me ask someone else, I …”

“Makes no difference,” Lane said. “You can’t get back across the moors before dark.” His dirty face was brown and smooth, like the stones on the front of the house. “And there’s not another man or horse within half a mile.”