The Dark Unwinding (6 page)

“He says that’s where the house was getting its name, too, says it’s meaning ‘strange winds’ or some such nonsense, though that ain’t the way a body goes about talking now. You’ll have to be hoping for some better luck soon, Miss, or there’ll be nothing to be telling your grandchildren, and what a shame that would be, don’t you know, to get old without … Oh!”

Her squeal brought me running. She had opened the connecting door, the one I had blocked with a chair the night before, and behind it was a room devoted entirely to private functions. The floor and even part of the walls were smooth marble, impervious to water, and an enormous tub, a tub one could almost lie down in, stretched across one end of the room, a faucet hanging over its edge. The faucet was attached to a tall cylinder, pink roses painted on its side, a little door near its base with a cast brass flower for the knob. I tugged on the knob and saw soot inside, and some ashes. Then this was to heat the water. One could have a warm bath, and with no need for a kettle or running back and forth between the bedroom and the kitchen.

Mary, meanwhile, stood enthralled before what my aunt would have termed a “convenience,” though it was unlike any I had ever seen. Another water cylinder perched high on the wall, with a chain hanging down from it, a little tasseled pull dangling from its end, tantalizing. Mary’s brown eyes met mine, and I shrugged. She took hold of the tassel, grinning hugely, and pulled.

A loud and sudden gurgle made me start, and a rush of orange-brown water poured into the convenience. Mary had leapt all the way to the far wall before she came cautiously forward again.

“Oh, the water’s poisoned, Miss! That’s a shame, that is.”

I stared at the water, regretting the long and uncomfortable trek to find a chamber pot that morning. “Wait a moment. I have an idea.” I went to where yet another faucet protruded over a basin and turned the handle. The water ran a deep orange for a few moments, lightened to the color of mud, and then cleared. “See, it’s not poisoned, the pipes are just …”

But Mary was not listening. She was on her knees, peering upward beneath the basin. “But where does it all go, Miss? Where does the water go?”

I had no answer.

Mary was like a trogwynd herself, I discovered, making noise and pushing those around her at all times. She found a basin and torn rags — from another room’s curtains, I suspected — and commenced scrubbing the various tables and shelves, and even the wooden sections of the floors with vigor. I pulled down the filthy bed curtains and dragged them through the bathing room and another small chamber to the library I’d seen the day before. I threw the bedclothes over a piece of old rope Mary had filched from beneath a mice-ridden mattress, then beat the dirt out of them with a tatty umbrella. It felt good to hit something hard. I counted the rhythmic
thwack, thwack, thwack
s against the heavy pink cloth, filling my mind with numbers and dust until there was room for nothing else.

At dusk the windows were open, the curtains hung and the linens turned out, and a fire burned in the hearth, driving away the damp. The temperature had dropped with the sun, so Mary and I sat together before the hearth and candle flicker in the darkened room, faces dirty and hair mussed, finishing the bread, cheese, and tea I had raided from the empty kitchen along with some kindling and a few lumps of coal. I stared into the embers, half-drowsing in exhaustion, lounging in a mental haze that hid away the thoughts of such things as inheritances and workhouses and the porcelain faces of people who had died.

“You ought to go home, Mary. Your mother will be worried,” I said, forgetting that the whole reason for summoning Mary in the first place was because I’d not wanted to sleep in Stranwyne alone.

“Don’t be silly, Miss,” said Mary, her mouth full. “I already told her I wasn’t coming back tonight, and I was right to tell her that, don’t you see, ’cause if I had been coming home after all, then she’d have naught but a surprise instead of a fright, while if I didn’t come home she’d —”

“But why,” I interrupted, something I now did more often than not, “did you think you wouldn’t go home?”

Mary’s voice was pitying. “Now how could I go and be your ladies’ maid from my own bedside, Miss?”

“My maid?”

“That’s right. They said you’d come all by yourself, and that means you didn’t have one, and that means you’ll need someone to be doing for you, and I know all about the doing of such things. My mum was laundress in a big house once, and the lady of that house had a maid, and the maid told my mum, and my mum told me all about it, don’t you see?”

The candle flames stirred with the air from the window, and my protest flew away like the fleeting idea that had created it.

“Anyhow, ’tis time for your bath. Ladies get bathed regular, my mum says, even once a week, and I couldn’t think to shirk my duties, Miss, not for a sixpence. ’Tis a grave thing,” Mary sighed, “to be taking care of a lady.”

Mary must have already filled the cylinder and shoveled coals from our fire through the little rose-petal door, because in less than two minutes I found my foot sinking deep into a pool of deliciously warm water. I slid into the tub all the way to my chin, experiencing a luxuriance I’d never imagined. The small aches of unaccustomed walking and work were coaxed away, and I allowed myself to be lulled even deeper into lethargy. Dimly I was aware of the creak of boards and the stamp of boots in the hallway of the portraits, just the thickness of a wall away from me, and then a fist banging on the bedchamber door. A deep voice shouted words, two of which I thought might be “Mary Brown.”

“You can go your own way, Lane Moreau,” Mary piped from the bedchamber. “My lady is having her bath and can’t be bothered by the likes of you. She’ll be taking visitors in the morning, and if you ain’t a visitor she’s wanting to see, you can be leaving her your card, if you’ve a mind to, and …”

I sank lower, letting my ears fill with the odd hum and rush of sound that was water, and many minutes later, when I slithered upward again, the commotion was gone. But as the water drained from my ears like consciousness, I was aware that the boards in the hallway were creaking, very quick and very light, as if slippered feet were stealing their way down a dark, rose-covered carpet.

A
sky of watered ink hung above me as I shut the kitchen door and put one foot into the soft earth of the garden, avoiding the noise of the gravel path. I had woken in the predawn well rested, and with a head that was calm, the dim and whirling thoughts that had so troubled me yesterday now ordered and stilled. Whatever Aunt Alice chose to do with any information I gave her was neither my responsibility nor my sin. And she would find out in some fashion, whether from my lips or others. Better for those lips to be mine, especially if I wished to be kept in charge of the books. Being kept in charge of the books was as essential to my own future freedom as finding out just how much of Fat Robert’s inheritance might be left. Therefore I had slid my feet from beneath the sleeping Mary, curled protectively across the foot of my bed, and stolen the dress she had left thrown over a chair. I tied her kerchief around my head as I hurried through the dew-dampened garden. At least the width of the worsted would not immediately point me out as a stranger and an enemy.

The Lower Village was sleepy, lanes deserted and dock quiet, the occasional call of a cock or milch cow only adding to the stillness rather than breaking it. I approached the green door of my uncle’s workshop and very slowly pushed down on the latch. It did not open.

I stared at the door, surprised at my own surprise. I don’t know why I had thought my uncle’s workshop would be unlocked, open for just anyone’s perusal. I hurried around the corner, seeking another entrance. The building was much larger than it looked from the vantage point of the road. There were no other doors on the workshop end of the building, but on the river side, there were two wide ones for the delivery of coal, I perceived, and another beyond that, all of them locked. I checked the sky, paler and with one bright star shining just above the dawn. I went to the nearest window, and it pushed upward.

I thought for a moment and, after a quick glance at the deserted riverbank, scrambled headfirst onto the window ledge, swung one leg through and then the other, and landed lightly on the other side, brushing bits of dirt and crumbling paint from Mary’s skirt. And that, I thought, was one thing I would not be telling Aunt Alice. I looked around.

An enormous engine rose ten feet above my head, quiet now and partially obscured by a brick wall, tubes of polished copper and brass running out of it and along the walls. But I was looking for papers, not pipes. The numbers were so unbelievable, proof of my uncle’s expenditures might save me a certain amount of trouble and explanation. I moved across the soot-strewn floor and found a door with a short hallway behind it, two doors to the left, two on the right, and one at the end, which I recognized as leading to the little sitting room with the couch, where I had entered and left the day before. Silently I opened the second door on the right, and slipped inside my uncle’s workshop.

I was not alone. On the far end of the room, beyond the rows of Uncle Tulman’s toys in the faint glow of the gas lamps, a man had his back to me. He was in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, leaning over what looked like a trough that ran the length of the wall, something I had not noticed the day before. The man whirled about as if I had shouted, and the expression of dismay on his face softened into a smile of recognition. It was Ben Aldridge. He put one finger to his lips before turning back around, and I came noiselessly through the room to stand by his side. The trough he stood before was full of water.

“What are you doing, Mr. Aldridge?”

“The same thing as you, I expect, Miss Tulman, but I’d be most obliged if you would keep your voice low. Your uncle is asleep in his sitting room, and the walls do echo.”

I eyed him speculatively. “Do you often come into my uncle’s workshop without permission?”

“Only every blooming chance I can get, Miss Tulman.” He grinned, blue eyes twinkling in a sun-reddened face, making him somehow, just as yesterday, seem younger than his voice. “I am a student of science, and there is more knowledge in this workshop than in all the scientific brains at Cambridge.”

“Have you attended Cambridge?”

“I am a graduate.”

I must have looked surprised, because he said, “How unfortunate it is to never be believed when I say that. I grew the side whiskers, but it doesn’t seem to help.” I smiled in spite of myself, and he laughed quietly. “I came here three months ago, Miss Tulman, after my graduation, to visit my aging aunt, the last of the old servants other than Mrs. Jefferies. My aunt had already died, I am sorry to say, but I stayed on, hearing at first the rumors of what this room contained, and then finally being admitted to see the marvels for myself. I wish to learn of them. But your uncle, I’m afraid, shares knowledge most reluctantly.”

“So you sneak in, in the middle of the night.”

“One does what one has to. I go to take up a private teaching position in just a few weeks’ time, so my opportunities are not unlimited.” He leaned on the trough, his sleeves rolled up and arms dripping wet, like a boy playing boats on a pond. “And what has brought you here so early, Miss Tulman? I heard your visit yesterday ended rather badly.”

“Ledger books,” I replied, “the estate’s accounts.”

Ben said nothing, but his smile disappeared. He stared pensively into the water, and after a time said, “Tell me what you think of this.”

He plunged his hands beneath the surface, breaking the reflection of the gaslights into rippling sparks, and out came a metal fish, some two and a half feet long, painted a luminous green and blue. “Your uncle calls this object a toy, Miss Tulman. And, indeed, the action of swimming, though clever, is no great mystery. The fins wave, the tail swivels, the casing does not allow the leaking of water. And like a fish, when this toy swims, it does not sink, and nor does it float. That all is simple mechanics. But this fish also holds its course, not just in forward motion, but in depth. What, Miss Tulman, gives this machine the ability to swim parallel to both the surface of the water and the surface of the earth?”

I ran a finger over the slick blue fin. “It looks too heavy to do anything but sit on the bottom.”

“Ships much heavier than this sail the oceans every day.” It was the challenge of a schoolmaster.

“But they are wood,” I protested. “This is different.”

“Ah! But at this very moment the emperor of France is building a ship completely encased in iron, Miss Tulman, an iron ship impervious to cannon fire, and he expects it to float very well. But you are right, this is different, because this fish does not float or sink like a ship. It swims its course underwater in a straight line, right, left, up, or down. How I long to know how it would fare against current or in surf! I would take it apart if I did not fear my own inability to put it back together again, and the loss of your uncle’s hard-won favor.”

I watched him place the fish reverently back in the water.

“We live in a fantastic age, Miss Tulman. At the edge of a time when nothing will be denied us, not the moon or stars or even life itself. Your uncle is a genius. It would be … a crime, you know, to lock it away, to let it rot in a lunatic’s cell.”

“That is not my choice,” I said. “I only do what I am … compelled to, just as you.” Suddenly I felt very tired. “But all knowledge aside, do you not think my uncle is a danger to others or even to himself?”

“No, I can’t say I believe that. He is easily upset, and he has his own set of rules that he feels compelled …” His gaze slid to me on the word. “… to follow. His works are like his own children. He is protective of them, frightened of having someone take them away. He finds it extraordinarily difficult to trust another human being. It has taken me weeks to be allowed in this room on two consecutive Saturdays, and then I still cannot ask questions or even see Mr. Tully’s drawings.” He turned to look at me again. “He trusted you almost immediately.”

I thought of my uncle’s face the last time I had seen it. “I doubt that is the case now.”

“You should try again, Miss Tulman, indeed you should. As I shall keep trying to understand this fish.”

“If you come in here when my uncle is asleep, Mr. Aldridge, why do you not simply find the drawings for this fish?”

“Because they do not exist, or do not exist that I know of. No more than the drawings of that dragon you saw yesterday exist.” He smiled again. “Mostly your uncle finds written plans unnecessary. His drawings are for the foundry, and are generally piecemeal or incomplete.”

“And what about ledger books, Mr. Aldridge?”

He frowned slightly. “It would surprise me greatly if your uncle has ever kept a ledger book in his life.” He wiped his hands on his trousers. “We should be bobbing off, Miss Tulman. Mr. Tully’s guard dog will be along soon.”

“His guard dog?”

He took my elbow, steering me to the door. “Surely you’ve noticed your uncle’s guard dog? Dark, moody, and prone to an angry expression?”

I smiled at this description of Lane, but removed my arm. “I’ll risk a few more minutes, if you don’t mind. I haven’t done what I came to yet.”

Ben’s brows lowered for a moment, but then he smiled and inclined his head. “I hope to see you again, Miss Tulman. And … do be careful.”

I gave him a small curtsy in return, wondering who he was warning me against: Lane, or my uncle.

My perusal of the desk with the jumble of papers proved unrevealing. The peacock drawing — which looked complete to my untrained eye — had been replaced, and the bits of broken glass swept away, but there were no books, no records, nothing to indicate how much of Fat Robert’s inheritance was being spent, or how much of it might be left. But someone had to pay the men, order the coal, buy the base metal, and likely a dozen other things that had never occurred to me. And I doubted very much that it was my uncle.

I stepped out of the workshop. There were voices in the engine room, male voices, and I heard the scrape of a shovel on a brick floor. I had dallied too long. I tiptoed down the hallway, pushed soundlessly on the sitting-room door, and peeked inside.

Early shadows had collected like cobwebs in the corners, and on the little couch where I had rested yesterday lay my uncle, a blanket pulled up to his chin, breathing deep and slow in his sleep. Lane was stretched long on a blanket on the floor, his arms behind his head, conveying the readiness to spring even while in the depths of slumber. Beside the couch, on top of a cabinet, sat my bonnet.

My fingertips had just touched the brim when a voice said, “What are you doing, Miss Tulman?”

I started, my hand jerking back of its own accord. Then I snatched up my hat and turned around. Lane was on his bare feet, hair tousled and chin shadowed, his voice rough with sleep. “I am getting my bonnet, Mr. Moreau.”

“You didn’t come down here for your hat.”

The gray eyes bored back into mine, but this time they were not like stone. They were wild, unpredictable, like a storming sea. I opened my mouth to protest, and found I had nothing to say.

“Why didn’t you leave?” he demanded.

My gaze darted to my uncle. Lane was not shouting, but he was not whispering either. He crossed his arms.

“He’ll not wake,” Lane said, “not after he’s been upset. Why did you send away the wagon?”

“I’m not obligated to tell you anything of —”

“Yes. You are.”

I clutched the hat to my chest. My uncle had moved slightly, a corner of his tucked blanket now hanging loose to the floor. “I have only come for my bonnet,” I whispered. I turned away and hurried for the green door.

“It doesn’t match your dress!” I heard him call, the latch clicking shut on his words. I stood on the doorstep, blinking in the dawning sun, resentment rising slow and hot into my face. None of this was my doing, the result not my responsibility; I had settled that firmly with myself on Marianna’s mattress. Lane Moreau had no right to show me such open contempt; as Mr. Tulman’s niece, I was due his courtesy, at the very least. In London such insolence would have had him packing his bags. I lifted my chin, pushed down the latch, and marched back through the door.

Lane wasn’t there. The room was silent but for the breathing of my uncle. I crossed the room slowly and looked down on him. He wasn’t just beneath the blanket, I saw, but cocooned in it, the tight cloth only just moving against his intake of breath, the dangling corner carefully tucked back in. The white hair was wild, and yet his face was peaceful, trusting, like a swaddled child.

I smelled cooking from the garden, and when I entered the kitchen, Mrs. Jefferies, wearing a starched apron and with her hair combed and pinned, looked up from a sizzling pan. Her brows rose, at Mary Brown’s dirty skirt, I supposed, but she kept her remarks to herself. The table was set for four and had a cloth upon it.

“Are you expecting company, Mrs. Jefferies?”

“I thought we’d sit and have a proper breakfast, is all. Unless you’d rather not, of course.” Something like hope momentarily crossed her face. “Lane will be along soon.”

I remained silent. A meal with the two of them was not likely to be a pleasurable experience, but I had a feeling it was wise to take food at Stranwyne when offered. I eyed the fourth plate. “Will my uncle wake in time for breakfast?”

“Mr. Tully don’t come to the house to eat,” Mrs. Jefferies snapped, “and when people are going and getting him upset, he’s …” She stopped the rise of her voice. “I hear he’s a bit peaky this morning, that’s all. The other plate’s for Davy, of course.”

I had not noticed until then the brown head and tattered jacket in the corner by the fireplace, Bertram placid at his side. While Mrs. Jefferies busied herself with the pan, I set the bonnet on the table and went to the hearth. I bent down, reaching out one finger to stroke the rabbit, but Davy scooped him up and scooted quickly in the ashes of the hearthstone, putting his back to me. I knelt down.

“Davy,” I whispered, hoping the noise of the cooking would be enough to fill the ears of Mrs. Jefferies. “I want to tell you I’m very sorry that I frightened you. I was quite frightened myself at the time, so I rather think I know how it felt.”