White Stone Day (18 page)

he has brought – a polished, wooden egg which, when dropped
onto the floor, disintegrates into a tangle of oddly shaped pieces.
With a voice intended to approximate Humpty–Dumpty, the vicar
defies all the king's horses and men ever to put him together again,
a challenge Lydia eagerly accepts. Sensing Birdie's eyes upon him,
the vicar struggles self–consciously to his feet. 'I thought to
b–bring a little something for them to enliven the evening.'
And for yourself as well, she thinks – observing, not for the
first time, that there is something of the arrested child in his
appearance: his pageboy–length hair has been slicked down, his
necktie placed as though by his governess, and his cheeks appear to
have been pinched. 'Emma does not seem to have joined the game,' she
says, noting that Emma is nowhere to be seen. 'That is true. She has
little patience for me these days.' 'That is only to be expected,
given her age and development. Where has she gone, then?' Mr
Boltbyn's cheeks redden. 'She said something about wishing to
explore.' The wandering phantom broke and fled, Straightway 1 saw
within my head A vision of a ghostly bed . . . 135 WHITE STONE DAY
Crouched beneath the banister to avoid detection, Emma climbs swiftly
up one of two enormous staircases in the central hall. Reaching the
upper gallery, she takes a moment to examine the portraits of the
duke's gloomy ancestors, then wanders down a long dark hall, its
ceiling somewhat oval, with everything carpeted and papered in such a
way that she imagines it as a sort of tunnel. Keeping one hand to the
wall for guidance, she creeps along the muffled passage until her
progress is stopped by a rope, presumably meant to prevent visitors
from progressing further. Here she hesitates, for it is often the
case that such ropes are warnings of danger – a collapsed floor
or unfinished construction – and she would hate to fall down a
hole and have to call for help. Finding an open door to the left, she
decides to explore here instead. The room is even darker than the
passage outside, and Emma cannot see so much as her hand in front of
her face. Nonetheless, she can feel the velvet curtain that covers
the wall next to her, and she recognises the faint smell of ether.
She is in no doubt that this is where photographs are taken by Mr
Boltbyn and his club. Having explained things satisfactorily to
herself, she exits the room, then stops, wondering which way should
she go. Does she dare proceed beyond the rope barrier to find out
what lies beyond? Or should she retrace her steps back to the dreary
gathering in the reception room and Mr Boltbyn's silly puzzle? Her
moment of uncertainty is rudely terminated by a frightened voice to
her right: Jesus, Mary and Joseph save us! The gentleman standing at
the top of the stair is clearly a servant, and in a state of the
utmost alarm. Seeing him gape at her like that, eyes agog and mouth
open, Emma almost lets out a scream herself. The moment freezes in
the way such moments do, and between the Irish servant and the girl
in the white dress, an observer would be hard– pressed to
determine who is the more terrified. Finally, emitting a little
squeak, the servant turns tail and clamours pell–mell
downstairs, calling for assistance. No longer in a state of
indecision, Emma slips quickly under the barrier, hurries further
down the dark passage, and up a narrow– stairway. At the top of
the stairs she finds another unlocked door, which opens on to a room
which is the smallest she has seen. It is somewhat brighter than the
hallway, thanks to a small casement window fitted with iron bars,
much like the nursery window at Crouch Manor – excepting that
136 BISSETT GRANGE, OXFORDSHIRE the room it illuminates is
monastically spare, no carpet or pictures or mirror, with only a bed
and a table for furniture. Continuing down the short hallway, she
tries a second door, likewise open, expecting another spare bedroom
just like its neighbour, but this room is filled with a darkness so
deep, one can almost touch it with your hand. O'Day, this is most
inopportune . . . She hears the voices below; momentarily a feeling
of panic wells up in her breast, for there will be no end of bother
if she is caught snooping. Having no obvious alternative, she hurries
back to the bedroom, drops to her knees, and crawls underneath the
bed – a poor and childish hiding–place to be sure, but
the only one in evidence. A moment later, four legs appear in the
doorway, lit from above by a candle. Without knowing to whom the legs
belong, she lies very still and listens. 'I swear to Jesus, Mr Lush,
me on the stair and it pops up, the very picture of – what was
its name, sir?' 'In any case, as you can see, there is no ghost
present.' 'True, Mr Lush, yer right there. Yet I did see something by
the Christ.' 'No doubt you did. I have my own suspicions as to the
identity of your ghost.' Holding her nose not to sneeze (the floor
beneath the bed is extremely dusty), Emma watches the legs turn and
then disappear, thinking that it is all very peculiar. Who is the
ghost O'Day thought he saw? Why has she been taken for one? Who is
the man with the fine accent? Whom does he suspect? What is in the
darkened room? So many questions, all of a sudden! The footsteps
recede down the staircase, then the two voices fade down the hall,
murmuring back and forth. Even so, Emma counts to fifty before she
ventures out from underneath the bed – and with difficulty, for
it is uncommonly narrow and low. Rising unsteadily to her feet, she
puts one hand against the wall for balance – and feels
something in the surface of the wall. It is an impression, or rather,
a curved indentation, engraved deeply into the wallpaper with a
blunt, hard object such as a spoon. Convinced that a word has been
written into the wallpaper, by using her fingers like a blind person,
Emma traces each letter until it spells out a name. 137 WHITE STONE
DAY Eliza. Rising to her feet, she looks down at the bed where Eliza
must have slept, after having written her name into the wall, like a
prisoner in a dungeon. Emma sits upon the edge of the bed to think.
What can it all mean? At the tinkle of a small silver bell, the
duke's guests are directed across a wide hall into the dining room,
identical to the reception room but with maroon walls, whose fittings
seem built for a race of giants. A massive black buffet nearly fills
one end of the room, behind a dining table whose legs would support a
meal of elephants. In one corner, Birdie observes a cage of stuffed
birds – as does Lydia, who is joined by her sister. Emma
appears slightly out of breath; a blotch of dirt mars the front of
her dress. 'I see that Emma has chosen to honour us once again with
her company,' Lambert whispers into Birdie's ear. 'I had hoped you
might control her a bit more firmly.' 'She went exploring. I see no
harm in it – nor does his Grace, I expect.' Meanwhile, having
secured the attention of both girls by standing between them and the
cage, Boltbyn begins to imitate various feathered creatures, causing
the Reverend Lambert to roll his eyes as if to say, Will somebody
please do something about him? In the meanwhile, two footmen conduct
the girls to places of honour on either side of the duke. For her
part, Birdie takes a seat between Boltbyn and the pigeon–
shaped literary gentleman, whose name she forgets. She determines to
engage the latter in conversation, if only to be spared the vicar's
riddles and games. The table setting, like the furniture, is a model
of hideous solidity, with everything made to look as ornate as
possible and to take up as much room as possible and to display the
Danbury crest as conspicuously as possible. The silver seems
fashioned to taunt the user with its exaggerated weight, as though to
say, Wouldn't you like to melt me down? At her place lie no fewer
than twenty–four utensils, whose names and functions are a
mystery. Each knife nestles in its own rest, next to a butter pick
and a set of game shears. Eight pieces of stemware are arranged in
two rows, only one of which, the water glass, appears the least bit
familiar. In the centre of the table stands an elaborate floral 138
BISSETT GRANGE, OXFORDSHIRE arrangement for which the gardener must
have denuded half the conservatory. The Duke of Danbury rises with
wineglass raised to deliver the obligatory speech of welcome. 'Ladies
and gentlemen,' he begins. A keen silence follows, as upwards of ten
pairs of eyes turn to the head of the table. 'We who undertake our
duties at Bissett Grange welcome you to Bissett Grange. We extend an
especially warm welcome to the Reverend Charles Grantham Lambert,
together with Mrs Lambert, their daughter, Miss Lydia – and
above all, to the young lady on my right, who stands at the threshold
of her majority, who adorns our table as might inspire the flowers to
wilt in shame.' Birdie extends an inquisitive glance at her elder
daughter, who executes an almost imperceptible shrug in reply. She
turns to Boltbyn beside her, who appears decidedly troubled, then
back to the duke. 'Reverend Charles Lambert. Pray, be so kind as to
honour us by delivering the grace.' Taking his cue, her husband rises
and clears his throat, in that modest way he affects when he feels
important. As he says the grace it occurs to Birdie that he and the
duke must have met beforehand: and if so, what other subjects were
discussed? Come Lord Jesus, be our guest, May this food by thee be
blest, May our souls by thee be filled, Ever on the living Bread . .
. Grace complete, amens muttered, Birdie surveys the table and is
puzzled to see that the bread in evidence, living or not, is but a
single thin, unbuttered slice, resting on a napkin to the left of
each plate, with its own potbellied salt cellar close by. As dinner
proceeds, it becomes clear that the fare is a good deal more meagre
than even a supper at Crouch Manor: a consomme as thin and as filmy
as rose water, a haunch of mutton whose graininess suggests an
uncertain vintage, and tiny portions of ice cream and sweetmeats. The
four magnificent silver wine coolers hefted by the servants and
stamped with the unavoidable crest contain wine that has been notice–
ably watered–down; indeed, the only substance the house is
pleased to serve in quantity is water. While thin coffee is poured,
their host rises, tapping his glass gently with a coffee–spoon.
The sense of moment causes Birdie to suspect that 139 WHITE STONE DAY
what is about to transpire will constitute the point of the entire
affair: 'Ladies and gentlemen, it is not without satisfaction that I
stand before you to make an announcement of the highest importance.
We live in a time of moral uncertainty; a degenerate time, alas, when
mankind seems to have forfeited, through our sins, the gospel gifts
as vested upon us by Jesus Christ our Lord.' 'Amen,' mutters Lambert.
'Therefore, after earnest deliberation and prayer, I wish to inform
you that, at services this coming Sunday, it will be announced to the
parish that the Reverend Charles Grantham Lambert has been appointed
to the position of Spiritual Adviser to the Danbury estate.' As
astonished as anyone by this news, Birdie joins in the ovation,
noting a peculiar silence to her left. When she turns to Boltbyn, his
large, shallow–set eyes are as wide as the butter–plates.
As the applause subsides, Mr Lambert rises from his seat to undertake
a response, which Birdie knows to be both well crafted and well
memorised. 'Your Grace, my family, my dear friends. It is with
humility and deep gratitude that I accept this high honour – to
serve he whose steps on the path must be sure, who must stand firmly
upon the Rock of Ages, whose house must be the Holy House on the
Hill, like the Holy Church which Almighty God hath established for
ever, in Jesus' name . . .' At a nod from the duke, the new spiritual
adviser to the House of Danbury resumes his seat, leaving his Grace
to bring the moment to its conclusion. 'We have designated rooms at
Bissett Grange for use by the Reverend Lambert. Bissett Grange is at
his family's disposal. We are glad to report that already Miss Emma
has agreed to join us on Saturday next, together with her sister and
her governess – and her mother, should she so choose –
for tea, croquet, and photography . . .' The moment is broken by a
soft cry to her left, followed by a crash. Birdie turns to face the
empty chair previously occupied by Boltbyn, who lies at her feet in a
swoon. A cry escapes her lips, she starts up from her chair –
and bumps the server hovering over her shoulder, about to pour from
his enormous silver ewer: a veritable waterfall drenches her with
such force that her hair becomes undone and her veil falls, clinging
to her face and rendering her temporarily blind. Immediately, shadows
scurry about her wielding towels, while others drop to their knees
and in urgent whispers attempt to revive the fallen vicar, and
another voice calls for brandy . . . 140 BISSETT GRANGE, OXFORDSHIRE
Removing the film of wet muslin from her face, her cheeks burning
with embarrassment, Birdie turns to the head of the table, and her
eyes meet those of the Duke of Danbury, who is staring at her with
the most peculiar expression. After an evening notably lacking in
amiable conversation, the company makes a hurried, hushed exit from
the house, at the end of this odd dinner – so pleasing to the
duke and his new spiritual adviser, and so oddly disturbing to
everyone else. Given the strange tenor of the occasion, as she and
Lydia pass through the front door Emma is startled but not exactly
surprised to find Mr Lush, standing on the portico as though waiting
for her, with the tight smile adults wear when they are cross and
don't wish to show it. 'I trust you enjoyed your evening, Miss
Lambert?' 'Very much, thank you, sir,' she replies, while thinking
that two of the legs in Eliza's doorway surely belonged to him. 'And
how was the exploring? Did you find that pleasing as well?' Seeing no
point in lying, Emma decides not to bother thinking up a plausible
denial. 'Quite pleasing,' she smiles, as though he were asking about
the sherbet. He glares at her with watery eyes. She observes his
round body and wiry hair – very much like a hedgehog, actually.
'I am glad of it, miss,' he says, smiling again. 'Yet I would caution
you against such expeditions in future.' 'Why, sir? Did not his Grace
say that Bissett Grange is at our disposal?' Smiling down at that
angelic childish face (with a most adult gleam of defiance in the
eye), Lush's feelings for children undergo a radical alteration for
the worse. Like most people of humane disposition, he has always
regarded children as sweet, innocent creatures. He does not share the
duke's cavalier ruthlessness, born of breeding, and cannot think upon
the doomed creatures employed over the past half–decade without
a sense of remorse, if not horror. Were they not innocents
themselves, once? Yet without them there would have been no business
to undertake, and Bissett Grange would now be in the hands of its
creditors, forevermore. True, the enterprise can turn a profit for
years based upon duplicates. But there must always be an original –