Dark Season (5 page)

She remained silent. She let Mrs. Trombly untangle her hair. The motion was so practiced, so gentle. A mother’s touch. But that was just it: Mrs. Trombly was not her mother. Ella was not Phillipa. She could not take advantage of Mrs. Trombly’s grief, her willingness to construe mortal illness as supernatural ability. She must reject Mrs. Trombly’s offer. It was on the tip of her tongue.

I cannot do as you wish
, she would say, and she would walk out the door, catch a hansom cab to Pimlico, gather her belongings from her room, and find new lodgings in another neighborhood. She would inquire at schools, answer advertisements. It would be difficult to find a job without references and without connections, but she would keep trying.

But what if I can? What if I can do what Mrs. Trombly wishes?

She sagged against the older woman’s shoulder. Would it be so terrible? She could bring Mrs. Trombly peace. Tell her that Phillipa had moved from the shadows to the light. Out of all the lies she had told and would tell, this lie would shine forth, an act of mercy. Of grace. She could live with Mrs. Trombly in her house. She could set Mrs. Trombly’s heart at ease. And Mrs. Trombly would find her work as a governess.

“You will stay?” Mrs. Trombly’s fingers never stopped, and as Ella lifted her head, she felt a sharp pain in her scalp as a few hairs broke.

“I will,” she said before she could stop herself, exultant and ashamed.
May God forgive me.

The picture Mrs. Trombly had taken from the drawer was facedown on the coverlet. Ella reached out and turned it over. The girl who had sat stock-still for the photographer had Mrs. Trombly’s narrow face and pointed chin. There was something fierce about her. Foxlike. Skittish, wild, and quick. She looked more alive than Ella could ever remember feeling herself. She looked as though she knew she deserved life. It was a bauble she could play with, treat carelessly. A pretty golden bracelet. Not an iron shackle. Not a curse.

Why am I the one who still breathes?

She put the picture down carefully, aware that Mrs. Trombly was watching her closely.

“I think I need rest after all,” she said.

“Of course you do,” said Mrs. Trombly, rising. “Lizzie will fix you a tray whenever you wish. I don’t expect you to come down to dine tonight. Recover your strength.” She turned as though leaving then paused at the door and looked back. “Thank you,” she said. “I really am so happy you’re here. We have so much to talk about. You’ll want to know things about Phillipa, and I … I do enjoy speaking of her.” Those sad eyes were luminous. “You’ll tell me things too,” she continued. “My husband is away on business many months of the year. In South America. My son-in-law took an appointment in India, and he and my eldest daughter have been in Bombay for three years. I haven’t met my youngest grandson.” She smiled briefly, delight in the existence of this new grandson tempered by his absence. “My daughter Edwina married two summers ago and is mostly in Suffolk.” She rested her hand on the doorframe. “Well,” she said. “I’ve been very much alone. Only Phillipa is with me.”

Ella leaned back against the pillows, unsure what to say. The birds were still singing. The room was clean and bright and should have been pleasant. But Mrs. Trombly’s sadness was like a grain of musk, permeating everything.

“My mother died when I was a baby,” Ella said at last, stammering slightly. She hadn’t intended to trade confidences, but Mrs. Trombly’s vulnerability struck a chord within her. “I don’t remember what she was like. But if I can imagine that she loved me as you love Phillipa, I might be able to feel I have someone with me too.”

Mrs. Trombly’s smile was kind and knowing, and if possible, sadder than it had been before.

“She did,” she said. “I promise you she did.”

As soon as Mrs. Trombly had left the room, Ella curled herself into a ball and drew the blanket over her head. She heard a little crash. She didn’t crawl out to investigate. She buried herself deeper under the covers. She knew what it was. Phillipa’s photograph falling to the bedroom floor.

How does a man stop running? How does a man pick up his old life? Start again?

Step One: He burns the ticket he already purchased for the steamship back to Cairo. (
Don’t tell Clement. Pretend the ticket never was.
)

Step Two: He plans—no,
vows
—to come out from hiding in Pimlico, to turn over the lease on his dreary apartments to a deserving, down-at-heel clerk (there were many such clerks in Pimlico), free of charge. Meanwhile, he re-opens Blackwood House (horror of horrors) in Piccadilly.

Step Three: He moves into Blackwood House in Piccadilly. He repeats to himself, “It’s my house now, not my father’s.” Aloud, if need be. He allows himself to get rid of all the furnishings. To order his father’s Sheraton desk chopped for firewood. This will ease the transition.

Step Four: He reads his estate manager’s reports. He reads letters from tenants. He responds. He learns to associate “Viscount Blackwood” with himself. No more visions of the old man. Of those uncanny eyes—pale blue, almost white—alight in that gray wolf’s face. Banish them.

Step Five: He accepts invitations to dine. Then he shows up.

Step Six: At balls, he refrains from scowling at marriageable young ladies. Is bland, polite, a bit dull. Does nothing to encourage the sentimental rumors his reappearance has brought anew to the lips of every scandalmonger in the
ton
. He bores the more inquisitive girls to tears.

Step Seven: He seeks out his friends, those friends he has ignored for a month in London and, from abroad, for five years before that. He makes amends. He rebuilds bridges.

Step Eight: He sweeps his mind free of cobwebs. He forgets he has secrets. He forgets. He forgets. He forgets.

• • •

Step one was easy enough. Sitting in the wingback chair in his bedchamber, holding up the steamship ticket, he decided burning was too high-pitched. Histrionic. No more of that. He ripped the ticket neatly into fourths.

Everything else would be harder. Would take time and effort.

Three days had passed since his midnight interview with Clement. He felt—still—that something had changed. Changed for the better. When he left his apartments that afternoon, the clouds had blown off. The air didn’t bite at him as he walked along the narrow streets of Pimlico toward Mayfair. The faint foulness of the London air smelled sweet. It smelled like home.

Isidore Blackwood, the
ton’s
most tragic Romeo, or most black-hearted Lothario, depending on who wrote the gossip column, had returned, not only to London, but to society. He was out in the light of day. And—heaven above—could it be? He was paying social calls.

His first visit was to Louisa Trombly. He had been avoiding Louisa. He knew it was unforgiveable, his neglect. She had been like a mother to him. The only mother he’d ever had.

“You should call me ‘mother,’” she’d said to him, five years ago, at the funeral. “You would have been my son if … ” She’d broken off, overcome.

She’d spoken the truth. He would have been her son. The wedding date had been fixed, and he’d sworn to Phillipa she wasn’t getting out of it.
Over my dead body
. That’s what he’d said to her that night.

I’ll haul you back by your hair.

“Thank you.” He’d taken Mrs. Trombly’s hand, but his heart had failed him. “Thank you … Louisa.”
Mother.
He couldn’t say it. He’d lost the right to think of her as his mother the moment Phillipa’s head hit the marble of the courtyard.

He stood staring at Trombly Place, the blue door with the heavy knocker. He shut his eyes and willed himself to block out everything but the image of Louisa’s kindly face.

He walked up to the door and knocked, but Mrs. Trombly had taken the coach to see the modiste.

“You could wait in the sitting room,” said Rutherford. He’d been the Tromblys’ butler for as long as Isidore could remember. The years had not been kind. His face was thin and heavily scoured. Phillipa had been a great favorite with him.

Isidore wanted to say something. But didn’t know what. He stood looking at the man for a moment too long, awkward on the step.

You should rest, Rutherford. Sit down with a warming pan. Looks like you could use it.
He couldn’t think how to communicate his affection and concern for the butler without hurting the man’s pride. He’d forgotten all of his social graces. If he’d ever had any. Luckily, the expression in Rutherford’s pale, rheumy eyes made words unnecessary.

“Thank you,” he said, “but I’ll call tomorrow.”

He turned from the door, and that’s when the sound reached his ears. Faint. Melancholy. Someone in the house was playing a Bach sonata.

His blood ran cold. Every hair on his body stiffened, rose. How many times had he played it, that very sonata? He on the violin, Phillipa on the harpsichord.

He whirled on the step, thrust out his arm. The front door closed on his bicep, and he forced it open. Rutherford stepped back into the hall. His thin lips had whitened.

“Who is that?” Isidore advanced into the hall. He didn’t wait for an answer. The music had wrapped him with silver chains, and deep in the house, in the music room, a winch was turning, reeling him in. Pulling him forward.

Someone was playing Phillipa’s harpsichord.

“My lord.” Rutherford’s voice meant nothing. No sound penetrated except for those haunting, silvery strains. He didn’t realize he was at the music room door until he saw his hand on the doorknob.

Nothing had changed in the music room. He might have been stepping back in time. The walls alternated pale-green papers and tapestries patterned with birds peeking through green-and-blue foliage. A marble bust of Bach rested on a pillar near a curtained window. A lyre hung above the mantel. The room was immaculate, not a spot of dust on any surface, yet the very air weighed upon him. It was thick with everything he’d lost.

I am mad,
he thought.
I am finally utterly and completely mad.

For the music that filled the room came from
her
fingers, the touch so light, so quick and sure. A ghost was playing for an audience of ghosts. And for him.

Dozens of empty chairs were arrayed about the room. The harpsichord stood in the center. A beautiful instrument, the dark wood of the case contrasting with the paler rosewood of the inner face. A woman swayed on the bench. Slender. Clad in black, from boots to bonnet. It took him a long, excruciating moment to realize that she was flesh and blood. To remember that ghosts don’t dress in mourning, but rather, those who grieve them do.

He was at that harpsichord in an instant. The woman’s fingers came down with a discordant crash, and she shot to her feet, falling backward over the bench, so that he had to catch her shoulders and steady her.

He gripped harder than was necessary. Maybe it was to steady himself.

“Let go of me.” The woman’s voice was rapid and low. Her head was bowed. She held so still that he wondered if her heart was beating.

He released her and stepped back. He felt like a fool, like a boor. He tried to recover his control. Folded his arms across his chest.

“Why are you in here?” he asked.

“I couldn’t help myself.” The woman’s voice softened. Her tone had changed, filled with wonder. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

For a moment, his anguish flooded back.

What?
He wanted to ask her.
What had she seen?

His eyes roved the room, as though he might glimpse, in some shadow or another, the sheen of Phillipa’s black hair, the glimmer of her eye, the dark rose of her wide mouth, the pale length of her slender neck. He fixed on the cabinet and imagined the sheets of music inside fanning up and scattering. Phillipa had done such things, in fits of fun or fury. Scattered sheet music. Plucked leaves from trees. Her energy was uncontainable in life. And in death … ?

No,
he said to his whirring mind, his racing heart.
Stop. No more.

At that moment, the woman turned again to the harpsichord and let her fingers brush the keys. He understood then what she had meant. It was the harpsichord that had enthralled her. Phillipa had been the same. The day it was first brought into the house, she’d played for hours, refusing to leave the music room to dine. Within a week, Michael, her father, had worried about the gift. Worried she might love it
too
much. Phillipa did nothing by halves.

She had played divinely.

He looked at the harpsichord, forcing himself. He looked at the nameboard, inlaid with ivory and mahogany. Amid the grotesque ornaments decorating the inside of the lid—beasts of the field, and serpents and capering satyrs—the massive cartouche drew his gaze. It contained the painted figures of Orpheus and Eurydice, Orpheus frozen in the act of turning back, one arm holding his lyre, the other stretched out. He stared at Eurydice. Eurydice’s flat black eyes stared back, sightless. Her black hair flowed across her diaphanously robed shoulders. At any moment, she would vanish into the Underworld.

Damn her.

He didn’t know whom he meant, Phillipa or this woman who had drawn him into the music room. The last place he should have gone.

“It’s Italian,” said the woman, curling her fingers back from the keys.

“Venetian,” he said flatly, hating himself for falling so easily back into his old patterns. Macabre visions. Self-torment. Without the music to stir the air, the room seemed to close in upon him. Trombly House had once felt bright and open. Now he felt oppressed by it. The windows were shuttered. The room was dim. Every particle in the air had steeped in sorrow.

He realized he was staring at the woman’s fingers, slim and white against the black fabric of her gown. He couldn’t help himself. He had to examine them more closely. He closed the distance between them with a stride and caught her wrist, as gently as he could. He turned her hand and stared at the knuckles, the tapering fingers. Her hand was thinner than Phillipa’s, the tendons and veins visible through the skin. Her fingernails were even in length, perfect ovals with pale half moons rising above the smooth cuticles.