Splendors and Glooms (33 page)

She slid one foot onto the ice and then hesitated. She had told no one what she was doing, and she might drown, if the ice wasn’t thick enough to hold her. Aloud she said, “But not right next to the shore,” and stepped forward.

The ice held. She didn’t slip. She tried to remember what her father had taught her. All at once she seemed to hear his voice: “One foot behind the other, and the toes turned out, my Rose. Bend the front knee and push off from the back.” Lizzie Rose adjusted her feet and launched herself forward.

She glided. It was an almost-forgotten sensation, joyful and free. Another stroke, and she began to pick up speed. “Keep bending the knees,” shouted her father, and she took his advice, though it made her shins ache. The ice was not even and Ruby was in her way, but Lizzie Rose’s face broke into a blissful grin. She spread her arms like wings and took another stroke.

It was even better than she remembered. Up and down the edge of the shore she skated; much hampered by Ruby, who leaped at her skirts, barking shrilly. As Lizzie Rose tried to dodge the dog, her right skate skidded, and she crashed downward. The slickness of the ice broke her fall. She knelt on one knee and shifted her weight upward. In an instant she was skating again, stroking with greater force.

Little by little, the old skill came back to her. She tottered back to fetch the broom and swept a small rink for herself, discovering that the ice was smoother away from the shore. If the cold weather held, she would sweep a larger rink every day. She would bring a length of clothesline from the scullery and tether Ruby to one of the stone urns so that the spaniel wouldn’t trip her. Perhaps she could learn to skate a figure eight on one foot, as her father had done. Perhaps she might teach Parsefall; perhaps she wouldn’t. It was glorious, having the whole lake to herself. Lizzie Rose caught the tip of her skate on a furrow in the ice, tilted wildly, and saved herself from falling just in time.

Her headache had vanished. So, too, had her sense of cold; she was sweating inside the green velvet coat. From time to time she glanced up at the sky. The great clouds were parting, showing shreds of watery blue. Shafts of sunlight turned the lake to mother-of-pearl.

“It’s Christmas,” Lizzie Rose said, for the third time that day. She leaned against the wind like a sailing ship, and her mind was peaceful and clear.

I
n London, Christmas morning arrived wrapped in fog. Dr. Wintermute was awakened by the pealing of the church bells. He did not rise at once but stared up at the ceiling, shrinking from the day before him. He hoped that one of his patients would need him, so that he wouldn’t have to spend the whole of Christmas Day at his wife’s side. It would be a hideous holiday for both of them. He longed for it to be over.

He waited until the clock struck seven before he rose. He washed and dressed mechanically, then descended the stairs to the breakfast room. Last Christmas, the staircase had been adorned with holly and white ribbons. Clara had pleaded for red ones, but Ada had insisted on white, as being more suitable for a house in mourning. Dr. Wintermute wished he had taken Clara’s part. He tried to remember Clara’s presents from last Christmas. Had there been a doll? Or had the doll been from the year before? He wasn’t sure. Ada would remember, but he knew he would not ask her.

He stopped before the door of the breakfast room, wondering if his wife would be at the table. Sometimes she asked for a tray upstairs. Since Clara’s disappearance, she had eaten very little. As a medical man, he disapproved; as a parent, he felt that her thinness was seemly, a tribute to Clara. His own appetite shamed him, surfacing with ruthless regularity. He might be heartsick, but he was also an active and hardworking man; his stomach insisted on breakfast, luncheon, tea, and dinner. Even now, in his holiday misery, he smelled broiled kidneys and ham, and his nostrils twitched hungrily. He opened the door and went in.

Ada drooped before an empty plate. With some relief, he observed that she was drinking tea; she would take a little nourishment from the milk and sugar she mixed with it. He bent and kissed her, careful not to speak of Christmas.

She turned her head away. Since Clara’s disappearance, she seemed to dislike his touch. He told himself that the rebuff was not deliberate; he must not let it rankle. Silently he filled his plate and sat down at right angles to his wife.

As he unfolded his napkin, Ada spoke. Her voice was so low that he missed the beginning of the sentence, but he caught the words “Kensal Green.”

Dr. Wintermute cleared his throat and tried to speak in a neutral tone of voice. “My dear, I shall not accompany you to Kensal Green this morning.”

Ada put down her teacup with a suddenness that made the china ring. “But we always go to Kensal Green on Christmas Day.”

“Yes. But not today.” He realized that he sounded brusque. “I beg your pardon, my dear. You must recall the last time I was at Kensal Green.” He looked away from her and caught sight of his own reflection in the glass over the mantel. For one split second, he failed to recognize himself and regarded the reflected image as a patient.
A man of robust middle age; prosperous, well nourished, but suffering from melancholia and nervous strain . . .

Ada said again, “We always go to Kensal Green.”

“Yes. Perhaps that was a mistake.” He knew he was on dangerous ground, but he went on. “I have sometimes thought that it made Clara unhappy to visit Kensal Green every Christmas. I’ve even wondered if we mourned our dead children at the expense of the one who lived —”

His wife’s head came up sharply. The tears in her eyes brimmed over and began to fall. He reached for her hand, but she stood up quickly, eluding him.

“Ada, my dear, forgive me! I didn’t mean —”

“You did, you did!” She swayed and caught hold of the back of the chair. “You meant that
I
made her unhappy — that
I
forced her to mourn. It’s true, it’s true! I was unkind to her the very day she disappeared. It was her birthday, and that hideous puppet show — I wouldn’t let her laugh — I wouldn’t forgive her —” She caught her breath on a sob. “If she ran away, I was to blame —”

“You were not,” he interrupted sharply. He got up and tried to take her in his arms, but she shrank from him. “Ada, she didn’t run away. I am convinced of that. She was kidnapped — and that mountebank Grisini, that monster, had something to do with it.” He pulled up short, wondering if he should tell her of his recent conversation with Lizzie Rose. He decided not to; Grisini’s wards had vanished, and the landlady had no idea where they had gone. “If anyone was to blame, it was I — I allowed that blackguard into this house! But how could I have known? Clara wanted him, and I wanted to see her happy —” He forced himself to lower his voice. “If we blame ourselves, if we blame one another, we shall both go mad.”

Ada had buried her face in her hands. She was sobbing so hard that he could not distinguish her words. “Ada, what are you saying?”

She let her hands fall and gazed at him with such bitterness that he took a step back. “You do blame me,” she contradicted him, “and it’s true. I didn’t love her the way I did the others. How could I, when I knew she might be taken away? I bore you five children, Thomas. Five children in eight years — I carried them in sickness and bore them in pain. You don’t know what that’s like. No man knows. But I loved them, truly I loved them — and then the cholera came, and they were taken from me. All but Clara. I wanted to love her. I tried — I
did
love her, but then she was taken, too.” She pressed her knotted hands against her breast. “I was a bad mother, I know I was, but I swear to you, Thomas, I never wanted them to die; I never wanted any of them to die —”

“Ada, hush.” He opened his arms, but she shook her head, guarding the distance between them. “I know you loved them. You must not torment yourself like this. Let the dead bury the dead.” It was not what he had intended to say, but the Biblical phrase seemed strangely apt. “No matter how much we grieve for them, we can’t bring back our children. The death masks and the photographs and the portraits . . . They’re
things;
they’re not our children.” He had a sudden vision of himself lifting the death masks off the wall and wrapping them tenderly in cotton wool. He could do it if he chose; he was the master of the house. “Our children are with God, Ada. They don’t need us to visit them on Christmas Day. They are with God, in heaven.”

“And Clara?” He saw her eyes narrow as she drove her point home. “Where is Clara?”

D
arkness fell early on Christmas Day. When Lizzie Rose came in from skating, she settled in the Green Room and lay in wait for Parsefall. She took up her mother’s Bible and passed the time reading the Christmassy bits from Matthew and Luke. By the time Parsefall appeared, she felt that she had been refreshed in body and spirit, and she hailed him sweetly: “Merry Christmas! Where have you been all day?”

Parsefall blinked at her. He fished in his pocket and drew out a glittering object. “’Ere,” he said briefly, and dropped it in her lap. “Merry Christmas.”

It was the emerald necklace. Lizzie Rose was both touched and slightly appalled. “Oh, Parsefall, you mustn’t! I’m sure Madama wouldn’t want — but how dear of you! But, oh, Parsefall, I haven’t anything for you! If we’d stayed in London, I’d have bought you a proper jackknife for Christmas — I meant to —”

Parsefall slipped out from under her arm. “Don’t need a jackknife,” he said magnanimously. “The old lady gave me a pistol — only it won’t shoot. Put yer gewgaws on, and let’s ’ave a look.”

Lizzie Rose held the necklace on the tips of her fingers, as if she were about to play cat’s cradle. “I’m sure I mustn’t keep it. I told Madama I didn’t need jewels, and I don’t think she’d approve —”

“Who cares wot she thinks?” demanded Parsefall. “I knew you wanted ’em. I saw you lookin’ at ’em that first night. So on Christmas Eve, I went into Madama’s room and took ’em off the table. An’ Madama knew I took ’em, and she didn’t make me give ’em back. So you can ’ave ’em, and if she don’t fork over the stumpy, we can take ’em to the pawnshop an’ live like kings and queens.”

Lizzie Rose was about to argue with this plan of action, but at that moment the door opened, and Esther came in with the dinner tray. Madama’s illness hadn’t deprived the servants of their yearly Christmas dinner. The tray was loaded with roast goose, sausages, mashed potatoes, peas, bread and butter, mince pie, and plum pudding. The sight and smell of so much food put an end to all conversation. Lizzie Rose dragged a table before the fire and spread the cloth. Parsefall set the chairs in place. Ruby leaped onto one of them and made off with one of the sausages. A brief scuffle ensued; the spaniel took refuge under the bed, and Parsefall pursued her there, determined to reclaim the sausage. Esther finished setting out the dishes and stalked out, disgusted. In due time, the sausage was relinquished, the dog was pardoned, and the children took their seats at the table.

Lizzie Rose spread her napkin on her lap and unfolded Parsefall’s, as a gentle reminder that that he might wipe his hands on it, instead of the tablecloth. Parsefall nipped a piece of goose off the serving platter, twirled it in his mashed potatoes, and bit off the end, as if it were a carrot.

Lizzie Rose opened her mouth to criticize his table manners but remembered that they had more important matters to discuss. “Parsefall, where were you today? I looked for you this morning, and I couldn’t find you. Then I went skating on the lake — oh, Parsefall, it was so beautiful! I wanted to take you with me, but you weren’t anywhere in the house. Were you hiding from me? Parsefall,” she coaxed, “do tell. Where have you been?”

Parsefall shoveled another chunk of goose in his mouth. His throat bulged; he looked like a snake ingesting an egg. “Slept all day,” he said curtly. “Couldn’t sleep last night, could I? Bloomin’ servants kep’ me awake, carrying on about Madama. She was right outside my door last night, did you know that? They had to get Mark to take ’er to ’er room, and she was so ’eavy he ’ad to drag ’er.”

“Out in the hall!” exclaimed Lizzie Rose. “I didn’t know she could walk!”