“Grace, there you are,” Eleanor says. “How did you sleep? Gerald happened to be passing your room last night and he said that you were thrashing around in your bed. Like a woman possessed, he said. Not bad dreams, I trust?”
I was dreaming of Ceto, sitting in her chair in the Shadowlands, counting the pearls in her tail. One, two, three, she began, touching each pearl in its turn. Thirteen, she said, staring at me. Remember that, little mermaid.
“I want to be sure that my guest is happy, while you are here,” she says. “And we don’t know how long that will be, after all. Not too long, of course. I’m sure that you have your own family to return to. Do you have family, Grace? Brothers? Sisters? A mother who misses you? I bet your mother looks just like you, doesn’t she?”
Eleanor waves a hand at the seat beside her, gesturing at me to sit. “You’ll be wondering where Oliver is,” she continues. “He’s in his room, I think, but I wouldn’t disturb him when he’s in one of these moods. So like his father, that one. Best leave him to it.”
And so it goes. Day after day. Did Alexander Carlisle also spend days disappearing from sight, turning into a ghost, slipping away before anyone could catch him? Oliver’s crumpled napkin is on his plate when I arrive to the orangery for breakfast, no matter how early I wake up. Eleanor and I, side by side, and she always has so many questions.
Where are you from? Who are your people? Blink your eyes once for yes and twice for no, Grace. We must be able to communicate in some manner, since you can’t read or write. Most unusual in this day and age. If Oliver was here he would say, Stop it, Mother, there’s no need to interrogate Grace. But he’s not here. He’s never here any more.
At lunch he has always gone out with ‘the boys’, hunting or riding, servants following with picnic baskets of food and drink. I am not invited. “Boys will be boys,” Daisy says, attempting to reassure me as I stand by my bedroom window, watching them leave. “It’s nothing personal, Grace.”
And maybe it wouldn’t feel so personal if my life wasn’t resting in his careless hands. It wouldn’t feel so personal if I hadn’t made the sacrifices I have in order to be with him. Why is he punishing me? It was he who initiated the kiss, not me.
The only time I catch a glimpse of Oliver is at dinner, but he doesn’t sit with me now. It is always a grand affair, the guests are business people and members of this country’s parliament, others in dark sunglasses that they refuse to remove, even indoors, as if disguising their unusually attractive faces. Tonight, there is a man on either side of me, the duke of something on my left and a Mr Large Gold Watch on my right. “Gosh, you’re pretty,” Gold Watch says, open-mouthed, his wife opposite him frowning at me, as if it was my fault.
During the course of the meal, Oliver drinks glass after glass of red wine, signalling to the waiter once the bottle is finished. “Another round, gar?on,” he says, snickering, and Eleanor leans over and touches his arm.
“Maybe you’ve had enough, dear?” I can see her whisper to him, glancing nervously at the rest of the guests. “Remember, we have company.”
Oliver shakes her hand off. “You can’t control all the men in this family, Mother.” He speaks loudly and a hush falls over the table.
“Oliver, that’s not fair. I didn’t try and—”
“Oh,” he says, ignoring his mother’s pleading expression. “Oh, I think you did.”
After dinner, Eleanor has invited a few guests to accompany her to the drawing room. I have joined them because I have nowhere else to go; Oliver left before pudding was served, beckoning Rupert and George to follow him. I tried to look like I didn’t mind.
The drawing room is Eleanor’s favourite place in the house; it is where she spends the most time, besides her office. It is floor to ceiling glass walls overlooking the sea, curtains and chairs in a primrose silk with the outline of roses picked out in cream thread. The handful of guests remaining after dinner include Henrietta Richmond, a woman with skin stretched tight across her bones, and her husband, a balding man called Charles. “New friends,” Eleanor crowed when they agreed to stay for a nightcap. I had heard her tell the assistant earlier to ensure these two guests were particularly well cared for. (“Wine, Gerald,” she said, “and lots of it. I want the Richmonds feeling very merry and very generous.”)
Charles owns a company Eleanor wants to acquire, and she is determined to have it. This world of money and business that Eleanor thrives in seems so complex, full of knots that must be untangled, never-ending problems to be solved. Eleanor is half-nursemaid, half-warrior, manipulating, flattering and bullying those around her to get her own way. It is most bemusing.
They clink glasses, ignoring me, then Eleanor reaches over to say cheers to the man they call “Captain”. He is sitting by the fire, hands in his lap, while the two women are cuddled on a chaise longue. I am in an armchair opposite the Captain, Charles standing at the drinks trolley, examining the labels carefully.
“Charles,” his wife says. “Maybe you shouldn’t have any more.”
“It’s a party, Hen. Relax.”
“Come now, Captain,” Eleanor says quickly as Henrietta’s lips disappear into a thin line. “You must have some tall tales for us, good man. The Captain is one of this country’s most reknowned sailors,” she explains to the others. Sailor? “Well, he is more of an explorer, really, aren’t you, Captain? Going places where no other man dares to go.” I look at him more carefully, this captain, this man who takes to the seas in search of adventures. What could he have seen, on his voyages? “He is famous for his story-telling,” Eleanor continues. “And he is most sought after company because of it. The last time he came for dinner, he gave the most wonderful account of his trip to Antarctica.” She smiles at the older man. “Where have you been these last few months, Captain?”
“I do love a good tall tale,” Charles says, throwing back his drink. “The more outrageous the better, if you please, kind sir.”
“They’re not tall tales,” the Captain says. His voice is deep, and so low that each of us has to strain to hear him. I have seen him at Eleanor’s dinner parties before now, but I have never heard him speak until this moment. He always seems to be on the periphery, watching everyone else. Watching me. “I only tell the truth. The things that I have seen are beyond mere exaggeration.”
“Oh, how exciting,” Henrietta says. Her face is beginning to perspire from the heat of the fire and she wipes sweat away from her upper lip self-consciously. “Like what, Captain?”
“Things that cannot be explained,” he says, without moving his gaze from the fire, as if he doubts Henrietta’s ability to understand. “Things that do not make sense to the rational mind, but which I have seen with my own eyes and know to be true. Things that can never be proven, so scientists dismiss them as fanciful delusions; the ravings of men spent too long at sea, the salt melting their brains.” I shift in my seat, leaning forward so I can listen better. Go on, I urge him. Tell us what you have seen. I need to know.
“Come now, old chap,” Charles drawls. “Don’t keep us in suspense. What’s the weirdest thing you’ve sighted at sea?”
“That depends on your definition of weird, I suppose.”
“Perhaps this was a bad idea,” Eleanor interrupts, holding her wine glass so tightly I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter. She looks curiously pale, as if she has suddenly taken ill. “It’s not fair to expect the Captain to entertain us. He’s probably tired anyway – it’s getting late…”
“Now, now,” Charles says with a wink. “You started this, Eleanor. I was promised extraordinary stories and I want to hear them.”