‘Wait! I don’t know what this means,’ I call after him, but it’s too late, he’s already gone.
I’d follow him, but Michael is chasing Evelyn into the entrance hall, and this is why I’m here. These are the missing moments that transform Evelyn from the brave, kind woman I met as Bell into the suicidal heiress who’ll take her life by the reflecting pool.
‘Evie, Evie, don’t go, tell me what I can do,’ says Michael, catching her arm at the elbow.
She shakes her head, tears sparkling in the candlelight, mirroring the diamonds flashing in her hair.
‘I just...’ Her voice chokes. ‘I need to...’
Shaking her head, she shrugs him off, flying past me towards her bedroom. Fumbling the key into the lock, she slips inside, slamming the door shut behind her. Michael watches her go despondently, grabbing a glass of port from the tray Madeline’s carrying to the dining hall.
It disappears in one gulp, his cheeks flushing.
Lifting the tray out of her hands, he waves the maid towards Evelyn’s bedroom.
‘Don’t worry about this, see to your mistress,’ he orders.
It’s a grand gesture, somewhat undone by the confusion that follows as he tries to work out what to do with the thirty glasses of sherry, port and brandy he’s inherited.
From my seat, I watch Madeline rap on Evelyn’s door, the poor maid becoming increasingly upset with every ignored entreaty. Finally, she returns to the entrance hall, where Michael is still casting around for somewhere to put the tray.
‘I’m afraid Mademoiselle is...’ Madeline makes a despairing gesture.
‘It’s fine, Madeline,’ Michael says wearily. ‘It’s been a difficult day. Why don’t you leave her be for now. I’m sure she’ll call when she needs you.’
Madeline lingers uncertainly, looking back towards Evelyn’s bedroom, but after a brief hesitation she does as he asks, disappearing down the servant’s staircase towards the kitchen.
Casting left and right for somewhere to dispense with the tray, Michael spots me watching him.
‘I must look a damned fool,’ he says, blushing.
‘More like an inept waiter,’ I say bluntly. ‘I assume the dinner didn’t go as planned?’
‘It’s this business with Ravencourt,’ he says, balancing the tray rather precariously across the padded arms of a nearby chair. ‘Do you have one of those cigarettes spare?’
I emerge from the fog to hand him one, lighting it in his fingers. ‘Does she really have to marry him?’ I ask.
‘We’re almost broke, old chum,’ he sighs, taking a long drag. ‘Father’s buying up every empty mine and blighted plantation in the empire. I give it a year or two before our coffers are completely dry.’
‘But I thought Evelyn and your parents didn’t get on? Why would she agree to go through with it?’
‘For me,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘My parents threatened to cut me off if she doesn’t obey them. I’d be flattered if I didn’t feel so damn guilty about it all.’
‘There must be another way.’
‘Father’s wrung every penny he can out of those few banks still impressed by his title. If we don’t get this money, well... truth be told, I don’t know what will happen, but we’ll end up poor and I’m fairly certain we’ll be dreadful at it.’
‘Most people are,’ I say.
‘Well, at least they’ve had practice,’ he says, tapping ash onto the marble floor. ‘Why is there a bandage on your head?’
I touch it self-consciously, having quite forgotten it was there.
‘I got on the wrong side of Stanwin,’ I say. ‘I heard him arguing with Evelyn about somebody called Felicity Maddox, and tried to intervene.’
‘Felicity?’ he says, recognition showing on his face.
‘You know the name?’
He pauses, taking a deep puff of his cigarette, before exhaling slowly.
‘Old friend of my sister,’ he says. ‘Can’t imagine why they’d be arguing about her. Evelyn hasn’t seen her in years.’
‘She’s here in Blackheath,’ I say. ‘She left a note for Evelyn at the well.’
‘Are you certain?’ he asks sceptically. ‘She wasn’t on the guest list and Evelyn didn’t say anything to me.’
We’re interrupted by a noise at the doorway, Doctor Dickie hurrying towards me. He places a hand on my shoulder and leans close to my ear.
‘It’s your mother,’ he whispers. ‘You need to come with me.’
Whatever’s happened, it’s dreadful enough for him to have buried his antipathy towards me.
Apologising to Michael, I run after the doctor, my dread growing with every step, until finally he ushers me into her bedroom.
The window’s open, a cold gust snatching at the candle flames lighting the room. It takes my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the dimness, but finally I find her. Millicent’s lying on her side in bed, eyes closed and chest still, as though she crawled under the covers for a quick nap. She’d begun dressing for dinner and has combed her usually wild grey hair straight, tying it up away from her face.
‘I’m sorry, Jonathan, I know how close you were,’ he says.
Grief squeezes me. No matter how much I tell myself that this woman isn’t my mother, I can’t make it let go.
My tears arrive suddenly and silently. Trembling, I sit down in the wooden chair beside her bed, taking her still-warm hand in mine.
‘It was a heart attack,’ says Doctor Dickie in a pained voice. ‘It would have happened very suddenly.’
He’s standing on the other side of the bed, the emotion as raw on his face as my own. Wiping away a tear, he pulls the window shut, cutting off the cold breeze. The candles stand to attention, the light in the room solidifying into a warm, golden glow.
‘Can I warn her?’ I say, thinking of the things I can put right tomorrow.
He looks puzzled for a second, but clearly ascribes the question to grief, and answers me in a kind voice.
‘No,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘You couldn’t have warned her.’
‘What if—’