A Pretty Mouth (6 page)

I opened my mouth to ask him another question, one about Mr. Vincent, but my power of speech left me entirely at that moment. We’d crested a hill, and Calipash Manor had come into view.

I looked upon the ivy-wreathed front doors and the ancient moldering stone of the house, pale in the weird light of the coming storm, and felt a strange flutter inside my chest. I could not help thinking that manor looked as if it had weathered a good deal more than ten years during my decade-long absence. The tower, where I had once held tea-parties with my dolls, or played at being Rapunzel, now looked so rickety it would not support a dove’s nest; the plentiful windows, upon which I had painted frost-pictures in the winter and opened to feel the breeze during the mild country summers, looked smaller, and dark with the kind of soot and filth one sees in London but few other places.

“I have been away a very long time,” I whispered hoarsely. “Drive ‘round, Bill, so I may get inside and see the place.”

“Go through the front doors, Miss Burchell,” urged Bill.

This drew a laugh to my lips, and I wiped my eyes. “I am no lady, and certainly not the lady of the house. Drive ‘round, the servants’ door was always good enough for me.”

“No, Miss. You’re here as our guest now, after all.”

I knew that tone, and it meant no arguing, so I thanked Bill and hopped down from the haywain. I was seized with a girlish fancy to take the steps two at a time as I had always used to do, but I only managed a few such leaps before my corset prevented further exertion. Thus I was sweaty-faced and breathing hard when I threw open the door—and saw the foyer for the first time in ten years.

The floorboards groaned under my shoes as I entered, and the high ceilings amplified the echoes of both footfall and wood-creak. The first thing I noticed was that the watery light spilling in from the door was hazy with little swirling motes of dust. My hasty entrance had stirred the air more than it had been in some time. Indeed, filth and grime lay thick on every surface, and I was overwhelmed by the smell of mold. When I looked up, I saw the chandelier was missing more than one pendalogue, and the candle-cups did not look like they had held tapers in recent memory.

I could not move for astonishment. I remembered this room as a bright and welcoming space; recalled the sound of my guardian’s laughter as he would chase me, shrieking, through the hallways, much to the displeasure of the housekeeper, Lizzie, who said I should grow up wild.

Shouting and stomping startled me out of my reverie. It was a man’s voice I heard coming from the interior of the house—and all of a sudden there was a tall, thin fellow with messy black hair and bulging eyes at the top of the front staircase, then galloping down it! He was too busy howling at the top of his lungs to notice me.

“Bill! Lizzie! Anyone! The old bastard is in need of something, but I cannot understand his infernal mumblings!”

It was such an excellent entrance that upon recollection, I cannot help but now contemplate how I will translate it into my narrative of Camilla’s coming-of-age:

I have no words to express my surprise when I saw that Laurent was all grown up! Pale of skin and darkly handsome, his face held a haughty, cruel expression that checked my first impulse to rush into his arms and demand a longed-for kiss from my oldest, dearest friend in the world. How serious he looked! His black coat and trousers would have been better suited for a funeral in London than his ancestral country home. Still, I blushed to see him—and felt a blush where not three hours ago I had been brought to the golden threshold of love by the gamahuching of Mr. Reeves. I never thought I would see my cousin in such a light—and yet …

But of course, my Camilla has her memories of Laurent to
contrast
with the man she meets upon arriving at The Beeches, as I think I shall call her former home. (“A Camilla Among The Beeches” sounds like an excellent title to me—we shall see what Susan thinks.) I, however, had never before laid eyes upon Orlando Vincent. My first impression was of a flustered wretch of about my own age, clad in a wrinkled suit, and waving his arms about and carrying on in a dreadful manner. I could see how someone might mistake him for the Ghast o’the Hills—if one were inclined to see ghosts and spirits everywhere, that is.

“Why Mr. Vincent, I declare!” cried Lizzie, stepping into the dusty foyer, drying her hands with a dingy rag. How old must she be now, I wondered? Always slender and tall, she was now made all of angles, and her impressive mane of dark hair was now a lustrous gray—handsome, to be sure, but no longer youthful. “And here’s our Chelone! Why, just look at you, grown! I’m surprised at you, Mr. Vincent. Let the young lady come in and rest herself before alarming her with your profuse ejaculations!”

I am aware those not in my profession use that word without heed for its alternative definition, but I confess I giggled—which caused Mr. Vincent to blush very pink indeed, and sneer at me down his long narrow nose.

“It is good to meet you at last,” said I, to cover the awkwardness I had caused. “I used to read your letters to the Lord Calipash. How was your journey from Rotterdam?”

“Spare me this nonsense,” he snapped. “You must come, Lizzie—now—he gurgles and sweats out his very life, I think. You can understand him better than I, come and discover what it is he wants!”

Lizzie looked appalled. “Mr. Vincent, you must not—”

“I shall make love to the chit later if it please you—only come now and see to my father! Are you so silly that the health of your lord does not take precedence over your sense of decorum?”

“Excuse me, Chelone,” said Lizzie. “I shall get you settled directly, but if you like, please go now to your old room. I know you know the way.”

“Let me come with you,” I suggested. I had no wish to be left alone in this dreary, unremembered house! “Perhaps I can be of some help.”

“You’ll be the most help if you shut your mouth and stop distracting us all! Why you have come now, at the eleventh hour, is a mystery to me!” Mr. Vincent turned on his heel and fairly ran away from us, taking the steps two at a time.

I was, of course, concerned that he who had posted, and I had supposed, written the letter to me also had no notion of my coming, but I had no time to muse on this—Lizzie had followed after him, saying over her shoulder:

“Come along, then. You always had a certain rapport with the Lord Calipash, perhaps the unexpected sight of you will restore him.”

“I cannot account for this,” I said, as I followed her. “Why did he not tell anyone of his invitation to me, I wonder? And how did he get the letter into the post?” I laughed. “Perhaps it really was the Ghast!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, nothing—just, the woman at the post office said Mr. Vincent was very like the Ghast o’the Hills, you know, the ghost that—”

“There’s no such thing as ghosts,” interrupted Lizzie. “Let us see what the Lord Calipash requires, yes?”

During our trip upstairs to my guardian’s chambers I had noticed the same disrepair and neglect throughout Calipash Manor as had been evident in the foyer. The banisters were unpolished and slick with moisture; the carpet felt damp beneath my feet. Even the portrait-frames looked strangely aged. The gold leaf had flaked away and, curiously, the people in the pictures appeared older than I remembered them. The Calipash family has always been an attractive one, though just as the gentleman on the train mentioned, bizarrely alike in aspect, and with frequent incidences of twins. Long did I study their thin, aristocratic faces as a girl, making up silly stories about their lives—but today, instead of looking like an ancient and noble line, all seemed to carry in their eyes a hateful and sinister expression I had never before noticed. It made me shiver.

Yet the dilapidation of the house was most evident when Lizzie turned the brass knob of the door into my lord’s chambers and pushed through the decaying portal into the interior. The horrible smell of warm putrefaction hit me first, and then, through the gloom—for the thick window-dressings blocked most of the already-dim light—I could see more of the awful dust that coated every surface. Soiled garments were piled upon the floor, and his desk was messy with papers and spilled candle-wax.

This place had always been so fastidiously-kept when I was a child! Nauseated, shocked, I looked to my left and saw my guardian in his bed, the curtains of which were stained and the linens unclean. And then there was my lord himself … I remembered him as a vigorous older man, with thick white hair swept back from his temples and a ruddy, narrow, pleasant face, but the person I saw gave me no hint as to his former appearance. He was swollen, bloated even; his hair was thinner, and his face drooped horribly on the left side from the palsy that struck him some weeks back. His skin was as brown as a walnut, and had a patchy, unwholesome appearance.

I was glad Bill had prepared me for the sight, I do not know if I could have kept from crying out had I gone to see him unaware.

Lizzie bustled into the room saying, “Well, well, my lord, what may I fetch you?”

The series of sounds that came from my guardian’s mouth could not be called speech, yet Lizzie seemed to understand them well enough.

“Such a fuss and for what? Only the want of a cup of Darjeeling!” she exclaimed.

“My God, is that all?” cried Mr. Vincent, giving me quite a fright—I had not noticed him lurking like a spider on the other side of my lord’s bed.

“I’ll have it for you before you can say Jack Robinson,” said Lizzie, “but while you wait, here’s something for you, my lord—your guest is here!”

More wet grunting and smacking. Lizzie’s face fell.

“Well, surely you will be pleased when you see who it is—come closer, my dear, don’t hang in the doorway like some sort of apparition!”

With not a little trepidation I took a few faltering steps toward the bed. He really looked as miserable as the house itself; indeed, the only thing bright or beautiful about him was a curious jade pendant he wore on a chain upon his breast, just visible where his nightshirt was unbuttoned. Carved in the shape of a winged tortoise, it had a face more lupine than reptilian, and great clawed monkey-paw hands that gave the impression that the ornament was clinging to his skin. The craftsmanship looked almost Egyptian, and it glowed faintly in the gloaming. I thought I recognized the image … but I know not where, for surely he never wore it while I lived in this house.

Something about it captivated me, made me long to look upon it further, to hold it in my hand and run my fingertips over the smoothness of the stone.

“What a lovely necklace,” I blurted, unable to help myself.

A grunt that sounded like agreement came from him—and then his bleary eyes focused on my face.

“Whooo?” he said, like a tubercular owl.

“Your letter bid me come,” said I, remembering myself at last. I took his hand in mine, but almost dropped it in surprise. It felt leathery and chitinous at once; I could not feel the bones beneath the skin. “It is I, Chelone Burchell, your ward. I had not expected to see you again. I am so glad—”

There was more I was going to say, but, unexpectedly, my greeting induced a sort of apoplexy in the Lord Calipash. He began to cry out and wheeze and make such a ruckus I let go his hand immediately.

“Never!” I managed to understand through it all, and also, “Begone!”

This cut me to the quick. It was not as though I had forgotten what was supposed to be my permanent banishment when I received his missive! How could I fail to recall the day I was turned out of the house and sent alone in a coach to attend Miss Redcombe’s School for Girls of Quality? I was not even allowed to pack, my things were sent after me. All I had were the clothes on my back, a few shillings in my pocket, and a letter of explanation in my hand that stated, among other things, that payment would soon arrive to cover my education until I came of age; that I should stay at the school for all holidays unless invited to a friend’s house, and that every effort must be taken to keep me away from young men!

And yet I had always hoped we would be reconciled, despite his returning every letter I ever sent him, unopened; that he would come to regret punishing me so severely for such a trifling youthful indiscretion.

“I’m—sorry, the letter, it must have, I don’t know,” I stammered, backing away from the bed. The old man had begun to twitch and froth at the mouth, looking wildly back and forth between myself and Mr. Vincent.

“Begone!” he cried again, and then he fell back on the pillows—stone dead!

Lizzie, Mr. Vincent, and I stood still for some minutes, all shocked by what had transpired.

I was the first to speak.

“I brought the letter,” I heard myself saying, protesting this awful scene and my part in it. “You can see it for yourselves!”

Mr. Vincent—or rather, Lord Calipash, as I should start to call him, checked for the old man’s pulse.

“Well,” he sighed. “That’s that. There is nothing to be done but prepare ourselves for the funeral and legal expenses. A damned nuisance, I’ll warrant, but it shall be soon done with.”

“My lord,” said Lizzie, in her
how shameful
voice that I knew too well. “How can you say such things? And at a time like this?”

“I barely knew the man,” said the new Lord Calipash with a dismissive wave of his pale hand. “He sent me away to live with strangers as soon as I could walk, and called me home only so he could instruct me as to the management of this estate. He cared nothing for me, nor I for him. Now get thee to the kitchen to make my supper, and have Bill dress the body and put it in the crypt to keep it cool until the official burial. Oh—and have him go into the village to send a telegram to our lawyer in London, too.”