A Proper Education for Girls (44 page)

Mr. Blake watched her impotent efforts with mounting concern. “We're trapped,” he said gloomily, sinking onto the bed. “I should have known.” The crowd of birds seemed to be staring at him, a silent, accusing jury, their beady eyes glinting with angry reproach in the lamplight. Mr. Blake eyed the bottle of ether that sat on the washstand.

“Nonsense,” said Alice. “There must be some way out of here.
We just need to find it.” She followed Mr. Blake's hungry gaze to the bottle of ether.

“I thought you had given that stuff up,” she muttered, rattling at the door handle again.

“I have,” he murmured. “I was just—” He stopped. “I was just thinking,” he said slowly. “Cattermole has had that ether for months now. It's dated from last year. It will have oxidized somewhat—it will have become unstable.” He shrugged. “It's a dangerous plan but not impossible to execute.”

“What?” said Alice. “What plan?” She smiled at him suddenly. “An explosion?”

Mr. Blake smiled back. “Quite so.”

“Can we contain it sufficiently?”

“There are bandages in Cattermole's bag. We might soak one and stuff as much of it as we can into the keyhole. What we cannot cram into the keyhole, we can tie into a bundle beneath the door handle.”

“And how would we light it without blowing ourselves up in the process?”

“Come now,” said Mr. Blake. “Can you not think of something? Am I to do all the work?”

Alice looked about. Every room in her father's house was filled with unexpected items. There must be something they might use in this bird-filled attic. And then her gaze fell upon that something standing in the corner of the room. She presumed that it had been carried up by mistake with the birds when they had left their old home in the billiard room. She pointed it out to Mr. Blake. “That should do the trick,” she said. “A billiard cue. We can affix a feather to the end, and touch it to a hot coal until it burns. We shall have the longest and most cautious taper you could imagine. What more do we need than that?”

L
ILIAN LOOKED UP THROUGH THE CANOPY OF LEAVES
tangled overhead. She felt her heart beating in time to the gentle pat … pat … pat … of water dripping from one leaf onto another and forced herself to relax into the moist and breathless heat. The foliage was sumptuous, everything far stronger and more vigorous than she remembered it. The ground was barely visible through the matrix of roots that crisscrossed the floor, and a shaggy carpet of emerald moss grew wherever the shadow was deepest.

On the table in front of her stood the pestle and mortar Aunt Statham had once used to grind up paint pigments. Beside it, a knife, a bowl of severed peaches, and a mound of shelled and hulled peach stones.

The peach tree, having been wheeled through from the temperate house in its massive bucket, was thriving—as did everything in the broiling temperatures of the hothouse. Its branches bowed achingly with the weight of its velvet fruits. Lilian had gathered a dozen of them, sliding her knife into the soft fold of blushing fuzzy skin and slicing through the fragrant flesh. The juices had run like nectar over her fingers as she pulled out the hard wrinkled stones and the bitter almond poison at each center.

It seemed, however, that since she, Lilian, had left the great house, Aunt Statham had given up painting altogether. The rolls of paper and canvas that had once been stacked here and there like log
piles had gone; the easel was now being used as a blackboard by Aunt Pendleton to record whist victories; the jars of water and turpentine that used to litter the tabletop like a hundred opened condiment jars had all been cleared away. It was only after a length of time she could ill afford that Lilian had found what she was looking for: the mortar was filled with milk and sitting on the floor beside Aunt Statham's chair; the pestle was being used as a paperweight on her sister's bamboo-bound escritoire. She had rescued these two objects and set to work, grinding the peach kernels to a paste and mixing them with jam and sugar.

N
OW, AS
L
ILIAN
sat back in Aunt Lambert's mildewed armchair, she hoped that Dr. Cattermole was as partial to Bakewell tart as he had always been. At length, she heard the sound of muted voices and the rustle of leaves. The aunts were returning.

“Well,” she heard Aunt Pendleton say, “I'm sure I never saw anything quite so outrageous in all my life. It's a relief that the woman stayed in London. I might have had to sit opposite her at the dinner table!”

“You saw Edwin,” said Aunt Lambert. “He tried to blame Mr. Blake. Anything to get Cattermole off the hook.”

“Can we be sure Mr. Blake is above suspicion?” said Aunt Rushton-Bell. “Careful, ladies, please! The roots have formed ridges across the pathway. The wheels of my chair become trapped, forcing me along a road I have no wish to follow. Last week Mrs. Talbot almost wheeled me into the ornamental pond.”

There was the sound of grunting and the undergrowth rustled. “I'm not sure that we can rule Mr. Blake out entirely,” panted Aunt Lambert at last. “But whatever his involvement, I suspect him of being coerced and misled, rather than anything more sinister. I rather doubt he has the energy or the inclination to control proceedings. No. This whole business is down to Cattermole, you can be sure of it.”

“But what can we do,” wailed Old Mrs. Talbot. “He has Alice. We don't even know where he's taken her.”

Lilian saw the leaves at the edge of the clearing begin to twitch and thrash. The tip of a stick emerged at shoulder height, and a swathe of Spanish moss was lifted aside, like a shaggy curtain being raised on a theater. The aunts stepped out of the jungle into the dimly lit arena beyond.

“Perhaps we should try every room in the building until we find her,” Aunt Statham was saying. “We can't just sit here doing nothing.”

“Don't worry, Aunt Statham,” said Lilian from her place beneath the peach tree, “I have everything in hand.”

Five pairs of watery eyes turned to stare at the visitor sitting in the shadows beside the peach tree's huge wheeled bucket. There was a moment's silence, before the aunts surged about her like a flock of exotic hens, their clawlike hands grasping her arms, their beaked faces and wattled necks jerking stiffly above their plumage of lace and watered silk. Various feelings of pain and pleasure, delight and alarm, were expressed in elderly voices quavering with emotion, so that Lilian was reminded of the sound of anxious poultry.

“Dr. Cattermole is here,” cried Aunt Pendleton, her eyes wide.

“I know,” said Lilian. “I saw him. I was hoping he would be.”

“You must save Alice,” croaked Aunt Statham.

“Everything is in hand,” repeated Lilian.

“But—”

“Ladies,” cried Aunt Lambert. She held up a hand. “Explanations can wait. Lilian has said that everything is under control. We must ask only what we can do to help.” She blinked at Lilian. “We have tried already, but your father is, well, he is too enamored of Dr. Cattermole to see him for what he is.”

“Indeed,” said Lilian mildly.

“Why are you dressed as a man?” said Aunt Pendleton suddenly. “And your lovely hair!”

“I was at the meeting of the Society for the Propagation of
Useful and Interesting Knowledge,” said Lilian. “Downstairs in the ballroom. I was interested to hear what Dr. Cattermole had to say. I had to dress for the occasion. You know they don't allow women in.”

“Quite,” muttered Aunt Lambert.

“Did you see us?” cried Aunt Ruston-Bell. “We were there too. We wore our own clothes. There was no mistaking us.”

“We were not there incognito,” said Aunt Statham.

“Did you see us?” repeated Aunt Rushton-Bell urgently. “I carried the photographic plate beneath my skirts.”

“I did see you.”

“Weren't we
magnificent?”

“Without question.” Lilian smiled.

“But your hair!” cried Aunt Pendleton. “Why have you done such a thing?”

“Oh, I found it most inconvenient having long hair. Especially in India. It was so hot and dirty all the time. It was much easier to just cut it all off. A barber in the Delhi bazaar did it. I've kept it short ever since.”

“Oh, my dear Lilian,” cried Old Mrs. Talbot, extending a shaking hand. “Your crowning glory. Gone!”

“Well, I think it's quite the best idea,” said Aunt Lambert. “I found it the most frightful ordeal washing my hair in India. One needed about three women to help. And as for the trousers you are wearing”—she blushed slightly at the sight of her great-niece's legs—“I always found crinolines such absurd garments. So impractical. One was quite tempted by a
sari
, for a time, but Mr. Lambert put his foot down. I allowed him this one concession and as a result endured years of the most uncomfortable clothes you can imagine. Now I am so used to such iron-clad corsetry I fear I would hardly be able to stand upright without the assistance of whalebone and pin tucks. Anyway, my dear, enough about that. I presume you'll be going back?”

“To India? Most certainly. And Alice will come with me.”

“Alice!” cried Aunt Pendleton, her hands flying to her mouth. “I had quite forgotten!”

“Do you know where she is?” said Old Mrs. Talbot, wringing her hands together.

“No. But I have dealt with Dr. Cattermole,” said Lilian. “At least, I hope I have.”

“They are all outside,” said Aunt Pendleton. “Watching that infernal volcano.” The aunts looked up through the dark hands of the foliage to the glimpses of glass beyond. Here and there the night sky could be seen flickering and glowing with sparks, as though it were illuminated by a giant bonfire. “Now is our chance to find Alice.”

Lilian stood up. “
I
shall rescue Alice,” she said firmly. “And then both of us will leave this place forever. My dear aunts, I may never see you again.”

“Stuff and nonsense,” said Aunt Lambert briskly, squeezing Lilian's outstretched hand. “Mrs. Rushton-Bell? Show her, please.”

From a secret chink in her armored bodice Aunt Rushton-Bell produced what looked at first glance to be a visiting card. She passed it over.
“St. Peter's Mount Hotel, Bournemouth,”
read Lilian.
“Home for retired gentlewomen.”

“We're all going,” said Aunt Statham. “The proprietor tells me that Lord Byron stayed there once.”

“I can't think what Lord Byron might have been doing in a hotel for retired gentlewomen,” retorted Aunt Lambert. “Are you sure you heard him correctly, dear?”

“Perhaps it was in its former days,” said Aunt Statham huffily. “It used to be a very fashionable place, you know. I danced there, as a girl, in the arms of Lord Aldershot. Wellington himself kissed my hand. I'm quite delighted to be returning for the final waltz.”

“We've had it planned for months.” Aunt Lambert addressed Lilian. “We can't stay here much longer, or the place will kill us all. There's no hot water in the mornings and no one to bring it even if there were. Most of the maids have gone—Talbot hasn't paid any of them for months.”

“The food is always cold,” added Aunt Pendleton.

“And Edwin is an absurd dinner companion,” said Aunt
Statham. “Chasing numbered mice up and down the curtains! Whatever will he get up to next?”

“I saw DaVinci eating mouse number sixteen,” whispered Old Mrs. Talbot. “I didn't dare say anything.”

“And there are drafts blowing through this hothouse that there never used to be,” said Aunt Lambert. She pulled her shawls about her shoulders and shuddered, as though one such renegade draft had sneaked up there and then and skewered her between the shoulder blades. “Some of the plants have broken through to the outside.”

L
ILIAN MADE HER
way silently through the rooms and corridors of the great house. She carried a lamp, taken from the hothouse. From somewhere outside the building she could hear urgent shouting and a roaring noise that sounded like the distant shoveling of coals. The air was hot and stuffy and thick with the musty odor of dust and antiquity. But there was also a new smell. It was pungent and foul, like the stench of rotten eggs. It made her eyes smart and her stomach heave, even as her throat tickled with the charred scent of smoke and hot metal, so that she felt as though she were walking through the corridors of Hades, rather than along a hallway in what used to be her home.