The Snow Globe (15 page)

Mabel knew the rubies were worth enough for Nancy to be able to buy herself a house, a small house perhaps, but something of her own.

There was a bad smell in the hallway. One of the dogs had made a mess by the tree, and Howard, already agitated about the lights—two of which had gone off—and unable to wait for Blundy, had taken it upon himself and was bent over, in white tie and tails, with the dustpan and brush from the drawing room fireplace.

Daisy held her hand over her nose. She had ignored Iris's advice and wore her new dark green velveteen dress. The dress fit her well enough, but her red petticoat hung down beneath the hem and her bun—despite her wrestling with brushes and hairpins—was lopsided and insecure, and she could feel it slowly unraveling, slipping down her neck each time she turned her head. Thus, glancing about the hallway—trying not to turn her head—she saw Margot, with Lily and Miles,
again
; Reggie with the Singhs, both looking shy, their eyes cast downward; and the Knights and a number of other neighbors. She caught Valentine Vincent's eye and quickly
removed her hand from her nose and smiled back at him. He was distractingly handsome, she thought, glancing between him and Ben and realizing Benedict Gifford could never compete in looks.

As Nancy, Mr. and Mrs. Jessop and the others began to emerge from the passageway, whispering, all of them looking in the direction of their famous houseguest, followed by Howard, back from the yard and smiling tightly now, a hush fell and heads turned as Mabel descended the staircase. Reggie put down his glass, swiftly moved over and took Mabel's arm. And as song sheets were passed about, everyone arranged themselves in a semicircle round the tree, where Howard was once again busying himself with the electric lights, switching them off and on and on and off and looking back at Blundy for the thumbs-up that
all
were now working. This went on for some time, and people began to sigh and shuffle, not least Noonie, who loudly pointed out that people had come for carols,
not
a light show.

Eventually, after another of the lights popped and the whole lot went out, carols were begun and sung, with Old Jessop's baritone leading the mass in “Away in a Manger.” There then followed “Silent
Night,” “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,” “The Holly and the Ivy,” and “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” But it was during the penultimate verse of the final carol—“Ding Dong Merrily on High”—that Daisy noticed Stephen, his eyes almost closed, his body swaying perilously close to the unilluminated tree. He appeared to be rotating: going round and round in circles without moving his feet, while all the time mouthing words. Daisy glanced over at Mrs. Jessop, who, like her husband, appeared lost in the moment, oblivious to anything other than the rapture of the verse.

When the singing ceased, the glasses of champagne and sherry and the tiny mince pies laid out on silver trays were passed round the hallway by Mabel and Iris and Lily. Daisy, too, should have been on duty. That's the way it was done at Eden Hall on Christmas Eve: The family—that is, Mabel and the girls—waited on their servants and guests. But as this was happening, as Howard stepped up onto the staircase, chimed on his glass with a spoon and then began to speak, Daisy had already moved over to Stephen Jessop.

She tugged on his sleeve: “Stephen . . . ,” she hissed. He seemed to be asleep on his feet. She pulled once again at his arm and he opened his eyes.

“Amen!” he said—in a voice loud enough to make Howard pause his address and look over, along with everyone else.

As Howard cleared his throat and continued, “And so I'd like to extend my thanks to all of you who work here at Eden Hall . . . ,” Daisy led Stephen into the passageway.

“Are you ill?” she asked, staring at him as he blinked—once, twice, three times. “My God, you're owled . . . aren't you? Oh, Stephen, what
are
we going to do with you . . . ? You can't go back in there like this.” She glanced down the passageway. The only thing for it was to get him back to the coachman's flat. And so she took his hand in hers and led him toward the kitchen, and on.

Mabel stood clutching a plate of mince pies, and she smiled and nodded as Howard extended his thanks to her. But he seemed reluctant to stop.

“Next year, my wife and I will celebrate twenty-five years of marriage . . .” Howard paused long enough to allow the few claps to subside. “A silver wedding anniversary is—I think we'd all agree—a great cause for celebration, and a time of gratitude and perhaps reflection . . .” He paused again, and Mabel so wished he'd stop there. “So twenty-five years . . . ,” he rumbled on, “a quarter of a century and three wonderful daughters later, I'd like to ask my wife to come up here and join me . . .”

Howard beckoned to Mabel, and Mabel handed the plate to Nancy, then moved through the huddle, smiling, nervous, wondering what was to come.

Howard took her hand as she stepped up to him; he kissed it, and then, staring back at her, he continued. “Tonight, I'd simply like to take the opportunity to say thank you to my dear wife,” he went on in an uxorious fashion, “for not only providing me and our beloved children with an extraordinarily happy home, but for making Eden Hall such a wonderful place for us all.”

There were a few shouts of “Hear! Hear!”

Then Howard said, “Ladies and gentleman, please join me in raising your glasses to my wife, to Mrs. Forbes.”

“To Mrs. Forbes!” everyone echoed, glasses held aloft.

Daisy opened the door, ran her hand over the rough plaster wall and flicked a switch. A naked bulb threw a murky glow over the steep staircase. The small lobby smelled of mold and damp and Jeyes Fluid. She took Stephen's hand, pulled him inside and kicked the door shut behind him.

“Daisy,” he said, standing against the wall, staring back at her, “I'm fine. I know what I'm doing.”

“I don't think so.”

“And I know so.”

He reached out, pulled her nearer. There was a new intensity about him—in his face, his eyes, his whole demeanor—that both excited and frightened her, and made her heart beat faster. And as he lifted a finger to her face, tracing its lines, following each contour—across her brow, her eyes, down her nose to her lips, her chin, her neck; his touch as delicate as the brush of a butterfly's wing, as warm as the summer evening sun—she felt herself begin to fall, fall once again into a deep, dark place, an unfathomable rippling vortex.

Then he took hold of her hand and led her slowly up the stairs.

Because of the carols, the dinner bell had not rung that evening. But when Mr. Blundell struck the small gong in the hallway at precisely eight thirty, where the family and their guests stood about the tree clutching their glasses, Mabel noticed Daisy's absence and asked Lily to fetch her down from her room.

“Kindly ask Mrs. Jessop to give us five minutes,” said Mabel to Blundell. It was Christmas Eve; there was no rush.

“She's not in her room,” said Lily, minutes later, descending the stairs.

“She's probably just stepped out for some air . . . I'm quite sure she'll be back at any minute,” said Iris.

“Some
air
? It's freezing out there,” said Mabel.

As Iris and Howard went off to check other rooms, Lily turned to Mabel: “Oh my, what if she's had another one of her turns? We all know what she's like, and she
has
been acting queerer than usual . . . She may very well have amnesia—after that fall she had. I've read that it can sometimes be delayed . . . She may be out there, wandering about and lost in the snow.”

“These sorts of things
always
happen at Christmas, don't you find?” said Noonie, turning to face Margot's ruffled lace bosom. “People disappearing . . . murders . . . suicides . . .”

“Mother!”

Iris reappeared in the hallway. “She's not anywhere downstairs.”

“Well, if she chooses to miss Christmas Eve dinner, that's her own fault,” said Mabel, beckoning people toward the dining room door. But as they began to move, Howard appeared on the staircase. “She's not in the house,” he said, loud and solemn. “I'm going to look for her.”

Everyone stopped and stared as Howard moved swiftly across the hallway to the outer lobby and reached for his coat. Suddenly, there seemed to be the vague hint of something more sinister in their midst.

“I hope she hasn't been kidnapped,” murmured Noonie.

Then Reggie called after Howard, “I'll come with you, old chap.”

Within seconds the other men stepped forward, as though it were a call-up for another war, and Reggie was in his element, directing them hither and thither.

Mabel smiled at Margot. “Always a drama with Daisy,” she said,
rolling her eyes heavenward. Then she took a deep breath, turned and headed for the kitchen to inform Mrs. Jessop that dinner would need to be delayed.

Stephen released Daisy's hand at the top of the stairs and stood aside to let her enter.

The room was sparsely furnished, lit by a single lamp. The paint on the walls had bubbled and was peeling off the plaster. Daisy wasn't sure what to do or say. She had never been in this place before, never been in this situation before, with him or with anyone else. She turned to him. He stood next to a bookcase, his head slightly bent, staring back at her, biting his lip. A new sensation swept through her, and she took a step backward, away from him.