The Russian White, page 5
Chapter Ten
Isobel woke up and screamed. She pushed her fingers into her mouth and calmed her beating heart with deep breaths. A bad dream, just a bad childhood dream.
Sweat soaked her neck, and she pushed back the blankets to cool down. There had been a cry, like pain or fear. She thought it was in her dream, but had it been in the room?
A lamp glowed on the table beside her. She climbed out of bed and tried the door. The handle rattled, but the lock held secure, as always. She stumbled over to the window and pulled back the thick green velvet drapes.
A full moon shone in a cloudless sky and lit up the grounds of Parklands in muted shades of grey. There was no wind and a sharp frost settled on the grass. Her breath steamed against the glass and she wiped away the condensation with the sleeve of her nightdress. And she saw, out of the corner of her eye, something run into the trees, but when she searched, there was nothing.
Then she heard it, that cry that invaded her dreams; a long low moaning howl.
The hairs rose on the back of her neck. Another called to the first, and a third and a fourth, and more, calling to each other in the night. A discordant chorus, rising and falling, and then joining in unison.
Wolves, baying at the moon.
She saw them; dark under the trees, running with easy loping strides across the grass. One stopped and fixed her with its stare. Its grey tongue hung from the side of its open jaws, a glint of white where moonlight caught a tooth, its orange unblinking eyes. He held her gaze with ease, panting; the steam enveloped his muzzle in a cloud of white vapour as he waited for the rest of the pack.
They ran to him, their bodies lowered as they supplicated themselves before the Alpha male. They acknowledged him as their leader, vied for his admiration, but he ignored them. All his attention was on her.
He trotted towards her. The pack followed, silent and watchful.
She tried to look away, but his eyes held her, trapped her. Mounting panic made her gasp. She rocked backwards and forwards, dug her fingers into the deep velvet pile of the curtains, but she couldn’t avert her gaze.
His silver fur shone in the moonlight. He snarled, tensed, and leapt straight towards her.
She screamed and dropped to the floor and covered her face to ward off the attack. She screamed again, terrified.
She heard voices outside the bedroom door, and running feet coming down the corridor. A key turned in the lock and then William’s voice called out instructions. Strong arms lifted her off the floor, and she screamed again as she fought against them.
A hand clamped across her forehead. A bitter liquid washed into her mouth. Strong fingers squeezed her jaw shut. She had to swallow or she would choke. The liquid burned her throat. She struggled, but her muscles turned to water, and her mind went dim, and she fell into darkness, and then she knew nothing at all.
William lay her down on the bed and covered her with the blankets. He walked over to the window. The trees stood silent and still in the moonlight. Stars flickered in the black sky. He drew the curtains, left the room and locked the door behind him.
Chapter Eleven
Isobel woke up to find the curtains open and bright sunlight streaming into the room. Her head thumped.
On the bedside table stood a tray with cold meats and a hard-boiled egg and an apple. The smell made her sick. She climbed slowly out of bed. The room lurched and wavered around the edges of her vision, and she sat still until her balance settled. She stood up and the dizziness receded.
She tried the door; still locked. William had taken away all her clothes but she opened the wardrobe just to check. The doors rattled in the empty space. She went to the window and stared out. It was a beautiful day and the night time terror that had seemed so real, receded like melting fog. She lifted the clasp and pushed the window wide open. The air made her gasp, it was so cold, but it cleared her head and stopped her feeling nauseous.
How long had she been at Parklands? Days, nights, weeks? It was all a muddle. A series of drugged moments, half-remembered, and William’s voice asking endless questions.
Her stomach growled, but she wasn’t going to eat anything off the tray. So far, all the food had been laced with laudanum to make her sleep.
She leant over the sill. Below the window, a wide stone ledge ran along the length of the wall towards the roof of the East Wing. She grabbed hold of the window frame and pulled herself up onto the sill. The drop was terrifying. Her gaze concentrated on the stone ledge.
She lowered her right foot through the window and kept a firm hold of the frame, then eased her foot down inch by inch, until the rough stone scraped against her sole. It was icy cold
She gritted her teeth and pressed down to test her weight. Satisfied that the ledge would hold her, she climbed out of the window.
Her mind reeled with instructions. Don’t look down. And breathe. If only her body would stop trembling.
She couldn’t believe what she was doing. She stood on the ledge panting with nerves. Her white nightdress flapped in the breeze. She took a deep breath, slid her right foot sideways, adjusted her weight, and slid her left foot up to join it. She jammed her fingers into the cracked stones, and repeated the sideways shuffle. The concentration required all her willpower.
Her arms ached with the sustained tension, and her head thumped. The thought of the void below made her legs wobble like water.
The roof of the East Wing inched closer. The black tiles gleamed in the sunlight.
A huge stone gargoyle, some mythical creature with a lead pipe protruding out of its leering mouth, stood between her and the roof. Its arching stone body was easy to climb, but she manoeuvred herself like a snail over its strange humps, fearful that she might lose her grip in the excitement of escaping. She reached the roof and lay down on the warm tiles to recover her breath.
She had made it. If only she could rest and enjoy her freedom, but her disappearance would soon be discovered, and then William would hunt her like he hunted wild animals.
A little way up the roof stood a brick chimney stack. Set into the roof beside it was a metal trapdoor. She had seen labourers climb out of it when repairs needed doing. She crawled up the roof on all fours. The trapdoor sat flush with the tiles. In its centre protruded an iron ring, dark red with rust.
She stood up slowly, taking care not to overbalance on the sloping roof.
She placed one hand on the chimney for support, bent down, and took hold of the ring. The hinges squealed as the trap opened.
Attached to the inside of the trap was a thick metal chain which hung down into the attic room below. She didn’t think the drop looked that far, but it was hard to judge. She lowered the trap onto the tiles, and then sat down on the edge of the hole. The dim interior was full of shadows. If she jumped, she might hurt her ankles, or worse. She rolled onto her stomach and wriggled backwards until she was balanced, half-in and half-out of the hole. Then, she swung he legs forwards and pushed back at the same time, and her body dropped through the hole.
Her feet hit the wooden boards just as her head cleared the trap. She whirled her arms to stop herself from tumbling over. Thick dust swirled around her, and her nose tickled.
A long narrow corridor disappeared into the distance. Thin beams of light pierced the gaps in the tiles. She took hold of the silver chain and pulled, and the trapdoor banged shut with a loud clang.
She waited as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. Against the wall stood a large misshapen object covered in a dust sheet.
She lifted a corner, and her heart skipped a beat as a shiny painted face smiled back at her. White teeth gleamed below painted crimson lips, and strands of grey hair fell over one staring blue eye. She couldn’t help but laugh. It was Old Mister Bartholomew, the rocking horse that had once stood in pride of the place in the children’s nursery.
She stroked the shiny paint work, and traced her fingers over the carved surface. So many happy childhood days rocking away on his back, pretending to escape from fire-breathing dragons or the hot pursuit of evil Princes as her imagination transported her into a wild fantasy world.
“I need you now,” she whispered into his wooden ear.” So that I can escape from my brother.” She dropped the dust sheet and patted his round wooden rump. Poor Old Mister Bartholomew, left again to the silence of the attic.
She tip-toed to the end of the corridor, where a short flight of stairs took her down to the next floor. At the bottom of the stairs, another corridor stretched before her with doors set off to the right and left. A worn rug covered the floorboards and an oil lamp on a small table cast a dull yellow light. This, she guessed, must be the servants’ attic. She crossed her fingers, and wished that none of them were ill and in bed.
She knocked on the first door to her left. There was no reply and she went in. The dingy room contained a worn chest of drawers and a single bed pushed against the wall. Its white sheet was turned back and tucked under a thin mattress. Under the bed, placed neatly together, were a pair of tartan house shoes, and hanging from a hook on the back of the door, a maid’s uniform. The white name tag read: “Annabel McCoist,” in red letters.
“Thank you Annabel and I hope that you don’t get into too much trouble when you come to report it missing.”
She pulled the uniform over her nightdress, the cut was generous and the fit loose, though the cap for her head was tight, and she pulled it down so that it concealed her eyes. The tartan slippers happened, by luck, to be just the right size.
She crept out into the corridor. A white laundry bag leant against the opposite door, and she picked it up and set off with a determined stride. She didn’t know if it contained dirty washing or clean laundry, but it didn’t matter, it gave her the appearance of being on an errand.
At the end of the corridor, another short flight of steps led down to a curtained archway, but as she approached she heard voices from the other side. She held her breath, ready to run back and hide in Annabel McCoist’s room.
“Search the West Wing,” called a man. “The Master says she might be there.”
Footsteps hurried by, and the curtain swayed as they passed. The chase was on. They had been to her room and found her gone. She imagined her brother’s fury when he discovered her missing, his face turning dark red, that protruding vein throbbing in his neck.
The footsteps faded into the distance and she ran down the steps, pulled back the curtain and bumped straight into a chambermaid.
“Ere!” The chambermaid bounced off her and almost fell over. “Look where yer’ going!”
Isobel dropped the laundry bag. The washing spilled over the patterned rug and she knelt down to retrieve it, hiding her face from the girl standing over her. She affected a high pitched whining voice.
“Now look what you made me do!”
The chambermaid planted her feet firmly apart. “You got eyes aint’ yer? What yer doing? Sleepwalking was it?”
Isobel bundled the linen into the bag. “I ain’t got time to talk, as if I didn’t have enough to do already-and what with all of this going on and all.”
“Say sorry then.”
“What for?”
“What do you mean what for? You only just gone and winded me, that’s what for.”
“You ain’t winded. You’d be flat on your back if you was winded. Now get out of my way. I’ve got work to do.” She stood up and wiped imaginary sweat off her brow, but the chambermaid blocked her path.
“You ain’t going nowhere ‘till you says sorry.”
Isobel tried to push past, but the girl grabbed her arm and forced her back. “Let go of me.” Her voice slipped into more cultured tones and the chambermaid’s grip tightened.
“Who are yer? I ain’t seen you before.”
“Cos you haven’t. I’m new ain’t I.” She knew she was trying too hard. “Only arrived yesterday. Mistress Paignton, in the kitchens, hired me from the village.”
“Oh I see, country girl are we?” She loosened her grip. “That explains it. They must be desperate hiring a great gormless lump like you.”
“Yes that’s right. Mistress Paignton says they need all the help they can get nowadays.”
The chambermaid let go of her arm. “What’s yer name?”
“Miss Partridge-miss.” She bobbed a clumsy curtsey. “What’s yours?”
“It don’t matter. But I’m reporting you to Mistress Paignton. First thing she has to teach you, Miss. Partridge, is some manners. Now skit!”
Isobel hurried down the hallway, the laundry bag clutched against her stomach.
The hallway ended in a wide shallow staircase that brought her down to the next floor. At the bottom, she hesitated. Right or left? Which was the quickest way to the Servants’ Staircase? She heard footsteps coming down the stairs behind her. She turned left, and ran. An ancient threadbare tapestry covered part of the wall and, because she couldn’t think of anything better to do, she slid behind it. The dusty folds disguised the possibility that anyone might be concealed there. She peeped around its tattered edge.
The chambermaid appeared at the bottom of the stairs. She looked left, then right. Then more footsteps, these heavy, with an accompanying clink of spurs. The chambermaid dropped into a low curtsey and Isobel eased herself behind the tapestry as she heard a voice she knew only too well.
“What are you doing here?”
“Excuse me Mister Hunt, I was returning to my room.”
“This is no time for idleness. There’s an emergency on.”
“Yes sir.”
“My sister is missing. She is not safe to be left alone.”
“Sir?”
“She is mad you see, very dangerous. I hate to think what she might do if she found you up here alone. I have medicines that will cure her, but we have to find her first.”
“Sir-sir, I think I saw her upstairs. She knocked me over she was running so fast. I’m sure it was her sir. She was wearing a uniform, but I ain’t never seen a maid looking like her before, and she didn’t like me looking in her face.”
Isobel held her breath. More footsteps pounded down the hallway.
“Wait,” commanded William. The footsteps halted and she heard the panting of runners catching their breath.
“She’s not up there anymore,” the chambermaid continued excitedly. “She came down this way, but I don’t know which way she went.”
“What did she look like?”
“She had a uniform on, just like mine, but it was tight, like it didn’t fit right, and her cap was on all wrong, like she was trying to hide her face. She was carrying laundry. She said she was a village girl called Miss. Partridge, but I don’t remember Mistress Paignton sayin’ she was hiring no one new.”
“No she isn’t, on my instruction.” William’s voice boomed out orders. “Find more men to search this floor-go!”
Running footsteps pounded away and out of earshot, harder and more urgent than before.
“How long ago since you saw her?” asked William.
“No longer than it took me to walk down these stairs, sir.”
“All right. Stay here.”
“Yes sir.”
“If you see her, scream. Can you scream?”
The chambermaid giggled. “I don’t know sir. I’ve never had reason to try.”
“Then try now.”
There was a moments’ silence, and then the girl burst out laughing.
“Oh for goodness sakes,” William huffed, exasperated.
“I don’t think I can sir, not without some meaning.”
“There will be meaning enough if you see my sister, right?”
“Of course sir, I’ll scream if I see her. I know I will.”
William’s heavy tread approached the tapestry. Isobel willed every muscle in her body to stay still. He was level with her hiding place, and when he shouted, she almost yelled in shock.
“Stay there and don’t move.”
All right, she thought. I won’t.
The chambermaid called back; “Very good sir.”
William muttered something under his breath. The clink of spurs receded as he moved off.
Isobel counted to twenty, and then dared to peep round the edge of the tapestry.
William was nowhere to be seen. The chambermaid stood at the foot of the stairs, peering down the opposite hallway. Isobel slipped out from behind the tapestry and crept up behind her.
“I bet I can scream louder than you,” she growled.
The chambermaid jumped forward and span round at the same time.
Isobel affected her most dreadful grimace. Wide staring eyes, open mouth, bared teeth, and she snarled like a wild animal.
The chambermaid toppled backwards in a dead faint. Isobel dropped the laundry bag on top of her, and ran.
Chapter Twelve
At the bottom of the next staircase she turned right and raced along the carpeted hallway. She gave up the idea of reaching the Servants’ Staircase. Now that her disguise was known, that would be the first place to be searched. The hallway ended in front of a large pair of double doors inlaid with shining mirrors; The Silver Ballroom.
She tried the brass handle and the doors clicked open. She sneaked through and secured the doors behind her.
The high-vaulted room blazed with sunlight. The beeswax-polished floor scented the air with its sticky aroma, and the mirror-lined walls reflected the sunlight in shafts of brightness.
Around the edge of the Ballroom, grouped against the walls stood ornate chairs and chaise-longues in informal arrangements, and placed between them, faceless mannequins dressed in the latest fashions. The display portrayed the splendour of the balls held at Parklands.
“Just what I need,” thought Isobel; a new disguise. She hurried from mannequin to mannequin. The fashions on display were mostly of women’s attire, but too ornate for day wear. Then she found a purple gown overlaid with gold embroidery, and decorated with cream lace at the cuffs and neck. Tortoiseshell glasses adorned the featureless face and the creation was completed by a golden wig with curled and bouncing ringlets. She considered; she might just get away with it, if the wearer were aristocratic and eccentric.
