The Peacock Emporium(83)

She had reached the last but one step and paused, hanging on to the banister, cursing the ache in her joints, the dizziness that prompted the siren call of the easy chair. Old age, she had discovered long ago, didn’t confer wisdom and status, but simply a series of indignities and physical collapses, so that not only was one ignored but tasks that one had once completed without thought now required planning and careful assessment. Could she reach the tin of tomatoes in that cupboard? Would her now feeble wrists support it long enough for her to place it on the sideboard without dropping it on her foot?

She took a deep breath, and eyed the wide, even floor of the gallery. Two more steps. She hadn’t lived through two world wars to let a couple of stairs deter her. She lifted her chin, took a firmer hold on the banister, and, with a grunt, made it to the gallery.

She straightened slowly, taking in the space she hadn’t seen for almost seven years. Nothing much had changed, she decided, with a vague satisfaction. Nothing except the portrait, newly installed, which now glowed, reframed and radioactive with malice.

Athene.

Athene Forster.

She had never deserved the surname Fairley-Hulme.

Rosemary looked up at the pale, smirking figure who seemed, even now, more than thirty years on, to be laughing at her. She had laughed at everyone, that one. At her parents, who had raised her to be a little tramp; at Douglas, who had given her everything, and whom she had repaid by parading her immoral behavior halfway across three counties; at Rosemary and Cyril, who had done everything to keep the Fairley-Hulme line going and the estate intact. And no doubt, again, at Douglas, for not having the backbone to keep her portrait out of the family gallery.

The rain thrummed on the windows, and the air felt damp, loaded with intent.

Rosemary turned stiffly toward the Gothic carver chair by the rail, assessing, calculating. Grasping its arms between two gnarled hands, she hauled it backward, dragging it across the carpet toward the wall, one painful step at a time.

It took several minutes to travel the few feet and, when she finally reached her destination, Rosemary was forced to sit down and fight off dizziness. Fairly confident that she was ready, she stood. Then, with one hand steadying herself on the back of the chair, she gazed again at the girl who had done so much damage, and who was still insulting her family. “You don’t deserve to be up here,” she said aloud.

Despite having done little in the previous ten years that was more acrobatic than stooping to fill her cat’s bowl, Rosemary, with a jut to her jaw, lifted a thin, arthritic foot, and began, precariously, to hoist herself onto the chair.



* * *



—

It was almost a quarter to four when Ale came into the store. Suzanna had long ago given up staring through the rivulets on the window, so she decided to do what she had put off for weeks—sort out the cellar. The shop itself might be immaculate, but she and Jessie had got into the habit of throwing empty boxes down the stairs, shoving goods, and boxes of coffee, into whatever space they could find. Now, however, a major delivery of autumn stock was due the following day, and Suzanna realized that they could not work around the boxes—and the rubbish—unless they were better organized.

She had been down there almost half an hour when she heard Jessie’s exclamation of surprise and delight, and stood still for a moment. Then, even against the noise of the rain, she heard his halting, tonal voice, his laughing apology for something. She stopped and smoothed her hair, trying to quell the flutter in her chest. She thought, briefly, of the doctor’s appointment she had made earlier that morning, and closed her eyes, feeling a stab of guilt that she could associate with his presence. She took a deep breath and made her way upstairs, deliberately slowly.

“Oh,” she said, at the cellar door. “It’s you.” She had tried, and failed, to sound surprised.

He was seated at his usual table. But instead of facing out to the window, he was looking toward the counter. Toward Jessie. Toward Suzanna. His hair glittered black with rain, his eyelashes separated into starry points. He smiled, a slow, enchanting smile, wiping water from his face with a shining wet hand. “Hello, Suzanna Peacock.”



* * *



—

Vivi shepherded the dog through the back door, shaking her umbrella on the kitchen floor, and calling him back before he made a break for it. “Oh, do come here, you ridiculous animal,” she exclaimed. She had thought that in lace-ups and with an umbrella she was prepared for the weather, but this rain was in a different league. She was wet through.

The rain-loaded skies had made the kitchen unnaturally dark, and she flicked on several sets of lights, waiting as they stuttered into life. She propped her umbrella against the door, filled the kettle, and removed her shoes. Rosemary’s cat was sleeping, stretched out motionless, and Vivi placed her hand against its neck, just to check it was still alive. These days, you could never be sure. She was afraid that when it did die it might be there for several days before anyone noticed.

She pulled the teapot out of the cupboard and got out two cups and saucers. Left to herself, she would have used a mug, but Rosemary liked to do things formally even when it was just the two of them, and she was feeling generous enough to indulge her these days.

She began to prepare the tea. “Rosemary,” she called, toward the annex, “would you like a cup of tea?”

Rosemary, through deafness or obstinacy, often required several summonses before she would deign to answer, and Vivi knew she had not yet been forgiven for her outburst. But after the third attempt Vivi placed the tea-tray on top of a stove lid, and knocked on the door of the annex. “Rosemary?” she said, her ear pressed to the door. Then she pushed down the handle and entered.