The Surface Breaks(47)

“But,” he says, and he holds out a hand to pull me up, before turning for the house, “perhaps it is finally time to let them go.”





CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Oliver walks me to my bedroom, and I do not limp once. He cannot see me as anything less than perfect. Inside, I sit in the armchair by the window, a grey and green tweed shawl pulled up to my neck. Watching the waxing moon. It will be full soon. And then my time will be up.

The house is eerily quiet, as quiet as the night when I crept away from my father’s palace. I lean my forehead against the pane, breath fogging up the glass. I do not want to think of the time slipping through my fingers. I pull myself to standing, balancing on the sides of my feet so I shuffle forward like a crab into the corridor outside.

I can examine the photographs more intently now that there is no one here to catch me in the act. There are many to examine, most of them were presumably taken by Eleanor as it is just Oliver and his father in the frame. The exception is a photo of the couple on their wedding day; Eleanor beautiful in a simple slip dress, her hair a halo of tight curls around her head. She is gazing at her new husband with adoration, but he is laughing at a joke an unknown person has made, pointing at someone off camera. The famous Alexander Carlisle. He looks like Oliver; the same chiselled features, that glint of mischief in his eye. I wonder what he would think of me, were he still alive. Would he view me with misgiving, like Eleanor does? Or would he be more welcoming? My charms might be more persuasive with a man.

I pause outside Oliver’s room, pressing my ear against the wooden door. A loud rumbling sound comes from within, a scrape as a breath whistles through his nose. No difficulty in sleeping, as I have.

I walk on, through the house. It’s much more pleasant at this time at night, without the hustle and bustle of the servants and Oliver’s friends and Eleanor, watching me. Waiting for me to make a mistake. It can be very draining, pretending to be something you’re not. I limp on, moving further along this winding corridor than I have ever been before. At the very end, there is a turn to the left. The photographs have disappeared, the carpet becoming frayed, threadbare in patches. There is just a door ahead of me, the cream paint peeling off its wood as if scratched off by sharp fingernails. A musty smell is wafting from its heart and there is a recording playing, seemingly on repeat, a melancholy voice humming over the sound of waves crashing open on to the patient sand. I find myself inside then, as if against my own will, like a current has caught hold of me and is dragging me through the door.

The room is empty of any furniture, the blinds drawn, dust gathering on their thick slats. The walls are painted to resemble waves, but those in the grip of a storm, fish whirling in panic, seeking the ocean floor. There are canvases strewn in every direction, roughly drawn with no real skill, but it is clear they depict the same face. Eyes so blue and hair so red. A woman so beautiful it is almost unnatural. I reach out to touch one, my fingers caressing the paint. I am moving through dreams, as I stare at that face, swimming through songs of my childhood. It doesn’t feel real.

It is my mother.

“What are you doing in here?” My heart hurtles against my rib cage and I put a hand to my chest, as if trying to hold it in place.

“I asked you a question.” It is Eleanor. How long has she been there? Did she follow me from my bedroom? Did she see me walking in such a peculiar manner? “What are you doing in here, Grace? How did you open that door?”

She is in a cream lace nightgown, her hair protected with a silk cap. Her face is bare of make-up, and she looks younger than usual, even with the ashen shadows beneath her eyes.

“Oh,” she says. “You can’t explain because you have no voice. Most convenient.” She looks around the room, her mouth tightening. “Look at these monstrosities,” she mutters, moving from one painting to the next. “This was Alexander’s room,” she continues, as if she’s giving me a tour; ever the polite hostess. I stare longingly at the open door. “I kept it just the way he liked it, or the way he left it, anyway. He was holed up here for months, Grace. Months. The smell.” Her face curls in disgust. “If it was up to me, I would burn everything in here. I can’t do that though, can I?”

I don’t move. “No, I can’t. I can’t do that because Oliver would be angry with me and he’s angry enough these days, isn’t he? It’s all my fault, you see. I’m sure he’s told you that. His bitch of a mother… All my fault for getting Alex appropriate care.” She runs a finger across my mother’s face. “I couldn’t take care of him, Grace, not here, and I had a business to run. We had bills to pay, all these servants; they depend on me for their livelihood. Not to mention the shareholders. Oliver likes his luxuries, my god, the bills that boy can run up. He’s less interested in where the money comes from. He prefers to blame me for everything while he continues to spend everything I earn.”

I don’t like this version of Oliver that she is describing. Someone who is selfish, weak. A man who is prepared to abuse his mother while still using her for all that she’s worth. That isn’t the Oliver that I know, my Oliver is kind and decent and— (Is he, Gaia? A little voice whispers inside of me. Is he?) I wish I could put my hands over my ears, making myself deaf to her revelations rather than merely mute.

“Look at this,” Eleanor says, when she is in front of one painting. That beautiful woman (my mother, my mother) her hair standing on end as if floating in the sea. “It was my fault that he went mad, apparently. That’s what Oli thinks anyway. I emasculated him.”