The evening meal is lit by candelabra and beneath their flickering glow lies a graveyard of chicken bones, fish spines, lobster shells and pork fat. The curtains remain undrawn despite the darkness beyond, granting a view towards the forest being whipped by the storm.
I can hear myself eating, the crush and the crack, the squelch and the gulp. Gravy runs down my chins, grease smearing my lips with a ghastly shimmering shine. Such is the ferocity of my appetite that I leave myself panting between mouthfuls, my napkin resembling a battlefield. The other diners are watching this hideous performance from the corner of their eyes, trying to maintain their conversations even as the decorum of the evening crunches between my teeth. How can a man know such hunger? What hollowness must he be trying to fill?
Michael Hardcastle’s sitting to the left of me, though we’ve barely spoken two words since I arrived. He’s spent most of his time in hushed conversation with Evelyn, heads bowed close, their affection impenetrable. For a woman who knows herself to be in danger, she seems remarkably unperturbed.
Perhaps she believes herself protected.
‘Have you ever travelled to the Orient, my Lord Ravencourt?’
If only the seat to my right was similarly oblivious to my presence. It’s filled by Commander Clifford Herrington, a balding former naval officer in a uniform glittering with valour. After an hour spent in his company, I’m struggling to reconcile the man with the deeds. Perhaps it’s the weak chin and averted gaze, the sense of imminent apology. More likely it’s the Scotch sloshing around behind his eyes.
Herrington’s spent the evening tossing around tedious stories without bothering to indulge in the courtesy of exaggeration, and now it appears our conversation is washing up on the shores of Asia. I sip my wine to cover my agitation, discovering the taste to be peculiarly piquant. My grimace causes Herrington to lean over conspiratorially.
‘I had the same reaction,’ he says, hitting me full in the face with his warm, alcohol-soaked breath. ‘I quizzed a servant on the vintage. Might as well have asked the glass I was drinking it out of.’
The candelabra gives his face a ghoulish yellow cast and there’s a drunken sheen to his eyes that’s repellent. Putting my wine down, I cast about for some distraction. There must be fifteen people around the table, words of French, Spanish and German seasoning otherwise dull conversational fare. Expensive jewellery clinks against glass, cutlery rattles as waiters remove plates. The mood in the room is sombre, the scattered conversations hushed and urgent, spoken across a dozen empty seats. It’s an eerie sight, mournful even, and though the absences are notable, everybody seems to be going out of their way to avoid noting them. I can’t tell whether it’s a matter of good breeding, or there’s some explanation I’ve missed.
I search for familiar faces to ask, but Cunningham’s gone to meet Bell and there’s no sign of Millicent Derby, Doctor Dickie or even the repulsive Ted Stanwin. Aside from Evelyn and Michael, the only other person I recognise is Daniel Coleridge, who’s sitting near a thin fellow at the far end of the table, the two of them eyeing the other guests from behind their half-filled wine glasses. Somebody’s taken exception to that handsome face of Daniel’s, adorning it with a split lip and a swollen eye that will be frightful tomorrow, assuming tomorrow ever actually arrives. The injury doesn’t appear to be bothering him unduly, though it unsettles me. Until this moment, I’d considered Daniel immune to the machinations of this place, assuming his knowledge of the future allowed him to simply sidestep misfortune. Seeing him brought so low is like seeing the cards spilling out of a magician’s sleeve.
His dining companion thumps the table in delight at one of Daniel’s jokes, drawing my attention. I feel as though I know this fellow, but I can’t place him.
A future host perhaps.
I certainly hope not. He’s a smear of a man with oiled hair and a pale, pinched face, his manner that of somebody who finds everything in the room beneath him. I sense cunning in him, cruelty too, though I can’t understand from where I’m gathering these impressions.
‘They have such outlandish remedies,’ says Clifford Herrington, raising his voice slightly to reclaim my attention.
I blink at him in confusion.
‘The Orientals, Lord Ravencourt,’ he says, smiling amiably.
‘Of course,’ I say. ‘No, I’m afraid I’ve never visited.’
‘Incredible place, incredible. They have these hospitals...’
I raise my hand to attract a servant. If I can’t be spared the conversation, I can at least be spared the wine. One mercy may yet yield another.
‘I was speaking with Doctor Bell last night about some of their opiates,’ he continues.
Make it end...
‘Is the food to your satisfaction, Lord Ravencourt?’ says Michael Hardcastle, neatly sidling into the conversation.
I turn my eyes to meet him, gratitude flooding forth.
A glass of red wine is half raised to his lips, mischief sparkling in those green eyes. It’s a stark contrast to Evelyn, whose gaze could tear strips from my skin. She’s dressed in a blue evening gown and tiara, her blonde hair pinned up in curls, exposing the lavish diamond necklace draped around her neck. It’s the same outfit, minus an overcoat and wellington boots, that she’ll be wearing when she accompanies Sebastian Bell into the graveyard later this evening.
Dabbing my lips, I bow my head.
‘It’s excellent, I’m just sorry there aren’t more people to enjoy it,’ I say, gesturing towards the empty seats scattered around the table. ‘I was particularly looking forward to meeting Mr Sutcliffe.’
And his plague doctor costume, I think to myself.
‘Well, you’re in luck,’ interrupts Clifford Herrington. ‘Old Sutcliffe’s a good friend of mine, perhaps I can introduce you at the ball.’
‘Assuming he makes it,’ says Michael. ‘He and my father will have reached the back of the liquor cabinet by now. Doubtless Mother’s trying to rouse them as we speak.’
‘Is Lady Hardcastle coming tonight?’ I ask. ‘I hear she hasn’t been seen much today.’
‘Returning to Blackheath has been hard on her,’ says Michael, lowering his voice as though sharing a confidence. ‘No doubt she’s spent the day exorcising a few ghosts before the party. Rest assured, she’ll be here.’
We’re interrupted by one of the waiters leaning down to whisper in Michael’s ear. The young man’s expression immediately darkens, and as the waiter retreats, he passes the message to his sister, the gloom washing over her face as well. They look at each other a moment, squeezing hands, before Michael raps on his wine glass with a fork, and gets to his feet. He seems to unfurl as he stands so that he now appears unfeasibly tall, reaching well beyond the dim light of the candelabra, forcing him to speak from the shadows.
The room is silent, all eyes upon him.
‘I’d rather hoped my parents might make an appearance and save me from making a toast,’ he says. ‘Clearly they’re planning some grand entrance at the ball, which knowing my parents will be very grand indeed.’
Muted laughter is met with a shy smile.
My gaze skips across the guests, running straight into Daniel’s amused stare. Dabbing his lips with a napkin, he flicks his eyes towards Michael, instructing me to pay attention.
He knows what’s coming.
‘My father wanted to thank you for attending tonight and I’m sure he’ll do so in great detail later,’ says Michael.
There’s a quiver in his voice, the slightest hint of discomfort. ‘In his stead, I’d like to extend my personal thanks to each of you for coming and to welcome my sister, Evelyn, back home after her time in Paris.’
She reflects his adoration, the two of them sharing a smile that has nothing to do with this room, or these people. Even so, glasses are raised, reciprocal thanks washing back along the table.
Michael waits for the commotion to die down, then continues. ‘She’ll soon be embarking on a brand-new adventure, and...’ he pauses, eyes on the table, ‘Well, she’s going to be married to Lord Cecil Ravencourt.’
Silence engulfs us, all eyes turning in my direction. Shock becomes confusion, then disgust; their faces a perfect reflection of my own feelings. There must be thirty years and a thousand meals between Ravencourt and Evelyn, whose hostility this morning is now explained. If Lord and Lady Hardcastle really do blame their daughter for Thomas’s death, their punishment is exquisite. They plan to steal all the years from her that were stolen from Thomas.
I look over at Evelyn, but she’s fidgeting with a napkin and biting her lip, her former humour having fled. A bead of sweat is rolling down Michael’s forehead, the wine shaking in his glass. He can’t even look at his sister, and she can’t look anywhere else. Never has a man found a tablecloth so engrossing as I do now.
‘Lord Ravencourt’s an old friend of the family,’ says Michael mechanically, soldiering on into the silence. ‘I can’t think of anybody who’d take better care of my sister.’
Finally, he looks at Evelyn, meeting her glistening eyes.
‘Evie, I think you wanted to say something.’
She nods, the napkin strangled in her hands.
All eyes are fixed on her, nobody moving. Even the servants are staring, standing by the walls, holding dirty plates and fresh bottles of wine. Finally, Evelyn looks up from her lap, meeting the expectant faces arranged before her. Her eyes are wild, like an animal caught in a trap. Whatever words she prepared, they desert her immediately, replaced with a wretched sob that drives her from the room, Michael chasing after her.
Among the rustle of bodies turning in my direction, I seek out Daniel. The amusement of earlier has passed, his gaze now fixed on the window. I wonder how many times he’s watched the slow blush rise up my cheeks; if he even remembers how this shame felt. Is that why he can’t look at me now? Will I do any better, when my time comes?
Abandoned at the end of the table, my instinct is to flee with Michael and Evelyn, but I might as well wish for the moon to reach down and pluck me from this chair. Silence swirls until Clifford Herrington gets to his feet, candlelight glinting off his naval medals as he raises his glass.
‘To many happy years,’ he says, seemingly without irony.
One by one, every glass is raised and the toast repeated in a hollow chant.
At the end of the table, Daniel winks at me.