Page 12 of The Midnight Carousel

Early the next morning, a loud bang like a shotgun disturbs the air, causing sandpipers to scatter; they glide past the drawing-room windows and over the glassy surface of Lake Michigan, towards the cresting sun.

As Maisie peers out, she notices a cloud of dust near Hutton-Bellamy House.

‘Vulgar nouveau riche,’ Sir Malcolm always mutters whenever the neighbours are mentioned: namely Mr Hutton-Bellamy himself, the labourer-turned-lumber-magnate; and Mr Janssen, the once penniless Dutch immigrant who now owns the largest papermill in Illinois.

Though all the houses in this neighbourhood seem anything but vulgar to Maisie, Fairweather House is especially refined.

With white ship-lap walls and large windows framed by navy shutters, it sits majestically on forty acres of land that includes flourishing orchards.

Inside, crystal chandeliers and cream marble floors continue the elegance.

The space is airy in a way that Jesserton never was, helped by pared-down furniture and the bright paintings from Sir Malcolm’s study in England.

The ancestors were left behind: no eyes follow Maisie as she navigates easily between the living spaces on the ground floor and the five upstairs bedrooms, each with its own bathroom.

The main attraction, however, is the view of the lake from the rear of the house.

In her spare moments, she sits at her bedroom window, mesmerized by water the colour of steel, which teems with warblers and blue herons and salmon larger than her arm.

At night the surface sparkles as though it’s covered in fallen stars, stretching without end to the distant horizon.

From here, she prays to the Lord of the Water every evening without fail while rearranging a line of pebbles collected from the shore along her windowsill.

After the tragedy that befell Aunty Mabel and Miss Catherine when she lowered her guard, Maisie is taking no chances.

The grey cloud of dust created by a procession of vehicles rolls up the road like a wave.

Since this is the last estate before the land becomes too boggy to build on, Maisie knows it’s heading their way.

This must be the carousel arriving, though delivery is earlier than she thought.

Sir Malcolm has yet to emerge from his bedroom– and, if the two empty wine bottles discarded on the drawing-room floor are anything to go by, they won’t be seeing him any time soon.

She collects up the evidence before the staff arrive for their morning duties. There are fewer servants here than at Jesserton, all employed at Fairweather from before Sir Malcolm purchased the place from the previous owner. Their number complements the modest size of the house.

Likeable for the easy-going way he turns his hand to tasks most butlers would consider beneath them, Arnold is responsible for the other three: Eric, the footman, a man in his late twenties who rarely smiles; Clara, the maid, a shy young woman with a round face; and the cook.

Widowed when her husband was killed dynamiting a tunnel for the railroads, Peggy Mae moved from Alabama in search of work with her three young children, and the entire family lives in staff quarters near the main gate with the others.

Maisie often wonders who they think she is to Sir Malcolm.

It must be obvious she isn’t blood, because ever since it was decided last month that she had outgrown the governess, she has occupied her time with household chores.

Yet neither is she one of them, since she resides in the main house.

Her deep-rooted sense of not belonging has travelled with Maisie to America.

The vehicles snake past the cherry trees that flank the driveway. An assortment of burly labourers piles out.

A dark-haired man with a long beard eyes Maisie. ‘The name’s Corbett. Where d’you want the carousel set up?’

Where? She remembers no instructions from Sir Malcolm about which part of the estate had been selected for the carousel.

Silent on the way home from his brother’s house, within seconds of returning he had procured a sizeable quantity of Burgundy from the wine cellar before holing up in the drawing room.

Maisie is torn between facing his wrath by waking him early, and his fury at the carousel being sited in the wrong spot.

‘This way,’ she instructs.

She knows the perfect place and can only pray Sir Malcolm agrees. The vehicles follow, trundling between the swathe of apple trees, out to a clear, flat area with direct sight of the lake.

With clanging and shouting, the work begins.

A circular platform emerges first, hauled off the biggest truck by every pair of hands.

It’s an enormous structure, twenty feet in diameter and three feet deep, fashioned of engraved metal that rattles as it’s lowered into position.

Sweating, the workers drag out other components to attach to this central piece, slotting in steps, fastening pipes and tightening bolts, adding the beginnings of a brightly painted canopy.

There are figures near the house– the servants starting their workday– which means that Sir Malcolm will soon be roused by the chatter and the noise of breakfast being made.

Waving at them in the distance, Maisie tears herself away from the carousel to fetch him, and is about to step inside when the ting, ting, ting of a cowbell stops her.

A sturdy woman with jet-black hair and a strong jawline is steering a cart towards the house. As the wheels grind to a halt, Maisie approaches.

‘Good morning, Mrs Papadopoulos,’ she says. ‘We need milk and butter, please.’

Maisie makes a special point to be up early enough to meet the dairy cart every morning.

There’s a comfort in knowing that Mrs Papadopoulos will always turn up, as reliably as the sun rising in the east. Besides, she likes the woman.

Maisie can’t help admiring anyone who was forced to leave behind everything in their home country, then musters the enthusiasm to start over.

‘Occupation by Ottomans is Greek tragedy like Euripides wrote,’ she once said, but there wasn’t a trace of self-pity in her voice.

Mrs Papadopoulos clambers from the cart, pokes her head under the canvas protecting the produce and offers Maisie a small package. ‘You have this too. Feta.’ She cups Maisie’s face, studies her. ‘Greek cheese for Greek girl.’

If only Mrs Papadopoulos knew that Signora Maronelli, the seamstress, is convinced that Maisie is part Sicilian, and Bobby Whitefeather from the general store is sure she has Navajo blood.

She considers admitting that her ethnic origins are a mystery even to herself, but it’s a rare chance for Maisie to feel like she fits in somewhere.

There’s no harm in it, as far as she can tell.

‘Thank you. Your other clients are going to think you have favourites,’ Maisie laughs.

Her wide smile makes Mrs Papadopoulos appear younger, pretty even. ‘Maybe I do,’ she winks.

A labourer rushes past, reaches inside one of the vehicles, and retrieves a toolbox and what looks like a large poker before racing back to rejoin the crew near the lake.

‘Early for visitors,’ Mrs Papadopoulos states.

‘It’s our new carousel,’ Maisie explains, but the older woman looks blank. ‘It’s a ride for children. They go around and around,’ she adds, moving her hands in a circle.

‘What you do with child’s toy?’

It’s a question that should have been asked at the train station. Now the carousel is here, Maisie can see how ludicrous its presence must seem to outsiders.

Mrs Papadopoulos rolls her eyes as if she understands. ‘Crazy rich,’ she mutters as she hauls herself into the cart, leaving Maisie to search for Sir Malcolm.

She follows the scent of cigars to the morning room, where Sir Malcolm is usually to be found before he sobers up and hides away in his study for the rest of the day.

What he does in there, Maisie isn’t certain, but it seems to require a decanter of Scotch on a drinking day, a pot of black coffee otherwise, a large bundle of daily newspapers and the telephone.

Every so often, he receives a call from Mr Duke Deveraux, his stockbroker, or one of the handful of acquaintances introduced to him by Hugo, and he dashes off to a meeting in the city, all spruced up.

In the early days of living in America, he had attended church every week, taking Maisie with him, but those outings came to an abrupt halt after the minister informed the congregation that the death of their loved ones was God’s will.

Since then, he has spent Sunday mornings in his study, reading the Bible.

‘I don’t need a middleman to communicate with God,’ he claimed.

Engrossed in his activities at all times, Sir Malcolm continues to read a newspaper even while eating lunch or dinner in the dining room.

Rather than enduring mealtimes without any conversation, Maisie prefers to join the informal staff supper in the big kitchen, listening to all the news while she helps to prepare vegetables and wash the dishes afterwards.

Everyone else is too busy in the day for socializing, which wasn’t so noticeable when she was occupied with her studies.

Now these evenings spent with the servants are all that stands between Maisie and crushing loneliness.

She knocks. It’s impossible to tell what sort of mood Sir Malcolm might be in. Most of the time, he’s gruff but vaguely approachable, although after a night of fierce drinking, he is best avoided. But the carousel’s arrival is a big event.

‘Yes?’ he answers with a resigned sigh.

Entering the room, she can see there are purple circles under his eyes. He lounges in an armchair, puffing away and still in his dressing gown.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ she says quietly. ‘But the carousel is here and–’

He winces. ‘Keep the noise down. I feel a migraine coming on.’