Page 45 of The Midnight Carousel

Swishing down the sweeping staircase with Clara holding the train of her dress, Maisie catches sight of the carousel through the drawing-room windows.

It’s the middle of winter, and icicles hang from the canopy.

A sheen of ice covers the horses, making them appear ghostly.

Luckily the park is closed until the weather improves in early spring, or every morning would be spent defrosting the mechanics of the rides.

Silver Kingdom is eerily quiet without the Crew, the Ride Jocks and the Jointees.

They are all wintering in Florida, Mr Levander told Maisie before he left.

Most of the rides have gone with them, since side gigs have been organized down there for the season.

It’s surprising how much Maisie misses the hurly-burly and even the bickering, and she can’t wait for their return at the end of February.

She takes stock of the drawing room. Devoid of the usual furniture this morning, it is filled with five tables and forty chairs borrowed from the food stalls.

It makes the day seem real, and a tingle of anxiety sends a shiver up her spine.

She woke up thinking of her mother this morning, wondering if all those years ago she had also been a jittery bride.

Was there any sign at all of what married life would hold for her?

Running from the law. Abandoning her child.

Mrs Papadopoulos has reassured Maisie that nerves are normal on one’s wedding day, and she holds on tightly to this thought.

Maisie feels burning hot, as if she’s suffering from scarlet fever. Then a chill travels along her limbs. Why has he written after all these months? Before Clara gets wind of this development, she sends the maid to fetch a shawl.

Her hands tremble as she makes a small tear in the paper. Then she pauses, debating whether to open it.

Arnold hurries from the direction of the kitchen, resplendent in a purple velvet suit.

‘Off you go, Miss Maisie. Sir Malcolm is already in the Daimler.’

He places his hands on Maisie’s shoulders to guide her to the front door. Alarmed, she swivels around; she can’t arrive at the church with Laurent’s letter in her possession. And she can’t leave the envelope sitting in the hallway for anyone to notice.

‘Arnold, stop.’ She brandishes the envelope under his nose. ‘I need you to put this somewhere for safekeeping.’

His eyes widen as he reads the sender’s details. More than anyone, Arnold might have guessed that something was afoot between Maisie and Laurent. But she trusts him.

‘Leave it with me,’ he whispers. ‘I shall store it in Sir Malcolm’s usual place.’

In the study, he means, in the top drawer, under lock and key.

Satisfied with this arrangement, Maisie allows Arnold to lead her to the car and accepts a cream shawl from Clara.

‘Wait here, I almost forgot,’ Arnold gasps.

He runs into the house and returns with a navy ribbon embroidered in gold lettering– maisie and james, j anuary 3rd, 1920 – attached to which is a small diamond made of paste and a sprig of winter jasmine.

With Clara lifting the trailing sleeve of the wedding dress, Arnold ties the ribbon around Maisie’s wrist.

Not having even thought about a corsage, Maisie is almost moved to tears by this gesture. As she kisses his cheek, Arnold turns scarlet.

Inside the Daimler, Sir Malcolm’s chin is resting on his chest, his eyes closed.

With a start, he wakes up as Maisie slides in next to him on the back seat.

He is smart for a change, probably courtesy of Arnold, in a set of tails and his hair brushed flat to his head.

The look is marred only by his crooked tie, which Maisie begins to straighten without thinking.

Sir Malcolm attempts a smile, his mouth slanted up at one side.

‘Your aunt used to do the same thing for me,’ he says.

His voice is so quiet that Maisie has difficulty hearing him.

‘I would have married her like a shot, you know, but we had to wait until her divorce came through. Until then, I didn’t want the servants gossiping, tarnishing her reputation,’ he continues as though he’s unaware that it’s Maisie he’s speaking to.

‘So we had to keep it quiet. Mabel said we should just run off and leave it all behind.’

This is the first time that Sir Malcolm has owned up to Maisie about his relationship with her aunt, and it sounds like they were in love.

‘Catherine used to try before that,’ he adds. ‘But her fingers were too little to be of much help. They were made for writing. She would have made a splendid author, don’t you think?’

Hearing Sir Malcolm talk about Aunty Mabel and his daughter with such fondness stirs an understanding in Maisie.

Through the pain of losing his loved ones, he took in a stray girl and treated her with kindness, even though he owed her nothing.

He isn’t blood, but Sir Malcolm is the only proper father Maisie has known.

She places her hand in his, feeling protective towards him.

‘She certainly would. I told her as much at Clacton funfair.’

Maisie gazes out of the window, watching Fairweather House disappear as Eric steers the car past leafless tress arching under the weight of snow.

When she spots James at the end of the aisle, Maisie feels like her stomach has bottomed out. She remembers Laurent’s letter waiting at home. His grey, questioning eyes. The passion of that kiss. James turns around, his face shining with excitement.

It’s too late to change her mind now.

There’s a ruckus in one corner of the drawing room. This afternoon, Nancy is in one of her spiky moods and is causing a scene at the reception luncheon. She has risen from her seat and is stabbing her finger at Clara, accusing the maid of spilling red wine on her new silk dress.

All eyes turn as the volume rises, with the exception of Sir Malcolm, who remains staring, blank-eyed, at a watercolour of an English landscape above the fireplace.

While the maid runs off, Hugo tries restraining Nancy.

Even some way off, Maisie can tell that he’s having considerable trouble managing his wife’s temperament.

Maisie spots James beckoning her back to her seat. She breaks off her conversation with Mrs Papadopoulos’s eldest son, who is now a burly young man of fifteen, to sit down next to her new husband.

James leans into Maisie. ‘My money’s on Arnold getting walloped by Nancy’s handbag next.’

They watch as Nancy runs from the room, while Hugo jumps from his seat and strides towards them.

‘I’m taking Nancy home,’ he announces abruptly. ‘Sorry for the fuss.’ He runs his fingers through his hair. ‘I shouldn’t have insisted she come. I understand it’s unacceptable behaviour, but she had another miscarriage last week, and she’s finding things difficult.’

‘We understand, old chap,’ James replies. ‘No hard feelings.’

Hugo looks relieved. He hands James an envelope. ‘Your wedding gift,’ he explains, and departs to deal with Nancy.

Hugo is so wrapped up in his wife that he didn’t even mention his brother’s state of mind today, probably didn’t notice that Sir Malcolm is now leaning against the mantelpiece with his head buried in his hands.

‘There’s a hundred dollars in here,’ James exclaims, awestruck. ‘We should place this somewhere safe.’

‘All right, but hurry back. It looks like there’s going to be dancing,’ Maisie says. ‘We can show everyone how to do the Fox Trot.’

James laughs and pulls Maisie to her feet.

‘You’re coming with me, Mrs Squires. I still don’t know my way around this big old house.’

Having both agreed that Sir Malcolm shouldn’t be left living alone at Fairweather, James has given up his apartment in the city and moves in today.

Maisie follows him to the hallway, fielding offers of congratulations on the way.

The sensible place to put anything is in the top drawer of Sir Malcolm’s desk, out of action, but, with Laurent’s unopened letter in there, she needs to find an alternative.

Careful not to trip on her train, she ascends the stairs and heads to her bedroom– their bedroom now– with James trailing behind.

Clapping from downstairs probably means the dancing is about to begin.

Maisie switches on the lamp. Though it’s only mid-afternoon, dusk has suddenly appeared.

Goosebumps creep along her arms despite the long sleeves of her dress.

The room is chilly and she’s left her wrap on the back of a chair.

The fire hasn’t been lit in the hearthside and she makes a mental note to ask Clara to fetch some logs up later.

Eager to find a suitable location to store the money and return to the guests, Maisie scans the room.

It still looks like a young girl’s bedroom, with its pink wallpaper and frilly bedcovers. Perhaps they can redecorate.

On the top of her bureau sits an ivory jewellery box. Stashing the money amongst the few worthless trinkets, she’s about to turn around when James comes up from behind and circles her waist with his arms.

‘Dance for me,’ he whispers in her ear and begins softly swaying from side to side.

Maisie freezes. She realizes that this is what James has wanted, to engineer them away from the party. He nuzzles into her while she lets him undo the buttons at the back of her dress, feeling no stirring of desire herself.

She returns downstairs a few minutes after James, and is about to rejoin the others when she spots him seated with a group of his friends, grinning as ribald laughter breaks out.

Avoiding them, she sits alone in the hallway on the bottom stair.

Mrs Papadopoulos appears and, taking one look at Maisie, brings her a glass of whisky.

‘Here. Drink,’ she orders, a look of concern on her face. ‘ Moro mou , what is wrong?’

Maisie shakes her head. What happens between a man and his wife is private. ‘Nothing,’ she replies.

Mrs Papadopoulos strokes Maisie’s tousled hair.

‘If you need anything, you come to me. Understand?’

Maisie sips the bitter drink, then hands back the glass. She’s experienced worse than pretending to enjoy the touch of her own husband.