Page 49 of The Midnight Carousel
The women tussle over who has priority over the servants, can’t agree on dinner menus, glare at one another across the dining table on the evenings that the Randolphs aren’t either out or hosting their huge circle of friends.
There are the Prestons and the Hurleys, the Galvestons and the McBrides, and around a dozen other couples that Maisie has forgotten the names of, all of whom love parties and fashion and sharing their loud opinions.
Sometimes she catches the women staring at her and whispering amongst themselves, and she can only guess what Nancy has told them.
Worse than anything, living in close quarters with another married couple removes any chance of privacy.
‘The sound of that woman’s voice really is grating,’ James remarks over breakfast one morning.
The pitch of Nancy’s voice rises from the Randolphs’ bedroom, once Sir Malcolm’s.
Though they’re located at the furthest end of the hallway, all the way upstairs, their voices are sufficiently audible for Maisie to glean that Nancy is upset about the cut of beef from the previous night’s dinner.
If arguing with one’s spouse was a competitive sport, Maisie decides, Nancy would win first prize.
‘I don’t know how Hugo puts up with it,’ Maisie agrees.
James sets down his cutlery and places one hand on hers.
‘Well, I was hoping for a quiet moment to discuss something with you, but it seems there are no longer any quiet moments here.’ He smiles ruefully.
‘There’s been an interesting offer for the carousel from Mr Ingersoll, who owns a dozen Lunar Parks around the country,’ he explains.
‘If it was sold, Silver Kingdom could afford five or six new rides with the money he’s willing to pay.
Or we could invest the proceeds in something else– there are several interesting business opportunities I’ve heard about. ’
Maisie is taken by surprise. Getting married and Sir Malcolm’s death have preoccupied so much of her time that she wasn’t aware of other amusement parks taking an interest.
‘You don’t seem too enthusiastic,’ James intuits.
Maisie gathers her thoughts. ‘It just seems to have come out of the blue. I didn’t even realize Mr Ingersoll had approached us.’
James leans forward, excitement written on his face.
‘He didn’t exactly. I’ve been putting out feelers, thought it wouldn’t do any harm in seeing where improvements could be made. It’s an idea worth considering, isn’t it?’
Maisie doesn’t know what to think. On the one hand, not too long ago she wanted to take an axe to the carousel for all the heartache it’s brought to her life.
But of all the rides at Silver Kingdom, it’s the number one attraction.
Though it’s peculiar to expend any emotion on an inanimate object, she also feels an attachment to the machine.
Nostalgia, perhaps? On top of that, while it’s in her safekeeping, Maisie can do everything in her power to ensure that no one else vanishes.
‘But I’m not sure we need to do anything so drastic.’
James is quiet for several moments, his head nodding almost imperceptibly as though he is deep in contemplation.
‘Then I’ll tell Mr Ingersoll you’re not selling. Even though I might not agree, it’s your decision at the end of the day.’ He scrapes back his chair and pecks Maisie on the cheek. ‘Right, to the club with me. The opportunities won’t wait all day.’
As soon as he’s gone, a second round of Randolph bickering starts up, although this time the subject pivots to a baby. ‘I don’t want to wait!’ Nancy screams.
How Hugo could ever find himself in the right frame of mind for baby-making is beyond Maisie.
But soon the voices drop and are replaced by rhythmic moaning.
A few minutes later, there is laughter and the sound of footfall along the upstairs hallway.
Maisie escapes to the study. Besides this being the quietest room in the house, this morning she is packing up the contents before Nancy implements her threat to replace Sir Malcolm’s desk and bookcase.
Resigned to the fact that the inner workings of Fairweather House are out of her hands, safeguarding Sir Malcolm’s possessions is the best Maisie can do.
She can smell his presence in the room: the scent of cigars lingers.
Though Sir Malcolm had been slowly disappearing, bit by bit, for years, she imagines him whole again, sitting in his chair, puffing away while staring absent-mindedly.
She peers out of the window. The snow has melted, revealing a carpet of emerald.
In this watery winter light, the carousel is so luminous that it’s hard to believe it could be involved in anyone’s disappearance.
She turns away, unable to bear thinking about that night again: the desperate wait for hours, then the horror of realizing that Sir Malcolm wasn’t returning. And now the terrible guilt at covering up what might have happened to him.
The front door closing means Hugo has left for the city, as is his usual habit on a Monday.
Maisie can hear Nancy singing a lullaby, a sign she’ll be in a pleasant mood for the next three hours.
It’s strange how quickly one can learn the peculiarities of people who a month ago were practically strangers.
Focusing on the job in hand, Maisie deals with the books first. Her eyes alight on the Collins’ Graphic Atlas , which she sets aside for later, deciding to take a look at the geography of her parents’ lives to feel a little closer to them.
Since her own wedding, Maisie’s curiosity about her history has been roused.
Once the bookcase is emptied, she turns her attention to the items laid out on Sir Malcolm’s desk.
She finishes packing and calls for Robert and Clara to help her transport the boxes to the parlour, where they will be safe, since Nancy considers the room too small to waste her efforts on.
Next, she clears the desk drawers, sorting through paperwork.
At last, she is ready for the final task, finding a safe place for the confidential contents of the top drawer.
Locating the key beneath the cigar box, she finds the title deeds to the house, to be passed to Hugo, along with the original business agreement between the two brothers.
The letter from Laurent is tucked at the bottom, every word, every nuance, committed to Maisie’s memory.
Now the shock has receded, she considers replying, but can’t think what to write.
He asked no questions, and she prefers that he never learns of her marriage, never sees her as anything but the Maisie she once was.
And what would happen if she informed the detective that Sir Malcolm is gone?
Returning to pursue the case is a possible outcome, and that wouldn’t be fair on anyone.
To be safe, she should destroy the letter, but it would be like losing Laurent all over again.
Instead, she runs upstairs to hide it. Opening her wardrobe, she slips the envelope behind the poster that is still pinned there from the time she invited the neighbourhood children to enjoy the carousel. The awful day Billy disappeared.
On her way out of the bedroom, Maisie notices that her jewellery box is open, even though she knows the lid was closed earlier.
Rifling through, it’s immediately obvious that the wedding money from Hugo is missing.
She rummages a fourth and fifth time, removing everything.
When double- and triple-checking still produce nothing, she slams the box shut and sits on the bed, picking nervously at the sleeves of her blouse. James must have taken it.