Page 8 of The Midnight Carousel

The scarlet fever creeps across England like a thief in the night, stealing babies from mothers, husbands from wives, friends from one another.

For three weeks, Maisie drifts in and out of consciousness, haunted by strange images of the ancestors climbing out of their portraits and dancing in her room.

Her only visitors are faceless people wearing masks made of handkerchiefs who bring food and water, provide bed pans. Even Aunty Mabel stays away.

One day, a stout gentleman in a dark suit arrives to peer down her throat.

‘You’re in the clear,’ he announces, and departs the bedroom.

Quarantined alone for so long, Maisie is bursting to see everyone, but she waits until seven chimes of the clock.

Her limbs weakened, she battles to bathe and dress herself, yet the effort is worth it to feel cleansed of the illness.

Clutching the banister, she takes each flight of stairs carefully, resting between floors.

Even so, her legs are shaking by the time she reaches the entrance hall.

A thick film of dust covering the antique console table is the first sign that something is amiss. Uncertain where anyone is, she follows the sounds of the household along another corridor.

Two footmen hurry past, laden with tall piles of sheets.

‘I wouldn’t go that way if I were you,’ one of them advises without stopping.

Not heeding the warning, Maisie continues, using the wall to support her weight. There’s a moaning noise, as if an injured animal has found its way indoors. Alarmed, Maisie peeks through the doorway of a room she now remembers is the library.

Sir Malcolm is sitting in a leather armchair, his body convulsing as he sobs. His sandy hair is in upright tufts, his chin unshaven. The sight is so startling that Maisie can’t pull herself away.

‘This way.’

A person Maisie recognizes as Miss Catherine’s governess beckons her to the music room, which hosts an upright piano topped by a vase of wilted flowers.

Curled petals spill on to the dusty rug.

Maisie has never seen such dishevelment in this grand house, and she can’t understand why Aunty Mabel has let the usual standards drop.

The governess’s hair is flowing, she now notices, free of its usual tight bun, and stains adorn her blouse.

Maisie wonders if she’s seeing a trick of the fever.

The governess avoids eye contact. ‘I’m sorry to tell you this, but Miss Catherine went five days ago, and Mabel the night after.’ She sighs. ‘They were buried at St Margaret’s yesterday morning.’

Slammed by a rush of dizziness, Maisie slumps on the piano stool, her head between her hands. She thinks of the squirrel caught in the poacher’s trap, the young deer in the forest. Both dead. Like Aunty Mabel and Miss Catherine.

It can’t be real. The funfair was less than a month ago with everyone returning in high spirits, planning the future. What about Miss Catherine’s novels about the lady detective?

Maisie bitterly regrets not having laid out the good-luck stones when they returned from the funfair that evening. Look what happens when her guard is lowered.

Dear Lord of the Water, please bless their souls.

She feels a comforting tap on her shoulder, then hears the governess leave the room.

For a while, Maisie is still, numbed like a rose that bloomed too early, frozen by the frost on a winter’s morning.

Eventually, she’s able to sit up without the room spinning.

Lady Lydia smiles down from her portrait above the fireplace with the same kind eyes as her daughter, Miss Catherine.

Her expression is like a beam of light thawing Maisie’s heart.

Hot tears stain her cheeks. Gentle Miss Catherine, who had never harmed a soul, didn’t deserve to die. Neither did Aunty Mabel.

Trembling, Maisie remembers the first time she ever saw her aunt, holding on to her hat, with her face set in determination.

It’s difficult to believe that she’ll never see Aunty Mabel’s smile again, never hear her laugh like a lark at sunrise, never hold or be held by her aunt.

Never be held by anyone in this great, big house.

With a fright, Maisie comprehends that she’s all alone here, having been brought to Jesserton by a woman who now lies cold in the ground. Rising panic overpowers the sadness. What’s going to happen to her now?

Maisie quickly works out that her fate lies in Sir Malcolm’s hands.

Lost, she spends her days in limbo, sitting on her bed and brooding on what lies ahead for her now.

Only venturing downstairs to eat, she takes great care to avoid being noticed by the servants.

‘That girl is cursed, like all them half-castes,’ she overheard them agree amongst themselves on the first evening without her guardian.

Before, she believed she was welcome here, had found somewhere she belonged, at last. But it now occurs to Maisie that the staff have always kept their distance from her, and Aunty Mabel was shielding her from the same hostility she’s faced throughout her life.

Jesserton was never really her home, she understands with an ache like a punch in the gut.

It isn’t safe, and she’s no longer protected.

The alternatives are even more frightening.

Maisie worries that she’ll be banished to the workhouse or forced to return to Canvey and the Sixpences.

She can’t decide which is worse. Though a reunion with dear Tommy would be joyous, Maisie isn’t sure she could survive the beatings or starvation after experiencing the gentleness of a life with her aunt.

She briefly contemplates running off to find her parents, but has no idea how or where to even begin looking for them.

When a footman informs Maisie one week later that Sir Malcolm wishes to see her, a sense of trepidation makes her stomach somersault. She follows the liveried man to the first floor, her palms moistening. As he indicates a doorway, then departs, she wipes her hands on her skirts.

Maisie steps into a spacious room that smells of cigars.

She’s never been allowed in here before, never seen the fineness of the patterned rug nor the bright paintings that are nothing like the dull portraits of the ancestors.

Sir Malcolm is sitting at a wide desk, writing.

They’ve had no interactions since she saw him sobbing in the library, and Maisie can’t extinguish the image from her mind.

‘Has the governess commenced your studies?’ he enquires without looking up.

His vowels are rounded, his t ’s like stones hitting glass.

She feels it best for everyone not to tell on the woman. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good,’ he replies.

He lays down his pen, reaches for a tumbler containing an amber-coloured liquid and downs it in one. His eyes search the room and alight on a decanter containing the same kind of drink. He stands and goes to pour himself another glass.

‘My brother, Hugo, lives in America, and I’ll join him there. I’m selling Jesserton. Some rich Californian made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. I leave in ten days.’

Maisie’s eyes flick up briefly to see if he’s joking. But he seems deadly serious, no trace of a smile appearing. With Sir Malcolm leaving, and so soon, her own departure from Jesserton is probably imminent. A fresh wave of fear makes her heart skip a beat.

‘So will you join me?’ he asks, his expression impossible to read.

He puts the proposition in such a casual manner, like he’s asking if Maisie minds passing him the letter opener, that it takes several seconds before she understands that Sir Malcolm is offering her the chance to accompany him.

She is reeling. ‘To America?’ she blurts, wondering if everyone in the household has been asked.

‘You’re Mabel’s niece, and I promised her I would take good care of you.’

Maisie’s mind swirls while Sir Malcolm taps the rim of his glass, clearly expecting some sort of reply.

‘I–’

‘This is a big decision, I understand, and we can make other arrangements for you should you prefer to remain in England.’

Maisie dreads to think what other arrangements he means.

He hasn’t mentioned Miss Catherine, but it’s obvious from the dark circles under his eyes that the loss of his daughter weighs heavy on Sir Malcolm.

If he wishes it were Catherine standing here instead of Maisie, he doesn’t show it, though she wouldn’t have blamed him.

Didn’t she secretly want it to be her mother rather than Aunty Mabel who brushed her hair every morning?

A thought crosses her mind.

‘Shouldn’t we tell my parents, Sir Malcolm? They might want to know what’s happened.’

Or be able to provide a home for Maisie, she refrains from saying, in case she appears ungrateful.

Sir Malcolm’s eyebrows shoot up. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, like a goldfish offered as a prize at the hoopla stall.

‘Do you know where they are?’ she continues, desperate to learn something. ‘Or anything about them?’

Sir Malcolm takes a gulp of his drink.

‘Your aunt never shared any details, I’m afraid,’ he responds in a tone of regret. ‘All I’m aware of is that it won’t be possible to inform them of anything. I wish it were.’

His eyes are filled with a look of such sympathy for her that Maisie is hit by a sudden realization.

The clues were there, and part of her always knew: Aunty Mabel choking up whenever she talked about Eliza; why her aunt and not one of her parents, collected Maisie; the mystery of their whereabouts. She would be here, if she could.

Her mother and father are dead.

It feels like the ground is giving way. Maisie clutches the edge of the desk to keep from sinking to the floor.

A tightness in her chest makes it difficult to breathe.

She is all alone in the world, helpless like a piece of driftwood at the mercy of the currents.

It now falls to Maisie to safeguard her own future. To find a protector.

As tears threaten to spill out, she squeezes her fists and swallows down her feelings, placing them in an imaginary bottle, like the picture she left behind with Tommy.

‘Then thank you for the invitation, Sir Malcolm,’ she replies in a shaky voice. ‘I would very much like to go with you.’

He sets down his glass.

‘America will be good for us, Maisie,’ he reassures her before moving back to the desk to resume writing. ‘Besides, I need to get away.’

Maisie is still awake as dawn streams through the window. Realizing that sleep is impossible, she dresses and creeps outside to say goodbye to Jesserton. This is her last day here. Her last day in England.

Skies tinged purple and pink mirror the colours of the flowerbeds– lavender, trailing roses, rhododendrons, wisteria– a snapshot of England she knows she will miss.

Maisie imagines a vast landscape of craggy mountains and bone-dry deserts is awaiting her, with the only plants spiky cacti that grow tall enough for outlaws to hide behind, based on what she’s overheard the servants say this past week.

Not that any of them have ever seen America for themselves, or will do so any time soon.

It transpires that Maisie is, in fact, the sole person from Jesserton honoured with an invitation.

A question stirs at the margins of her mind. Why just her, and none of the others?

Passing the pond and cluster of mulberry bushes, she follows the path to the weeping willow that drapes like a fainting lady in a quiet corner of the grounds. She sits with her back leaning against the trunk and stares up at morning sunlight seeping through an interwoven pattern of green.

A face peering through the trailing canopy of leaves gives her a start. It takes a moment to recognize James.

‘Sir Malcolm summoned me,’ he explains. ‘He wanted to say goodbye, in person. I arrived last night.’

As he sits beside her without an invitation, Maisie remembers Miss Catherine’s disdain for her cousin and she feels herself shrinking away from him. Up close, he’s wider and looks older than she recalls, with a trace of blond stubble on his cheeks.

He drills into Maisie with his blue eyes. ‘So where does his departure leave you?’ he probes. ‘Are you staying on here?’

It’s obvious that James has no idea that Maisie is leaving with Sir Malcolm. Made uneasy by the intense expression on his face, she decides not to set him straight.

‘I came from Canvey, so I might go back,’ she lies.

He considers her answer for a second. ‘Perhaps I could come to visit you there,’ he suggests.

She stares at him. Why would she want that? Why would he? Before she understands what’s happening, James’s mouth is jammed on her own. She tastes coffee, feels his breath on her face. Using the full force of her disgust, Maisie shoves him away. Leaping to her feet, she strides towards the house.

‘I’ll have you one day, Maisie,’ he calls after her, laughing.

You will not, Maisie resolves. Soon, she will be living on the other side of the ocean, far away from him, away from this house, which has lost its fairytale-like quality. As she catches sight of the luggage being loaded on to the carriages, Maisie knows she is ready to move on.