Read Online The Painted Bridge by Wendy Wallace - Free Book Online
Authors: Wendy Wallace
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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the edge of the lake, made its way up the side of the field and broke cover, heading across the grass for the house. It reached the gravel path that led to the airing grounds and stopped, its tail a flag of intent.
Querios Abse watched from the study window, stroking the quill of his pen against his chin, enjoying its sharp, soft edge. He’d been too busy to get out again with the gun, occupied as he was with readying Lake House for the next visit from the inspectors. He’d had the whirling chair dismantled at last. Jethro Fludd carried it up through the servants’ quarters into the roof space between the attic rooms and laid it piece by piece across the rafters. Querios had ordered dried lavender from Baldwin’s and supplies of chloroform in fluted bottles that couldn’t be mistaken. He’d permitted the introduction of ham, once a week, to be served with English mustard. The photographic portraits were now up in the dayroom as well as the dining room. The magistrates were sure to be impressed by Dr. St. Clair’s techniques, even if the art critics found such pictures offensive.
He’d rehearsed with Fanny Makepeace the code of whistle blasts by which, the instant that the magistrates’ carriage reached the gates, every member of the staff at Lake House could be alerted. On hearing the signal, the groundsman was to release the peacock, the attendants were to throw the lavender on the fires and Makepeace was to take the agreed measures to subdue any patient who threatened to embarrass the visitors.
The birds were the only part of the preparations that gave him personalsatisfaction. He liked peacocks and when the magistrates had complained last time of too few diversions for patients, amongst other things, he’d had an idea. He’d ordered a silver one, with two hens, from a man in Suffolk. They arrived in a wooden crate and the cock began immediately to molt. A week later, one of the females was found dead in the run, her head detached from her body. Querios had been out then with the .12-bore and an oil lamp, taken potshots in the direction of movement in the shrubs. The noise disturbed the patients, Makepeace reported; in particular, Talitha Batt.
The fox was raising its leg against the old oak. He banged on the glass and it took off in a leisurely canter up toward the walled garden, the groundsman’s cottage, the coop. His father, Septimus Abse, had shot a whole family of foxes. The dog prowled forever in a case in the study, stuffed fuller than he had ever been in life; the vixen was made into a stole, for his mother. The ineffable softness of the tips of fur flicking against his cheek, the feel of the lifeless paws and claws in the palms of his hands, had been a motif of his childhood, a symbol of all that was inexplicable about the adult state.
Returning to his desk, Querios put down the pen and picked up the new brochure. It featured Lake House on the cover, looking solid and dignified as a country hotel. In the engraving, the windows were bigger and the walls lower. Three women walked together toward the lake, their skirts and bonnets a deep rose pink. The edges of the picture were soft, as if the house was shrouded in fog or floated, unanchored, above the city it surveyed.
The paragraphs inside described a comfortable, well-situated retreat in the district favored by poets and philosophers, near enough to London to be accessible for visitors but far enough away to be removed from cares, smogs and the din of construction. The notion that they were interested in poets flattered the families. Relatives liked to think they could visit patients, if time allowed. They were less keen on the idea that patients could take it into their heads to visit them. He hadn’t included the rates in the brochure. The accountant’s plan was to raise them but so far Querios hadn’t dared. Losing existing guests could be disastrous.
A log fell in the fire and he put aside the brochure, opened up aseries of ledgers and
Querios Abse watched from the study window, stroking the quill of his pen against his chin, enjoying its sharp, soft edge. He’d been too busy to get out again with the gun, occupied as he was with readying Lake House for the next visit from the inspectors. He’d had the whirling chair dismantled at last. Jethro Fludd carried it up through the servants’ quarters into the roof space between the attic rooms and laid it piece by piece across the rafters. Querios had ordered dried lavender from Baldwin’s and supplies of chloroform in fluted bottles that couldn’t be mistaken. He’d permitted the introduction of ham, once a week, to be served with English mustard. The photographic portraits were now up in the dayroom as well as the dining room. The magistrates were sure to be impressed by Dr. St. Clair’s techniques, even if the art critics found such pictures offensive.
He’d rehearsed with Fanny Makepeace the code of whistle blasts by which, the instant that the magistrates’ carriage reached the gates, every member of the staff at Lake House could be alerted. On hearing the signal, the groundsman was to release the peacock, the attendants were to throw the lavender on the fires and Makepeace was to take the agreed measures to subdue any patient who threatened to embarrass the visitors.
The birds were the only part of the preparations that gave him personalsatisfaction. He liked peacocks and when the magistrates had complained last time of too few diversions for patients, amongst other things, he’d had an idea. He’d ordered a silver one, with two hens, from a man in Suffolk. They arrived in a wooden crate and the cock began immediately to molt. A week later, one of the females was found dead in the run, her head detached from her body. Querios had been out then with the .12-bore and an oil lamp, taken potshots in the direction of movement in the shrubs. The noise disturbed the patients, Makepeace reported; in particular, Talitha Batt.
The fox was raising its leg against the old oak. He banged on the glass and it took off in a leisurely canter up toward the walled garden, the groundsman’s cottage, the coop. His father, Septimus Abse, had shot a whole family of foxes. The dog prowled forever in a case in the study, stuffed fuller than he had ever been in life; the vixen was made into a stole, for his mother. The ineffable softness of the tips of fur flicking against his cheek, the feel of the lifeless paws and claws in the palms of his hands, had been a motif of his childhood, a symbol of all that was inexplicable about the adult state.
Returning to his desk, Querios put down the pen and picked up the new brochure. It featured Lake House on the cover, looking solid and dignified as a country hotel. In the engraving, the windows were bigger and the walls lower. Three women walked together toward the lake, their skirts and bonnets a deep rose pink. The edges of the picture were soft, as if the house was shrouded in fog or floated, unanchored, above the city it surveyed.
The paragraphs inside described a comfortable, well-situated retreat in the district favored by poets and philosophers, near enough to London to be accessible for visitors but far enough away to be removed from cares, smogs and the din of construction. The notion that they were interested in poets flattered the families. Relatives liked to think they could visit patients, if time allowed. They were less keen on the idea that patients could take it into their heads to visit them. He hadn’t included the rates in the brochure. The accountant’s plan was to raise them but so far Querios hadn’t dared. Losing existing guests could be disastrous.
A log fell in the fire and he put aside the brochure, opened up aseries of ledgers and
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