“He doesn’t work for you,” Zeb said. Maybe Gideon hated him and always would; Zeb still wasn’t going to sit here while Hawley picked on him. “Ask Wynn about it, if you’re so interested. It’s a lovely day out there. Who’s coming for this walk?”
Five
In the end it was Bram, Zeb, Jessamine, and Hawley. A real family outing.
Hawley took Jessamine’s arm and smoked while he walked, unpleasantly perfumed tobacco that produced a cloying stench. Bram trudged on Jessamine’s other side, clearly determined not to let the painter exert his charm without interference. Zeb trailed along behind because it had been his idea, and he did actually want to get a sense of the grounds, not to mention a leg stretch.
The grounds were impressive in their way, and he appreciated them more in the fast-fading afternoon sun than he had this morning, even if he was in an equally unsettled mood. It was very flat here, and the high walls that encircled them gave the place a rather prisonlike feel when in sight, but then, everything about the architecture here was odd.
The follies certainly were. The Roman temple was carvedwith white bas-reliefs in the usual way, until Zeb looked closely at them and saw they depicted the rape of Lucretia, the rape of the Sabine women, the rape of Leda by the swan, the rape of Ganymede by the eagle, and various other iterations of the subject. Bram and Hawley must have noticed that, as an art critic and an artist, but neither mentioned it. Zeb said, “This is rather a theme,” and was comprehensively ignored.
The Egyptian pyramid was quite small-scale, and thus not terribly impressive. There was a door to enter it, but Jessamine warned them they would need to crawl inside and bring lights, and everyone declined. A stone sort of hut in the woods was called Wayland’s Smithy but lacked other interest, while a Japanese temple constructed in brick and stone put Bram and Hawley into temporary allegiance as they muttered about philistine parodies. Zeb felt similarly about the family crypt, resembling as it did a miniature medieval cathedral. He attempted to find an adjective suitable for a mind that had decreed the family’s eternal resting place would be indistinguishable from its garden decorations and came up with ‘odd’.
The tour took some time, since the estate was two miles in diameter and the follies were dotted around three-quarters of it: the area behind the house was reserved to the kitchen garden, stable, garage, and useful outbuildings.
“The acetylene gas plant is there,” Bram explained as they walked. “Wynn had it installed on my advice some eight years ago, since we are far too distant for a regular gas supply. You will doubtless have noticed the excellent quality of the light.”
“It seems awfully dim to me,” Zeb said.
“Cousin Wynn prefers darker shades,” Jessamine said. “He finds the gaslight too glaring. Really, I think he wishes he had not had the plant put in at all. It smells dreadfully at the back with the stuff they use to produce the gas, and it is so much less poetic than candlelight.”
“But so much brighter, cleaner, and safer,” Bram said, in a tone of jovial instruction that would have enraged the calmest soul. “Rather more appropriate for the twentieth century, not to mention more economical once the cost of the plant is taken into account.”
“Safer?” Hawley said. “I thought acetylene was known for being explosive.”
“No more than any gas, if sensible precautions are taken, and less likely to cause a fire than oil or candles. It is by far the most practical option.”
“Ah, your relentless practicality,” Hawley sneered. “Has it never occurred to you that Lackaday House does not welcome the practical? It is a creation of dreams, an atmosphere caught and clothed in stone.”
Jessamine clasped her hands admiringly. Bram made a noise of disgust. Zeb thought longingly of being elsewhere.
The last stop in their circuit was the stone circle. Zeb strolled up to the altar stone, drawn to see what he’d put his hand in earlier. The surface was roughly hewn, as though by hand axes: doubtless his grandfather had specifically ordered it that way for ancient effect. The top was stained reddish brown and looked rather damp. He rubbed at it with a fingertip.
“What on earth are you doing?” Bram snapped.
“Just looking. It’s stained.”
“It’s lichen, you fool.”
“Looks like a stain to me.” Hawley raised a brow. “And quite a sinister one, with that hue, on a sacrificial altar.”
“Once again, I remind you this is the twentieth century,” Bram said.
“Yes, you are repetitive,” Hawley agreed. “The atmosphere of this place is quite extraordinary. Jessamine, do tell us, what is this ghost? What did you see?”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, don’t start that again,” Zeb said.
Jessamine shot him a glare, then turned back to Hawley. “I saw a shape. A grey shape, with a hood, its face hidden. Like a monk.”
“Of course you did. Naturally your imagination created such a phantom with this tale of monasteries and ruins,” Bram said. “I really don’t know where that can have come from; I have never heard of any such thing.”
“Perhaps you don’t know all the history because it isn’t your house,” Hawley said.
“And I didn’t know anything about it at the time,” Jessamine added. “I had not lived here long when I saw it. It was a shape in the corridor, in a long hooded robe. I thought it was—I don’t know, a servant, perhaps. I called out and it turned, and it looked at me.”
She paused there, her mouth working. Zeb said, “What happened?”
“It had—I cannot say. It had no face, no eyes, and itlooked.” Her voice was a whisper that brought up the hairs on his neck.
