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“The rest of Lady Whistle’s guests are to be making their own way to the estate, sir. Climb in, sir, and make yourself comfortable. Dinner’s in the basket and the wine is of good vintage. God willing, we’ll make Colchester before seven.”
The archaeologist, who had never traveled in such magnificence in his life, tried to look nonchalant as he clambered in.
Sinking into the satiny cushions that smelled faintly of rosewater, he looked through the pleated silk curtains, each bearing ribbons in the colors of his patroness, at the grim boardinghouse. All manner of debris—rags, empty bottles, and human waste—was piled up against the iron railings and Alistair felt that the carriage was a magic carpet finally whisking him away from poverty and into a world of unimaginable ease and splendor.
“Wake up, sir, wake up!” The coachman’s voice penetrated his sleep like a foghorn. Alistair pulled himself out of the rocking arms of his dream and forced his eyes to open. The coachman stood at the carriage door, a blast of cold air streaming in. Beyond lay the shimmering outline of a large country mansion, its windows beacons of golden light.
“We are here, sir!” the servant shouted unnecessarily, as if the diminished light might have affected Alistair’s hearing.
“Do I smell salt?”
“Aye, sir, the sea’s over them cliffs. It’s all Whistle land, right down to the beach. Make yourself smart, sir—we’ll be at the door in five minutes.”
A moment later the carriage began winding its way along the crunchy gravel driveway, the horses’ breath two jets of steam spurting into the cold night.
The house itself looked to be recently built. Majestic, of pale stone, it was in the Regency style, the portico lined with white mock Grecian columns. The grounds (from what Alistair could see from the coach) appeared to be immaculately landscaped—a controlled panorama of topiary, ponds, and lawns. A number of avenues lined with tall elms branched out in various directions.
Alistair, anticipating his first encounter with Lady Whistle in over two months, found to his irritation that his heart was leaping around like an overeager puppy as the coach pulled up in front of the massive oak doors. Two footmen and two maids stood on either side of the entrance, alongside glowing braziers.
The archaeologist climbed out, expecting Lady Whistle to appear to greet him personally. Instead the older woman servant—the housekeeper Alistair assumed, for she was dressed immaculately in spotless linen—moved toward him, gesturing for the footman to take his bag (which was beginning to look increasingly pathetic next to such grandeur). She beckoned him toward the mansion. “Her ladyship is unavailable for the present, sir. She sends her sincere apologies and hopes you will not mind being escorted immediately to your sleeping quarters. She will call upon you later.”
As Alistair walked through the huge double doors he couldn’t help noticing the replica of the travertine bas-relief of the phallus hanging above the door, with Hic habitat felicitas—Here dwells happiness—written beneath.
Alistair was led through room after room, each seeming to open into a larger version of the previous one. Much of the furnishings were eclectic, a strange combination of antiques and the Oriental—here a King Louis XIV gilt table, two Ming vases atop it; there, the massive head of a water buffalo beside a medieval suit of armor.
“Is Lord Whistle in residence?” Alistair asked, curious to meet the patriarch of the household.
“His lordship is in the Orient on business,” the housekeeper replied curtly, the keys at her hip swinging as she marched him swiftly through the labyrinth of chambers.
“And the other guests?”
“Retired for the night. My lady likes to keep a strict eye on her visitors. She has a very heightened sense of the proper, particularly when her guests are here for a very particular purpose.”
Her gaze, seemingly devoid of irony, settled on him as they arrived at a door after climbing what seemed endless flights of stairs.
“Well, Mr. Sizzlehorn, I am sure you will enjoy your stay here.”
She gestured to the footman who opened the bedroom door then carried in Alistair’s bag. After curtseying formally, the housekeeper retreated back into the shadows.
It was a spacious room with curiously circular walls—the walls of a turret, he guessed, wondering why he hadn’t noticed this architectural feature from the exterior of the building. The walls were painted a light lilac. In the center stood a four-poster bed with a high mattress covered in a matching lilac quilt. The bed had heavy drapes, presently pulled back, which Alistair knew would serve nicely to prevent drafts. A curious crossbow hung on one wall: inscribed with Arabic, its bow tipped by horn, it appeared to be made of a copper-colored ore he had not seen before.
On the opposite wall was a long plait of black hair tied at the bottom by a single lilac bow. Much surprised, the archaeologist stared at it, wondering what on earth the symbolism of such a curious wall hanging could be.
“My lady’s, sir, from when she was a child. She’s got a strange sense of humor, Lady Whistle has,” the footman volunteered, then gratefully pocketed the threepenny tip Alistair gave him and departed.
Alistair rested on the bed. As the rocking sensation of the coach journey faded from his limbs, the atmosphere of the mansion wrapped itself around him, a susurration of sounds. The howling wind outside he imagined came off the turbulent ocean; then there was the dulled rhythm of servants running up and down various staircases, carrying irons and other warming nocturnal paraphernalia to petulant guests, and a trickle from the water closet. As Alistair sat there, the condensation still drying on his boots, he realized that he had never felt so alive, as if the dreary half-life he had lived since his college days, the drudgery of London Town with its beggars, rakes, and hussies, was all finally behind him. Everything seemed brighter, infinitely more vivid.
He pulled off a glove and stared at the pulse in his wrist where the life force pumped incessantly. This is what I am surrendering to, he thought, blind impulse, a deeper existential joy.
“Alistair?”
Lady Whistle’s alto voice was unmistakable. Embarrassed to be caught in a vulnerable moment of introspection he stood up.
“I trust the room is to your satisfaction?”
She was at the door, dressed in an evening gown of burgundy crepe. The twin mounds of her breasts were visible through the purple lace that finished in a high collar framing her face, thus giving her the appearance of being ornately dressed and yet somehow naked. Around her neck glittered another choker only this one was of diamonds:
four impressive crystals set into a black velvet ribbon. Priceless no doubt, Alistair thought; if he were to live three lifetimes he would never be able to purchase such an item.
