Page 39 of The Golden Spoon
“Are you sure? I can come with you.” Stella’s voice is weak and distant.
“Don’t be silly. I’m fine. You sit, drink some of this tea before it goescold, and just rest up. Both of you.” I look to Hannah, but she says nothing. Her silence is concerning.
I leave Stella and Hannah in the kitchen. I’ve become accustomed to walking around at night alone, but this is different. Lightning flashes at the windows as I make my way into the foyer. Despite how well I know the place, Grafton spooks me tonight. The walls creak and groan as I make my way up the staircase, quickly, heading through the West Wing. The wardrobe at the end of the hall beckons, and I go to it, tugging open the doors.
I pull out several thin comforters, pausing when I see the silver hinge on one side. But I push the thought of the rooms upstairs out of my head. There’s no time for that right now. I fold the blankets over my arm and slam the wardrobe shut, turning and walking purposefully back down the hall.
On the landing, I pause, looking up at the door to the East Wing. I turn to go down the stairs, but something makes me turn back. I stand there, weighed down with blankets. This could be my last opportunity to talk to Betsy alone. I set the blankets down at the top of the stairs and move to the door. I stand at the threshold of the East Wing, my fingers wrapped around the handle. Why am I afraid? I remember these handles, the curve of the latch. I was afraid then too. I press a finger down on it and feel a small click. I slip inside, into Betsy Martin’s lair.
I move down the hallway tentatively. The point is to talk to Betsy, to see if there is anything else she can tell me about that night, but as I walk, I realize that I am both looking for and hiding from her. The closer I come to finishing what I’ve been trying to do all this time, the more I almost want to give up, to take it all back and run away. I remind myself why I’ve tried so hard to get here. This is not just for me, this is for my mother. To give the story of her life closure so I finally feel like I’ve honored her.
My foot lands on a creaky board, and I stop dead in my tracks waiting to be found out, heart racing as I listen for footsteps. Hearing none, I venture farther down the hall. The door to my left is open. Itis an opulent bedroom. The ceilings are tall and arched in the corners, trimmed with scrolled molding. A four-poster bed in elaborately carved dark wood stands to one side. A delicate sofa and two chairs surround a small fireplace with bronze grate. A man’s shirt hangs over the side of a chair, waiting to be worn. Archie’s room. I shudder and force myself to keep moving. I pass Betsy’s childhood bedroom, moving toward the doors at the end of the hall. I never ventured this far into the East Wing before that morning with Pradyumna. The Graftons always made sure there was a separation between the family and their help. I find myself wishing he were here right now. His teasing good nature would be a welcome distraction.
I pass by a row of oil portraits along the hall. Most are of men in military uniforms, the hilt of a sword bulging out from their jackets. One smaller portrait is of a woman with a tight collar circling her neck. Her face looks weary, hardened. Their eyes seem to plead with me not to go any farther.
The hallway ends at the set of impossibly tall double doors, hanging wide open. I hold my breath as I pass into Betsy Martin’s sitting room. The windows here are closed and bolted against the storm. Two plush chairs, their backs to me, face a fireplace that crackles festively. In the corner a record spins on the old Victrola record player. It’s a song that takes me back to my childhood.
In the still of the night
I held you
Held you tight
’Cause I love
Love you so
Promise I’ll never
Let you go
I walk toward the spinning album, mesmerized. I have a flash of memory from my childhood. I am helping my mother cut potatoesdownstairs in the Grafton kitchen. The radio next to the sink is on and she is humming as she cooks, stirring a pot on the stove. A chill goes up my spine.
I remember
That night in May
The stars were bright above—
“Can I help you?” Betsy’s voice, sharp as glass, startles me. I spin around. She is sitting in one of the high-backed chairs. She must have been watching me for a while now. She looks entertained, the way she did as a child watching me as I moved toys around for her. The power she wielded was clearly so enjoyable to her. It always had been. Looking at her now, her face contorting into a sinister grimace, it sickens me to think of all those years I wished she were my friend. To her right is a tumbler partway full of a brown liquor. She lifts it to her lips and takes a leisurely sip. The wind continues to shriek at her window. It is now or never. I think of my mother, and I stand as tall as I can, clasping and then unclasping my hands.
“Do you recognize me?” I ask her, bracing for the answer. Finally, she smiles. It is not a warm smile. She takes another sip.
A bolt of lightning flashes in the windows. It is followed by a violent crack, the sound of it striking something close by. The lights flicker off as she replies.
“I mean, I can’t say you haven’t aged a day, but your demeanor really hasn’t evolved much, has it? Still skittering about in those old clothes. Makes it easy to fly under the radar, doesn’t it, Elizabeth Bunting?”
PRADYUMNA
I’m standing in the library alone. Torrents of rainwater batter the windows as I pour myself a twenty-one-year-old Balvenie PortWood from Betsy Martin’s beautiful teak bar. I need something memorable to get rid of the image of Archie Morris’s body twisted in a pose best imagined by Salvador Dalí. It isn’t exactly something that is easy to get out of your head. But I’m going to have to try.
But there’s something more that’s been bothering me, and seeing Archie’s body dangling there just crystallized everything for me: I’m not happy. And I haven’t been for a long time.
A scotch should help take the edge off all that nonsense. My hand trembles as I bring the glass to my lips. A violent crack of thunder startles me, and I slosh some of the whiskey onto my shirt. The lamps around the room flicker and then go out completely, plunging the library into darkness.
“Well, that’s unfortunate,” I say to the black room. My voice is swallowed up by another clap of thunder, and a lightning strike meeting its target somewhere in the distance. Muffled voices bounce around the manor. It is the others calling out in surprise as they fumble around in the dark.
The panes rattle against the pounding water. I steady myself andtake a large sip from the glass of scotch. It’s so smooth, so absolutely perfect, as it travels down my throat. I feel a bit fortified already,the feelingis being displaced by the urgency of the situation—I’m better in a crisis than in real life.I should find a flashlight or something, I think.
