The Glass Castle Read online

  The suspicion had crossed her mind a few miles back, but to hear him admit that he was driving her to the Glass Castle came as a distinct shock. She stared at his profile in the sudden red flood of sunset light over the fields and hedgerows through which they were speeding; his features stood out as distinctly as those hammered in bronze, so firm and unyielding that she knew that no cry of protest from her would induce him to turn the car and head back for Town.

  ‘So that’s where we’re going for dinner,’ she said, summoning a cool voice to the aid of her confusion, and her alarm.

  ‘Yes, Heron. I thought it time you saw the interior of the house which so intrigued you as a schoolgirl. The rear wing isn’t yet out of the hands of the decorators, but the front rooms are in order and as I plan to give a housewarming in the near future I thought I’d like the opinion of a woman regarding the alterations I’ve had earned out. You see, I’m human enough to require the approval of an attractive female with an artistic eye.’

  ‘How do you know I have an artistic eye?’ She smiled, but the tension was still there inside her, a knot of nerves in the pit of her stomach. What else could she expect him to spring on her ... what other surprises did he conceal in the sleeve of his well-cut dinner jacket?

  ‘I know the way you dress, Heron. From the way you match colours to your hair. Instead of playing safe with the usual pastels, you go for jewel colours, and the result is—eye-catching, to say the least. I hope you’ll like what I’ve had done to the Glass Castle and won’t feel that I’ve spoiled that atmosphere of the ogre in his dusty den.’

  ‘I’m convinced that you have perfect taste,’ she said, and again it seemed unbelievable that the man who sat beside her had been a foundling who had had to make his own way in the world. There wasn’t a vestige of roughness in his voice; it was deep, cultured and expressive. There was nothing in his manner to indicate that he had not attended one of the very best public schools. It was uncanny ... and it made her wonder who the girl had been who had borne him in a beach hut ... who the man had been who had seduced the girl in the first place.

  ‘Our instincts are inherited,’ he said smoothly. ‘They aren’t altogether the result of upbringing or education. Biology is the strangest mystery in the world, and to delve into it takes away some of the mystique. Don’t try to understand me, not just yet.’

  And as he spoke those evocative words they came in sight of the sea that still lay glimmering in the dying rays of the sun. Jocelyn’s Beach was only a seventy-five-minute drive out of London, and as always at sight of the sea a wave of homecoming seemed to sweep over Heron. How she loved the cool and silky beauty of it all! The silent music, the awesome mystery, the unchanging magic that ever since she was a child had enchanted her mind and captured her heart.

  ‘It’s so beautiful,’ she whispered, and he slowed the car as they drove along the wide stretch of the Marine Parade above the beach and the sea in the afterglow of the sunset. Heron could hear the seabirds calling as they came home to the cliffs, and the big windows of the houses along the Parade were lighting up, and cars were turning in at the driveways.

  Heron wished that she, too, were coming home ... to stay. She caught back a sigh as darkness settled down over the water and the car picked up speed as Edwin Trequair drove on towards the Glass Castle, which was situated on the summit of its own hill ... a fantastic eyrie, standing out against the sky like the Gothic dreams of a precocious child gone mad with a stick of charcoal, who having drawn a Victorian mansion then added the turrets of a Grimm castle, and the oriel windows of a medieval chapel.

  They drove through the open iron gates, and Heron knew already that the capitals of the gateposts were iron salamanders, the fire dragons with wings and two legs, their tails in a knot. The legendary dragons who dwelt among flames yet could not be burned by them, for they weren’t truly evil and were able to fight temptation.

  The path from the gates was a winding one to the great oak door, where wall lanterns glimmered and threw shadows. As the car came to a halt and the engine was switched off, the realization swept over Heron that at last, after all these years, she was to enter this house which had always intrigued her, and about which she had made up schoolgirl stories. She opened the car door beside her and stepped out on to the paved area of the drive.

  The stillness was mystic, filled with silence and the scents of flowers. A blaze of wallflowers near the oaken door, and the bitter-sweet tang of lilac trees.

  ‘Welcome to my castle,’ said Edwin Trequair, and he held out a hand to her as the front door was opened by his manservant... a tawny-skinned Asian in a snowy turban, who bowed his head and stood aside for them to enter.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A breeze rustled and spun the scent of the wallflowers in through the open door at the heels of Heron and her escort. A lovely old lamp hung in the porch, with an oriel window inset above the archway leading into the great hall of the Glass Castle.

  As Heron stepped into the hall she became aware of the slight lingering aroma of paint and she saw at once that all that had been sombre and shadowy, in the Victorian manner, had been lit up by ivory paint and an expert bleaching of panelled walls. She saw that the hall towered upwards through the height of the house and to offset the shadowy effect this must once have had on the upper landings and the ceiling, big lamps shaped like bells had been hung in clusters to shine their light on the timber staircase in the centre of the hall, whose treads, probably worn by the years, had been covered by cardinal red carpeting.

  Then Heron caught her breath as she noticed the iron-cage newel at the foot of the staircase, wonderfully scrolled, and placed there as if to cage a person rather than a bird. Its ironwork was painted ivory to contrast with the red carpeting, and it was high enough for someone of Heron’s height to stand in.

  ‘That was a Victorian fantasy I couldn’t throw out with the stuffed sofas.’ Edwin spoke drily, as if well aware of the trend of her imaginative thoughts.

  ‘It’s certainly—fantastic.’ She glanced away from his eyes and examined the rest of her surroundings. She saw the Gothic tracery of the triple windows, set in recessed archways with deep windowseats framed in cascades of ivory damask. There were Buhl cabinets agleam with engraved brass and tortoiseshell. An enormous dark marble fireplace in whose deep cavity logs were burning in the grip of salamander log-holders. A lacquered clock ticked serenely in a pagoda frame, and a pair of deep red couches were divided by a lacquered table on which stood a mosaic bowl of such beautiful lustre that Heron guessed it was worth a fortune. The bowl had a lid resembling an oriental minaret, pierced by a small hole through which incense would drift when buried inside it.

  At atmosphere of the East had been mingled with the Gothic proportions of the hall, the fireplace, and the high windows. On a small ebony stand between the windows stood an exquisite bronze figure of an Asian temple dancer, complete with exotic headdress, expressive hands with dagger fingernails, and a beautifully detailed costume.

  Heron glanced from the figure of the dancer to the face of her host, and he seemed so lost in sombre thought that it flitted across her mind that once upon a time he had known a living temple dancer who with anklets chiming had danced for him in his Eastern home. So it had to be, thought Heron. For all the monkshood blue of his eyes he was no celibate ... and someone, somewhere, had scarred him for life.

  ‘I think that Miss Olivia Glass would be rather shocked by the changes you’ve wrought, but I—I like them. We used to hear echoes of an organ being played—have you kept it, or thrown it out?’

  ‘It’s in the drawing-room—you must see it!’ But first he turned to his manservant and spoke rapidly in a language Heron didn’t understand. ‘I’ve ordered our dinner to be served,’ he told her. ‘Chandra and his wife have been with me for many years and they were quite happy to come with me to England. Vanda, which means orchid, is a superb Eastern cook, so I hope, Heron, you are adventurous and don’t mind being served an Eastern meal?’


  ‘No.’ She found herself smiling slightly, for it had become a thing of the past in England for servants to be so devoted, and it added to the illusion that within the walls of this Victorian mansion Edwin Trequair had re-created for himself something of the oriental atmosphere and way of life, cold marble floors had been covered by oriental carpets, and another huge fire had been lit in the drawing-room.

  ‘We’ll have our meal here,’ said Edwin, taking her cloak. ‘The dining-room is large and rather more formal, with one of those tables which needs a dozen people around it in order to subdue the echoes from one end to the other.’

  In front of the drawing-room windows had been set a table and a couple of chairs, and the only light in the room came from the fire and the candles in bronze holders, underfoot lay a lush rug brilliant with colour, against a panelled wall hung a golden dragon embroidered on silk. And when Heron drew near to the table she saw that the chairs were carved in a lotus and dragon motif, and inlaid like the lace-covered table. At the base of the candle-holders lay mauve orchids on beds of fern, and there was also a bowl of violettes de sorciers, deep purple.

  The word ‘cosy’ could not be applied, despite the dancing flames of the fire. This was dinner for two in the most exotic surroundings of Heron’s life, and for a wild instant she was tempted to snatch her cloak and flee from the spell of it all.

  ‘Let me show you Miss Olivia’s famous organ.’ Edwin picked up one of the candle-holders and led Heron to where the ornamental organ stood on its own dais at the far end of the room. ‘Would you like to try it, Heron? You play the piano, so you shouldn’t have any difficulty in handling this lovely old instrument. It was one of the few things I couldn’t bring myself to dispose of ... the velvet of the stool has been renewed and the organ has been cleaned and re-tuned. Have a tinker with it while I pour a couple of drinks.’ He set the candle-holder on the top of the organ and left Heron to amuse herself. She slid on to the stool and experimented with the valves and pedals. A mournful wail issued forth and she gave a laugh. ‘Oh, I’d need to practise for hours! Even this small type of organ is far more intricate than a piano!’

  ‘Then come and have your drink.’ He stood by the fire-place waiting for her to join him. In his hands he held a pair of ruby goblets and when she reached his side he handed her one of them. To her surprise the ruby glass felt warm and she gave him an enquiring look.

  ‘This is Shau-shing,’ he said. ‘It’s a wine distilled from rice and it’s always served warm from a stone bottle, which Chandra left warming by the fire. You will find that the wine is rather like sherry, both in colour and taste. Yam seng! Which means drink to the dregs.’ He raised his goblet and drank swiftly. After a momentary hesitation Heron did the same and found the wine deliciously mild ... until suddenly she felt its potent warmth spreading through her veins. She swiftly shook her head when Edwin asked if she’d like a second helping of wine.

  ‘No, thank you! I haven’t eaten for hours and I don’t think I have your head for potent Eastern wines.’

  ‘Of course, you must be ravenous after a busy day and that car drive. I’ll get Chandra to bring in the food at once.’ As he spoke he picked up a small bronze bell and rang it, then he came and held out one of the chairs for Heron. As she sat down she felt his eyes upon her hair and the lotus that adorned it, and she felt a quick flutter of her pulses as she wondered if he were comparing her to someone Eastern who had worn the lotus in her hair.

  ‘Don’t be nervous,’ he chided her. ‘Surely we know each other well enough by now to dine together in my house. What do you think of my house now you’ve seen some of the interior? Does it live up to your romantic expectations?’

  ‘My expectations were never romantic,’ she protested, and was glad when he strolled away from her to take his own chair. He sat very straight and dark against the carved frame of it, and the candle flames cast golden shadows over his face, and were kinder to his scar than if the chandelier had been lit.

  ‘But all young people are romantic, whether they know it or not. I expect that when you were a schoolgirl you used to imagine that the ogre had a fair captive locked up in the Glass Castle—up in that sea-tower, shall we say? Crying out for the help that never came because her cry was always carried away by the four winds?’

  ‘Now it’s you who is being—romantic.’ Heron shook out her napkin, which had been folded into the shape of a water-lily and she busied herself placing the spotless linen square on the lap of her dress.

  ‘Well, I’m only human, Heron, and I can have my fancies just like any other man.’ A smile moved on his mouth, but his eyes in the candlelight were enigmatic as they dwelt on her face, which the candles seemed to caress with their golden flames, mingling in her hair and her eyes, which had assumed the violet-grey colour of her georgette dress. She looked touchingly young, though she knew it not; slim and untouched as she faced the man whose scarred cheek revealed his knowledge of life’s dangers.

  Chandra entered the room carrying a silver tray which he brought to the table. A dish of oysters was placed on the table, crumbed and fried golden-brown. Then came a dish of rice garnished with crabmeat, a small bowl of cooked mushrooms, and another of cooked chestnuts, rounded off with a dish of large buttered prawns. The aroma of it all was as enticing as the look of it, and Heron didn’t need to be told twice to tuck in and please Vanda by emptying all the dishes.

  ‘Delicious,’ said Heron. ‘You seem determined to feed me up.’

  ‘That isn’t all.’ He eyed her with amusement as she sipped ice-water. ‘Any moment now the second course will appear, and after that will come the sweet. Vanda knows that I’m entertaining a young lady tonight, so the sweet will be something special.’

  ‘More?’ gasped Heron. ‘But I couldn’t—’

  ‘Of course you could, and you will. Do you want Vanda to be offended? She’s been longing to show off her culinary skills to my first English guest.’

  ‘Am I truly the first?’ Heron looked at him in some amazement, for he was rich and people along this coast were bound to want to make his acquaintance. There would be women with designs on him; men who would wish him to invest some of his money. She couldn’t quite believe that he had waited three months before inviting a guest to the Glass Castle.

  ‘Heron, you’ll have to get used to the idea that I’m not exactly a conventional man.’ He spoke drily and casually filled her wine glass. ‘It doesn’t really matter to me whether I’m popular with my neighbours, or regarded as a bit of a recluse. I please myself what I do. I pick and choose my companions. I don’t run with the herd. It isn’t that I’m arrogant; or a snob, as some of the self-made often are. I’m merely a man who is unafraid of opinion, and selective enough to dislike crowds. I’m well aware that I could be lionised as a local celebrity with an interesting bank balance, but if I were poor and lived in one of those ramshackle houses down by the cockling sheds I’d be disregarded and treated with suspicion by the locals because of my face.’ He raised a hand and touched the scar that ran from the edge of his eye, down over his cheekbone to the line of his jaw.

  ‘Does my face disturb you, Heron?’ he asked. ‘Being a man totally devoid of self-pity, I am aware, however, that a beautiful girl might find me ugly.’

  ‘Not ugly,’ she said at once. ‘Sinister, perhaps.’

  ‘You’re an honest girl.’ His eyebrow flickered, as if with sardonic amusement that unlike other women she made no attempt to flatter his male ego.

  ‘It’s my profession, I suppose. The law has to deal in truths, if it can do so.’

  ‘The law seems a very deep and serious occupation for a girl like you, Heron. Come, drink your wine. I promise you it won’t induce you to abandon all discretion, if that’s stalking through your mind because I brought you to my house tonight. Despite my face I don’t seduce young girls—certainly not the daughter of Ruth Brooks. That would be the depth of decadence, eh? With her portrait in my house.’

  Heron lowered her gaze, for once agai
n it was curiously jarring that Edwin Trequair should soothe an old desire by having the image of Ruth hung in his library.

  ‘Perhaps you think it decadent that I should have the portrait at all, Heron? And why not, when I admire it, and your uncle merely owned it. There is a difference, you know. Possession isn’t the end, or even the beginning of the story. We never really own anything, do we? We see a spectacular sunset, but we cannot grasp it, we can only remember it. If we are kissed, we cannot trap it against the face like a butterfly in the palm of the hand. If we are slapped, the pain recedes and then the anger, and in the end even the memory of it. Perhaps the only things we truly own, and take to the grave, are our scars.’

  Suddenly in the candlelight his face was sombre as a mask, his heavy eyelids half-lowered to conceal the look in his eyes. There was a moment of silence, and Heron could feel her fingers clenching the stem of her wine glass. He might have said more, but in that moment Chandra returned to collect the empty dishes of their first course. The silence continued until the manservant reappeared with a large silver-hooded dish, which he placed on the table with the gravity, it seemed to Heron, of an acolyte making an offering to his god, the lean, scarred tuan besar to whom the dignified Chandra was obviously devoted. He lifted the cover of the dish and roasted spare-ribs were revealed on a bed of golden rice.

  ‘Spare ribs are a weakness of mine,’ smiled Edwin, ‘and Vanda cooks them to perfection. Also one can eat them in the fingers and that makes them extra enjoyable. Come, Heron, forget your inhibitions and eat off the bone.’