Page 38 of As Many Souls as Stars
‘Come, Esther, it’s our last day of freedom. Surely we ought to do somethingfun.’
‘We are supposed to be grieving,’ she snapped, and then tried to ignore the way his expression shuttered.
They approached their carriage. The lamppost beside it, bent slightly sideways from some historic storm, had a crow sitting at its top. Esther gave the bird a secret smile. It cawed and took flight, its shadow passing over them like a mourning veil.
‘Cousin Esther,’ Thomas Harding said. ‘And little Isaac—how you’ve grown. Welcome. Watch the steps, they are Italian marble.’
Thomas’s townhouse was larger than theirs had been, much larger. As they’d finished packing their things the previous day, Esther hadn’t shed tears, although part of her had wanted to; she’d been leaving the only home she’d ever known. She’d chosen the sage-green carpet in the tearoom, the India-wood furnishings. She had painted the walls of her bedroom the silver-grey of a storm cloud, had carved ritual circles on the inside of her closet. Now it was all lost to her, buried alongside her father.
Despite being younger than Esther, Thomas was now head of the Harding family—as his father was dead, also, and he was the eldest son. As Isaac and Esther were ushered inside, it became clear his townhouse was much like him: pale and tall and overdressed. Thomas had poured the family wealth over the place like sudsy water from a wash bucket: each lamp and curtain had a gold tassel, each wall a pastel-toned painting, each chair leg a curlicued accent. The air smelt of dried roses and damp, the small windows emitting only the barest hint of light.
They stopped in the parlour to admire an enormous oil portrait of a dour-faced man with a high ruff, glaring at his viewers as if to admonish them for daring to raise their eyes. There was something in his face Esther felt she recognised.
‘Christopher Harding,’ Thomas said, proudly. ‘My father made it his mission to recover all the family artefacts that had survived the fire at Harding Hall; this was the only portrait saved. You have heard of him, I presume? Christopher, I mean.’
Isaac replied, ‘Oh, yes, assuredly, assuredly,’ in his driest tone.
‘An alchemist and a scholar, of the greatest degree,’ Thomas told them, as if Isaac hadn’t replied. ‘One of our most venerable ancestors. This way—I simplymustshow you the music room.’
Esther knew very little about Thomas. There had been talk of them marrying, when they were younger, but nothing had come of it, as he had married Lily instead. Now it had been years since they’d carried on a conversation. Thomas bore little resemblance to either Isaac or Esther; the three of them shared only a surname and a pair of arrestingly large, leaf-shaped eyes, a trait that was considered either beautiful or unsettling depending upon the disposition of the viewer. Otherwise, Thomas was unfortunately woeful in appearance. He had an excessive amount of hair that was both too light and too dark to suit his sallow complexion, eyes that were either grey or blue, and a bone-thin, hawkish face that could have been used to chisel stone. It was not a handsome face, or a welcoming one. Esther supposed she would become accustomed to it.
They continued their tour. The townhouse was so cramped and silent, it felt closer to a coffin than a home. The dining room was painted the colour of Madeira wine, a grotesque Hogarth of ruddy-faced drunkards watching over the empty table; the hallway beside it had a still life of a dead lobster, its vibrant shell the same shade as Esther’s hair. The music room smelt of mothballs, and it was so dark within that Thomas was obliged to light the sconces. The pianoforte was beautiful, a deep mahogany nearly the shade of blood. Thomas explained at great length about its ivory keys and imported casing, but it was difficult for Esther to pay attention. The room felt so stuffy that his words sounded muffled, like cotton wool was being pushed into her ears.
Isaac was given a good room on the second floor, well positioned, albeit a little small. It had apparently once been furnished for a child; now an adult-size bed was shoved awkwardly in the corner, incongruous with the beribboned curtains and a tiny chest of drawers. Isaac didn’t bother to protest, but he closed the door in their faces with a dramatic sigh.
Esther inferred the room had been intended for the baby Thomas and his wife had been expecting. Lily and the baby had passed a few months ago.
‘Forgive Isaac,’ Esther said, as they descended the steps to the first floor. She so rarely apologised that it felt somehow cruel to do so, as if this false courtesy was ruder than if she hadn’t said anything at all. ‘He is… young, still.’
Thomas nodded curtly. He was staring at her, considering, his jaw tense. He had one protruding vein high on his forehead, pulsing a faint blue against his sallow skin. It seemed as if he intended to say something; but then he did not, and they moved on.
They came past a door with roses painted in oils along the frame. The art was subtle, the work of a talented hand. Esther said, ‘What is that?’
Thomas gave the door a brief glance. His lips tightened. ‘That was Lily’s room,’ he said, and then he continued to walk.
That made sense—the flowers recalled what little Esther had known of his wife before she had died: a quiet, delicate girl who had grown flowers in her garden and spoken hardly a word. Esther chased after Thomas and made some attempt at solidarity. ‘I know it must be… odd, to have us here, after all that has happened.’
Thomas shook his head. ‘Lily always liked you. She would have—she would have insisted you stay with us.’
‘I…’ Esther cleared her throat, looked down at the floor. She sought desperately for another topic of conversation. ‘The Cheswicks are hosting a fete tomorrow. Will you be attending?’
‘Unfortunately not,’ Thomas said. ‘I did receive an invitation, but I can’t come.’
‘Oh. Why?’
‘Well—’ He cleared his throat, clearly disarmed by her direct manner. Esther quickly cast her eyes back down to the floor. ‘I have a meeting here with my lawyer. I am finalising the sale of your father’s townhouse.’
Esther knew that Thomas had hardly left his own home since Lily’s death; it had been the subject of much Ton gossip, the reclusive Harding driven half mad with grief. She felt foolish for asking. ‘I understand.’
‘The money shall be yours, as his will stipulates,’ Thomas said. ‘I shall put it toward your dowry.’
‘Thank you.’
They stopped in front of a door. ‘This shall be your room,’ he told her, with some pride. Then his voice became hushed, as if he were imparting a secret. ‘Esther…’
‘Yes?’
‘We are family. The Harding bloodline: that is all that matters.’ He reached forward then, and placed his own hands over hers; his fingers pressed against the fabric of her gloves in a proprietary, searching sort of way.
