Page 38 of Infamous

The room was cold and dark, the drapes drawn shut, although light was creeping in through the places where the fabric had simply rotted away. One of the windows was clearly broken, its forlorn curtain billowing in the breeze; as they watched, it spat out a scattering of small, dark leaves onto the rug, which may have at one point been blue but was now a mottled sort of black.

Somebody – Henry, Eddie supposed – had mostly stripped the room of furniture, but there was an enormous bed frame up against the east wall that had been left to fend for itself and was slowly giving in to the inevitable. Sprawling mould was feasting on the wallpaper, separate colonies that had started in corners and by window frames and had merged to form new, exciting colours and patterns.

‘This is delightful,’ Eddie said dubiously, and Nash laughed.

‘The bed was too big to get out of the door without dismantling the whole thing, and apparently I was asked many times if I consented to them taking an axe to it and did not provide an answer. Ah, well. It was my grandmother’s. May it rest in peace. Oh – I wouldn’t go much farther, if I were you.’ Eddie had taken another step into the room; she froze, feeling the floorboard beneath her feet sagging alarmingly. ‘You might end up in the long gallery by accident.’

‘What happened?’ Eddie said, carefully returning to drier land.

‘A very enthusiastic tree took out the window, and the rain seemed to have been coming in sideways. A branch got the roof, too, although it didn’t completely collapse in here. Next door is a different matter and is a very al fresco sleeping experience, but we can’t investigate further because the door is now warped shut.’

‘So this is where the ghost lives?’

‘Ha!’ Nash said. ‘Good God, no. He takes his breakfast in the South Parlour, like a gentleman.’

They passed the Naval Chamber on their way to the west stairs, which were dark and cramped, turning back on themselves dramatically as they descended – ‘would usually just be for the servants, I suppose, if we were doing anything properly’ – and came out into a central corridor like the one on the floor above.

‘Now this is the silliest room in the house,’ Nash said, ‘but I’ve found that it does have its uses, especially on rainy days.’

He showed her into the long gallery, which was indeed very long. The walls were fitted with panelling that had been painstakingly carved into lush trees, lusty animals, odd symbols and demonic-looking faces before they gave way to a dingy white; there were light, rectangular patches at intervals where paintings had clearly once hung, and a similar strip on the floor that indicated the previous existence of a rug. The billiard table had been tucked politely into a corner with a sheet over it, as if it were slightly embarrassed to be discovered here.

‘What do you do in here?’ Eddie said, peering at something abstract carved into the wood and wondering if she was missing the symbolism before realising that it was a deer whose head had been chipped off.

‘Running wild when the weather is poor,’ Nash said. ‘Dancing, if we can get it. And our very own version of shuttlecock. I’ll teach you, if you’re any good with a racquet.’

The ground floor contained the dining room, which was currently being prepared for their dinner, and the South Parlour, which was light and airy, with so many windows that it almost resembled a glasshouse. The Oak Parlour down the hall was the primary drawing room; it was indeed very oaken, with deep red walls and furniture to match, a grand pianoforte pushed into the corner and a small sculpture of Hercules wrestling his lion on the windowsill.

Next door was a strange, narrow room that was in use as an armoury; it contained row upon row of ancient weaponry bolted to the walls, swords and daggers, maces and axes, a selection of bows and even a small cannon on its own table.

‘The men in my family collect them,’ Nash said, pulling a face as he fingered the handle of an ornate dirk. ‘Really disturbing stuff. Ought to just throw them all in the lake and see if some lucky local fellow fetches one out and announces himself king, but I suppose one or two of them might be worth some money if I could bring myself to have them valued.’

He ushered her across the corridor to the last room and opened the door with a flourish. Eddie actually almost gasped.

The library was enormous; two storeys tall, the second floor a balcony that wrapped around the entire room. The shelves were full of cracked leather spines in navy and maroon and forest green, the titles picked out in faded gilt. The very last of the evening light filtered in through the high windows, slanting across the books and armchairs and painting geometric patterns on the rug. It had the air of a cathedral, something venerated and quietly holy – until Nash sneezed very loudly and then said, ‘Forfuck’ssake.’

‘This isamazing.’

‘Apparently it is where we store all of our dust.’

‘But you must get so muchwritingdone in here,’ Eddie said, walking over to a desk by one of the windows, freshly polished and with a new pot of ink waiting in the well. She ran a hand over the mahogany inlay, imagining herself sitting there in glorious silence with hours ahead of her and writing her only obligation.

‘You would think that, wouldn’t you?’ Nash said lightly. ‘If you look out of the window here you can see the terrace, or what passes for a terrace – you can sit out there and drink your breakfast in the morning when the weather is fine. We might have a few more good weeks in us before it turns for good. This time of year the island is really only good for brooding – quick stomp around, kick a few trees, back inside for whisky by the fire.’

‘It is so beautiful,’ Eddie said, watching as a neat formation of geese flew across the darkening sky. ‘I don’t know why you ever leave.’

‘God, you’re easily won,’ Nash said, grinning warmly at her. ‘You’re positively swooning. I had no idea that a hovel with a hole in the roof in the middle of a pond would be the way to your heart.’

‘I’m notswooning,’ said Eddie, but she was a bit, in the wake of the house and its owner. It was all so romantic – the magnificent sweeping vista, the isolation, the estate with all its quirks and foibles. She wanted to disappear into it and not emerge for months or years, imbued with the mystery of the place. She wanted to write in the faded chair by the South Parlour window, at Nash’s antique bureau, on the floor under the cannon table in the armoury. She was jealous, she realised, of the fact that this place belonged to Nash, and Nash to it – that their histories were intrinsically tangled, a legacy and an inheritance that were much bigger than him.

She could tell why he talked it down, why he picked at it and called it a hovel; it was the antithesis of everything he stood for. A yoke around the neck of the revolutionary poet who put no stock in familial wealth and lineage.

It was a veryniceyoke, though. Not a yoke to be sniffed at, in Eddie’s opinion.

‘Lord,’ said a voice from behind them; Dayo had walked in, dressed for dinner, Juno the dog at his heel. ‘These are a lot of fine, unread books, Nash.’

‘How do you know I haven’t read them?’

‘Just based on my knowledge of you as a person,’ said Mr Akerele. ‘Are you giving a tour? Or is it .?.?. private?’