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‘Yes, miss.’
‘Is your room comfortable? I presume you’re up in the attic? I hope it’s not too ghastly up there.’
Annie hesitated for a minute, busying herself with hanging up my discarded day clothes for longer than I felt necessary.
‘It’s comfortable enough up there, miss.’
There was something in her tone that piqued my curiosity and I was about to question her further when there was a knock on the door. Madeleine stuck her head around its edge.
‘Are you ready to face them?’
I laughed, pulling my glove up the final inch so that it lay just below the crook of my elbow. ‘You make it sound like we’re going up against a hostile crowd!’
‘Yes, well … dinner here can sometimes feel like that – don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
I found her lack of humour to be rather disconcerting.
Chapter Seven (#ulink_6265216c-48e4-55ed-be26-13e444f9d5ce)
Lady Brightwell and her companion, Miss Scott, were awaiting us in the drawing room, both sipping sherry from cut crystal glasses, as they warmed themselves by the roaring fire.
‘Visiting is so exhausting!’
I was unsure whether Lady Brightwell’s exclamation as she rose to greet me was in reference to her busy day, a declaration of sympathy, or a complaint aimed at my very presence. I bent to kiss her creped cheek. She was small in stature, though she gained an extra inch or two from the artistic arrangement of her abundant grey hair, but what she lacked in height she more than made up for with her forceful persona. Large blue eyes ringed with gold inspected me thoroughly from under their broad arches as we exchanged the usual pleasantries, her thin lips barely breaking into a smile.
It was left to her companion, Miss Scott, to make me feel welcome.
‘So nice to see you again, Miss Marcham!’ She was a few years older than her employer, finer-boned and far sprightlier. Her eyes glowed with kindness from behind her round, wire-framed glasses as she warmly clasped my hand. I found I breathed a little easier in her company.
Mrs Henge’s appearance cast a dark shadow into the room, as she informed us that dinner was served. Lady Brightwell led us out into the draughty corridor to the dining room, leaning heavily on her silver-capped cane, a necessity since the stroke that had afflicted her twelve months previously.
Our steps echoed off the wooden floorboards as we took our places at the enormous rosewood table. I thought we looked rather absurd, the four of us clustered at the one end while its gleaming top stretched into the distance. Every cough, chink of cutlery and ting of wineglass seemed to reverberate off the barrel ceiling above us, which was itself an extraordinary sight – a dazzling collection of hand-painted panels, all executed in the Italianate style and excessively trimmed with gilt. The room was lit by four huge chandeliers boasting tier upon tier of crystal drops the size of my fist, their brilliance rendering the flickering flames of the candelabras before us obsolete. Yet none of this opulence served to make the room more comfortable, and though the fire was lit, it was not enough to take the edge off the cold that had my skin stippling in protest.
As Maisie placed soup bowls before us, Lady Brightwell launched into complaint after complaint about her day spent with friends, which had been soured by dull conversation, chipped china and over-cooked asparagus. I tried to offer sympathy where appropriate, but she would not permit any interruption, so in the end I kept quiet, relying on the contents of my wineglass to see me through the ordeal.
There was a brief respite as the table was cleared, with Lady Brightwell making a few curt enquiries into my parents’ health and my own present occupation, the latter of which I deftly side-stepped. Unfortunately, the arrival of the main course brought to mind yet another unsatisfactory element of her day, and her disgruntled diatribe was reignited, quite spoiling my enjoyment of the sweet Dover sole and later the wonderful gateau the cook had prepared.
There were several times during this extraordinary monologue of misery that I attempted to catch Madeleine’s eye, desperate to share with her the absurdity of it all, but she fixed her gaze firmly on the table. She appeared completely withdrawn as she played with the stem of her wineglass, from which she sipped sparingly.
It was whilst Lady Brightwell was midway through a comprehensive character assassination of the ‘dear friend’ she had visited, that the heavy dining-room door suddenly slammed shut. The sound thundered through the air, surprising everyone. Madeleine jumped so violently she toppled her glass, spilling her wine over the table. She pushed her chair back, aghast, and I feared she was about to burst into tears.
‘Oh Madeleine! How careless of you,’ Lady Brightwell cried as I sprang to mop up the spillage with my napkin. Miss Scott got up to help me. She righted the glass and assured Madeleine no harm had resulted. I was shocked to see my sister visibly trembling as she stared at the closed door.
‘There really has been no damage done,’ I said, echoing Miss Scott’s reassurance. I spotted one of the curtains lift and immediately deduced the cause of the door’s sudden movement. ‘It was probably just a through draught.’ I excused myself from the table and pulled back the offending curtain, the rings raking sharply against the brass pole. ‘Yes, look! The window has been left open – no wonder it was so cold in here.’ The sash clattered against the frame as I pushed it down.
Madeleine remained pale and shaken. Rather foolishly we leapt again as the door swung open, but it was only Maisie. Lady Brightwell was quick to reprimand her for not having closed the window. The young maid apologised as she gathered our dishes and meekly withdrew.
I breathed a sigh of relief when our little party retired to the drawing room. Madeleine joined Lady Brightwell on the sofa by the now sedate fire while Miss Scott and I took two chairs a short distance away. It was not long before Lady Brightwell succumbed to the somniferous effects of the flickering flames as they comfortingly crackled around the pine logs. Madeleine opened her book, but I noticed she spent more time staring into space than losing herself within its pages.
Miss Scott pulled out her knitting from the bamboo-handled bag resting alongside her seat. She smiled serenely at me as her dancing needles clicked a tattoo with practised dexterity.
‘Do I see a matinee coat?’ I asked.
Her face lit up and she held the skilled weave of wool up for my perusal. ‘It is indeed.’
‘What a charming pattern.’ I glanced at Madeleine, now drowsily absorbed in the pages of her novel. ‘It’s an exciting prospect, isn’t it? A new life coming into the world.’
The older woman looked wistful and sighed. ‘The most wonderful thing.’ The needles began to clack softly once again, but then came to a stop. She appeared to wrestle with some inner dilemma, but her mind was soon made up. ‘Miss Marcham, may I say how sorry I was to hear about your fiancé? Such a terrible loss for you. I know I only met him briefly at the wedding, but he struck me as being a most lovely young man.’
Startled, I felt a lump block my throat. ‘He was.’
‘Had you known each other long?’
‘We met as children,’ I said, picturing the solemn little boy who had gifted me a jam jar of water boatmen one summer. ‘We shared a godmother,’ I explained. ‘She would take us out on theatre trips and to tea at The Ritz.’ I thought back to a Christmas party where a bout of tonsillitis prevented me from partaking in the festivities, and how an eleven-year-old Gerald had sat at my bedside, entertaining me with card games, insistent he would rather spend time with me than join in with the fun downstairs. In time, I came to learn such loyalty was as characteristic of the man as it had been of the boy. ‘We lost touch, for a while – his family moved abroad – but our godmother brought us together again some years later. She always thought we were meant to be.’
‘You certainly looked very happy together.’
I nodded to dispel unwelcome tears. ‘Well, at least Hector is safe,’ I said, keen to change the subject.
‘Thank God, yes!’ She regarded me intently as she rested her knitting on her lap. ‘A most fortunate posting!’ With the quick movements of a sparrow, she tilted her head towards her sleeping employer, before tilting it again to check Madeleine was not eavesdropping. She lowered her voice, drawing me into her confidence. ‘I have to admit I did stress to Lady Brightwell that if she could bring any pressure to bear to find him something safe, then she should.’ She released her knitting needles and laid her dry hand on mine. ‘Oh, I know some people would say it was wrong to do so – to use one’s connections in such a way. Lady Brightwell struggled with the idea for some time, but I told her firmly, she would never forgive herself if something happened and she had not done everything in her power to protect him.’
She appealed for my understanding, if not my sympathy – perhaps even my approval. I itched to withdraw my hand – there was something sullying about this confession, and I wanted no part of it. After an awkward pause she leant back in her chair and resumed her knitting before continuing.
‘Lady Brightwell saw sense in the end of course and was able to make some suitably discreet arrangements. I’m not even sure Hector is aware, but I for one sleep easier knowing he has been kept from that dreadful slaughter over there. Such a waste of young lives!’ She remembered herself and quickly added: ‘As you, more than anyone, must know.’
I looked across to the dancing flames. I was right – Hector’s family had indeed intervened to keep him from harm’s way. Gerald’s family could perhaps have done something similar, but they had not. I took little comfort from the knowledge that Gerald would never have accepted anything but a frontline command. I wondered how Hector would react if he knew the truth.
Madeleine’s head nodded tellingly. Closing her book, she covered a yawn.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, keeping her voice low so as not to disturb her mother-in-law. ‘I am falling asleep! I think I’ll retire.’
But as she rose, Lady Brightwell awoke with a start. She straightened in her chair.
‘Where are you going?’ she demanded, her voice thick with sleep.
‘I’m sorry, Lady Brightwell, I’m very tired. I should quite like to go to bed.’
‘We usually retire together. Oh well, I suppose in your condition you need your rest. Off you go then.’ She waved dismissively, blue veins bulging down the back of her hand. Madeleine stopped as she reached my chair.
‘Will you come up with me?’ It struck me as more of a plea than a question, so whilst I did not feel particularly ready to turn in, I got to my feet and bade my companions goodnight.
Madeleine left the drawing-room door ajar, permitting a splinter of light to penetrate the dark corridor. She slipped her arm through mine, gripping onto me as we made our way towards the hall. I had expected the electric bulbs to be ablaze, but instead only a little moonlight alleviated the darkness. Madeleine informed me that Lady Brightwell insisted they exercise economy during these tumultuous war years. Whilst I applauded her patriotic sense of duty, I felt unnerved by the shifting shadows that cloaked the vast house.
We made our way upstairs, past the stained-glass window, the moon casting faint and fragmentary light upon the steps. As we reached the landing, I was surprised but relieved to find economy had been relaxed on the first floor – glowing wall lights lit the way to our bedroom doors.
‘It’s such a comfort, having you here in this house with me,’ Madeleine said at last as we stopped beside her room.
‘I can see what a trial these last few weeks must have been for you. I’m sure Lady Brightwell has her merits, but ease of company is surely not one of them.’
‘One gets used to her.’ She hesitated. ‘The nights here are the hardest.’
‘I can see that,’ I said. ‘At least during the day you can find reasons to avoid her company, but you’ll always have to suffer her at dinner.’
By the funny look she gave me I realised we had been speaking at cross-purposes – she had not been alluding to Lady Brightwell at all.
‘I hope you manage to sleep well, Stella. Goodnight.’
Before I could respond, she closed the door against me. I was a little taken aback by her abrupt behaviour, but I dismissed it as acute tiredness and let myself into my room. I kicked off my shoes and padded to my dressing table to begin unwinding my hair.
It didn’t take long to disrobe and pull on the nightdress that Annie had left neatly folded on the bed. I turned off the main light, leaving only the bedside lamp glowing from under its fringed shade. Weary now, I threw back the covers.
Lying on my sheet was a toy soldier.
It was surprisingly heavy given its diminutive size. Puzzled, I turned it over in my hand, studying its perfectly painted red tunic, white belt and black trousers, a red stripe down their sides. The facial features were worn but the detail of its domed bearskin was still discernible, perfect in miniature, while the rifle that rested proudly against its shoulder was slightly bent at the end. Its black boots were soldered onto a small square of lead, painted a vivid green.
My breath lodged in my throat as Gerald’s face sprang into my mind’s eye. I stood perfectly still, my skin prickling as a flare of hope quickened my pulse. Was this a message for me? A poignant sign from beyond the grave?
‘Gerald?’ I whispered.
The only response was silence. Unable to surrender the blissful fantasy, I turned around to peer into the inky corners of my room. There was nothing there. I was completely alone. Cold reality reasserted itself once again. The soldier was nothing more than a child’s toy after all.
Mocking my own absurdity, I turned it over in my hand, noting as I did so the letters L and B crudely scratched into the base. I set it down on the bedside table, wondering how it could have found its way into my bed, but then I recalled Maisie’s mischievous glint and I wondered whether she had left the soldier, as some sort of jest.
Still bristling with self-contempt, I decided to pay no further thought to the toy’s puzzling presence. Instead, I settled myself amongst the damply cold sheets and turned off the light, gratefully succumbing to the gradual creep of slumber.
Chapter Eight (#ulink_9d6adf25-a59c-5702-89a3-ffd8e3711394)
The sound of a match being struck woke me. A thin cord of light edged the curtains, hailing the arrival of a new day. I propped myself up to observe Annie, on her knees leaning into the grate, attempting to bellow the flames with her own gentle puffs. She settled back on her heels and watched the newspaper curl, char and crackle, before hungry flames began licking at the lumps of coal and kindling.
‘Morning, Annie.’ My voice was croaky. ‘What time is it?’
‘Seven o’clock, miss.’
‘Draw me a bath, would you?’
Having a bathroom attached to my bedroom was a luxury I didn’t have at home, and I intended to make the most of it. Sir Arthur had been insistent his guests should stay in comfort and his servants be better employed than in the transportation of water. Some saw such expenditure on indoor plumbing as extravagant but having spent years scurrying up and down freezing corridors to avail myself of the lavatory in the middle of the night or to take a bath on a bitter winter’s morning, I thought it a most worthwhile investment.
Hearing the squeak of taps and gushing water, I pushed back the thick covers and swung my legs from the bed. I yawned and stretched with feline indulgence.
‘All ready, miss. What clothing would you like me to set out?’
‘Oh, my black dress …’ I realised all the dresses I had brought were black. ‘The one with the scooped collar,’ I clarified. ‘And the lavender cardigan too.’
When I emerged from the bathroom Annie was standing beside my bed, closely examining the toy soldier clasped in her hand.
‘Annie?’
My sharp tone jolted her from her reverie. The figure flew into the air and landed with a soft thud on the carpet. Unabashed, she bent to retrieve it.
‘I don’t suppose you know how that came to be left in my bed, do you?’
She carefully set it down upon the table. ‘No, miss.’ There was something in her bland expression that led me to suspect she was being less than forthcoming.
‘I don’t appreciate being the butt of anyone’s joke.’
Her eyes flickered up to meet mine. ‘I’m sure you’re not, miss.’
‘Well, I’d appreciate it if you could have a quiet word with Maisie and make sure she understands that too.’ I picked up my undergarments and began to dress, taking her assistance where required. ‘Is Mrs Brightwell up?’
‘I believe so, miss.’
I dismissed her, reminding her she was at Mrs Henge’s disposal and so should strive to make herself useful. Once she had gone, I fastened my locket and went to turn off the bedside light. I don’t know what compelled me to pick up the lead soldier, but I did, slipping it into my cardigan pocket before I left the room.
Receiving no reply when I tapped lightly on Madeleine’s door, I surmised she must already be taking breakfast so I hurried to join her.
I descended into the gloom of the hall, quickly crossing the chilly cavern into the bleak corridor beyond, the echo of my footsteps softening as marble gave way to polished wood. I had only proceeded a short way when a rapid swishing of skirts revealed I was being pursued. My heart leapt into my mouth as Mrs Henge called my name.
‘Goodness! Mrs Henge, you quite startled me!’
Her face remained impassive. ‘Miss Marcham, I did not mean to alarm you.’
I laughed at my own skittishness, but she met my self-deprecatory humour with a flicker of disdain. I flushed.
‘Was there something you wanted?’
‘I merely wished to check that you had settled in and have everything you need.’
‘I do indeed, thank you.’
She expressed her satisfaction with a slight nod. She folded her hands before her. ‘If I may be so bold, Miss Marcham, may I say how pleased I am to have Mrs Brightwell with us. I very much hope she will, in time, come to see Greyswick as her home and feel some fondness for it.’
‘You make it sound as if Mrs Brightwell doesn’t like it here.’
‘Sometimes, it seems, Mrs Brightwell is not – comfortable – here.’
I could see how Madeleine might struggle to feel ‘comfortable’ in the house her mother-in-law continued to reign over like a grand matriarch, but I found it interesting that Mrs Henge had also detected Madeleine’s disquiet. For the first time, I had a proper opportunity to study Greyswick’s housekeeper, now she was finally out in the open and no longer draped in shade. She was not as ancient as I had first perceived, though I suspected her late middle years were calling. The heavy set of her features, her Roman nose and broad chin suggested she had never enjoyed great beauty. Her hair was a uniform grey and her skin had long lost the suppleness of youth. It sagged now, weary lines fanning from her eyes, while deep channels carved down the sides of her mouth. The one extraordinary feature she did possess, however, were her eyes. They were the clearest grey I had ever seen, like thick sheets of pond ice, with only the merest hint of colour in their transparency. I wondered what treacherous depths they concealed.
‘My sister tells me you have been with the family for a long time, Mrs Henge.’
Her lips quirked in a way that felt strangely measured, practised somehow. ‘I have indeed, miss. I was with Sir Arthur from the time he was a young man just starting to make his way in the world. It has been an honour and a privilege to serve in such an esteemed family for all these years. I hope I may continue to serve long after the next generation arrives.’
‘An old retainer is a highly valued asset.’
I thought of how I cherished dear Brown and Mrs Scrivens. I so often took their service for granted, and yet I knew they were completely irreplaceable, and much loved. Swelled with tenderness, I laid my hand on Mrs Henge’s arm, but she flinched at the unanticipated touch, and I quickly withdrew it, somewhat embarrassed.
‘They are very lucky to have you, Mrs Henge,’ I said, hoping to mitigate for any discomfort I may have caused.
‘Annie is being most helpful, miss.’ I think both of us welcomed the change of subject. ‘She’s a queer sort, if you don’t mind me saying, but she’s a good worker, I’ll give her that.’
