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‘Well, it’s a strange house to her, Mrs Henge, and she is not the most experienced of girls, but I’m sure she’ll do her best.’ I thought of Mrs Scrivens’ concerns. ‘She has a few foibles, but we all have our idiosyncrasies after all. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m hoping to catch my sister at breakfast.’
‘Mrs Brightwell is indeed still in the dining room, Miss Marcham. Lady Brightwell and Miss Scott have already left for the day.’
‘What busy lives they lead,’ I observed dryly.
It was impossible to read the housekeeper’s leaden expression. She offered a courteous dip of her head and turned back to the hall. I remembered the toy soldier and was about to call after her but then decided not to. It was probably nothing more than a foolish prank by the housemaid, and I had no desire to get the girl into trouble. Perhaps I would have a quiet word with her myself, if Annie was disinclined to do so, or indeed if I found myself in receipt of another such bedtime gift. I pressed on to the dining room.
Madeleine shuffled round in her chair to beam at me as I entered.
‘There you are at last! Did you sleep well? I slept wonderfully – I knew I would rest better with you here.’
She caught my hand as I leant down to kiss her and brought it to her lips. I was heartened to see her restored to her usual humour. She chattered merrily as I helped myself to bacon, eggs and kidney. Deciding to indulge, I slipped a muffin onto my plate.
Madeleine was very keen to visit the local town as there were a number of purchases she needed to make and required my advice. I was quite happy to fall in with whatever plans she had and we decided to take the omnibus, as Lady Brightwell had already commandeered the car.
I was full to bursting by the time I popped the last morsel of jam-slathered muffin into my mouth. Madeleine had been fidgeting to be gone for the last five minutes, and the moment my lips closed she pushed back her chair.
‘Come along, Stella, we simply can’t miss the ’bus.’
Still chewing, I got to my feet, and as I did so, I felt the weight of the toy soldier pull at my pocket.
‘Oh! I almost forgot, I had the most peculiar bedfellow last night.’
Madeleine burst out laughing. ‘I beg your pardon?’
Grinning, I ceremoniously stood the figure on the table. The smile froze on Madeleine’s face as the spark faded from her eyes. The edges of her mouth relaxed until her lips were pressed into a thin line.
‘Where did you find him?’
I fought a sense of foreboding as I offered my response. She nodded distractedly, before flinging her napkin onto him.
‘I can’t stand the things.’ She turned on her heel, her movements taut as she strode for the door. ‘Anyway, we’d best hurry. That omnibus won’t wait for us.’
I made several attempts to broach the subject of the soldier throughout the course of the morning, but Madeleine was always quick to change the subject. Her demeanour remained cheery and light, but I couldn’t help noticing a strain about her eyes and a tension to her smile, that hadn’t been evident before the figure’s appearance. I found the whole situation most curious.
It was late afternoon before we clambered down from the ’bus and began the long walk up the drive to the house. Madeleine grew quieter as we approached the grey mansion.
Mrs Henge must have been watching for us – she hauled open the front door before we reached the top step. She stood in patient attendance as we unburdened ourselves of hats, coats and parcels.
‘I am quite worn out from all that,’ Madeleine confessed. Her subdued manner was reflected in her pale cheeks and dull eyes. ‘I think I might take a lie down for a while. Will you come up with me?’
We used the last of our reserves to climb the vast staircase, too drained even for conversation. As we entered the corridor leading to our rooms our steps faltered to a standstill. Annie Burrows was crouched outside my bedroom door. There was a furtiveness about her which immediately aroused my suspicion. It appeared I was not alone: Madeleine tensed beside me.
Noticing our arrival, the young maid shot up. She dipped a brief curtsy, before scuttling past us, her right hand clenched by her side. We watched her disappear through the servants’ door concealed in the panelling of the landing.
‘I wish you hadn’t brought that girl here. This house is unsettling enough without her gracing its corridors.’ Madeleine shuddered and turned, her pace quickening as she continued to her room. I had to hurry to catch up.
As we reached her bedroom door, she swung round and gave me a fierce embrace that quite knocked the wind from me. ‘Oh, ignore me! I’m sorry if I’ve been a little off. I’ll feel much better after a nap.’
‘It’s been a tiring trip. Get some rest. I might even catch a wink or two myself,’ I confessed. The prospect of sleep was quite alluring now that my bed was within easy reach, but I found myself hovering in her doorway. ‘Madeleine, the toy soldier – I dismissed it as a prank by the housemaid. I failed to mention it to Mrs Henge when I had the opportunity – was I wrong to do so?’
‘Telling Mrs Henge wouldn’t have helped.’
‘But …’ I struggled to believe the housekeeper would tolerate such behaviour if she were made privy to it. ‘I know it’s a harmless jest, but it’s not appropriate. Someone needs to say something to the girl. I take it Maisie has left them for you too?’
‘It’s not Maisie, Stella – Maisie’s a good girl. Please, don’t let’s say any more about it, there’s no need to trouble yourself.’ She began inching the door to. ‘We both need some rest. Come and get me when you’re ready, we’ll go down to dinner together when it’s time.’
Try as I might, I could not understand Madeleine’s reluctance to resolve the matter. It appeared there was an underlying nuance to the whole situation that I was missing completely.
I closed my bedroom door behind me. It was a relief to cast my shoes from my aching feet. I removed my dress, not wanting to crease it, and draped it over the bedroom chair. I held my breath as I yanked back the bedcovers, half-expecting to find another toy figure. I was relieved to see nothing but a crisp expanse of white sheet. I lay down, hoisting the covers over my shoulders, wondering whether I should set my alarm clock. I soon regretted not drawing my curtains against the bright sky, but I couldn’t be bothered to heave myself out of bed now that I was settled. So I closed my eyes and ignoring the vibrant glow beyond my eyelids, I concentrated on slowing my breaths.
Just as my consciousness was ebbing, the image of Annie’s furled fist came back into view. It was then I realised what I had failed to see.
A slash of scarlet wrapped in the cream skin of her palm.
I awoke with a start, my hand flying to the side of my head, my hair roots tingling. I almost expected to knock someone’s hand aside, so vivid was the impression of my hair being stroked – but my fingers merely dug into thick hanks. My heart raced as I scrambled upright. The room was unchanged: my dress still lay folded over the back of the chair and the curtains were still drawn from the window, though the sky outside was smothered with cloud now and the room felt heavy without the lift of yellow sunlight. Only the steady ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece and my own ragged breaths punctured the dense stillness. I pressed my palm to the side of my head, confused. The sensation of the gentle touch had seemed so real, yet I must have imagined it.
My breath caught. The door was wide open.
I scrabbled from the bed and stood shivering in my slip, staring at the opening. The door had been shut when I had taken my nap, I was sure of it. I snatched up my wrapper and pulled it on. Had someone been in while I slept?
My breath shuddered from me as I crossed the room, the carpet soft under my stockinged feet, until I stood on the threshold. My attention was immediately caught by creaking wood. I looked up the corridor. Annie Burrows was halfway up the staircase at the end.
‘Annie! Where do you think you are going? Are you supposed to be up there?’
A jerk of her head revealed a fleeting look of irritation, before her expression quickly closed. She began to backtrack, the stair treads grumbling underfoot as she descended. She stood at the bottom as I bore down on her, her head hung low, but I noticed her eyes swivel up towards the landing above us.
‘Were you just in my room?’
‘I wasn’t, miss.’
‘Was anyone else?’
Her eyes skidded again towards the empty staircase before meeting mine. ‘No, miss.’
Her curious behaviour aroused my suspicion, but I could see nothing amiss. The mahogany steps rose steeply, siding onto a wall lined with paintings, before opening out onto a short galleried landing, which hosted two doors set in the wall facing me, while the landing itself ended rather abruptly with a further half-glazed door. My damp palm cupped the newel post. I was surprised at how cold it felt. I mounted the first step, focused on the landing above. I had an irresistible urge to explore. I took another step, the wood creaking as it took my weight. An icy draught brushed my cheek sending a shiver down my spine. I took another step and then another until I reached the collection of small oil paintings that hung above me.
Most of them were whimsical rural scenes – sheep being driven down muddy country lanes; a milkmaid sitting with her ruddy cheek pressed to a cow’s side, her fingers closed on its teats. But as I drifted on, I came upon a much larger painting in an exquisitely carved, gold leaf frame. I stopped. I was acutely aware of Annie’s inquisitive gaze as I tilted my head back to appreciate the striking work of art. It was a portrait of an angelic young boy, his cheeks rosy, blond curls looping round his petite ears, his blue eyes soft and loving, his rosebud mouth prettily pursed. Dressed in a blue sailor suit, his right hand rested on a metal hoop, whilst the fingers of his left brushed the head of the King Charles spaniel that was looking up adoringly up its master with bulging brown eyes. There was something about the portrait that was both touching and totally entrancing.
‘Stella!’
The urgency in Madeleine’s voice sliced through the air, startling me from my strange captivation. She stood stock-still outside her bedroom door.
‘Come down, Stella. There’s nothing to see up there.’
I was unwilling to tear myself away from the portrait. ‘Who is this painting of, Madeleine? Is it someone in the family?’
‘Come down, Stella, will you?’
I felt a devil of resentment inside me as I began my descent.
‘Is he one of the family?’ I persisted.
Annie was standing meekly with her hands clasped before her, but her eyes strayed to Madeleine, as if she too were curious to hear the answer. Madeleine fidgeted, folding her arms across her body, hugging them to her.
‘Yes,’ she answered as I reached the last step. She visibly relaxed as my feet finally settled on the carpeted landing.
‘Who is it? It’s a charming portrait.’
‘It’s Lucien.’
‘Lucien?’
‘Hector’s half-brother, Lucien Brightwell.’
‘I didn’t know Hector had a brother.’
‘Half-brother,’ she corrected me. She was clearly reticent about providing more information, but I pressed her for it. ‘His mother was Sir Arthur’s first wife, she died in childbirth. Lucien died of influenza just after Hector was born.’
I always remember my grandfather advising me to pay attention to the silences in a conversation, rather than the words. When I asked him why, he had removed his ever-present pipe and bestowed his wisdom upon me. The things that are most important are often left unsaid – they fill the pauses, he explained, the rest is often inconsequential. As I stood now observing my sister’s uncomfortable silence, I knew there was a lot more to be gleaned – a story she did not want to share – and I couldn’t help wondering what and why. I had never known her to exclude me from a secret, yet since my arrival at Greyswick I couldn’t dispel the feeling that Madeleine was hiding many things from me, and I feared no good would come from it.
‘Mrs Henge will be ringing the gong soon,’ she said. ‘We really ought to get on.’
‘What rooms are up there, Madeleine?’ She had been most determined to steer me away from what lay beyond the staircase and I wanted to understand her reason.
‘Nothing of importance.’
‘Just an entrance to the servants’ quarters.’ Annie’s interjection startled us both. ‘And, of course, the old school room – and nursery.’ Her lowered lashes fluttered up as she spoke. ‘Or so I believe, miss.’
Madeleine glared at her. ‘That’s right,’ she said, her voice discordant, like an overstrung instrument. ‘But I do not like them. I have chosen a room on this floor for a nursery. And that’s that.’
‘Well, that’s your prerogative I would have thought,’ I replied.
‘Yes, yes, it is. Now really, we should get ready for dinner. Lady Brightwell does hate to be kept waiting. I must ring for Maisie.’
And before I could say anything more, she disappeared into her room, closing the door firmly behind her, leaving me to examine the pregnant pauses left in her wake.
Chapter Nine (#ulink_71e6dffe-8116-5b39-8d5b-1aea7f39217d)
The next morning the heavens opened, and the winds whipped up a fury, dashing rain against the windows and rattling the sashes, as if furious to be denied entry. Madeleine and I settled ourselves in the library to write letters, as there was no chance of us escaping the confines of the house in the face of such onslaught.
Like the rest of Greyswick, the library was a room designed to impress. Its enormous windows were draped in excessive quantities of gaudy material, quite inappropriate given the nature of the room, and the bookcases which lined every square inch of wall had been specially commissioned, as had the large oak reading tables at which Madeleine and I now sat.
After finishing my first letter – one to Mother – I drifted around the room, my fingers running across the ornate bindings of books that ranged in subject from theological texts to fashionable scientific theories. Having drawn out a few to investigate further, however, I noticed that none of the pages had been slit: the books were unread. Like so much else in Greyswick, it appeared they were merely for show.
I was next attracted to a large glass case containing a display of stuffed birds, arranged against a backdrop of dried grasses, gorse and fern. I was not generally a great admirer of taxidermy, but the exhibit was striking, and demanded my scrutiny. A large coot took centre stage, overshadowing a white-throated dipper, whilst behind it, a small falcon had swooped down upon a chaffinch, whose beak was open in distress, its wings raised in fruitless defence. The magpie and mistle-thrush positioned on an angled branch at the back of the case showed no interest in the poor creature’s predicament – instead their black eyes appeared focused on me. But it was the beautiful bird clinging to the furthest fork of the branch that evoked my sharp intake of breath.
A kingfisher gazed out through the glass side of the cabinet, his dagger-like bill elevated, his golden chest puffed with pride as he turned his stunning blue back on the display’s other subjects. I pressed my fingertips to the glass.
‘Halcyon days …’ My brow creased as a bittersweet memory flooded my mind. I closed my eyes, fighting against the pain, to savour it.
It was the summer of 1913 and a letter had arrived from my godmother, asking whether I remembered Gerald Fitzwilliam at all. I did, of course, though I hadn’t seen him for years. His family had moved to Australia not long after Lydia died, and though Aunt Irene referred to him in passing every now and then, he had rather slipped from my mind.
I still had his letter, though, the one he sent me just after Lydia’s death. It was the sweetest thing. He wrote to say how sorry he was, and how he hoped I was bearing up, though he realised I must be hurting terribly. He had gone on to say how Lydia had been one of only two girls in his acquaintance whose company he had always enjoyed (in brackets he had assured me that I was the other one. He had made no mention of Madeleine).
It was such a rarity for me, as a child of ten, to receive a proper letter in the post. The only correspondence I tended to get came on my birthday and at Christmas, when aunts and uncles might send a brief note with a small cheque enclosed, in lieu of a more exciting present. That he had taken the time to do such a grown-up thing had made me feel very special indeed, and the simple kindness expressed in those few lines stayed with me for years.
Aunt Irene went on to inform me that the Fitzwilliam family had returned to England the previous autumn, and that Gerald was just finishing his first year at Cambridge. She intended to visit him that weekend and, recalling how famously we had got on as children, she asked whether I might like to accompany her on the trip – ‘for old time’s sake’. Having little else to occupy me, I happily agreed.
She called for me early that Saturday morning, and we had motored off to the Fens. I had never been to Cambridge before, and it was exciting to be somewhere so steeped in history, and see the students walking through the town’s hallowed streets, striking in their black gowns.
We had arranged to meet Gerald at his college, and for some strange reason I felt a flutter of nerves as the car drew to a stop. He appeared as soon as the car door opened and before I was even out, he was being heartily embraced by our godmother. Any view of him was blocked by the huge flowered hat she had donned for the occasion. Finally, after much kissing and hugging, Aunt Irene released him and stepped away, enabling me to see my childhood friend for the first time in seven years.
It would perhaps be trite to say he had grown, but goodness – how he had grown! He was tall, broad-shouldered, and quite breathtakingly handsome. There was still evidence of the boy I had known, though: his thick hair the colour of rich brandy, those eyes that twinkled with mischief, and the lightning-flash grin.
He escorted us first on a tour of his college and later the town. He was attentive, intelligent, his manners were impeccable, his charm was undeniable, and his humour most refreshing.
It was a glorious summer’s day, and Aunt Irene had packed a picnic for us to enjoy. Rescuing the large hamper from its strapping on the rear of the car, Gerald suggested he take us punting down the river, so that we could feast in a quiet spot on the meadow. The punt dipped and wobbled as Gerald helped Aunt Irene and myself in, and I was most relieved when I was at last safely planted on the bench seat and no longer in danger of toppling us all overboard.
It was idyllic, gliding up the wide river, shadows falling on our faces as we passed under the arches of historic stone bridges. Gerald proved a most able punter, manoeuvring us around other boats and easing us on our way.
When we reached the meadows, he found a spot on the bank suitable for us to disembark. He leapt off first to secure the punt with a rope, then handed Aunt Irene and me back up onto terra firma, before retrieving the picnic basket.
We found a lovely spot where willow trees wept into the river, their tendril branches tentatively dipping beneath the murky surface. The tartan rug billowed on the breeze as Gerald shook it out before laying it down amongst the buttercups, daisies and purple fritillaries.
Aunt Irene and I knelt in our light summer dresses and began to unpack, setting out the plates, wine glasses and cutlery before arranging a veritable feast of delights, all lovingly prepared by Aunt Irene’s cook. There was jellied chicken, cold salmon, potted shrimp, boiled eggs, tiny tomatoes, pickles, bread, melting butter and wedges of hard cheese that were beginning to soften in the heat. Gerald threw himself down and pulled off his boater, a red line across his forehead where the rim had cut in. Laughing, he ruffled some life back into his flattened hair and proceeded to uncork the wine. Reminiscing about the past, and filling in the missing years, the three of us ate and drank and talked until we could manage no more.
Fully sated, Aunt Irene declared herself quite exhausted, and using Gerald’s folded blazer as a cushion, she lay back on the blanket and closed her eyes. We smothered our laughter as she began to snore peacefully.
I decided to stretch my cramped legs, so I stood up, brushing the crumbs from my skirt.
‘Shall we wander over to the river?’ Gerald suggested, scrabbling to his feet.
‘Yes, all right,’ I smiled, a little giddy from the combination of heat and wine.
We ambled quite companionably through the long grass that was alive with the buzzing of bees and chirping of crickets, until the river flowed before us.
‘It is so good to see you again, Stella,’ Gerald said, glancing down at me. ‘In a strange way, it seems like only yesterday.’
I smiled, plucking a stem of grass for want of something to do with my trembling hands. I knew exactly what he meant. In just a few hours, the years had fallen away, until only that easy familiarity we enjoyed as children remained. It set my heart beating a little faster.
‘Did you see that?’ he exclaimed. Seeing my puzzlement, he grabbed my hand and led me closer to the river edge. ‘Look! There!’
I followed his finger just in time to see a bolt of blue shoot into the brown depths, only to appear again seconds later.
‘A kingfisher!’ I declared with delight. ‘Why, I don’t think I’ve ever seen one before!’
The plump bird rested on a low hanging branch, preening.
