Читать книгу The Lost Ones - Anita Frank - Страница 16

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.

We sank down to a crouch to observe it. I was somewhat distracted by how natural it was, for my hand to be in his, and by how comfortable it felt to be beside him once again.

‘It’s reputed to be the first bird to have flown from Noah’s Ark.’ He kept his voice low, eager not to disturb the exquisite creature. ‘Myth has it, it got its colouring that day, from the blue sky on its back, and the orange setting sun on its breast. Its Greek name is halcyon. They see it as a symbol of peace and prosperity … and love.’ He looked at me and smiled.

‘It’s beautiful.’

We both gasped as in a flash of colour, the little bird was gone, darting off down the river. We rose from our haunches. Gerald’s hand continued to clasp mine.

‘I’m glad we saw it together,’ he said.

‘Oh, here you are. Fancy abandoning me in this heat!’

We swiftly dropped hands and turned to see Aunt Irene standing a little way behind us, cooling herself with a lace fan. ‘Sadly, my dears, I think it is time to draw this blissful day to an end, if I am to get Stella back to her parents as promised. Do come and help me pack the picnic basket. I think there’s a drop of wine left in one of the bottles – it would be such a shame to waste it.’

With faces flushed from more than just the heat of the day, Gerald and I led the way back to the picnic blanket. My heart felt heavy at the prospect of our imminent separation. Aunt Irene, in contrast, seemed more gay than ever, as she directed our clearing up, a sly smile creeping across her lips and her sharp eyes observing our every interaction.

It wasn’t long before we were back at the car, with the basket stowed and us saying our farewells. Aunt Irene kissed her godson fondly and promised to visit again soon, before ducking into the back seat, leaving me on the pavement, waiting to say goodbye. I was rather thrilled when Gerald bent to kiss my cheek, catching my fingers in his hand as he did so.

‘May I be terribly forward and ask whether I might write to you?’ he said.

My heart seemed to explode as I tried to control the unladylike grin that burst across my face.

‘Oh! I would like that very much.’

His return smile was instant. He squeezed my fingers. ‘Good. I think we have a lot of lost time to make up for.’

I felt six inches taller as I climbed into the back seat next to my godmother. We both turned to wave out of the rear window as the car pulled away and as Aunt Irene settled back for the journey home, she made no attempt to hide her approving smile, nor her brief nod of satisfaction, as her eyes twinkled with glee.

‘Halcyon days indeed.’ I withdrew my fingers from the glass, my heart aching. Halcyon days the like of which I would never enjoy again. My throat burnt with contained tears as I bit my lip and turned away from the kingfisher, silently cursing him for his betrayal.

I was shaking by the time I slid back into my chair, battling to control the unruly sway of my emotions. I snatched up my pen, determined to divert myself with industry, and quickly dashed off a greeting to a Sister I had worked with in France. I paused, my nib resting on the paper, as I remembered how kind she had been on that awful final day. My grip tightened on the pen. I was barely aware of the force I was exerting, when the fine tip broke under the pressure.

‘Oh Stella! How careless of you!’ Madeleine chided, having heard the snap of the metal, but her tone changed in an instant as she looked up to see my mounting distress. ‘Stella? What is it?’

I shook my head, breathing deeply to suppress a deluge of tears. ‘I’m sorry … I’m being silly … lost in unhelpful thoughts.’

‘Oh Stella …’ Madeleine rested her hand on my arm.

I patted it reassuringly before clearing my throat. ‘Well, that was rather silly of me. Where might I find a new nib?’

Clearly sensing my desire to move on, Madeleine got up in pursuit of a replacement. She rifled through a set of desk drawers, and the writing box on the window sill, but without reward.

‘I do know that mother-in-law has spare nibs in her bureau in the morning room – shall I go and look for you?’ she asked.

Keen to have a moment to myself, I assured her I was happy to go. She told me where they were to be found and with a concerned smile, sent me on my way. I closed the door behind me and paused while I afforded myself time to come to terms with the past. Only when my doldrums were banished, and I felt sufficiently restored, did I set off towards the morning room, ready to face the world once again.

I knocked lightly when I reached the door. On receiving no answer, I gingerly turned the brass handle. I was most relieved to find the room unoccupied.

I had seen it only once before, little more than a cursory glance on Madeleine’s whistle-stop tour that first day. In stark contrast to the rest of Greyswick, it was a pretty room, painted a vibrant buttercup yellow, and was perfectly positioned to enjoy the sun which streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows now the storm had abated. Great cut-glass bowls of pot pourri embellished the other window sills, leaving the hint of a faded summer in the air. The armchairs cosily arranged around the fireplace were covered in chintz, and the shelf of the mantelpiece was draped in velvet as if from a bygone era, and it crossed my mind that the décor may have been unchanged since Lady Brightwell first took occupancy of the house.

I took a moment to examine the abundance of silver picture frames placed about the room. They contained sepia images of largely unfamiliar faces, though some bore sufficient resemblance to Lady Brightwell to suggest a familial connection. There were some pleasantly candid photographs of Hector and Madeleine, as well as the lady herself – there was even a rather charming one of Miss Scott – but I noted with some curiosity there were none of Sir Arthur. He didn’t even figure in the ensemble shots taken at house parties and Christmases past. It smacked of a purposeful omission, as if a concerted attempt had been made to erase his presence, but before I could ponder further on this apparent slight, I found myself drawn to the commanding painting that hung above the mantelpiece.

It was a stunning portrait, skilfully done, and though the years may have aged her, it was instantly recognisable as a young Lady Brightwell.

She was standing in profile at a large fireplace, the fingertips of her right hand just visible as they rested on the broad marble mantel. There was a gilt-framed mirror hanging above it, and though the suggestion was a desire to see her reflection had brought her to that spot, her face was angled away from the glass – Lady Brightwell herself was looking directly at the artist. She was dressed in an exquisite red evening gown, the sharp lines of her shoulder blades just visible above the buttoned back that clung to her torso, pulling into a minuscule waist before rucking up in elaborate folds over a bustle and tumbling in waves to pool on the floor. Her chestnut brown hair, threaded with strands of gold, had been gathered up with diamond-headed pins until it overflowed, covering her neck with a cascade of curls. But it was the expression on the stunning young face that struck me the most.

This was no whimsical pose. There was no coquettish regard for the painter, as he painstakingly preserved her for posterity. The expression on her face was arrogantly self-assured. This was a young woman confident of her looks, from the fine line of her nose, to her arched brows and sculpted cheekbones, a young woman who knew her mouth was the perfect shape even if her lips were a little too thin. She was aware her beauty was arresting, and her eyes shone with an unveiled challenge to the artist, daring him to record her otherwise.

‘She is a very beautiful woman, is she not, Miss Marcham?’

I whirled around at the intrusion. Miss Scott was standing at the open door. I hadn’t heard her enter and fumbled my apologies. She smiled as she drew near.

‘Please don’t apologise. She is very distracting.’

‘It’s a wonderful portrait.’

‘She was just eighteen when that was done. Oh! She made me do her hair four times before she was satisfied with it. She was quite determined to look perfect.’ She drank in the picture, her face rapt, as if relishing it for the first time. ‘And she did look perfect,’ she finished, her voice soft.

‘You’ve been with her for a very long time then, Miss Scott?’

‘Since she was seventeen, and I was not much older myself. She was headstrong and determined even then, and a much-toasted debutante. I’ve witnessed rooms fall silent by the mere act of her walking into them.’

I looked again at the portrait and had no doubt that the companion’s recollections were accurate.

‘She is quite a forceful character,’ I said without thinking. I saw a flicker of discomfort on the older woman’s face.

‘You mustn’t judge her too harshly, Miss Marcham. What you see above you is a carefully choreographed image. What lies beneath the surface is often too profound to be caught in oils and brush strokes. The events of a lifetime have moulded her into the woman she is today.’

The admonishment was gentle but left me feeling gauche. The affection Miss Scott felt for her employer was clearly deep-seated and genuine, however difficult that might be for me to understand – and she clearly had the patience of a saint to suffer the woman’s foibles.

We both turned when we heard a slight cough behind us. Mrs Henge stood framed by the doorway.

‘Forgive me for interrupting. I just wanted to check this morning’s tea things had been cleared.’ I was surprised to detect an uncharacteristically soft timbre to the housekeeper’s voice as she addressed us, Miss Scott her primary focus. One glance revealed the china was still very much in evidence – abandoned on a squat table. Mrs Henge’s lips pursed in displeasure and I pitied poor Maisie, who I suspected had overlooked the task amongst a multitude of other chores.

‘Oh dear, it’s a bit of a mess, isn’t it?’ Miss Scott declared without recrimination, as Mrs Henge advanced on the china. I explained then that I had come looking for a pen nib. ‘Oh, you’ll find one in the bureau, Lady Brightwell always keeps several spares, let me find one for you.’

‘This is such a pretty room,’ I declared, as she bustled over to the desk and pulled open an inner drawer. ‘It has such a different feel to the rest of the house.’

‘Well, it was the only room she was given free rein in … Ah!’ She triumphantly brandished a new nib. ‘Will this do?’

‘Perfectly, thank you.’

Handing me the nib, she delved into a large bag resting in the corner and withdrew a ball of wool, which was clearly what had brought her to the morning room. I cast a final appreciative glance at the painting.

‘Was it for a special occasion?’

Miss Scott smiled. ‘Her eighteenth birthday – it was the last portrait done before her engagement.’

‘And you came with her here to Greyswick on her marriage?’ I asked.

‘I did indeed, and I have been by her side ever since. Only once have I been away from her in all that time – and only then because there was no other way around it.’ Her voice had grown wistful. From the corner of my eye I noticed Mrs Henge glance up, just before she lifted the laden tray.

Miss Scott and I fell in step to leave. Mrs Henge stood aside to let us pass.

‘Well, I can see you have quite a bond,’ I observed, slowing my pace to allow Miss Scott first access to the doorway.

‘Oh yes,’ the companion assured me, clutching her wool to her stomach as she left the room. ‘I could never leave her.’

As I reached the doorway I glanced back to acknowledge the housekeeper. Mrs Henge made no attempt to return my smile, indeed she appeared distracted and unaware of my existence.

It was only much later that I succeeded in defining her expression. I realised the look she had borne was one strangely akin to pain.