Читать книгу A Pearl for My Mistress - Annabel Fielding - Страница 13

Chapter Six

London, May 1934

Hester was privately grateful that the taxi ride from the station took so long.

The distance to their new home – their home for the next four months – wasn’t actually that great. However, other cabs provided enough obstruction for the ride to stretch into infinity. This usual urban misfortune allowed Hester enough time for the precious gazing out of the window. She looked at the world outside with a sort of desperate hunger, as if trying to soak it all in and store enough impressions to last her through the next week.

As soon as they arrived, of course, the inevitable grandiose business of unpacking, pressing, arranging, and helping out engulfed her like a wave in a sea storm. By the time half of the luggage was dealt with, Hester began to seriously wonder whether she was ever going to see the light of the day again.

The fear was unfounded; there turned out to be plenty of errands for her to run.

Deliver this message to our grocer; buy some hairpins; take this jewellery to Rood’s to be cleaned, and collect it in due time. She could never let her feet wander; on a fine day, though, she allowed herself the little luxury of walking slowly.

After all, the month of May was unfolding before her, and its beauty was hard to resist. Quieter areas were now engulfed in lush greenery, where yellow and purple flowers flared up from time to time.

She had never seen such a prodigious quantity of motorcars, and she loved this new abundance, as if their speed and energy somehow rubbed off on her. She had never seen such great avenues lit wholly by electricity, which made the night seem livelier than the day. She couldn’t get enough of this extravagance of light.

Sometimes she passed the rows of old, creamy-white residences along Regent’s Park. Their delicate columns seemed to glow, as if sculpted out of moonlight.

Hester understood that her every habit, every smile, every bewildered stare wrote ‘provincial’ on her forehead in the clearest script. But she simply couldn’t help it; she was enchanted by everything.

And, in her defence, there were plenty of things to be enchanted by. London had long since awakened from its post-war slumber, and for years it had been busy building, restoring, rebuilding, and expanding – far to the sleepy villages of the South-East and up to the heavens above. Cinemas sprung up around Haymarket; flats invaded Mayfair; Piccadilly glistened with new motorcar showrooms.

Of course, this endless activity tended to make the capital look rather chaotic (that is, more chaotic than it usually was). Some, remembering bitter days, looked at the construction sites on Regent Street and recalled the desolate landscapes of Flanders. However, by the time the small household of the Fitzmartins arrived in the city, the greatest and most disturbing projects were long since finished. As a result, London greeted them with dazzling marble avenues, cinemas that resembled temples, and cafés that resembled palaces.

Even Hester’s blood seemed to rush through her veins faster than usual.

She remembered her desperate adolescent dreams, her walks along the platforms, her fervent reading. How she had pestered her friends with talk of some ‘new play in London’, which, she knew, she was never going to attend!

It seemed she had far more in common with Sophie than she thought before.

Hester brushed this thought aside, shaking her head briskly. No, that was too much. Yes, yes, she did feel the same pull of the big city …

But everyone does! Well, almost everyone. Most people, anyway.

And she would have never done something as impulsive, as headstrong, as clearly foolish, as Sophie did.

‘Waiting for your next day off, aren’t you?’

Her lady’s voice snapped Hester out of her reverie with the suddenness of a gunshot.

‘No,’ she answered quickly. ‘Not at all.’

‘The number of times you’ve glanced out of the window says otherwise. You know, Hester, how I dislike untruth.’

Despite the apparent seriousness of the last words, her eyes were glittering, and her tone suggested no malice. Hester had got used to understanding her.

‘Well, if you insist … I do look forward to it. A little bit,’ Hester added for the sake of politeness.

As if in response to her words, the wind rushed in from the open window and brought with it the enticing scents of fresh flowers and triumphant spring. The white curtains scurried up, like a bride’s veil. The patches of sunlight, filtered through its lace, danced across the parlour carpet.

Perhaps, Hester was looking at them too wistfully, the mending in her hands lying limp.

However, Lucy didn’t reprimand her for the lack of adoration towards her current duties.

‘You shouldn’t worry. The Sunday is near. I envy you a little, to be honest – exploring the city for the first time is always such a marvel. I must warn you, though – in weather like this the city centre resembles all the hell’s furnaces at once. If I were you, I’d take a boat to Richmond. The river journeys are always so sweet, and there’re wild deer in the park.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ Hester promised. ‘Really, I want to see everything.’

‘Now, that’s ambitious!’ She laughed. ‘I like that. How do you find our new home?’

It might have been a mere polite question from a benevolent mistress to her loyal servant. However, Hester could see the genuine curiosity in Lucy’s eyes.

This time, Hester didn’t have to lie. After the ancient darkness of Hebden Hall, after its gargoyles and creaking doors that could never be quite closed, and never-ending draughts creeping through every jumper, this new dwelling seemed to be knitted of light. It was furnished rather nostalgically, a cream-coloured fantasy of the Georgian era. There were, however, some curtseys to modernity: the profusion of walnut and chromium, a cocktail bar tucked away beneath a half-landing.

Hester’s own room turned out to be in the former Victorian servants’ attic, fitted and remodelled for the new age. Admittedly, it was very well furnished, although the tiny window didn’t let in a lot of light. Hester consoled herself by calling it an upper floor.

She told Lady Lucy all of it, excluding the attic part.

‘I am glad you like it here. Otherwise, I’m afraid my gift would have looked slightly awkward.’

‘Your gift?’

Lady Lucy nodded, her eyes delighted with mystery.

‘I promised you, don’t you remember? For your birthday in May.’ She was clearly revelling in the moment.

‘Oh, I do!’

I just thought you didn’t.

Lucy extended her hand across the table to touch Hester’s, to gently coax the mending out of her fingers. Lucy’s touch was as tender and smooth as ever, and just as hard to resist.

‘It’s upstairs, in my bedroom. Come with me,’ she whispered with the clear, shivering joy of a child playing conspiracies.

Stunned, intrigued, and infected by this enthusiasm, Hester followed her up the stairs. The bedroom was dark and cool, Abigail’s work there long since finished. Hester had only paused to switch the light on, while Lucy was already fumbling with the lowermost drawer. Several seconds of frantic searching later, she turned back, her smile blazing.

‘Here it is.’

In Lucy’s hands, now outstretched to her, lay a book – a heavy hardback with a red cover, embellished with enticing golden letters.

Not quite believing the reality of the moment, Hester took the tome as carefully as was humanly possible. It felt reassuringly solid under her fingers.

The Visions of Orient, the title proclaimed.

‘It’s a collection of poetry from Muslim Spain,’ Lucy explained. She looked into Hester’s face eagerly, clearly awaiting a reaction. ‘I thought I’d never find something like it! No one seems to be interested in Arab Spain these days. I uncovered this one in Hatchards by pure chance. I thought straight away you would like it, and …’ She paused. ‘You do like it, don’t you?’

‘I do, I do!’ Hester found her voice again at the earliest hint that her lady’s smile might begin to fade. ‘I’m just surprised. I’ve never owned a book like this.’

To be absolutely honest, Hester doubted she had ever owned any kind of book. Spending several shillings on a tome she would read in a week looked like sheer folly. Instead, she always relied on local libraries and book club subscriptions. It was prudent; it was sensible; it satisfied her well enough. She couldn’t help but think, though, that it would be nice to have such a volume living on her shelf for ever. She’d never have to rush to finish it. She’d be able to reread it as often as she liked.

The thought was filled with heady sweetness.

‘Thank you,’ she muttered. ‘I can’t believe you took all the trouble of looking for it just for me.’

‘Oh, that was nothing at all!’ Lucy waved this concern off with an airy movement of her hand. ‘I seem to spend a third of my life in bookshops anyway.’

‘Don’t say that. It is wonderful! Truly wonderful. You are wonderful.’

If she was an ordinary maid, and Lucy her ordinary mistress, she would have never allowed herself this familiarity. She would have, most likely, just said ‘Thank you, my lady.’

But she wasn’t an ordinary maid now, was she? She was Lucy’s confidante, a friend, even a muse, as the latter joked sometimes. Since that memorable incident of the Granada manuscript, they had been practically inseparable.

Of course, Hester’s duties devoured most of her day, just as Lucy’s work devoured hers. But when there was any opportunity to meet far from prying eyes of the family and the household, they drunk this time together.

If someone took it into his head to ask them what precisely did they talk about for hours on end, they would’ve been puzzled. Why, they talked about everything! About the shores they had never seen, but solemnly vowed to see one day. About the plight of heroines whose creators were long since gone. About the dead empires. About the living film stars. About the books they both read or wanted to read. About their favourite walking trails. About their favourite flowers. Lucy once said that she liked violets the most, and Hester suggested that they would look so nice in her hair. Lucy blushed in her usual delicate manner.

Quite often, too, they talked of Lucy’s own writing. Lucy fed Hester every work, every obscure draft, every unfinished epic novel. Each time she looked tense, like a wax figure, while awaiting the judgement. But the judgements were usually light, and the compliments were always abundant, and the wax slowly but surely melted.

‘I can show you the bookshop I found it in,’ Lucy said now, her blue eyes soft with affection. ‘I am sure you will like it. It’s been there since the days of King George. The old King George, I mean. The mad one.’

‘Sounds nice.’

‘It is! And then I could find you something else …’

‘No, that would be too much.’

‘It wouldn’t!’ Lucy exclaimed with hot conviction, and then added, much quieter, ‘It wouldn’t, Hester. Believe me. Nothing would be too much for you.’

She reached out, stroking Hester’s cheek gently.

***

The warmth of Hester’s skin under her fingers seemed to seep into her body, waking it slowly, making it come alive. Lucy instantly wanted to feel more of this warmth, so she stroked the girl’s face again. And again.

‘If I were an artist, I would have painted your portrait,’ Lucy whispered, looking into her eyes. ‘If I were an empress, I would have dressed you in jewels.’

A pleasant shiver ran through her, and now this touch wasn’t enough. She wanted more; the desire was shapeless, aimless, but it was there, and it was growing, like a hot cloud. Lucy made a little step to get closer, closer still. Now she could almost feel the heat emanating from Hester’s skin.