Читать книгу Torn - Karen Turner - Страница 8

The following morning, I rose at my customarily early hour to wash and dress. Janet assisted with the numerous buttons up the back of my gown but made no attempt to dress my hair – for it, like Medusa’s, had a life of its own and persistently escaped pins and ribbons to riot in coiling tendrils about my face. Anne, conversely, demanded her hair be coiffed every morning as though a visit from Queen Charlotte herself was expected.

Following Janet into my sister’s room I found Anne before her mirror – 13 years and already the coquette! “Good morning, sister,” she greeted me brightly. I watched her preening – preferring to squint into the mirror than wear spectacles – as Janet brushed her glorious mane and twisted it into a shining plaited rope that hung down her back.

My sister was a rich brunette with dazzling hazel eyes and a rose complexion. Her leaning towards plumpness would doubtless see her become a voluptuous beauty, though Simon and I, faithful to sibling tradition, teased her endlessly with chants of, “Butterball! Butterball!” Anne, seemingly the quietest of us, exacted her revenge last week by filling my riding boot with custard – a reprisal I discovered by squelching my stockinged foot into it.

“You seem to have recovered well,” I said, thinking that Simon’s cynicism about Anne was warranted.

Her face fell dramatically, “Oh Alex, I’m trying so hard to be brave.”

“I see. In any case, it will be lessons as normal this morning so I trust your bravery holds out.”

She wrinkled her pert nose. “Lessons … pooh! Who needs lessons? Soon, Mother will obtain a position for me at court. I shan’t need lessons then.” Her musical voice and sibilant lisp were not affectations but she was already aware of their power. The stable lads, target practice for her as yet imperfect skills, tumbled over each other like puppies for a mere second of her attention.

“It appears there’s no court position for Mother let alone you and besides, you know if you don’t attend lessons Master Baxter will report it to her.”

“Mother won’t be home long and when she returns to London, she’ll doubtless take me with her. You’ll be sorry you poked fun at me.”

“Ooh you’re a right one, young Miss,” Janet said, angling a wink in my direction and tying off the plait with a silk ribbon, the same lilac shade as Anne’s dress. “Come get a wriggle-on. If you stare into that glass any longer you’ll wear it out.”

Simon was already seated at the breakfast table as Anne and I entered. Cook was laying out a basket of freshly-baked bread and a bowl of honey. The spherical woman greeted us with a broad-faced grin.

“Where’s Beth?” I asked, setting my napkin over my lap.

“Abed, Miss Alex, with the ‘ead cold. There’s fruit compote for any wantin’ it.”

“Thank you, Cook,” Anne said feebly, “but I haven’t much appetite today.”

Simon looked at her. “Unwell, Annie?”

I snorted scornfully, “She was well enough two minutes ago. Stop the theatrics Anne.” I turned to Cook, “Compote would be lovely, thank you.”

Anne made a face at me and poured herself a cup of tea. Undeterred, I dripped honey on a hunk of bread and applied myself with great enthusiasm, taking perverse pleasure in forgetting my table manners before Cook. She was constantly reminding me of my birth station and my mother’s expectation of a good husband for me. “Yer name will count for naught if yer cannot eat like a lady,” she warned as she returned with a steaming bowl of stewed fruits. “What gentleman will want yer for his wife if yer shovel food into yer gob like a smithy shovelling coal?”

Simon leaned over and commented sotto voce, “Or Agnes shovelling swill.” I erupted with mirth at Simon’s reference to our scullery maid, whose father was a local pig-farmer.

Cook shook her head and made a tutting sound. “Sir Simon, I’d expect better from yer. As lord an’ master, yer needs to learn respect for those beneath yer.”

“As lord and master, Mistress Cook, you needs must learn respect for me,” he responded in mock pomposity.

Immediately the large woman dropped to her knees, her pinny twisting in her hands, “Oh kind sir, pray have mercy upon a lowly matron such as I!” Then, hauling herself upright, she glared ruddy-faced around the table. “Get on with them meals yer disagreeable lot before I take the broomstick to yer!” We broke into laughter as Cook haughtily returned to the kitchen.

Lessons were conducted in the library where sharp-faced Master Baxter reigned. My papa had been more liberal than his contemporaries and had instructed Master Baxter to expose Anne and me to the same subjects as Simon. Consequently, our lessons included history, Latin, English literature, music and mathematics. I was good at history and literature, but I excelled with figures which, though amusing, was useless since I was destined to make a good marriage, breed children to further my future husband’s line, and fall in love – probably in that order. I should have no use for mathematics.

Twice weekly, music and dance were included in our curriculum. The day following Mother’s return Master Baxter, repairing to the parlour, stationed himself at the piano and barked his instructions. Compared with Simon and Anne’s grace, my dancing was barely adequate despite my love of music.

“No, no, no!” Master Baxter cried. Leaping to his spindly legs and standing before me, he demonstrated. “Like this, young leddy, one … and two, one … and two – try it … other foot first – no other foot!”

Behind me, Anne sniggered but I ignored her and tried again. Master Baxter exaggerated a sigh. “Stop!” he commanded. “Young leddy, do you derive pleasure from this?”

“No, I –”

He leaned his vulpine snout towards me and his beady eyes narrowed. “It escapes me why a girl-child – gifted in the masculine study of numbers – should be so inept in the pursuit of social arts.”

Immediately incensed, I opened my mouth to release an angry retort.

“Master Baxter,” said Simon, effectively slicing my reply. “If you would be so kind as to resume your seat at the piano, I shall step my sister through the dance.”

Simon turned to me, “Zan, try –”

“No!” I responded angrily. “I’ve no desire to learn the stupid dance anyway.”

The front door slammed behind me as I escaped into the late-afternoon sunshine. The trees in the park cast thin shadows across the lawn and neatly raked gravel drive, and the dying scents of summer hung in the air as I stomped to the ancient oak tree adjacent to our house. With my skirt hoisted unseemingly high, I found my foothold and scrambled into the branches, then shimmied on to a sturdy bough to relax with my back against the trunk. This was my favourite hiding place. I loved to perch here, unseen by anyone below, breathing the verdant foliage and surveying our beautiful, terraced gardens, orchard and long, curved drive.

At length, Simon emerged from the house with Jemima at his heels. I watched as he leaned on the porch balustrade and scanned the gardens and park. His eyes eventually rested on my Great Oak. Grinning good-naturedly, he straightened and descended the stairs, strolling unhurriedly towards me.

“Do you plan to stay there all night, you grouch? Shall I have your supper sent up?”

“You could join me – if you dare climb this high.”

From climbing trees, to seeing who could spit the furthest, my cheerfully irreverent brother had led me into all manner of hoydenish activities. Ordinarily he’d find my challenge irresistible, but his response surprised me. “Not now. I agreed to ride over to the Goodmans’ place with Collings this afternoon to have a look at their roof. It’s in need of repair before winter.”

He turned and I watched his receding back in dismay. Until now our lives had melded into one wondrous round, and Simon and I had been inseparable.

This life was all I knew and Broughton Hall the only home. The winters here were icy – the stone of our house seemed to absorb the cold and no fire roared enough to dispel it. But if the winters were bitter, the summers were long, glorious days when Simon and I ran wild through fields of swaying yellow grass, wildflowers and disgruntled bees, with Jemima galloping alongside.

Anne found our outdoor pursuits dirty and undignified. I was aware that in a corner of her heart she resented the closeness between Simon and me, but in my childishly-selfish way, I gave it little thought.

Annually over summer, our escapades were interrupted by the arrival of our Mother, always with a contingent of friends from court – coachloads of them. During this time we were painfully reminded of our manners and behaviour.

Our quiet country estate was transformed by glamorous ladies in the most sumptuous silks and satins, gliding sensuously about, laughing with affectation and tinkling with jewels. The gentlemen fawned over them and competed for their attention in high-collared shirts, elegant coats and long leather boots, with glinting, rakish swords hanging at their hips.

Anne would sigh dreamily over the extravagant clothes and glittering jewels. “I simply cannot wait until I may wear such beautiful clothes. I shall have a ring on every finger and all the gentlemen will vie for my attention – just like Mother.”

One hot night, I lay restlessly on my bed as the sounds of clinking crystal, music, and laughter drifted up from the gardens below. Unable to sleep, I slipped unnoticed, outside by the servants’ stairs.

The grotto was a secluded corner of our garden, walled by a tall hedge on three sides and stone on the fourth. It had been designed by the builder of Broughton Hall – a wealthy merchant who had owned several ships that plied their trade between Bristol and the Indies. According to local narrative, he’d never lost a ship to either pirate or element and, crediting God as the source of his luck, built and dedicated the little corner garden – complete with statue of Our Lady, a trickling fountain, and stone benches – to grateful contemplation of his good fortune.

We Broughtons were not a religious family, but maintained the grotto for its tranquillity. Seeking solitude, I was drawn there on that night, but as I approached, I thought I heard vague whispers and sighs. Innocently curious, I pushed aside a curtain of foliage and silently slipped inside. I paused in surprise.

The light of a single lantern revealed my mother, leaning against an ivy-covered wall, one slender leg on the bench, her skirt lifted to expose her stockings and garters. A man was leaning over her, his face buried in her bosom, his hand working between her thighs.

I could only see his back, but recognised the shiny grey coat he wore for I’d seen this young man, not more than Simon’s age, only that afternoon toasting my mother and her cronies with champagne beneath the Great Oak.

Neither was aware of my presence, or that I hurried away, sweat dampening my young forehead, confused and inexplicably frightened by what I’d seen. I told no one of my experience, but the image was burned forever on my memory.

While our summer visitors were here, our house bulged with people and Cook always brought in two or three village girls to assist in the kitchen.

One of these girls was discovered in a pantry with a gentleman visitor. Young as I was, I did not understand the ensuing trouble. The lass was dispatched in disgrace to her family while Cook groaned and became even more harried.

Finally, after what felt like six months but was in reality only one, they all departed in a frenetic storm of dust, perfume, servants and horses to their own estates before returning to London’s winter round of parties and balls.

My mother lingered, passing the heat of summer in the relative relief of the country. But as August arrived she was gone and the trees in the park began turning gold and red, and our tenants prepared to bring in their wheat harvest.

Before the dust had settled behind her, Simon and I had donned old clothes and joined the farmers in the fields, sharing their back-breaking toil, their rations and their cheerful freedom, all the while delighting in the scandalised outrage of our sister, for such work ought to be beneath us.

Cutting and bailing was hard graft but culminated in a great celebration, revelry in which my brother and I participated to the full.

But all this was about to change. Mother was home under mysterious circumstances with a new husband, and my brother, my friend and partner in crime, was already growing away from me.