The Sisters Mortland

by Sally Beauman

  “Don’t say that. Don’t use words like that.” I can hear tears in Finn’s voice, and that confuses me: Finn never cries. “Why can’t you understand? Why are you so jealous? You know there’s no need. If you’d only listen—I’ve tried to explain—”

  “He’s my friend—try explaining that, Finn. There was a time when we didn’t need explanations, you and I. Christ, I hate your explanations and your lies, and I hate the fucking expression on your face right now. Just don’t fucking touch me—”

  I hear the rustle of sudden movement, then some inarticulate sound from Finn. It sounds as if she’s choking, and I think, Maybe Dan is choking her, maybe he has his hands around her throat—he sounded furious enough, he sounded insane.

  I’m afraid. My hands are starting to shake. The air has that scorched smell again. I’m still holding the baskets of eggs and vegetables. I can’t breathe. I don’t know what to do: Should I go in or fetch Stella? Beyond the door there’s now silence, but the silence is full of hot, urgent noise. I ease the door back and peep round it. Dan has Finn up against the table. His leg is between Finn’s legs, and he’s bending her backward. Her blue dress has ridden up over her thighs, and she’s holding him, clutching on to him as if she’s drowning, her hands locked around his neck and waist. He has his hand on her breast. He’s cradling her head. Her hair flows back, cascades back, ripples beneath his fingers. Their eyes are closed; their mouths are open; their mouths are joined.

  What is he doing to her? What is happening in this house? I don’t understand.

  I walk away from the door silently. It’s half an hour before we’re due to leave, and for fifteen minutes I walk the corridors. I patrol the house of despair. Gramps is slumped in the library. Stella is sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the sums in her notebook; I watch her sink her head in her hands. I listen to the house; I hear its timbers shift and settle, groaning with age. Mice scuttle behind the wainscot. My nuns are out in force: all the pale sisters, down on their knees. They know there’s a crisis: I can hear them chanting psalms, I can hear them rattling beads.

  I look for Isabella, but she won’t be found, so I return to my bedroom and change my clothes. I choose my outfit with care. I know what costume I need. I tie a ribbon in my hair. I put a small white handkerchief in the pocket of my dress. It is eleven a.m. on July 21, 1967. By the time Stella calls me, I’ve made my plans.

  part iii

  The Tower

  What can I say of Elde? The present house occupies the same site as the Tudor manor built by my husband’s ancestor Sir Gervase Mortland. Of that earlier building, and its mediaeval core, no trace, alas, remains. Gervase, a fine man of considerable bravery, had served King Henry VIII with unswerving loyalty, but once his king was dead, his position was undermined by envy and intrigue. During the reign of that Papist bigot Mary Tudor, he was arrested on trumped-up charges relating to the Pilgrimage of Grace insurrection of some years before; imprisoned in the Tower, he was executed there in 1554. With his death, the fortunes of the Mortland family declined: its modest but ancient title was forfeited; the manor house at Elde fell into disrepair.

  Blood will out, however. By dint of loyal service to their monarch, the rightful prestige of this ancient family was eventually restored. Two Mortland sons died defending the Royalist cause against Cromwell. Others would fight valiantly against rebellion in Ireland and Scotland, Guy (1650–1691) at the Boyne and Edmund (1670–1735) at Glencoe. Edmund later married the fifth daughter of the Duke of Suffolk, in 1710. It was he who first planned the great rebuilding of Elde. This project, delayed by his invalid wife’s lingering death, was finally realized by his son, Henry (1712–1802).

  The present magnificent house was completed in 1770. It is an adaptation, by Wyatt, of a design by Palladio. It is not without its critics. One has even found it ‘vainglorious’; others have claimed it can look ‘alien’ or ‘mournful’ under grey English skies. I have no patience with such views. Elde’s exterior, with its twenty-five bays and those soaring Corinthian columns, will always signify all that is England to me.

  My husband first brought me here on the day he proposed. I looked from the man to the house, from the house to the man, and I weighed their history. With that decisiveness for which I am known, I said to myself: ‘Violet, this will suit you admirably.’ I have never changed my mind.

  —Violet Mortland, A Very English Upbringing: A Memoir, 1955

  [ eight ]

  At Elde

  Maisie, how perfectly charming you look, my dear,” says Lady Violet. She bends down and gives me a flickering viper kiss by my ear. “Doesn’t she look charming, Humphrey, Edmund? Such a pretty frock. So refreshing to see someone appropriately dressed for her age. Modern girls will grow up far too soon.”

  We’re at Elde; the annual humiliation is under way. Violet prefers the double-barreled technique: two birds with one salvo. Having wounded me and at least winged Finn and Julia, she advances on Gramps. He and his twin, Humphrey, are standing in front of the marble fireplace. Even now—both will be seventy-five in three days’ time—it’s hard to tell them apart. On the wall nearby is a portrait of them as children: two identical blond boys, staring out of the frame with unconscious arrogance. They have matching black Labradors. The chilling symmetry of Elde can be glimpsed behind them; they’re seated in its park. I dislike this portrait. I dislike all portraits. Portraits mislead.

  “Now, which is Henry and which is my husband?” Violet says with a smile. She always goes through this ritual. She finds it vastly amusing. She kisses Humphrey, then, pretending to realize her mistake, Gramps. She knows which twin is which, obviously. No one would be in any doubt, really, despite their uncanny similarity of stature and features. Humphrey radiates complacency; Gramps has been to the Slough of Despond and back—and that journey shows in his eyes.

  Certain aspects of Elde never alter. One is the nature of the food—the Viper has a horror of waste, so the portions are always mean; the other is the nature of the drinks. Humphrey advances now to a huge silver tray engraved with the family arms. On it is a battalion of bottles and decanters. But don’t get your hopes up, Julia likes to say. Some warmish sherry is produced, and five glasses are poured. These glasses, famous for their dimensions, are then handed around. They are small.

  No, they are minute. They are infinitesimal. They are Thumbelina glasses, so teensy that it’s almost impossible to drink from them. Perhaps that’s the idea. Without consultation or discussion, Finn and Julia are handed flat lemonade. So am I. Cousin Edmund brings it over to me and inspects the dress Violet admired. It’s a blue cotton Liberty print. It has a sash, smocking, and puff sleeves. It was a present from Gramps for my eleventh birthday, and I’m thin, so it still fits. The skirt is too short for me and ought to be let down. Despite the heat, Edmund is wearing yellow corduroy trousers, a checked shirt, and a bristly jacket. His tie matches the shirt checks. As he’s in the country, he’s wearing conspicuous brogues.

  “Very pretty, Maisie,” he says. “And how is life treating you?”

  “It’s treating me particularly well,” I answer politely. “This is a golden summer. It’s the best summer I’ve ever known.”

  Edmund looks nonplussed. “Good show,” he remarks. “No more trouble with the nuns, then?”

  I wish Julia had never told him about my nuns. She mentioned it years ago, and Edmund’s never forgotten it. He beams down at me, eyes twinkling in an avuncular way. Across the room, Stella has launched herself on the genius of Elizabeth David, and Gramps is detailing the Abbey’s roof problems: Cassoulet, nail fatigue, I hear. I inform Edmund that the nuns have been quiet lately, which seems to disappoint him. A silence falls. At Elde, you get exactly twenty minutes to drink your four drops of sherry—and ten of those minutes have already passed. Julia, who knows this, makes her move.

  She executes a superb maneuver around two huge chintz-covered sofas, past an exquisite bonheur du jour. The Viper tries to head her off, but it’s difficult to
do that in a room the size of two tennis courts, and Julia is swift. She’s clearly taken Dan’s suggestion to heart. “Edmund,” she cries, drawing him away from me, “it’s such ages since I’ve seen you. How marvelously well you’re looking. Love the tie.” If Julia were greeting any other man, her approach would be cooler—and subtler—but arrogant Julia regards Edmund as excessively stupid, so she’s prepared to lay it on with a trowel.

  Two golden arms encircle Edmund’s neck. Two sapphire eyes sparkle with delight. Two rosy lips are pressed to his cheek. Edmund recoils.

  “I think we should go in, Humphrey,” the Viper pronounces at once. “Ring the bell, would you? Stella, my dear—I’m afraid you’ll find this a very dull lunch. But Humphrey does not like foreign food. And neither do I.”

  “Oh dear, I’ve just remembered something,” Stella says. “I’m so sorry, Violet—I should have warned you when I telephoned. Maisie is a vegetarian now.”

  “Is she? How extraordinary. Well, we’re having cold consommé and poached salmon, so that’s slightly a problem, but I’m sure Mrs. Hunt can rustle something up. Even at such short notice. I’ll send word. Tell me, Maisie my dear—do you wear leather shoes? I see you do. I feel you should be consistent.…” All this as we trek to the dining room. “Now, Henry, I’ve put you next to me, of course. And Stella, next to Humphrey—so you can have your annual heart-to-heart. Finn, over here, and Julia—no, not that side, my dear, I’ve put you next to your sister. How tremendously fashionable you both look. Is that one of those miniskirts I keep reading about, Finn? Most original. And you belong in a harem, Julia. Now, Maisie, sit there next to Edmund—yes, yes, that chair, dear.…”

  And there we are, as always, at the long, long table. The crystal glitters. The sharp knives shine. A shadowy servant pads back and forth. Like all servants at Elde, he’s made himself deaf, dumb, and blind. I stare at the famous Adam plasterwork. The walls are arsenic green. There’s a cornucopia of anemic fruits over the carved door cases. I can see a white pineapple, a white apple, white grapes, white pears. Over the chimneypiece is a huge gilded looking glass—it’s by Adam, too. It’s tilted at a curious, disturbing angle, as if it might fall and smash at any second. I can see all of us in it, frozen in time, arranged at Violet’s behest, with the dangerous daughters as far away as possible from the beloved grandson and heir.

  I watch small Maisie, in her Alice-in-Wonderland outfit. She eats the special offering that eventually appears—well, she eats some of it: two thin slices of cheese and a lettuce leaf. She chews and chews. Everyone else eats jellied bones and dead fish. Maisie eats one spoonful of the bread-and-butter pudding and, when no one is looking, spits the fat sultanas into her spoon. Humphrey likes nursery puddings, and so does Edmund, it seems. Edmund has two helpings and pats his expanding waistline fondly. “We can’t tempt you, darling?” his grandmother asks, and—when he shakes his head regretfully—the Viper smiles. Julia has been discussing her time in California, and her attempts to engage Edmund in conversation across several yards of polished mahogany have been noted. Now she’s to be rewarded for her pains.

  “The summer of love?” Violet says, eyebrows raised. “How interesting, Julia. You make it sound so very different from the newspaper reports. Quite fascinating, to hear of these developments at first hand. Why just the summer, I wonder? If these changes are as radical as you say, one might have hoped they’d endure rather longer.… What will happen come the autumn, my dear? Still, never mind that, and since we’re on the subject of love… Edmund has some wonderful news for us—haven’t you, Edmund dear?”

  Edmund glances at me; he does not seem eager to impart this news. It’s a reluctance Violet does not share. “Edmund is engaged to be married,” she continues. “He’s finally found the most charming, delightful girl. Lettice Rutland’s granddaughter. Lettice and I came out the same year, of course, and we’d always quietly hoped… indeed, once or twice we put our heads together. Young men will be dilatory, and Edmund has always refused to be rushed. But of course, that was only sensible in the circumstances. Luckily, he’s always been able to spot the wrong girls and their ruses a mile away.…”

  She allows the sentence to drift. Silence falls. Julia has flushed with irritation. Finn is on another planet: She’s on Venus or Mars. She’s staring out through the windows at the great lawn where in 1918 Gramps burned his uniforms. She’s tried to cover that plum-size, thumb-size bruise on her throat with a scarf. She’s remained pale and incommunicative throughout lunch. “I think I might go for a walk,” she says when we’re back in the drawing room and the coffee is being poured.

  She doesn’t wait for Violet’s permission. One minute she’s with us, the next she’s gone. I edge toward the French windows. I can see her walking at great speed, head bent, along the Viper’s famous herbaceous borders. She looks neither to right nor left. I watch her disappear beyond the tight-clipped yew hedges. “What is your wife-to-be called?” I ask Edmund, who is standing next to me, making conversation in a desultory way.

  “Veronica,” he answers. The name is pronounced dully, without discernible joy. A pause follows. “Maybe you’d like a walk, Maisie,” he adds. “You like gardens, I recall.”

  “I’m going to be a Horticulturist,” I reply. And Violet, seeing an opportunity to separate her grandson from predatory Julia, endorses this plan with warmth—just as she does each year. We step out of the cold room into the heat of the sun and walk between the borders. Halfway along, Edmund takes my hand.

  We spend half an hour on the borders. We play a game. Edmund says he’ll give me a shilling for every plant I identify correctly. I select Lavandula spica; Geranium endressii; Delphinium ‘Black Knight’; Aconitum napellus (which is poisonous); Lilium regale; and three blighted hybrid tea roses, all named for queens. The lilies are actually Madonna lilies, not regale, but I know Edmund can’t tell the difference, and by then I’m bored.

  “Two more, and I’ll give you a ten-bob note,” Edmund says, more cheerful now. I look at him in silent scorn. These borders, though pretty, are predictable. I learn the Latin names of five plants, birds, and mammals every day, and I’ve been doing this for years. So I could name every plant in these borders, and there must be three hundred varieties or more. I identify two obscure clematis, and Edmund is impressed. He says I’m a very bright girl—how on earth do I remember all that stuff?

  “I write it down. I collate it,” I reply, staring at the ground. A folded brown note is handed over. Edmund paces up and down.

  He inquires how my lessons are going. I tell him that the rector still comes on Thursdays, and we’re studying Hume. I tell him Mrs. Marlow still comes twice a week for history and geography. I tell him how many aristocrats had their heads chopped off in the first weeks of the French Revolution; I tell him the exact length of the longest river in the world. It is the Nile, and it’s 4,160 miles from its source in Lake Victoria, to the point where its delta meets the sea. I do not tell him about Isabella and my nuns and the lessons they impart. But I do tell him I’m still learning three poems a week and at present am working on Milton, cross-referencing to the Bible, an interesting task. It’s pleasant to have a listener, and I find I want to reward him. I tell him of my new interest in Greek myth and astronomy: I give him presents. I give him Iphigenia at Aulis, and the astonishing Pleiades, star by shining star.

  Edmund backs away and inspects the horizon: “Off to school in September, maybe?” he asks.

  I do not reply. A silence falls. He essays a few more stock questions. I confirm Finn has another year at Cambridge and that she’s reading English literature. I confirm she has not yet decided on a career. Edmund regards careers for women as eccentric; he frowns. I tell him that Julia will be going to London in September to work on a newspaper. “A journalist?” Edmund says. He inspects the wide blue sky. “What’s she going to write about? Dresses? All that fashion nonsense? Can’t quite see her as a lobby correspondent, not in the clothes she wears.”

  This seems
to be a joke. He laughs in an uneasy way. He paces a while longer, breaks off the heads of some lavender, rubs it between his palms. He examines a small, fluffy, motionless cloud. Finally he says, “Right, Maisie. Where now?”

  “We could go to the Wilderness again.”

  “We could.” He looks intently at his watch. “It’s quite a way. Is there time?”

  Eventually he decides that there is. We set off at a brisk pace, along the Lime Walk, through the Rose Garden, and past the herb parterre. The heat bounces off the gravel; the air is scented with marjoram and thyme. I can hear the voices of gardeners in the distance, and so can Edmund. “Let’s cut through here, it’s quicker,” he says. “And it’s cooler. It must be eighty degrees out here.”

  We turn aside, into the birch grove. The shade brings my arms out in goose bumps. I shiver. To enter the Wilderness, we have to go through a tall wrought-iron gateway emblazoned with the Mortland family arms. It’s locked—but Edmund has brought a key. We pass through the gate, which he relocks behind us. We are now in Elde’s secret world. The grass here is left uncut; it brushes my thighs, and the scent of it in the sun is heady. “Did I tell you I like your dress?” Edmund asks as we walk toward the lake. There is a bench there, by the waterside.

  There is also a temple, on a small knoll behind us. It’s dedicated to the goddess Artemis, and one year he took me there. Today, it’s the lake. We sit on the bench, side by side. It’s made of iron, and its slats cut into me. I can’t describe it as comfortable, but the view is tranquil—and it’s a hidden place, a private place, as well. When we’ve been sitting on the bench for a few minutes, Edmund mops his brow. Then he slips his left hand under my skirt. He rests his damp palm on my knee, then my thigh. I sit absolutely still as he moves it cautiously upward. He’s looking at me in a beseeching way, so after a while I recite the sentences he’s taught me. “I put on clean knickers this morning,” I say. “White knickers. I like to wear white underclothes. I like to be clean.”