Autumn Softly Fell

by Dominic Luke

‘What has the good doctor said to upset you this time?’

  ‘He talks such nonsense. To insist that we are still in the nineteenth century is simply absurd – and I told him so. Half an hour ago it was eighteen ninety-nine. Now it is nineteen hundred. The century has changed. That is clear enough, even to me.’

  Henry had laughed. Dorothea had felt the tremor of it running through her body, oddly comforting. ‘Impeccable logic, Mother.’

  ‘Well, I think so.’

  ‘But Dr Camborne does not?’

  Henry’s mother had pursed her lips. ‘He merely said – in his most condescending manner – that he never gainsays one of the fair sex. Then he made some remark in Latin in that irritating way he has: sed fugit—oh, I forget what it was.’

  ‘Sed fugit interea, fugit irreparabile tempus: meanwhile time is flying, flying never to return. It’s Virgil.’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘Not nonsense, Mother. It is a genuine quote from Virgil.’

  ‘I mean that he talks nonsense. I’m afraid I was quite short with him. And then there’s Viola Somersby—’

  ‘Mrs Somersby too! Golly, Mother, is there anybody here tonight with whom you haven’t quarrelled?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Henry. You know I never quarrel with anyone. All the same, if I have to hear once more how old-fashioned Clifton is, how Victorian its décor…. But one bites one’s tongue. One makes allowances.’

  ‘Because her son is in South Africa?’

  ‘Yes, Henry. Precisely. The news has been so bad lately, too. One can only imagine what she is going through.’

  ‘I’m sure no measly Boer will dare lay a finger on Mark Somersby. They will all be too afraid of what his mother would do to them!’

  ‘Oh, Henry! How very naughty of you!’

  But Henry’s mother had been smiling too, as if she didn’t think him naughty at all. She seemed to enjoy being teased, had not shown him the back of her hand for such sauce as Mrs Browning would have done. Not that Henry was cheeky in the same way as Mickey; he was not so blunt, had much better manners. Dorothea had felt safe with his arm round her – even if it was rather beneath her dignity to be sitting on someone’s knee at her age (eight-and-a-half!).

  Crouched now on the stairs, Dorothea found herself wishing that Henry was her uncle and not the angry man with the bushy moustache. But she would much rather not have an uncle at all – not if it meant she had to lose her papa. This thought reminded her of her quest. It was high time she found her papa; then the two of them could set off for home.

  Taking her courage in both hands, Dorothea stood up, but the people below were too engrossed in their own business to notice her. They were still discussing Henry’s contraption, whatever that might be.

  ‘I don’t really approve of these horseless carriages,’ Henry’s mother was saying.

  Several people agreed with her.

  ‘But we must move with the times!’ exclaimed Henry. ‘Autocars are the future!’

  ‘Nonsense, nonsense!’ A bluff and blustery old man spoke up, jerking his arm as if to sweep away all such poppycock as horseless carriages. ‘They are nothing but an infernal nuisance, raising all that dust in summer, splashing mud everywhere in the winter – knocking people down, too. And those ridiculous pilots, done up like monkeys! There ought to be a law against it. A law, I say!’

  ‘There was a law,’ said Henry, ‘the Red Flag Act.’

  ‘What’s become of that law now, eh? Tell me that!’

  ‘It was an outdated law. Stood in the way of progress.’

  ‘Ah, now,’ rumbled Dorothea’s uncle. ‘I’m all for progress as a rule. But I’m not convinced that….’

  The voices faded as the whole party moved off along a passage that led towards the back of the house. The last of the servants scurried away. All was suddenly quiet, except for the ponderous ticking of the clock.

  Gathering her skirts, Dorothea walked down the last flight of stairs and stepped into the hallway. The black and white tiles were cold against her feet, made her toes curl. She looked along the passageway where the people had gone. At the far end was a door with glass panels, a white wintry light coming through. There was no sign of the people, just a faint murmur of muffled voices. She looked round, wondering what to do next. The big house was bewildering.

  All at once she stiffened. She could hear another voice, a woman’s voice, getting ever nearer. There must be another corridor, she realized, leading off from the main one. She hesitated, wondering if she could ask this woman about her papa, but she didn’t like the sound of the voice at all, sharp and complaining. She decided instead to make a dash for the stairs.

  But it was too late. The voice was upon her.

  ‘… and it’s almost more than mortal can bear. I’m sure that you appreciate the problems, Mr Ordish. Cook says it’s like old times, with so many guests and the carriages rolling up morning, noon and night. But I said to her, I said, “If all the old times were like this, then I’m glad to be living in normal times.” Needless to say, I don’t get any cooperation from Cook at all.’

  With that, a woman dressed entirely in black came sweeping out from the unseen passage, a short, deferential man trotting at her heels. The woman paused, half turning so she could address her companion head on. Dorothea shrank against the newel post, hugging it.

  ‘We need a deal more staff, is all I can say, if we’re going to have this sort of performance on a regular basis. I’m sorry, but there it is. I can’t be expected to do the jobs of three people at once. I’ve hardly had a wink of sleep, and—’

  The voice came to an abrupt stop. All this time, as she was speaking, the woman’s eyes had been darting about as if she was looking for something (something else to complain about, Dorothea said to herself). Now – suddenly, terribly – her gaze came to rest on Dorothea. Several different expressions – none of them pleasant – passed across her face. Finally she turned to her companion with a meaningful look.

  ‘The Abandoned Child!’ she enunciated.

  This was too much for Dorothea. To be given a dressing down was one thing – nothing less could be expected from such a woman – but to be called abandoned wasn’t just an insult, it was a slur against her papa. He would never abandon her, never.

  She drew herself up. ‘Please, I can’t find my clothes.’

  The woman ignored her. ‘You see how it is, Mr Ordish? One can’t rely on anyone to do anything!’

  Suddenly, with a darting movement, she came swooping towards Dorothea like a great black bat, a bunch of keys jangling at her belt.

  ‘What is Nanny thinking of, letting you wander all over the house practically naked!’

  ‘But my clothes….’ stammered Dorothea.

  ‘Those pestilential rags were fit only for the fire!’ An arm darted out, strong bony fingers clamped onto Dorothea’s wrist. ‘Come along. Back to the nursery.’ She yanked Dorothea up the stairs, sweeping on ahead, her black skirts swirling. ‘As if I hadn’t enough to do….’

  Dorothea felt that her wrist might snap off at any moment as she was jerked and dragged back the way she had come, lashed by the woman’s displeasure.

  ‘Mrs Brannan wants you in an orphanage,’ the woman said coldly. ‘It’s the best place for you, in my opinion. There’s enough to do as it is, without taking in waifs and strays. But there’s no knowing what the master will do. He’s a law unto himself.’ She sniffed, as if being a law unto yourself was not to be encouraged.

  They crashed through doors and came back to the room where Dorothea had slept. Here, a maid was kneeling on the hearth, lighting the fire. It was the same maid who had taken Dorothea upstairs the night before. She looked rather startled as they whooshed into the room. Her eyes widened at the sight of the woman in black.

  ‘Well, so here you are, miss!’ The girl got to her feet, brushing down her skirt and apron with the backs of her hands. ‘I was wondering where you’d got to.’

  The woman glared at the maid in a way that
made Dorothea quake. ‘I found her wandering in the hall. In her nightgown!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Bourne. I was only gone for a moment. I—’

  ‘It’s not good enough, Turner. Not good enough at all.’ The voice was like a whip, slashing. ‘I shall be having words with Nanny.’

  Mrs Bourne pursed her lips, gave them both – maid and child – a look of infinite contempt, then turned and swept off. The door slammed. The sound of jangling keys faded.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said the girl. ‘Now I shall catch it hot from Nanny. She does hate it so, when Mrs Bourne has anything over her.’

  Dorothea stood rubbing her wrist, her head spinning. She wished she could wake up and find it had all been a terrible dream. This giant house with its seemingly endless number of inhabitants did indeed seem the stuff of nightmares.

  But then a slow smile spread across the face of the rosy-cheeked maid and Dorothea felt a tiny bit better.

  ‘Well, miss, you’re back now, any road. We can get you washed and dressed. How would you like that?’

  ‘I’ve no clothes. That lady said she burnt them.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s true, miss. But look here, how about this? It’s only an old frock of mine, but it will serve for now. Our Billy fetched it up from the village. And here’s some nice hot water and a bit of soap. The fire’s lit now, so the room will soon be nice and snug. I ought to have lit it first thing, but it’s been one thing after another this morning, and I’ve had to help out downstairs and all.’

  As Dorothea listened to the maid’s chatter, she found herself being eased out of her nightdress, scrubbed with soap and water, dried on a soft clean towel, dressed in the borrowed frock. It seemed that she was required to do nothing for herself, not even speak.

  She did not like having her nightgown removed. It felt wrong, having nothing on. She had never taken all her clothes off at the same time before. It was bad enough that someone had undressed her when she was half asleep last night, but to be left exposed in broad daylight was shameful. The maid, however, seemed to think nothing of it. She was gentle but insistent, worked quickly. Soon the borrowed clothes were being put on.

  ‘That’s the way, miss. Let me do up those buttons.’ The maid’s flow of chatter continued unabated. ‘As I was saying, I’ve had to help out downstairs today, but normally – why, this fits a treat! Who’d have thought it? Now for your hair – normally I spend all my time in the nursery. That’s my position, miss: I’m the nursery maid. Why, what lovely curls you’ve got! But they’re all in knots. I’ll be as gentle as I can. There now!’ The maid stepped back, looking at Dorothea with approval. ‘Pretty as a lily!’

  Dorothea was taken aback. She was sure the maid meant well, but nobody had ever called her pretty before, not even her papa. Sometimes he called her ‘my pumpkin’ or ‘my piccalilli’, but a pumpkin was hardly the same as a lily. (What a ‘piccalilli’ might be was anyone’s guess).

  This reminder of her papa brought Dorothea back to more pressing matters.

  ‘Please, do you know where Papa is?’

  ‘I don’t, miss. I’m sorry. But there’s no need to look so down-in-the-mouth! I’m sure your Uncle will be able to tell you.’

  ‘Is that man really my uncle: the tall, angry man? I didn’t know I had an uncle.’

  ‘Well, we knew nothing about you either, miss. It was ever so much of a surprise when you showed up as you did last night. Even the mistress – that’s your aunt, miss – even she was taken aback, and she’s never surprised by anything!’

  The maid’s smile was infectious. Dorothea found it impossible not to smile back. Even though Henry had been kind to her last night, she had still been rather in awe of him. The nursery maid was more down-to-earth, like an ordinary person: she was someone one could talk to.

  ‘Please, I don’t know your name.’

  ‘I’m Turner, but you can call me Nora if you like.’

  ‘And that lady….’ Dorothea hesitated, feeling the pain in her wrist. ‘The black lady. Is she my aunt?’

  ‘Heaven bless you, no! That’s Mrs Bourne, the housekeeper. As miserable a piece as ever lived. But don’t you go telling her I said so, or she’ll have my guts for garters!’

  ‘I don’t like her.’

  ‘You’re not alone, miss.’ Nora winked.

  Dorothea warmed to the nursery maid, found that her tongue was loosened. She could now ask some of the questions that were piling up inside her head. Nora did not seem to mind being asked. She answered cheerily and at length as she flitted round the room, scooping up the night dress, making the bed, tending the fire. Most of the people Dorothea had seen downstairs did not belong to the house, she learned. There had been a party, with lots of guests. Some of the guests had stayed the night.

  ‘Which is why we are all at sixes and sevens today,’ said Nora. ‘The party, the house guests – I’ve been run off my feet!’

  ‘There was a lady, a nice lady, and a man called Henry.’

  ‘That will be Lady Fitzwilliam from Hayton Grange, and her son.’

  ‘He’s got knobbly knees.’

  Nora laughed. ‘I daresay he has. He’s a funny one, Mr Henry, scooting along the horse roads in that machine of his.’

  ‘This house….’ Dorothea paused, not sure how to put it, the way she felt about the place: the dark façade seen the night before, the dazzling lights of the party, the long corridors, the endless stairs, room after room, walls lined with pictures, the eyes in the portrait staring with disapproval. ‘It’s like … like a palace!’

  ‘It’s a big place, miss, I’ll grant you that – much grander than Hayton Grange, for instance. But Clifton’s not a palace: not a palace that would be fit for the Queen.’

  ‘Clifton?’

  ‘That’s the name of the house, Clifton Park. Didn’t you know? But listen to me going on, and it’s gone twelve already and you’ve not even had your breakfast! Let’s go through to the day room. I’m supposed to be watching Baby, as well as seeing to you. They expect me to have eyes in the back of my head, I’m sure!’

  The day room was next door, a large place with a glowing fire and barred windows, shelves stacked with toys and games, a rocking horse, a mournful parrot in a cage.

  Nora was peeping into a cot. ‘There’s Baby, miss, sleeping like a log. And over here….’ She took Dorothea’s hand and led her to a big sturdy table in the middle of the room. ‘This young gentleman is your cousin, miss. Aren’t you going to say “hello”, Master Roderick?’

  Dorothea, rather self-conscious in her borrowed frock and combed curls, looked shyly at the boy sitting at the table. He was about her own age, perhaps a little younger, scrubbed and spruce in knee breeches and a shirt with a wide collar. He had been playing with tin soldiers. A great many of them were lined up on the table. But now he abandoned his game and slipped off his chair, advancing on Dorothea with a brazen, inquisitive look, grey eyes staring from under black brows.

  ‘Who are you? Why are you here? I’ve not heard about you before!’

  ‘My … my name is Dorothea.’

  He scoffed. ‘That’s a silly name!’

  Dorothea stood her ground. It was all very well being frightened by her tall uncle or by the fierce housekeeper, but she would not allow herself to be browbeaten by a mere boy – especially a rude little boy like this one.

  ‘Dorothea is not a silly name. It is no sillier than Roderick.’

  ‘Roderick is a warrior’s name.’ The boy puffed out his chest.

  Showing off, thought Dorothea. Just like the boys in Stepnall Street. Just like Mickey. Look at me! Look at me! Aren’t I brave/smart/strong! But Mickey, for all his faults, had always looked out for her, even though he wasn’t her brother or her cousin or any other sort of relation. This boy Roderick, she sensed, didn’t look out for anybody other than himself.

  ‘Now you leave the poor girl alone, Master Roderick,’ said Nora, brushing the boy aside and leading Dorothea to the far side of the table. ‘She’s go
ing to have her breakfast!’

  Breakfast was the word Nora used to describe a feast fit for the Queen. There was porridge, a boiled egg, toast, butter, marmalade and a huge glass of milk. It was more food than Dorothea was used to eating in an entire day, let alone for breakfast. But she was ravenously hungry. She could not remember when she had last eaten. She set to work with gusto – even if it was slightly off-putting having Master Roderick watching her every move. Like the people at the party last night, he had obviously never been taught that it was rude to stare.

  ‘Are you going to eat all of that toast?’ he demanded at length.

  She shook her head, watched as he grabbed a piece, spooned great dollops of marmalade onto it, gobbled it up. A word formed in her mind: greedy. But then she told herself not to be so hasty. Maybe he was hungry. Maybe he had not had a breakfast fit for a Queen. And perhaps he was rude because he didn’t know any better. He might be quite a nice boy underneath. Papa often said, ‘The world judges by appearances, Dotty – and it’s wrong. It’s plain wrong.’

  She couldn’t eat another morsel. She had never felt so full in her life. Getting down from the table, she explored the big room – far bigger than the room where she lived off Stepnall Street. The baby was awake now, kicking and gurgling in its cot. The parrot, rather moth-eaten, was unresponsive. Flames leapt over the coals. Such a pile of coals, too! She had never seen the like.

  At that moment, a plump, prickly-looking woman came bustling into the room. She had a black bodice and skirt, and a big red nose. Locks of greying hair were escaping from under her cap. Dorothea’s heart sank. How many more people would she have to meet in this hectic house?

  ‘So. This is the forsaken child.’

  Abandoned, forsaken. Dorothea gritted her teeth as the plump woman looked her up and down. She resented such words.

  ‘Well, my lady,’ said the woman haughtily. ‘What a spectacle you made of yourself last night, by all accounts, turning up out of the blue like that! Mrs Brannan was very cross that her party was spoiled. Quite beside herself, she was – or so I’ve heard. Cook says they had words this morning, the master and the mistress. Not that they haven’t had words before, mark you. It’s only to be expected when a woman marries beneath her. But where was I? Oh yes. Stand up straight so I can look at you!’ The piggy eyes raked over Dorothea once more but seemed to lose focus half way. The woman groaned, clutching her temples. ‘My head’s that bad today I can barely stand it! But listen now because I don’t want to have to repeat myself. I’m Nanny and I’m in charge. You’re to mind your Ps and Qs and do as you’re told. I don’t want a peep out of you, do I make myself clear?’