Autumn Softly Fell

by Dominic Luke

  She heard feet skipping down behind her and turned to see Mr Giles making his way down the steps.

  ‘Mr Giles, Mr Giles, wait! Where is Uncle Albert? Why isn’t he with Henry and Mr Smith?’

  Mr Giles paused, looked at her sidelong. Didn’t she know, he lisped, had no one told her? Mr Brannan had been taken ill, he’d had to be carried into the house. The doctor had been summoned.

  Dorothea went cold all over. She remembered her sense of foreboding from earlier. Seeing the commotion up by the entrance, she’d thought it must be the old earl. Afterwards, when she’d seen Lord Denecote making his way to the podium, she had never guessed, had never dreamed—

  Alone on the steps, she looked up at the vast, imposing façade of the house and she trembled.

  It was a magnificent room, enormous, wood-panelled and gilt-edged, packed with sumptuous furniture. A huge painting dominated one wall: a warlike scene with a label saying The Battle of Malplaquet. Uncle Albert was stretched out on a chaise longue, his face grey and drawn. He looked somehow smaller, diminished – but Dorothea could not decide if that was the effect of his illness, or of the spacious, majestic room.

  ‘I’m all right, child, I’m perfectly all right. I was just a little short of breath, had a pain in my chest. It’s gone now, I feel much better. It will take more than a dizzy turn to throw me off my stride! Now tell me what has been happening. What have I missed?’

  Dorothea couldn’t for a moment speak. Making her way to the house, she had been overcome by dread. She had been thinking of Richard. It had come back to her as if it was yesterday, not six months ago. Was she now to go through it all again?

  To find Uncle Albert alive and – he insisted – quite well was such a relief that it took her breath away. Aunt Eloise was standing by the chaise longue, upright, like a guardian angel, watching over Uncle Albert, protecting him.

  It seemed to Dorothea as she looked at her aunt through a sudden mist in her eyes that the battle scene in the background was coming to life, horses rearing, sabres flashing, smoke drifting, the cannon booming – or was that her own heart, thudding wildly inside her chest? But nothing would daunt Aunt Eloise, not even the Battle of Malplaquet. She stood stiff and straight, unyielding. Even Death wouldn’t dare, even Death wouldn’t….

  Aunt Eloise took a step forward. ‘If you will sit with him for a moment, Dorothea, I will see if the doctor has arrived yet.’

  ‘All this fuss,’ muttered Uncle Albert but Dorothea blinked away the mist in her eyes and nodded to her aunt vigorously. She felt as if she had just been handed something of immense value – a golden chalice, perhaps; her aunt had entrusted her with a golden chalice.

  Aunt Eloise inclined her head as if in blessing, then glanced at Uncle Albert, her eyes showing momentary doubt. ‘All this fuss,’ he muttered again but he held up his hand and Aunt Eloise reached out too, and for a split second their fingers touched. Then Aunt Eloise was gone, sweeping regally from the room. Behind the place where she’d been standing, the scene of battle was now stilled, frozen in time once more.

  ‘Now then, child.’ Uncle Albert sat up and Dorothea found a foot stool and plumped herself down and began telling him everything that had been going on outside.

  ‘Well, well. A secret supply of fuel, eh? Well I never!’ Uncle Albert chuckled. ‘Poor old Smith! He was quite convinced someone had outmatched him – quite down in the dumps about it. And young Carter, he’s a lad with his head screwed on, I’ve always said as much.’ He chuckled again. There was some colour coming into his cheeks now and a sparkle in his eyes.

  Thank heavens, thought Dorothea, that it had been good news she had brought with her. It seemed to have worked wonders.

  The doctor came. Everyone was ushered from the room. Dorothea went outside to get a breath of air and to see what was going on. It was late afternoon now but the fete was still in full swing. A raucous sound of music and many voices was drifting from the marquees and amusements. Next to the podium, the Speedmobile had gone and the BFS Mark II had taken pride of place. An admiring crowd had gathered around it. Henry and Mr Smith were being lionized.

  Mr Simcox came hastening up the steps, anxious for news about Uncle Albert. He and Uncle Albert had known one another for years, she remembered. It was only natural that he should be concerned. But it was more than that, almost as if they were friends rather than employer and employee – though Simcox was never less than deferential. Having assured him that Uncle Albert was none the worse for his dizzy turn, Dorothea prompted him to tell her all that had happened while she had been in the house. Well, said Simcox, well. His worried frown lifted a little. It was all good, he reported, better, really, than they could ever have expected. Several new orders had been placed already for BFS motors, including Sir Walter and – incredibly – the earl. Lord Denecote, Simcox said in a respectful tone, had requested two vehicles and had paid in full on the spot. Meanwhile, the man from the Motor News was preparing a glowing report for the next number of his magazine. There was even talk of the London papers being interested in the day’s events. The cheating scandal would, of course, be of chief concern but there was every reason to believe that the BFS Motor Manufacturing Company would get an honourable mention.

  Leaving the lugubrious Mr Simcox to reflect on the fortunes of the day, Dorothea returned to the house. In the lavish hallway she hesitated amongst the statues on plinths and the ferns and flowering plants in earthenware pots. Voices were coming from the room where she had left Uncle Albert. One of the voices was her uncle’s, the other was aged, rasping, rigid with pride. Lord Denecote, she realized with a jolt of surprise, Lord Denecote was talking to Uncle Albert.

  ‘… apologise for any vexation or nuisance he may have caused. He does not stop to consider the consequences of his actions, never has….’

  He, thought Dorothea, who was he? Was the old earl talking about his son, Viscount Lynford? Did he know that Uncle Albert had chased Lynford away from Clifton two years ago? Was he angry about it? He did not sound angry. His tone was as stiff and formal as ever.

  ‘… only myself to blame, I realize that of course. I spoilt the boy. I spoilt them both: the boy and his sister. My own father, you see, was a brutal man, a brutal man. I did not want to fall into the same trap.’ There was a brief silence, then a long rattling sigh. ‘And so I erred the other way. I indulged them. Coddled them. I see that now. But no one has paid a higher price for that mistake than I. This, however, is of no interest to you. I merely wished to convey my regret if his behaviour in any way … and of course, if you find that you are out of pocket due to his … his—’

  Uncle Albert interrupted at this point. There was no need to talk of money, he said; his grace wasn’t culpable, in any case. It would be best all round if the whole episode was forgotten. After the earl’s clipped, crabbed, but precise tones, Uncle Albert sounded rather uncouth, rough round the edges, like a bear growling.

  ‘He has always been profligate, irresponsible,’ the earl resumed after a pause. ‘Gambling, drinking, all manner of other habits and weaknesses. I have done my best to change him but … well, he may be beyond redemption, I fear. But at least now his child is now out of harm’s way. I have the boy under my own protection. As for my other grandson – well, he is at peace now, but I wanted an opportunity of thanking you for all that you did for him – you and your wife….’

  Richard, thought Dorothea, the old man was referring to Richard. All that you did for him, you and your wife. She recalled the terrible vision she had seen in the field in January – a mad delusion, it seemed to her now, a symptom of her illness. Aunt Eloise was not wicked. Whatever else she was, she was not wicked. For one thing, Uncle Albert would never have married a wicked woman. Dorothea had complete faith in her uncle’s judgment. However devoted Aunt Eloise was to Clifton Park, she would never have wished Richard dead so that she could get her hands on it.

  All that you did…. And who could have done more? No one could have healed his withered leg,
no one could have saved him from the ravages of diphtheria – not even the earl and all his riches.

  As she gulped back a sob – thinking of Richard still made her cry – Dorothea heard a scraping, sliding sound, and a puffing of breath. She realized that the earl must be getting ready to go, struggling to his feet.

  ‘I will take my leave, Mr Brannan. Oh, and one last thing. Congratulations on your success today. Well deserved, I do not doubt it. Hard work brings its own rewards – something my son has never been able to grasp. I wish you all the best with your project. I hope you have a speedy recovery.’

  Dorothea shrank behind a potted palm as the earl came shuffling out of the room, tap-tapping with his stick. Bent over, wrinkled, his hair thinning and completely white, his face was nonetheless set and determined, his eyes steely – as if it was the strength of his will that kept him going in his fading years, knitting his very sinews together. A terrible man, she thought, hiding her face behind the waxy leaves. A good man perhaps, deep down, but terrible even so. Watching as a liveried attendant came running from a side door to help the old man, Dorothea shuddered, glad of her uncle – of Aunt Eloise, too, cold and aloof but with a heart beating inside her. She was only human, had made mistakes. Had she really fallen in love with Jonathan Huntley? Would one ever know, or was it now lost in the mists of the past? Her mistakes were long ago and she had learned her lesson. She had chosen wisely since then. She had chosen Uncle Albert.

  Poor, poor Richard! Such a terrifying grandfather, such an unscrupulous uncle, such a short little life! God’s will, Mlle Lacroix called it; God would look after him now. But as she stood there in the empty hallway, Dorothea had the strangest feeling that Richard was there, just out of reach, behind one of the statues, perhaps, or concealed by the foliage. She smiled, thinking of how he would have enjoyed today if he’d been well enough to come, how much she would have had to tell him if he’d stayed at home. What a day it had been!

  It was coming to an end at last. The stalls and attractions were shutting down, the marquees were being dismantled. A stream of people, of bicycles, carts, carriages and motors, was dwindling away up the drive. All that was left was the trampled grass and patches of mud. The two BFS motors departed, Uncle Albert and Henry in one, the other heading for Coventry with Mr Simcox, Mr Smith, Arnie Carter and Young, the second mechanic. Uncle Albert looked completely recovered. A heart murmur, the doctor had said. It couldn’t be very serious, thought Dorothea, a mere murmur.

  Walking back to their own motor, Dorothea lagged behind her aunt, Nora beside her talking nineteen to the dozen. She’d never known such excitement, she’d had a wonderful time, she would never forget it until the end of her days. And Arnie— Oh, wasn’t he a hero, and so handsome too – even with oil on his face and grubby wet overalls and one too many beers inside him.

  ‘Oh, but miss! Miss! If I keep it to myself any longer I shall burst! You’ll never guess what has happened – you’ll never guess! He has asked me to marry him! Me, marry him! Can you credit it? Oh, miss, I’m that happy I could—’

  But at that moment Aunt Eloise called on them to hurry and there was no time for further talk.

  Rolling slowly homewards through the dusky lanes, Dorothea leant out of the window, the wind whirling in her face, blowing her thoughts every which way. The leafy hedgerows spun past, vanished behind them into the gloom. There were spots of rain in the air again.

  ‘Shut the window, now, Dorothea,’ said Aunt Eloise. ‘It is getting draughty.’

  With the window closed, the evening countryside suddenly seemed dim and distant. Dorothea sat cocooned in the motor as it jolted and jerked over the ruts in the road. The journey back seemed to be taking an eternity. Her eyelids began to droop.

  And Nora, she said to herself, picking up the threads of her thoughts, Nora was getting married. Arnie Carter had asked her at last. But did that mean Nora would go away? She would have to leave the nursery, whatever happened. She would not be able to keep her situation once she was married. But would she move to Coventry – all the way to Coventry?

  Dorothea’s heart lurched at the idea of losing Nora. Nora had always been there, from the very first morning. Dear Nora. Why, when wonderful things happened – the BFS motor winning first prize, Nora getting married – did unpleasant things have to happen too like Uncle Albert’s illness, Nora leaving Clifton?

  I wish, thought Dorothea, oh how I wish—

  But the thought was too vast and nebulous for her tired head to encompass and she never completed it. Instead her eyes closed, her head lolled, and she slept.

  TEN

  TAKING A DEEP breath, Dorothea opened the drawing room door and walked in – only to find it empty. She was the first one down. She let out her breath, a sigh of relief; it would have been agonizing to have made an entrance, to have all eyes upon her. Not that she didn’t think her frock – white cotton gauze with stitched mauve decoration – the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, but somehow it seemed almost too beautiful, as if she had a cheek to even think of wearing it, plain old Dorothea. There had been no question, however, of not wearing it. It was a gift from Aunt Eloise, made especially. It had taken an age to put on, with so many buttons and hooks-and-eyes, and the new nursery maid all fingers-and-thumbs, not a patch on Nora. Finding good staff was quite impossible these days, Aunt Eloise had said pointedly as she kept a watchful eye on proceedings. The poor maid! Anyone would be ham-fisted in Aunt Eloise’s punctilious presence. And no one could ever fill Nora’s shoes.

  Dorothea crossed the drawing room, aware of every rustle of material, every swirl of her skirts, feeling every inch a young lady. It was a feeling that would take some getting used to. The french windows were open. She stepped out onto the terrace. The heat of the day was lingering – though the air felt cool on her neck, unused as she was to having her hair up. The sun was low in the sky away to the right; shadows were lengthening; dusk already lay in wait beneath the distant trees of Ingleby Wood. But evening sunshine lay thick and golden on the verdant fields and hedgerows, and it glinted on the half-hidden canal. Dorothea breathed deeply. The air was scented with grass and clover.

  A perfect day, she said to herself: her day, her birthday – the seventh birthday she had celebrated at Clifton. It was scarcely believable. She’d never envisaged spending one birthday here, let alone seven. The day was to conclude with a dinner party in her honour, a dinner at which she was to be present – Roderick, too – unlike that dinner for Roderick’s birthday long ago which he’d been so disgusted to be excluded from. Dorothea smiled, remembering how they had sneaked downstairs and spied on the grown-ups and how, without warning, Mrs Bourne had come swooping upon them, driving them back to their rightful place in the nursery. In those days the green baize door had been a frontier one only dared cross at one’s peril but now the whole house was open to her. Aunt Eloise still perhaps frowned on her habit of spending too much time in the servants’ areas but nowhere these days was strictly forbidden.

  As for Roderick, he was at home by special dispensation. She had pleaded his case to her aunt. ‘We can’t have a special dinner without him, Aunt,’ she had insisted, watching as Aunt Eloise drew up a tentative guest list (a line had been drawn at asking any of the Turners). ‘He simply has to be here!’ Aunt Eloise had seemed pleased by her entreaty, had agreed at once, had written to the school and arranged for Roderick to take time off. But, as always, Roderick’s presence was a mixed blessing, Dorothea acknowledged, as she shielded her eyes to look at distant Hambury Hill which reared like a dark massing wave against the bright horizon. She sighed, for Roderick did not engender soothing thoughts. He had never been the easiest to get on with. Half the time one wondered if he was worth bothering with at all.

  Arriving yesterday evening, Roderick had brought with him – uninvited – a friend from school named Harrington-Shaw, a rather podgy boy who went bright red whenever anyone spoke to him. It was this high-handedness – the way Roderick did things to suit himself
– which irritated Dorothea most of all. And so she had not been in a conciliatory mood when they had quarrelled that morning. The quarrel, as it so often was, had been about Nibs.

  Dorothea sighed again. Not quite a perfect day, then. But what day ever was?

  Leaning over the parapet, Dorothea heard faint sounds on the still air. One of the basement windows must be open – the kitchen, by the sound of it. She could hear a clatter of dishes and Cook’s voice, harassed. ‘Mind my bread sauce. And what in heaven’s name have you done with that watercress?’

  Dorothea smiled, remembering Cook’s ‘particular breakfast’ which had been brought up to the nursery that morning with a flourish and which she had shared with Eliza who had been feeling left out. The day had started on the right note. The sense of occasion had been heightened when Mlle Lacroix had announced that there would be no lessons that day and then Uncle Albert had put in an appearance to wish her happy birthday. He was not going to Coventry today, he’d said, as it was a red letter day. What did she say to a little walk later, just the two of them?

  It was later, when Dorothea had gone down to the kitchen to thank Cook, that the first hint of trouble had presented itself. The kitchen maid, Milly Carter, had been in floods of tears, inconsolable. Nibs had been caught stealing vegetables from the garden and had been dismissed outright.

  ‘But he wouldn’t, miss,’ Milly had sobbed. ‘He wouldn’t do a thing like that!’

  Dorothea had been inclined to agree, had felt even more dubious about the whole affair when she learned that Roderick was involved.

  ‘I saw him with my own eyes, Doro. He was caught in the act.’