A Bright Young Thing

by Brianne Moore

  “I need one—desperately!” I croaked, swallowing an aspirin (half a crown for a packet of fifty; I’d decided they were worth the investment).

  “Right you are.” Toby popped off to his father’s now unused study, where he kept some necessities locked in an out-of-the-way cabinet.

  It was feeble of me to feel so done in after a day of interviewing maids—I mean, it’s not exactly going down the mines, is it? But having never hired before, I had no idea it’d be such a performance on my part. Most of them had interviewed me, barely settling down on the edge of the armchair before delivering rapid-fire questions about afternoons off and my expectations as far as hairdressing and seamstressing went. My stammered responses seemed to disappoint them, or maybe I disappointed them, with my obvious naivete. Still, with pursed lips they’d passed me their references and were gone, one after the other, blending into a faceless stream of lacquered marcel waves and sensible shoes.

  Toby returned with the promised restorative and handed it over. “Shall we drink to your new maid, or does the search continue?”

  “The search, thankfully, is concluded. Here’s to Miss Angela Reilly.”

  We simultaneously raised our glasses, then sipped.

  “What makes her so special?” Toby asked as I handed over her references.

  “I’m not sure, really.” Certainly Reilly wasn’t the sort of person to stand out: She had colorless, homely looks that were neither bad enough nor good enough to be memorable. Her dull, straw-colored hair hung lifelessly in a wispy chin-length bob, blending almost perfectly with her sallow skin. She had watery, washed-out blue eyes and a skinny frame, like a girl who’d stopped developing almost as soon as she’d begun. Unlike the others, she’d asked no questions, just sat quietly, hands folded in her lap, feet crossed at the ankles, as flat and contained as a plank. She hadn’t seemed put off by my fumbling inquiries, simply answered them quietly and succinctly in the drawn-out vowels of the East Midlands. I found that accent comforting: it reminded me of home. Her withdrawn demeanor was also appealing. I didn’t want a gossipy maid.

  “She’s jumped around,” Toby observed, glancing over her list of past employers.

  Well, yes, there was that. She’d explained that one lady she’d worked for had died, and some of the others “just weren’t quite the right fit.” It nagged, but any concern was outweighed by her extremely affordable price and the experience she brought to the position. I told myself she’d just been unlucky.

  “It’s nothing to worry about,” I reassured Toby. “She hasn’t done anything terrible, or she wouldn’t have any references to show me.” I moved over to the piano and started up a nocturne. Toby shrugged and took up his usual place on the sofa.

  “So,” he said a few minutes later, a wicked glint in his eye, “how was your night at the theater?”

  “The play was delightful. It’s a good thing your mother didn’t come, though. It probably would have finished her off. It’s about divorced people, and the love scene in the second act was decidedly racy.”

  “Is it? I’ll have to catch a matinee. Did it put Ducky in the mood to whisper sweet nothings in your ear?”

  “Hardly. He slept through that bit.” I stopped playing long enough to act it out for Toby, slowly nodding, nodding, then jerking awake and apologizing a little too loudly.

  “Poor lad.” Toby laughed. “I almost wish I’d been there to see it.”

  “Yes, poor man. The theater’s not the place for him.” I ran my hands over the keys for a moment. “I shouldn’t make fun,” I said quietly. “He’s nice, and I’m sure he’ll make someone a wonderful husband someday. Just not me.”

  “Good for you. Most girls seem to have such low standards nowadays. I’ve seen men who can barely string three words together get snapped up and marched to the altar before they can say, ‘How d’ye do?’”

  “Well, what do you expect when we girls are supposed to find husbands within two years of our debut?” I asked him. “Did you make the best choices at twenty?”

  “No, certainly not,” he chuckled. “I don’t think I make the best choices now, which is why I’ve avoided matrimony thus far. It helps that I have no great name and no money. Girls want a title or an income. Preferably both.”

  “The men aren’t much different,” I pointed out.

  “True, true. So, are you back to working out how you’ll make your fortune?”

  “Oh, I’ve sorted that out already. I’ll just go and play piano at the Gaiety,” I joked.

  He smiled a little. “Well, you do have your writing.”

  “Nobody’s going to pay me for those silly little poems and stories.”

  “Try something more ambitious, then,” he suggested. “Surely there’s room in the literary milieu for some new blood.”

  “I’m sure there is; I just don’t know that my blood is up to the task. Or my brain. I haven’t written anything in months. Too distracted.”

  “It might do you some good to get back to something you enjoy. Take your mind off Rosedale and the mysterious Dr. H.”

  I sighed. “Hard not to think of that. I made some inquiries about Dr. H, but there are dozens of them registered and I don’t know where to begin. And who knows who or what Rosedale is?”

  “Shame your mother didn’t keep a diary.”

  “No,” I said slowly, my brain finally starting (after all those months) to grasp something useful. “She didn’t, but Father did.”

  Toby gave me a “there you are, then” sort of look. I’ll admit, the thought of having a project, something I might actually be able to accomplish, ignited an excited tingle deep in my belly. Of course, if I’d known then what I would end up uncovering, I might not have been so enthusiastic. Would I have chosen not to know, if I had had some sense, some second sight of what was to come? Would I have simply pushed the ledger aside and avoided all that pain and confusion and the strengthening that comes with it?

  No, I don’t think I would have.

  “I’ll see about finding the diary after Gryden,” I decided.

  “If you survive!” he said, laughing. “Take my advice: Watch your step, and if Millicent gets her claws out, shoot straight.”

  * * *

  The local train puffed into Gryden Crossing exactly ten minutes late and just barely managed not to overrun the platform. As usual, I took that as the driver’s mild protest at having to stop there at all. Most trains pass the place by, but the Marquess had the influence to make the local trains stop whenever there was a house party. I was the only guest who alighted that afternoon, and I felt the harsh stares of my fellow passengers, and their silent curses at the delay, however brief.

  The station master (a handyman on the estate pressed into service for the day) had woken from his between-trains doze long enough to join Adams, the chauffeur, on the platform. They looked so smart in their uniforms, standing at attention, that I felt almost like royalty being greeted by an honor guard.

  “Welcome to Gryden Crossing,” the stationmaster said, stepping forward with a little bow, a greeting he used for every guest, be they duke or law clerk.

  “Thank you, Mr. Sheldon. How are your wife and children?”

  He beamed at me for remembering. “All very well, very well indeed, miss.” He scurried away to help Reilly with the luggage. With a deafening blast of the whistle and a shower of soot, the train sluggishly chugged away.

  It was a clammy sort of day—overcast, with a clinging mist that clouded the ground. As I settled into the back of the Bentley, sliding into place on leather seats soft as velvet, the chauffeur spread a thick woolen blanket over my lap.

  “Can’t have you catching a chill,” he said, tucking me in with all the care of a nursemaid.

  “Thank you, Adams,” I said.

  He tipped his hat and climbed into the front seat beside Reilly as Mr. Sheldon secured the luggage and smacked the rump of the car twice to indicate we were ready.

  We sailed along the narrow roads, hemmed in on both
sides by intricately woven hedgerows, hoping we didn’t meet a farm cart coming the other way. I snuggled down beneath my tartan rug as we reached the intricately scrolled wrought-iron gates of Gryden Hall. Then, down an avenue of ancient oaks that led straight to the Hall, a Palladian mansion made of biscuit-colored stone that looked warm, even on days like this.

  The Marquess of Caddonfoot, stately and silver-haired, stood on the columned front porch, flanked by his daughters, greeting his guests. To his left was Cecilia: golden as a daffodil and plump as a cozy armchair. The very picture of her father in his youth, if portraits are to be believed. In the hostess’s spot was Millicent, who presumably took after her mother. She certainly didn’t resemble anyone else in her family, in looks or temperament. Toweringly tall, pole-thin, and black-haired, she struck me as a younger, more menacing version of Aunt El. As I climbed out of the car, she pursed her lips, stood up a little straighter, and looked ready to do battle. It was going to be a long weekend.

  Lord Caddonfoot stepped forward with a warm smile and sandwiched one of my hands between his. “Astra, you’re very welcome. You look quite well, my dear.”

  “You’re too kind, sir. I’m doing very well, thank you.”

  “I’m so glad to hear it. You’ve been most missed here.” He glanced over his shoulder at Cecilia, who beamed back, and Millicent, who offered up a nearly invisible upward flick of her thin lips.

  “And I have missed all of you,” I replied, grinning at Cee.

  Caddonfoot smiled at me again, then said, “Why don’t you show Astra to her room, Ladybird? I’m sure she’s tired and wants to refresh herself before tea.”

  Cee bobbed forward, grabbed my hand, and rushed us inside, where we were greeted with a wag and a bark by her West Highland terrier, Ivanhoe.

  “Oh, darling, I’m so happy to see you,” Cee squealed, embracing me while Ivanhoe wove between our legs, unable to contain himself. “It’s been dull as dried bones around here, but now I have you and Joyce, and we’ll have a lovely time! Oh, but darling: How are you? Really? I’m so sorry I haven’t been to see you in so long, but Millicent and I have been doing the country rounds, and I haven’t been able to get up to London for ages.”

  “It’s all right, Cee. I’m fine. Really.”

  Cee held both my hands and looked me full in the face for a long moment, trying to work out if I was lying to her, though if I were going to pour out my grief to any friend, it would be to Cecilia. She’d been the first to come to Hensley after my parents died and had spent those early days sitting with me for hours, gently coaxing me to eat “just a little, darling.” The day of the funeral, it was she who led me to the dressing table, sat me down, and whispered, “Let’s get you ready, then, shall we?”

  I met her searching look with as bright a smile as I could manage. It seemed to be enough, and she hooked her arm around my waist as we drifted toward the stairs.

  “I suppose it’s good you’re staying with your aunt and Toby just now. It’s a good thing to have company, I think. And a change of scenery. If you hadn’t gone there I probably would have dragged you here, no matter what Millicent said about it. But she’s been such a bear about everything lately, and turning herself inside out over this weekend. When she heard I invited Ducky Beckworth, she nearly pitched a teapot at me.”

  “Lord Beckworth? I didn’t know you were friends with him.”

  Cecilia stopped and looked puzzled. Ivanhoe, dashing ahead, paused on the landing and barked for us to hurry up. “Well, yes, I’ve met him a few times, and he stayed here once before, but I asked him here for you,” she said. “Your aunt told me it would cheer you up, since you’ve been seeing a lot of him in London lately.” She broke into a smile and her eyes shone. “I can see why that would make you happy: he is awfully handsome, isn’t he?”

  “My aunt’s been exaggerating, Cee. He and I are only friends.”

  “Oh. Well, I’m sure he’ll enjoy the shooting, at least. The gamekeeper says the pigeons are first rate this year. Oh, darling, I’ve got lots and lots to tell you. You’re up in the blue bedroom, as usual.”

  Ivanhoe led the way, slipping into the room moments before we reached it. The very aptly named blue room is cozy and would be lovely if the late marchioness had been less fond of wide-eyed china shepherdesses. They cluttered every available surface. The place oozed with their saccharine sap.

  “Just as I remember it,” I said.

  Cecilia seated herself on the bed. “We’re going to give you a wonderful weekend, dearest, I promise. I’ve fixed it all up so you can enjoy yourself.”

  I leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “You’re lovely, Cee.”

  “Oh, Astra, I want you to be happy.”

  I squeezed her hand, thinking of how she’d allowed me to cling to her during that awful time. “I know. And I’m sure I will be. It’s hard not to be happy around you.”

  Cecilia grinned and blushed. “Everyone has to contribute something to the world, I suppose. We’ve got a nice batch here for the weekend. Lord Hampton and Belinda Avery arrived around lunchtime—did you hear they’re engaged? I’m so pleased for them. It was a bit of a surprise, that, because he and Millicent were, well, spending a fair bit of time together, and she seemed to think it was all sewn up, but then Mustard spotted darling Belinda across the grandstand at the Derby, and there you are! Such a fairytale, don’t you think?” She paused to sigh, then continued, “Joyce and David and Mr. Porter should be here any minute. And there’s one more guest, but I’m keeping him a secret.”

  “Wicked creature,” I teased her.

  Cecilia smiled mischievously and bounced back onto her feet. “You’ll thank me when you meet him. I’d better go down and greet people, or Millicent’ll have my head. There’ll be tea in the south drawing room at the usual time. Come on, Ivey.”

  She whisked around the door, followed by the yapping dog, and was almost immediately replaced by Reilly, who began unpacking while I scrubbed off the soot and dust of travel. As I returned from the bathroom, a silver-and-blue Rolls Royce came crunching down the drive and drew to a smart halt at the front door. The driver opened the passenger door, and after a brief struggle, G. P. Ranigan Porter managed to compress his bulk enough to disembark. He was followed by his son-in-law, David Bradbury, and finally Joyce, his only child, thickly wrapped in satiny black sables that matched her hair.

  Joyce, Cecilia, David’s sister Laura, and I had known each other since our braids-and-pinafore days. Our parents had dispatched us all to the same boarding school to complete what passed for a girl’s education. Joyce, newly arrived from America, still had her brash accent (no trace of it now—she’d acclimated better than her father had), which almost immediately made her a target of Millicent’s mockery. Millicent was two years ahead of us, her reputation so fierce we all gave her and Cecilia a wide berth. But one day not long after our first term began, I was in the local tuck shop and noticed Cecilia staring longingly at the bag of toffees I’d just bought.

  “Would you like one?” I’d offered, holding the bag out toward her. She couldn’t have looked more grateful if she’d been the Little Match Girl and I’d handed her a roast dinner with all the trimmings.

  “Oh, thank you,” she’d breathed, digging her hand into the little white bag and drawing out a toffee.

  As she went to put it in her mouth, however, Millicent had swooped down, snatched it out of her hand, and screeched, “You can’t have that, Cecilia—it’s bad for you!” And then, outrageously, she’d tried to grab my bag of sweets.

  “What are you doing? Get your own!” I’d shouted as the other girls in the shop stopped to watch the show. Millicent had had a dangerous look about her, but I wasn’t going to let her get away with sweet snatching. Just when it seemed a real fight was imminent, in came our deputy headmistress.

  “What’s going on here?” she’d asked, expressing the full force of schoolroom authority in one raised eyebrow and a crisp tone of voice.

  “That one
’s taking sweets from the other girls,” the shop’s proprietor had answered. He’d winked at Cecilia and me as he pointed to Millicent, who was outraged.

  “Millicent, return to school immediately,” Miss had ordered her. Millicent had looked even more outraged, but she’d had no choice and flounced out.

  And so Cecilia became my constant companion, and Millicent my enemy. She’d tried to get me into trouble after that by making it seem as if I was cheating, and I had to admit, she did an excellent job copying my handwriting. But she hadn’t counted on Laura, who had an older sibling and was wise to such nasty tricks. She saw what Millicent was doing and informed on her, pointing out that I, the spelling champion of our year, would never misspell “importance,” whereas Millicent did so every time she wrote it. Forgery included. Millicent was nearly expelled. And Laura and Joyce joined Cee and I to create a tight-knit little foursome that not even Laura’s marriage and subsequent uprooting to America had broken. I only hoped that my change in situation didn’t end up being the thing that scattered us.

  * * *

  I emerged at half past four and saw Joyce and David stepping out of a room three doors down. Joyce had divested herself of the sables, revealing a royal blue suit I’d recently seen (and coveted) in Vogue. Her hair, I noticed, was different than it had been a year ago, and was also right out of Vogue. David, on the other hand, still looked the same: medium height and build, nice face, ready smile. I couldn’t help noticing his tie matched his wife’s suit.

  “Here you are, Astra!” Joyce cried. “I was half afraid you wouldn’t come, and I’d have nobody besides David to talk to.”

  “Oh, thank you very much,” he said, amused.

  “You’re a cruel woman,” I teased, embracing her.

  “We’re married now; I can abuse him at will,” Joyce responded, linking arms with David and smiling wickedly up at him as we moved off down the hall.