Both men laughed, lifted hands in farewell and John motioned for her to follow him. ‘We have to go up these stairs. Here, let me take that extra bag. Do you know much about Tunbridge Wells, Stella?’
‘Too little, I’m afraid.’
They emerged onto the main street and she looked left, up the steep hill, enchanted by the elegant little shops that lined it and turned into housing, she presumed.
‘This is Mount Pleasant Road,’ Potter explained.
‘It certainly suits its name,’ she said, revolving to take in the clock tower and the pretty façade of the railway station.
He could tell she was keen to get her bearings. ‘Well, now, behind us is the Lonsdale Mansions – that’s a private hotel. In the distance that’s Holy Trinity Church. Here we are,’ he said, gesturing to a magnificent silver-grey car. ‘I wasn’t sure if you’d like the hood down. Women do not like their hairstyles being blown too hard, although it’s a perfect day for going topless,’ he said with a wink. ‘But I took the precaution of keeping the hood on.’
She stared with disbelief that this was all laid on for her. Potter reached for the back door.
‘Here, let’s get you settled and then I can load —’
‘Do you mind very much if I ride in front with you, John? I’m not used to all this special treatment.’
He smiled broadly again. ‘Of course. It would be a pleasure.’ He opened the front passenger door and soon enough joined her in the cab, pulling on his driving gloves.
‘What a splendid car,’ Stella said, running a hand across the soft crimson leather.
‘She’s a beauty, this Daimler. It’s been in the family since before the Great War.’ He gave a honk to someone passing by, who lifted a hand in salutation, and then he gently eased the car down the hill. ‘The Pantiles are over there,’ he said, pointing. ‘They’re tiled colonnades that lead from the chalybeate spring that’s situated on this end closest to us. People have been visiting here to dip in the waters since the 1600s, including several royals, and it’s why the town boasts that title.’
She could hear the pride in his voice. ‘Chalybeate?’
‘They’re mineral springs with salts of iron and people have long believed they have properties to promote good health.’
She recalled her conversation with Rafe and sharing her secret of the tearooms near a spa. Life was strange. ‘Have you tried it?’
He cut her a grin. ‘No, even though I’ve lived in Kent all my life but then I have to tell you that the whole Weald is a healthy region. Not like Londoners – all pasty and grey. Not you, of course, Miss Myles.’
‘I must say the air feels clean. I swear I can taste the beach.’
‘You can. Brighton is about twenty-seven miles as the crow flies but on certain days that breeze will bring the salty English Channel right to our front door. I know you’d probably like to have a nose around but I think I’d better get you to the house first, so you can settle in.’
The township was already behind them, she noticed, but she had an impression of it spreading over the length of a hill that they were descending down to the colonnades that he spoke of. ‘Of course, there’s plenty of time to get to know these streets. Is there a good bookshop?’
‘Oh, my word, yes, several. And Hall’s Bookshop, a wonderful spot for antiquarian books. I’ll give you directions. Mr Ainsworth when he’s home always finds excuses for me to drop him off in town and have a couple of hours’ rummaging at Hall’s and he almost always returns with a couple of second-hand books, some quite rare.’
‘How long have you worked for the Ainsworths, John?’
He signalled he was turning left out of the High Street by sticking his arm out of the open window and turning his hand in the air. ‘Ooh now, that’s a question. Let me see, has to be nearly seventeen years now. We’re just leaving the main town now and heading out on the London Road.’
‘So you’ve known the two girls since they were born.’
‘Indeed. I used to drive Mrs Ainsworth around when she was pregnant with Miss Georgina.’
‘Are you her driver? I mean, Mrs Ainsworth’s?’
‘I’m at the disposal of the family.’
‘I was told that Georgina and I would have the services of a driver. Would that be you, John, or do you have other duties?’
‘Very happy to drive for you. Mr Ainsworth specifically put me in charge of your needs and those of Miss Georgina’s while you’re together. He assures me he will cope without me.’ He gave her another wink. ‘Mr Ainsworth is away quite a lot, anyway; you probably won’t see very much of him.’
‘Does he work in London?’
‘Yes. He travels for his work too.’
‘Oh, how exciting.’ She knew she sounded wistful.
‘And Kent isn’t exciting enough?’ At her instantly apologetic look, he waved a hand to calm her. ‘I’m only teasing. It’s a quiet family. We don’t hold many parties and the like – all very peaceful at Harp’s End. Just a few charity fundraising events, that sort of thing. Mrs Ainsworth does have some social gatherings that she hosts, but as I say, it’s a tranquil life.’
Stella gave him a look of huge relief at his remark.
Again they made a turn, this time away from the traffic on the main highway between London and the south coast, and swinging into a far narrower pass lined by hedgerow.
‘You’re going to be fine. Fitting in with strangers is never easy, but you’ll work it out, I’m sure.’
‘How do you find Mr Ainsworth?’
‘He’s not terribly easy to get to know but you probably won’t have to. You’ll be more in touch with the girls and Mrs Ainsworth, although I suspect she too will leave you very much to your own plans.’
‘I hope I can win the girls’ trust.’
‘Don’t try. Just be yourself and I’m sure they’ll be charmed by you.’ His words resonated solidly in her mind as being wise. Yes, she shouldn’t try too hard and instead let the children respond to her.
He seemed to understand her fears. ‘Miss Georgina is at an age where she is beginning to assert herself, and that’s to be expected, but dare I say she is beautiful like her mother and knows what she wants. She’s a modern woman.’
Despite his conversational tone Stella heard only caution shadowing the innocent words. She remembered Suzanne Farnsworth’s breezier warning, and repeated it. ‘We were all teenagers at one time.’
‘Good for you, Stella.’
Stella reckoned they drove for another ten minutes with hedgerow giving way to open country and scenes that made her think of a living patchwork quilt before it closed in again with high brambles. She could just make out chimneystacks towering above quick glimpses of a hipped roofline.
‘Is that Harp’s End I spy through the trees?’
‘Oh, yes, just moments away now.’
Stella held her breath and they swung around a narrow corner and her world opened up again as they eased out of the shadows of the hedges and into a long driveway.
‘Here we are,’ Potter said, sounding proud. ‘I never get tired of this sight of the house,’ he admitted.
Home, Stella thought, regarding the imposing Georgian residence that loomed ahead. Its proportions even to her untrained eye looked perfectly square. ‘Four floors.’ She thought she’d counted silently and was taken aback when Mr Potter answered.
‘Four living levels plus the attic and the basement, of course.’
‘It’s so grand,’ she breathed, taking in the pleasing symmetry and gazing at the charming sash windows that were too numerous to count. Stella briefly wondered who was behind those windows gazing back at her but the mansion, every bit as pretty as the doll’s house her sister had fallen in love with on a special visit to Hamleys Toy Shop in London’s Regent Street a few years ago, soon distracted her from the thought.
‘It was built at the turn of the eighteenth century,’ Potter said, as he slowed the car to a crawl up the drive, ‘and from what I understand it was
considered “quaint” by the standards of the day, and in the language of the day that meant modest; not at all flashy.’
‘It looks enormous to me,’ she admitted, imagining how much her warm French mother would loathe its bleak grey stone walls. ‘I live in a modest Victorian semi-detached house of four bedrooms.’
Potter chuckled. ‘And I live in a tiny apartment above the garage.’
Stella shared his smile.
‘I’m not sure I can even tell you how many guest rooms we have at Harp’s End, Stella, but there are four grand reception rooms, including a ballroom.’
‘And all this land around us, I presume?’
‘Oh, yes, upwards of forty acres, and there are other landholdings nearby that belong to the family with cottages and farmhouses on them.’ He manoeuvred the car gently around the gravel circular drive ringed by beds of spring flowers. They crunched quietly to a halt. ‘There you are. Leave everything. We’ll have it all brought in for you. Ah, there’s Mrs Boyd. She’s the housekeeper. She’s a spinster but perhaps you know the housekeeper is always called Mrs?’ He nodded to where a woman in a long, dark dress awaited her with hands clasped. Potter was already out of the car and moving to Stella’s side to open her door.
‘I didn’t,’ she admitted, cutting him a grin. ‘Thank you, John. Wish me luck!’
He helped her out of the car. ‘You won’t need it.’ He winked. ‘Hello, Mrs Boyd, here we are. I’ve brought Miss Stella Myles.’
‘Hello, Miss Myles,’ the woman said. There was a soft Yorkshire lilt in her tone. ‘Welcome to Harp’s End.’ She emerged fully from the portico and descended the flight of stone stairs with a hand out in greeting. ‘We’ve been looking forward to your arrival.’
Stella shook her head and, swallowing, put on her happiest voice. First impressions, she heard her father’s advice, account for so much. ‘Oh, it’s wonderful to finally be here. Thank you for sending Mr Potter.’
‘Are you hungry?’
‘Not really. Nervous, perhaps,’ she admitted.
Boyd smiled beneath hooded eyes and a tightly tied bun but she had a fine complexion and her tone was friendly. ‘Come, there’s a fresh pot of tea on and the family is expecting you in the conservatory.’
Stella wasn’t sure what was appropriate to say to this so she smiled. ‘I’d better not keep them waiting any longer, then.’
‘You haven’t kept them waiting. It’s three o’clock and teatime in the house. Please,’ she gestured inside but craned her neck to catch Potter’s attention. ‘Shall I send someone out, Mr Potter, or can you manage?’
Stella didn’t hear his reply but saw Mrs Boyd nod and then turn back. ‘Right, follow me, Miss Myles.’
‘I’d prefer you call me Stella,’ she said.
‘All right, then. This way, Stella.’ The housekeeper didn’t sound terribly sure about the suggestion and didn’t offer that she be called anything but Mrs Boyd, but Stella was already entirely distracted by the vastness of the house to let this worry her.
‘Good grief,’ she muttered. ‘How will I ever find my way around?’
‘You won’t have to. We’ll keep you moving in a much smaller triangle, I promise, or you could get lost with all the hallways and nooks and crannies of Harp’s End.’
Stella knew Mrs Boyd meant this to sound light-hearted and yet it perhaps unwittingly came across as a warning not to snoop. She let it pass.
‘Gosh, that staircase!’ she remarked, gazing up, astonished by the fussy, panelled design that swept up through the various floors.
‘Magnificent, isn’t it? True William and Mary style,’ Mrs Boyd remarked, sounding proud. ‘The panelling is reminiscent of the staircase on the HMS Titanic, and we’re assured that the structure remains intact to this day, despite sinking.’ She chortled but it didn’t resemble amusement to Stella’s ears. ‘But there is a back stairs passage to quickly reach your rooms.’
‘Thank you,’ Stella murmured, not sure if she was glad she wouldn’t be using the floridly grand staircase to the upper levels, or offended that she wasn’t important enough to be invited to do so.
‘Ah, here we are,’ Mrs Boyd said eagerly, ‘just through this hall into Mrs Ainsworth’s favourite area of the house.’ She led an increasingly nervous Stella into a glass-enclosed room that trapped the sun and thus turned up the temperature from a cool autumn day to a mild afternoon. ‘Mrs Ainsworth, I’ve brought Stella Myles.’
5
Stella watched a slimly built woman turn from where she had been admiring a citrus bush. Stella was struck first by her employer’s make-up, which seemed bright for a day at home, her slash of red lipstick clashing against the abundance of lime-green leaves beside her. Cat-shaped eyes the colour of the Wedgwood blue pottery she’d seen displayed in cabinets in one of the rooms they’d passed through blinked and regarded Stella. Red polished fingernails glimmered as a barely burned, lipstick-stained cigarette was put out with a low hiss in a nearby upright ashtray.
‘Miss Myles,’ a smoky voice welcomed. ‘How lovely that you’ve arrived.’
Stella heard no sincerity in the remark and cut a glance at Boyd before stepping forward, hand outstretched. ‘It’s a delight to be here, Mrs Ainsworth.’
‘Boyd, can you fetch Georgie, please?’ She touched her golden, upswept hair that was tidily pinned and regarded Stella’s hand. Finally, she shook it.
‘Certainly, Mrs Ainsworth,’ Boyd said. ‘Tea will be ready to pour. Shall I . . .’
‘No, I’m sure Stella wouldn’t mind.’ She looked at Stella as though she were an afterthought. ‘Would you?’
She didn’t think she was in any position to refuse. ‘Not at all,’ she answered with as much levity in her voice as she could muster. ‘Do you take milk, Mrs Ainsworth?’
‘No, thank you, and no sugar either. Just lemon. I thought we should meet here where it’s warmer,’ Mrs Ainsworth continued, and Stella felt that the temperature had dropped considerably since Beatrice Ainsworth had spoken.
Instead she smiled. ‘It’s beautiful.’ She handed her host a delicate teacup and saucer, recognising with a pang of regret for home the distinctive Limoges pattern from a single tiny jug her mother owned. She wished now she’d asked her mother how she had come by it.
‘Yes,’ her host remarked, unaware of Stella’s pain and her tone hinting at boredom. ‘I prefer to use one of the morning rooms but it’s fully shaded by an oak at present and I didn’t think we needed to light a fire this late in the season; not now the sun is finally showing itself. I always think it’s akin to surrender to light fires once the daffodils are out, don’t you?’
‘Er, yes,’ Stella agreed, thinking about her brother and sister shivering only a week or two earlier, wearing one thick jumper over another in an attempt to stay warm because Stella wasn’t certain of paying the fuel bills.
‘Do sit,’ Mrs Ainsworth said, gesturing at a cane chair with an upholstered cushion next to an enormous fern. Stella couldn’t help but touch it. ‘I’m told that one was discovered on the other side of the world – that faraway place called Australia, I think – when a relative went adventuring in the previous century. He brought it home and somehow it has survived.’
‘It’s incredible. I didn’t know they could grow this big.’
Her hostess seated herself languidly in another of the cane chairs and shrugged to show she really didn’t care one way or another. ‘Called the King Fern, apparently, but you’d have to ask my husband about that. He’s the naturalist in the family.’
‘Really?’
Mrs Ainsworth looked around, still giving Stella the impression that even breathing was boring. She waved her manicured hand. ‘Yes, all of this is his work.’
‘I think it’s magnificent.’
‘Do you?’ The feline stare fixed upon her. ‘Tell me about yourself, Miss Myles.’ She sat back.
Stella was perched on the edge of her chair and took a deep breath. She gave her new employer a potted history, keeping it simpl
e, and while not lying she didn’t offer up anything beyond the bare facts, mainly about her education and work experience.
‘. . . very glad to teach Grace piano, and although —’
‘I was told your parents killed themselves,’ Mrs Ainsworth interrupted.
Stella felt the statement hit her like shards of glass, as though one of the large windowpanes in the conservatory had shattered and been hurled down upon her. She couldn’t reply immediately and stared helplessly with incomprehension at her employer.
‘The agency mentioned it,’ the woman qualified. ‘I feel we should raise this and ensure that you are completely over the grief.’ An attempt to smile kindly failed.
Stella struggled through her shock at not only the callousness but the casualness of the enquiry. She needed to draw on all her control not to bristle openly. ‘No, Mrs Ainsworth, I cannot lie. I am certainly not over it and doubt I ever shall be. But I am no danger to myself or anyone else, least of all your daughters.’ She was relieved her tone was polite and entirely under her control despite the raw pain still thrumming through her.
‘It’s just that I prefer to be open about such things.’
Such things? Stella thought, as the woman in front of her carelessly waved her hand in reference to two people she loved.
Stella cleared her throat softly. ‘Yes, indeed, honesty is always preferable,’ she muttered. Her anger was now as cold as her parents’ grave. She mustered an assuring smile. ‘And I want you to feel confident that I’ve come here looking forward to this role.’
‘Is that so?’ For the first time since they’d met, Stella thought Beatrice Ainsworth sounded genuine.
She nodded. ‘From the moment I took the train this morning I felt different.’
‘Oh? In what way?’ Mrs Ainsworth wasn’t watching her; her voice sounded suddenly distant and she was staring slightly unfocused at the tray of afternoon teacakes left untouched by both women.
‘Because I was leaving London, I suppose.’
‘How sad. I love London. I’d live there if my husband would agree to it.’
The Last Dance Page 7