Stella’s attention was caught by another photo; the same two boys, another couple of male adults, neither of whom she recognised from other photos. They were seated at a table outside some sort of street-side café and in the grainy photo she could make out men smoking in the dim background on bubble pipes. There was another man standing nearby, his hand placed on the young Rafe’s shoulder. This man possessed a luxurious greying moustache that curled dramatically into whorled points and had on a lead – rather outrageously, Stella thought – a peacock. The bird did not have its tail fanned but it too comically appeared to be looking directly into the camera. Embroidered on its owner’s shirt she could just make out an extravagantly sewn letter ‘M’.
The boys were grinning, holding up glasses of what looked like lemonade, and the vignettes of Rafe’s seemingly happy childhood made her feel somehow sad for him that his life now felt controlled by his circumstances. She tried to imagine where this photo was taken, searching for clues in the image.
The door swung open, startling Stella, and Georgina blew in. She brought her usually sulky air into the calm of the Green Room as Stella had absently begun referring to it.
Georgina affected a melodramatic cough. ‘Heavens! Why here? This ghastly old room hasn’t been opened in centuries and yet I’m forced to breathe its dust and filth.’
‘Morning,’ Stella said brightly, determined not to taint a new beginning. ‘You look lovely today,’ she added, noting the long-line narrow skirt in a tiny dogtooth weave. Large buttons did up on the side and there was no pull on any of them – Georgie certainly cut a neat figure but Stella noticed her lack of height meant the skirt made her appear shorter still. Nevertheless, Stella would kill to wear it and couldn’t help but admire the way Georgina had teamed it with a soft frilled white blouse and a tiny red belt. ‘Did you sleep well?’
Georgina looked at her from murky blue eyes. ‘Would you care if I hadn’t?’
So this is how it was going to be, Stella thought with a pang of disappointment. ‘Not really, no.’
Georgina smirked. ‘You may be poor but at least you’re honest.’
‘Poor?’ she asked mildly, opening one of her books and gesturing at the seat opposite.
Her student flounced into the chair. ‘If you had money, why would you want to be a servant?’
‘I have a terrific job actually, Georgina. But I’m taking a sabbatical. Shall we have this conversation in French?’
Georgina ignored the question. ‘That’s right, your parents killed themselves, didn’t they? How perfectly horrid of them. Did you find them or maybe your younger sister did? Was there blood or did they do it neatly with pills and liquor? But then their tongues would have been swollen and blue, I’m sure. How ghastly. Your brother and sister must have been traumatised . . . how can they ever get to sleep at night in the same house where their parents committed suicide?’
Not a word of French had been offered in the teenager’s cruel and sour rant. How Stella kept from leaning across the banker’s desk and slapping her student she did not know. She forced her rage down, and made a promise to herself in that moment that nothing Georgina Ainsworth ever said would affect her again. ‘Georgina, I am not going to discuss my personal life with a child, least of all a student of mine.’ She moved into simple, conservative French. ‘Shall we proceed?’
‘I hate this room,’ Georgie sneered in French.
Stella responded in French as though it was simply a conversation. ‘You seem to hate everything.’
‘I know I hate you most of all, with my father a close second,’ Georgina said in English. ‘I wish he’d just go away on one of his jaunts and never return. Then we could fire you and I could be rid of both of you.’
Stella helplessly moved back into English despite her best intentions. It was obvious the horrid youngster would not understand the nuances of this unsettling discussion if she continued in French. ‘Georgina, that sounds so vicious. Should I be speaking to your mother about your wishes?’
‘What? That I wish my father were dead?’
Stella gasped. ‘You don’t mean that.’
‘What would you know? You know nothing, Servant Stella. Actually, that’s not quite true, is it? You do know about something I’d love to know about because your father’s dead. You must feel so free.’
Trills of anger raced through Stella’s body, flushing at her neck where she felt the heat of fury gathering in spite of her attempt to mask her response. Her voice did not betray her, though. ‘I asked you not to discuss my private life.’
‘I don’t see why I can’t. You get to poke around in my private life.’
‘I have done no such thing,’ she snapped, knowing she was being drawn into the girl’s deliberate trap and yet helplessly against her better judgement she was participating.
‘Of course you have. Just because your life is so dull and poor, you are making sure mine is the same.’
‘Georgina, your parents hired me,’ Stella appealed. ‘I didn’t ask to come here.’
The teenager shrugged. ‘Exactly. So I wish he would just disappear and then my mother would have to agree to let you go and I would celebrate and get on with my life.’
‘You have so much growing up to do,’ Stella cautioned. ‘Shall we continue?’ she said briskly with a feigned smile. Faking it helped, surprisingly. ‘Let’s write down some verbs and then we can use them in our conversation.’ She pulled the inkpot closer and reached for the pen, dipped the nib into it and began writing in French on a sheet of paper.
For a moment all that lingered between the two was the tension of their parried words and the sound of her nib scratching on the paper.
‘You have no idea of my life or my plans. Socially you are nowhere near my level and financially you obviously need my money.’
Stella sighed. ‘You don’t pay me.’
‘I wouldn’t even if I could. What my father sees in you is a mystery, although if he were a different man I could imagine. He could be paying you for other services because you’re pretty enough in a common sort of way.’
Stella tried not to break the nib with the pressure of her gathering wrath. She studiously wrote on, forcing herself to breathe low and long to beat the rising drumbeat of rage.
Georgina sighed, and began undoing her pearl earrings. ‘These are pinching.’ She placed them on the desk.
Stella pulled the ink closer still and dipped again, deliberately not looking at Georgina but the girl’s scathing remarks burned in her mind and, without warning, the words escaped and she helplessly bit back. ‘I told Mrs Boyd not to bother with the cocoa.’ Now she did look up. ‘We don’t need the interruption.’
Georgina’s eyes narrowed. She leaned forward slowly and deliberately to knock over the inkpot. Stella was quick to move but wasn’t fast enough and the royal blue liquid rushed across the desk and splattered over Georgina’s beautiful skirt.
‘Oh, dear!’ Georgina’s insincere tone sickened Stella but she dashed around the table all the same, dreading the mess. ‘Now, look at my skirt,’ her student said, sounding anything but dismayed.
More for the sake of the skirt that Stella had just admired so deeply, she made an effort and leaped up with a sheet of blotting paper. Wordless with fury, she dabbed uselessly at the spreading stain that was greedily crawling across the worsted skirt and privately she deeply lamented that she’d provoked Georgie into this petulant display. She mourned the garment that she suspected would never recover from the ink damage.
Georgina sat patiently, no doubt enjoying Stella crouching at her knees. ‘It’s no good, Stella,’ she said, her tone pitching a disgustingly fake virtue. ‘Perfectly ruined, I’m afraid. I’m so clumsy – I must take after my clodhopping father.’
‘He’s not a clodhopper,’ she answered in her quiet despair, realising a heartbeat too late that her defence was dangerous.
‘How would you know? You only met him yesterday.’
‘Er . . . that’s right. But he seem
ed entirely at home and well balanced on the moors when Grace and I ran into him.’
‘The way you defend him is admirable. I hope you don’t fancy him because I should warn you, there’s something between my mother and father that no one else can touch. Don’t ask me why,’ Georgina said, her tone dripping with cunning, ‘but my mother who had the looks and money to have absolutely anyone she wanted in life opted for the booby prize. My father is handsome enough but he’s a buffoon, Stella. He is a constant embarrassment and a drag in my life.’
Stella straightened. ‘And you’re a little beast in his, I’m sure,’ she murmured, unable to help her simmering disgust spilling over.
Georgina smiled. It seemed she’d heard. ‘Oh, I can’t wait to tell Mummy what you just called me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I shall go change. I have something to discuss with my parents.’ The teenager stopped at the door and threw back a smile. ‘Not sure how long I’ll be. I may even have to bathe again as I do believe the ink has stained my legs. Maybe it’s best if we rearrange for tomorrow.’
Stella couldn’t hold in her disdain a moment longer. ‘No, don’t rush back,’ she said. ‘I shall see you tomorrow, Georgina. I’ll rearrange a double lesson.’
‘Maybe not, Stella. You may even be packing your bags tonight, if I have anything to do with it.’
‘Close the door behind you, please.’
It was slammed shut. Stella walked to the window, her chest rising in deep, angry breaths as she stared out at the hills, determined not to cry although she watched the landscape through the blur of treacherous watering eyes. It felt peaceful out there and the silent stillness helped to calm her ragged breathing. She was finally able to blot away the threatened tears with a swipe of her fingers.
She wondered if Rafe was roaming the countryside again this morning. She’d heard him moving around upstairs late last night. She hadn’t slept well – her mind racing with thoughts of Carys perhaps crying herself to sleep and Rory desperately trying not to. But those thoughts entwined all too sinuously with snippets of her evening, particularly Rafe winking at her. She was still struggling to drift off when she’d heard the boards creaking above her. She hadn’t meant to derive satisfaction from it, but the realisation that the romantic dinner his wife had mentioned perhaps hadn’t turned out as romantically as she’d hoped was quietly pleasing.
Stella hadn’t left the nursery. It had been a pleasant time exploring all of the family memorabilia, particularly the photographs of Rafe as a boy. Time had seemed to move fast, though, for suddenly her next class was imminent.
‘Stella!’ It was Grace bursting in. ‘Hello – I’m not late, am I?’
Stella smiled at the rosy cheeks of her youngest pupil, their colour heightened from her riding lesson and her dash up the stairs, still in her jodphurs.
‘Mummy said I’m a disgrace to come to lessons dressed like this but I said you wouldn’t mind.’
‘Not in the slightest! It’s lovely to see you.’
‘Are we learning more of the daffodils poem?’
‘If you wish.’
‘I do. I want to learn it all.’
The hour with Grace passed easily and swiftly. Her eagerness to learn and to focus was in direct contrast to that of her sister. While Grace had her head bent, working on writing out some sentences in French, Stella had a chance to study her. She had elements of her mother – the beautifully shaped eyes – and despite her still-podgy build that Stella was sure would fall away in her teens, she could see that Grace possessed her mother’s languid manner when engaged.
‘Which teams do you play in at school?’
Grace kept writing but still answered. ‘I’m the youngest to play in the A team of tennis, and I’m the main substitute for the lacrosse team. Oh yes, I’m second base for rounders but our Games teacher thinks my bowling is coming on so she’s going to try me out this year in that position as we’re fielding two school teams I think. I’m in the under twelve swimming team and in winter I think I’ll make the hockey team . . . I hope so, I want to captain us in hockey one day.’
‘Your father was good at sport like you.’
‘My daddy is good at everything.’
‘Except spraying soda,’ Stella replied and Grace began to laugh delightedly.
Grace mimicked Beatrice’s shriek. ‘Oh, do shut up, Doug!’ and now Stella joined in the laughter. This only encouraged the youngster to leap up. ‘And now look what you’ve done to my Aubusson rug!’
Neither of them saw or heard the door open and only realised someone was standing there when a throat was cleared with obvious intent to catch their attention.
Stella turned and her expression dropped instantly as the temperature plummeted around her to see Beatrice Ainsworth. She stood in a heartbeat. ‘Mrs Ainsworth.’
Her employer regarded her as Stella imagined a cat might patiently await its prey. It was an unblinking stare of ice-blue malevolence.
‘Were we making too much noise?’
‘I was just leaving my room and I could hear the hilarity. I couldn’t imagine what was so terribly entertaining about French verbs . . . so I came this way down the hall. Now I discover what is so funny.’ She looked away from Stella to her child but Stella flinched to see how vicious her expression was. ‘Grace, you have disappointed me. I will be cancelling your riding lessons forthwith for the rest of the holidays.’
Grace’s expression crumpled but she didn’t cry. ‘I’m sorry, Mummy.’
‘Fresh clothes have been laid out. I’m perfectly sure you smell after being with the horses and dancing around in here instead of getting on with what I have paid for you to do.’ She glanced at her wristwatch in irritation. ‘Ah, I see your lesson time – if we can call it a lesson – is almost done. Let’s leave it at that, shall we? Hurry along, Grace. Miss Hailsham has drawn a bath for you. Don’t make a mess, please. I do not expect to see you for the rest of the day. You may stay in your room. Meals will be served there. Don’t let me hear another peep from you until tomorrow morning. And even then I’m not sure I want to look at you.’
Stella felt the horror of the cruel words settle on Grace’s shoulders and her private response was equally passionate but she had to physically clamp her mouth shut.
Grace cast Stella a look of deep apology. She too could sense trouble.
‘Thank you, Stella,’ she lisped just above a whisper.
‘You worked hard, Grace,’ she said firmly, knowing it made no difference but feeling stronger for saying it. ‘I’ll mark your page this afternoon. Hope to see you tomorrow.’
The child scurried away but her mother was in no hurry to leave.
Stella approached. ‘Mrs Ainsworth, I’m so sorry. We were —’
‘Stella, I was greeted not long ago by Georgie with a formal complaint against you. It’s not one I can ignore, I’m afraid, especially given what I’ve just witnessed.’
‘I can explain,’ she said, trying not to let it sound like a bleat, but given the suddenly leaden atmosphere, it sounded worse – like she was begging.
‘I’m sure you can. Just as you want to explain you were not ridiculing me in the presence of my young child just now.’
She held her tongue, Rafe’s warning about his wife’s cunning echoing in her racing thoughts.
‘Nothing to say for yourself?’ Beatrice goaded.
‘Yes, I would like to explain, if you’d permit me.’
‘Fine. I shall see you downstairs in my salon in fifteen minutes. Be prompt, I have a busy day.’ She swung around and left, a waft of her luscious rose and jasmine French perfume polluting the pleasantly musty, boyish smell of the Green Room. Stella recognised it immediately as Jean Patou’s Joy and sighed that Beatrice didn’t deserve to wear a fragrance of that name.
11
Mrs Boyd was on hand to show her to Beatrice’s salon, which was in a part of the house she hadn’t stepped into previously. It felt lonely, their footsteps echoing down the uncarpeted corridors, and somehow this ar
ea felt more imposing for the lack of light.
‘Cold down this way,’ she remarked in a weak attempt to make conversation with the housekeeper as she trailed alongside, listening to Mrs Boyd’s heels click on the parquetry.
‘It’s the western side. The sun takes a while to find its way in over here,’ she replied and Stella suspected Mrs Boyd had been apprised of the situation, hence her curtness.
She moved on. ‘Um, Mrs Boyd, I have Georgina’s earrings that she removed because they were pinching her lobes. She accidentally left them behind on the writing desk in the nursery this morning. Should I give them to you to return?’
‘You may like to return them yourself. They’re waiting for you,’ she added and knocked on a door where she’d paused.
They?
‘Come,’ called Beatrice’s voice from the other side.
Stella didn’t have a chance to ask more but presumed the loathsome Georgina would be smirking on the other side too. Mrs Boyd obliged by opening the door and nodding that Stella should proceed. She breathed deeply and silently to calm herself and stepped inside. Stella didn’t hear the door close behind her but seated behind a strikingly modern, highly polished oval desk was Beatrice Ainsworth. The entire room was a statement of good taste in Stella’s opinion and the single sweeping glance she could afford gave her an impression of muted colours of greys and creams with bold accents of black and silver in stripes or geometric patterns on cushions. The Macassar desk was the centrepiece, though, and she’d seen a similar piece in the furniture department of her store. It attracted a price tag so high most customers she recalled gasped upon hearing it. All in all, the chamber possessed a sharp, crisp look that was entirely in keeping with the era’s latest décor and far more modern than the rest of Harp’s End. There was no doubt this was Beatrice Ainsworth’s private domain.
The Last Dance Page 15