The Last Dance

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘Mrs Boyd, you needn’t have —’

  ‘It’s all right. I was on my way up anyway,’ she said, handing the tray over with a single boiled egg wearing a bright blue woollen egg cosy, two slices of toast with butter whorls on the side, a tiny dish of what looked to be a glistening globule of strawberry jam and a small pot of tea with an even smaller jug of milk and a sugar basin with three cubes. Stella couldn’t imagine where the housekeeper might have been going ‘on her way’ but stayed quiet, covering her confusion with a smile of thanks. ‘Mrs Ainsworth would like to talk with you after breakfast,’ the housekeeper added. ‘Shall we say nine sharp?’

  ‘We shall. How is Grace?’

  ‘Her mother is with her now. Mr Ainsworth kept a vigil through the night from midnight.’

  Stella looked startled to hear this.

  ‘Is something wrong, Miss Myles?’

  ‘Er, no, I was feeling badly that I didn’t hear anything, offer to help.’

  ‘We didn’t need it,’ Boyd countered, smiling in an unsuccessful attempt to soften what felt to Stella like ostracism by the Ainsworth women and their minions. ‘And Mr Ainsworth is abnormally silent on his feet,’ she remarked, frowning.

  ‘So Grace slept well?’

  ‘Soundly, and has woken with a dull headache, which is to be expected. But she seems alert, so we’re all feeling a lot happier.’

  ‘Oh, that’s such a relief.’ Already Grace’s fall was fading to an event of less importance. She was safe; in recovery. There were far bigger events to fear now. Her mind was tripping again with alarm. She blinked back to the present moment where the housekeeper was staring at her, nonplussed.

  ‘It is a relief,’ Mrs Boyd echoed unnecessarily, her hands crossed neatly in front of her. Why was she lingering? Didn’t she know her boss was a spy? Didn’t she know he was on a dangerous mission for the government? Settle, Stella, an inner voice warned. She cleared her throat.

  ‘Er . . . do you plan to take it in turns for the rest of the day? I am happy to sit with Grace if they —’

  Mrs Boyd made a soft tsking sound. ‘No need. Between Miss Hailsham, myself and Mrs Ainsworth, we have it all covered.’

  ‘How about her father?’ she frowned, recalling Rafe’s near despair yesterday and somehow hoping his silent footfall had returned him.

  ‘Mr Ainsworth left for London very early this morning as soon as Mrs Ainsworth relieved him from Miss Grace’s bedside.’

  The housekeeper’s casual confirmation of what her instincts had clued nevertheless hurt, the words feeling like tiny hammers bruising her vulnerability. She showed no sign of this ache in her expression, though. ‘I see. Well, I shall meet with Mrs Ainsworth at nine. In her salon?’

  ‘No, she plans to spend an hour or two with her daughter. So perhaps you wouldn’t mind meeting in Miss Grace’s room.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind at all.’

  Stella knocked at Grace’s door and heard a muffled voice call, ‘Come.’

  She opened the door but only got halfway across the threshold. ‘Oh!’ she said, freezing to see Georgina smirking at her.

  ‘Hello, Stella. I’m gathering lessons are off for my sister.’

  ‘You’re home,’ she said, instantly wishing she hadn’t stated the obvious.

  ‘Well, unless I’m a mirage . . .’ Georgina said, rolling her eyes.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Not thrilled to be home.’

  ‘When did you arrive?’

  ‘Mummy sent a car late last night.’

  Being at the back of the mansion and on such a high level meant Stella heard none of the comings and goings of the family and staff, other than the footsteps of Rafe. She could hear them now echoing in her mind as he packed in haste to leave. Perhaps the same car that brought Georgina home took her father away.

  ‘You look lost, Stella,’ Georgina pondered, from where she sat on the bed next to her sleeping sister, head cocked to one side in contemplation.

  ‘It’s because of Grace,’ she replied, quickly schooling her features to be alert. Rafe was right: Georgina was always on the hunt for mischief. ‘May I come in?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. My mother is expecting you, isn’t she?’

  Stella nodded. ‘Is she not here?’ Again the obvious. She wanted to bite her tongue out.

  Georgina smirked. ‘She was called away to the phone. Apparently my father wanted to speak rather urgently to her.’

  ‘Where is he?’ It was out before she could stop it.

  Georgina’s attention that had been returning slowly to Grace now snapped back to Stella in blinking surprise, her quizzical expression filled with intrigue. Stella wasn’t going to let her have the opening.

  ‘I mean, he said something yesterday about needing to show me some of the systems for his filing.’ It sounded convincing enough.

  ‘Really? Well, he’s gone to London. Heaven only knows what he does there. Mummy can’t tell me. Probably has a woman, or maybe two, given the time he spends away from us. They must be very dull to want him.’

  ‘Georgina!’

  ‘Do I shock you?’

  ‘You disappoint me, especially in front of Grace.’

  ‘Well, you see, Stella, I’m at least sure that Grace is asleep.’

  She glanced at the little girl, breathing quietly, rhythmically. ‘What does that mean?’

  Georgina smiled and stood, advancing further towards Stella in an intimidating way. ‘It means that you should also be sure that Grace is actually asleep – not just dozing – especially if you’re going to be honest in front of her. I might be the gorgeous daughter but I have to admit, the angels made up for Grace’s lack in the physical department by making her exceptionally smart with a viciously sharp memory.’

  Stella’s frowned deepened. ‘Whatever are you talking about?’

  Beatrice chose this moment to arrive. ‘Yes, whatever are you talking about, Georgina?’

  ‘Nothing important, Mummy. Stella and I were just discussing how it must feel to be the other woman in a man’s life.’

  Stella felt her body turn clammy. No words would come and suddenly she was an observer, unable to participate.

  ‘Other woman? What would you know about being another woman, Georgie darling?’

  ‘Nothing, of course. That’s why I was asking Stella if she’d ever been in that situation; her being older and all that. You know, of being someone’s mistress . . . what it must feel like to be an adulteress.’

  Stella’s throat closed to the point where she thought she was going to start gasping for air, like a fish hooked out of its natural watery environment. She struggled to swallow.

  ‘What a ridiculous and curious question, Georgina. Quite rude too. How should Stella know?’ her mother admonished with an affectionate chuckle. ‘Good morning, Stella,’ Beatrice said as she arrived bedside, leaving Stella to wonder whether yesterday’s reveal was already forgotten.

  ‘Morning, Mrs Ainsworth,’ she choked out, still standing in the middle of the room, hardly daring to make eye contact with Georgina but she knew she must not let this vixen have such control. ‘To answer your question, no, Georgina, I wouldn’t know about any of that.’

  ‘Really? I would have thought any and every man might be in danger with you around.’ She lifted an eyebrow as if they were both aware of a conspiracy and when her mother turned, she grinned sweetly. ‘I mean, you’re so attractive, who couldn’t fail to notice you?’

  ‘Georgina! Be off with you. Thank you for staying with your sister. Now let me have a private talk with Stella, please.’

  ‘I’m going into Brighton, Mummy. Potter is taking me. It’s far too boring here – everyone’s so maudlin.’

  Grace began to stir.

  ‘Bye, Stella,’ Georgina added, with a wink. ‘Nice chatting.’ She departed the room and Stella was left feeling as though a trained boxer had just punched her as hard as he could in her belly.

  ‘You’re very quiet, Stella. Are you offende
d?’

  ‘No . . . er, just a bit shocked by Georgina’s line of questioning,’ she admitted, finally finding her voice.

  ‘I’m afraid Georgina has men on her mind. She’s been seeing a young man – you know, for picnics, meeting for afternoon tea and the like – but I suspect she’s more interested in another.’ Stella schooled her features to appear interested. ‘There’s an older fellow, you see,’ Beatrice continued in a more gossipy tone. ‘Excellent family credentials, who’s quite taken by Georgina – and why not, she’s quite the catch and undoubtedly setting up to be the belle of the 1934 Season.’

  Stella blinked. ‘The Season’ was so removed from her life and yet she was familiar with its crowd of wealthy families that rented houses or, if they were seriously rich, returned to London residences en masse for a chunk of the year to launch the young women in their lives onto the Society scene. It involved everything from attending horse racing to boating competitions but the highlight was the balls. She’d met enough of the folk involved during her days on the department floor to know what a different world they moved in to her. And yet here she was, having a conversation about Georgina being released into a society that prided itself on matching up monied families. She often thought love must be a happy coincidence.

  ‘. . . drives a flashy car, talks himself up. I don’t mind. I think a young man should have a healthy ego. Doug won’t hear of him taking her out yet. He said both should wait until she’s seventeen. Typical father.’ She smiled to herself. ‘I quite like Reginald. Tons of money – she’d want for nothing and gain a title, no less.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Stella murmured, uninterested, her mind racing back over the hidden threat in Georgina’s words. What did she know?

  She watched Beatrice remove a long cigarette from a box of expensive menthols. ‘Help me, would you, Stella?’ she said, offering a small, square-shaped lighter that looked to be inlaid with some sort of black stone. It was surprisingly heavy when she dropped it into Stella’s palm.

  Stella flicked the flame. It caught instantly. ‘This is rather lovely,’ she said to fill the awkward silence.

  ‘From Doug,’ Beatrice replied just before she sucked back to drag the flame onto the tip. ‘Our first anniversary – I’m quite sentimental about it and I’m not very sentimental about much,’ she said. ‘Black onyx,’ she added as Stella gave it back. The cigarette looked elegant in Beatrice’s manicured hand. The smoke didn’t drift into her eye either to make her blink or squint, nor did it make her cough. Instead she inhaled slow and deep as the air in Grace’s bedroom lost the sharp, medicinal tang of witch hazel that had obviously been daubed on her head and became newly fragranced by the camphor-laced smoke.

  ‘So . . . Stella,’ Beatrice began in a tone that sounded suddenly stiff.

  ‘Yes?’

  Gone was the languid pose on the bed and the conversational tone. Now Beatrice was straight-backed and focused. ‘Yesterday was a difficult day for all of us, I’m sure you’d agree?’

  Stella nodded, not daring to break eye contact with the glacial stare that pinned her like prey.

  ‘Good. It was unfortunate you were put into the position of witnessing what should have remained a private conversation.’ She raised a hand as Stella opened her mouth to leap in with an apology. ‘That was my fault, but I had no idea that my husband was so upset. Doug is usually impervious to the comings and goings of the house.’

  ‘But this was his daughter,’ Stella let slip.

  Beatrice’s lips thinned. ‘Yes, and that’s my point. I had misjudged how upset he was by Grace’s accident. He blames himself, I can tell. Anyway, something was exposed that —’

  No, she wasn’t prepared to go through it again. Stella jumped in. ‘Mrs Ainsworth, I was employed to help improve your daughters’ French and appreciation of cultural aspects of life and now I understand that I am to help with filing of information for Mr Ainsworth’s work. I’m happy with the work. That’s all that interests me. I do not wish to be drawn into any discussion about the family’s private affairs.’ She could see this brought a relief as Beatrice’s shrouded gaze lost some of its storminess. ‘And before you feel you must ask, Mrs Ainsworth, whatever I inadvertently shared was never my business and I have no intention of making it so. What I heard I will not be speaking about with the staff or anyone else.’

  ‘I appreciate your discretion, Stella. And I would like to apologise for anything said yesterday that may have given offence.’

  ‘You were both clearly upset, Mrs Ainsworth.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I wish to know for sure.’

  Stella took an audible breath. ‘No offence was taken,’ she lied, but only for his sake.

  Her employer’s expression rearranged itself away from concern; the brows unstitching themselves as Beatrice’s forehead smoothed over and her shoulders relaxed and her gaze lost its hostility. Her slight air of disdain was back as she waved a hand, and a trail of silver smoke followed, as though wafting away the ugly business of yesterday. ‘Good. Doug’s in London; he just called me a few moments ago from his club. Apparently he’s having to bring the voyage he’s so determined to share forward.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ she said, the phone call of the previous evening still echoing in her mind. So he was going ahead with the plan of Basil Peach. ‘Under the circumstances I completely understand.’ She was gabbling. Beatrice was staring at her in bafflement. ‘Um, I can head back to London immediately.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I won’t make it at all difficult, Mrs Ainsworth. I can be gone from here in hours.’

  ‘Stella, stop chittering and allow me to explain. I asked to see you this morning because I had to talk to you about a new schedule. On my husband’s instructions I am to have you shown into his attic offices so you can begin your work for him. He has left you a detailed guide to what needs doing urgently. Please don’t ask me, I have no idea of his work. I also wanted to discuss an adjusted schedule for Grace, given her new situation. However, suddenly that conversation is academic now the trip is brought forward.’

  Yes, you leave soon, she wanted to tell her.

  ‘Apparently we leave in a few days. A few days!’ Beatrice exclaimed with as much shock in her tone as though she’d been told the trip was leaving for the moon.

  ‘And much as I don’t wish to be travelling right now, I admit that escaping drizzling England feels tempting. Besides, he’s not leaving me much of an excuse.’

  Stella was waiting for the axe to fall. Something along the lines of: ‘Sorry to change the plans; can’t be helped; we’ll give you a good severance pay and all that.’ Her thoughts must have reflected in her expression because Beatrice sighed away her selfish concerns and became more focused on Stella. ‘Anyway, Doug has instructed that you are coming with us.’

  She gasped, uncertain she’d heard correctly. ‘Abroad?’ She was aware her tone sounded appalled.

  ‘Yes, Stella.’

  ‘Where to?’ It was an instinctive response.

  ‘Oh, heavens. How should I know? Port Said, or something, although Doug is notoriously vague about these things. As you know, he’s got it into his head to take us all on a grand voyage and given yesterday’s words I feel I should just bear up and go along. Doug says I won’t be pressed to do any touring even if he leaps off to do his butterflies and birds and plant stuff. I know he won’t be able to resist Morocco . . . Rabat, Tangiers.’

  ‘Why is that?’ Her mind was swimming. The ‘peacock’ rendezvous was in Africa . . .

  ‘His father was some sort of diplomat who roamed that whole region – I’ve never paid enough attention so don’t ask me in what capacity. Mother very beautiful like her son – an artist, I think. Loved the colours of the desert and of the souks.’ She sighed. ‘They moved around like gypsies . . . what do they call the locals who travel on camels?’

  Stella wasn’t sure that Beatrice really wanted an answer. ‘Bedouin,’ she murmured all the same.

  Beatrice inhaled deeply a
gain from her cigarette and nodded silently. She blew out, lifting her pointed chin towards the ceiling. ‘Probably erected huge and colourful tents too, I’m sure, because the family hated being parted. He speaks of exotic places like Fez and Casablanca – I barely know where those places are. The Levant, do you suppose?’

  ‘North Africa, I believe,’ Stella mumbled.

  Beatrice tinkled a laugh and noticed Stella’s perplexed expression. ‘Well, you know your geography.’ She smiled a false brightness. ‘Anyway, the fact is, my husband seems to prefer biblical destinations than the more run-of-the-mill ones that suits the everyday person, like Paris or Rome.’

  Or, Blackpool, or the Isle of Wight, even, Stella thought, betraying no sulkiness in her expression; what would Beatrice know about the everyday person?

  ‘Plus he likes to practise his language skills. Why he can’t just sail to France and use his French, or ride the banks of the Danube and speak German is beyond me. No, it has to be far-flung places like Palestine. Somewhere near the Holy Land, is it?’

  Stella’s thoughts snapped to attention. ‘Mr Ainsworth can speak Arabic?’

  ‘Oh, he speaks several languages,’ Beatrice replied, taking a final drag, her lips wrinkling in the effort like a prune and then relaxing again with a sigh as she blew out the final drift of smoke. She stubbed the cigarette out on a flat tin ashtray she’d had beside her on Grace’s bed. ‘I’ve never taken much interest and only hear him mutter some French when we find ourselves in Paris together. So long as he can order a gin and tonic wherever we happen to be, then I’m impressed.’