by Gloria Cook
From being thrilled that Belle loved his work (he had discounted Charlie sharing the experience with her) Finn now went rigid. Charlie said . . . Charlie was his rival, his enemy in his way to Belle. Charlie should keep his nose out of Finn’s life.
‘Finn, what do you think about what I’ve said?’ Belle asked.
Finn heard the uncertainty in Belle’s voice. ‘It’s a very good idea, thank you, Belle,’ he answered rapidly, hating that he had made her feel uncomfortable. ‘And yes, I have run it through my mind.’
‘I’ll look out Sam’s old childhood books and jot down the addresses,’ Belle said. With breakfast over she stood and started clearing the table. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to shoo you out now. I’ve still got a busy day ahead. More in the house to do and meals to prepare, and then it’s outside to help with the mass of pruning and insect control. It’s my job to stake the tomatoes and spray them with compost tea. I’ll fetch your sketchbook.’
Finn said a cheerful goodbye but as he cycled away from The Orchards he was thoroughly disgruntled. Of all the words Belle had said to him what kept blowing coldly through his mind was I’m afraid I’m going to have to shoo you out. It was the way one would speak to a child, a young person. Belle did not see him as a man, not yet, and it threatened to tear his heart to splinters. He was a man, an experienced sexual being, and somehow he was going to show this side of himself to Belle.
Eighteen
Jack arrived home late at night. He crept in but he wasn’t surprised to be very quickly waited upon by Sidney Kelland. His house steward was conscious of every creak and scuffle of the house. He had heard his master, jumped out of bed on the second-floor servants’ quarters, pulled on his dressing gown and slippers and presented himself at the foot of the stairs.
‘Can I get you anything, sir?’ Kelland asked in a voice steeped in genuine respect and helpfulness. ‘It’s good to see you again, sir.’
‘Thank you, Kelland,’ Jack replied simply. ‘You go back to bed. I’ll just get myself a nightcap. Tell Mrs Kelland I’ll be taking a late breakfast.’
‘Yes sir. Goodnight, sir.’
‘Just one thing before you go up, Kelland. How is Miss Barnicoat getting on?’
‘I watched her carefully, Mr Newton. She’s kept to your rules and asked questions only in relation to her work, and kindly asked every day about the health of the staff. Mrs Kelland and I and Cathy have all enjoyed her presence. She likes to take her morning tea with us round the kitchen table.’
‘Good, good.’ Jack nodded his head. ‘Back up to your slumbers, Kelland, and I’ll see you in the morning.’
Going off to the capacious drawing room, Jack poured himself vodka and tonic water. He was aware of the lingering lightness of Verity’s summery perfume and nodded in satisfaction. As he always did when in this room he went to the piano and picked up the photograph of Lucinda and himself. ‘Hello, my love,’ he whispered, his voice hoarse and husky, his heart immediately choked with pain, sorrow and regret.
He downed his drink and went outside into the moonlit night. Leaving the formal gardens he followed an unmarked and meandering path known only to him and the Kellands. He passed through bushes and trees, something he could do even on a pitch-black night, turning off to other paths until at last he came to the small natural clearing, once his childhood retreat. On the spot where he had built a camp, with blankets, books, a lantern and teddy bear to escape the reality of his father’s harshness, Lucinda and her beloved Polly were now buried. He had made it a beautiful grave for a beautiful girl, his child-bride.
Dipping down and sitting with his back against a beech tree, Jack gazed damp-eyed at the grey-stone grave, closed in by green-painted picket fencing. The only words on the headstone were ‘Lucinda and Polly’. It was all Jack had felt was needed. He never brought flowers. Flowers withered and died and Lucinda had hated dead things. ‘How are you, dear girl? Have you been happily playing with Polly? The angels are looking after you. They must love you so much. You’re so like an angel yourself. They must understand why you did all you did. You know I do. I only wish . . . but that doesn’t matter now.’
His mind slipped back to when he had first come across Lucinda, on an early morning in a quiet piazza in Florence. She had stood out for many reasons, the most compelling her rare and innocent young beauty. Dressed in old-fashioned ankle-length white lace with a pink sash, a bonnet and dainty slippers, she had been clutching a tiny white poodle and had looked lost and frightened. Jack had been gripped by an immense desire to help and protect this ethereal stranger.
He had lifted off his hat and addressed her carefully. ‘Good morning, miss, may I be of assistance to you?’
‘You are English,’ she had chimed in relief. ‘I am also, from Hertfordshire. I was brought here years ago by my guardian, after my parents were killed in a train crash. I’m looking for a respectable hotel to stay in. Do you know of one?’
‘Well, I’m staying at the Hotel Alessandra. I can recommend it. The rooms and service are excellent. My name is Jack Newton, by the way. I’m pleased to meet you.’
She had given him a sweet curtsy and Jack’s fascination with her had grown. ‘I’m Miss Lucinda Aster, and this Polly. Is the hotel far from here, Mr Newton? I feel apprehensive out here in the streets. I’ve walked a long way and I’m rather tired. I would so love a nap.’
A nap? It was obvious Miss Lucinda Aster had been kept as a little girl, and just as evident now Jack had taken a closer look at her were the holes in her slippers and the dust on the hem of her dress. She truly did look overcome with weariness and discomfort. ‘It’s just a couple of streets away, actually. I’m here sightseeing.’ Street sweepers and early risers were staring curiously at Lucinda and Jack felt she was vulnerable and therefore at risk of meeting misfortune, even danger. She needed a protector. ‘Would you like to take my arm, Miss Aster?’
Her careworn frown disappeared and she nodded. Jack had realized how shy she was and what an effort it had been for her to reply to him. She trusted him, and he felt his heart wrapping around her. He could be a charlatan, a terrible threat to her, yet in her limited experience, because there was no doubt she was totally unworldly, she trusted him. Many emotions had hit Jack, and he wanted to be this girl’s shield and minder at all costs. His father had habitually jeered that he would never amount to much, yet something in his character had told this innocent he could be thoroughly trusted and counted upon.
‘I’m so glad I got you away from your misery, Lucinda,’ Jack whispered through the damp night. ‘And that you found peace and a delight in life for so many months, until things overwhelmed you and you took the only way out you felt you could. You’re always on my mind. I just wish I could have done more to save you. Rest in peace, my angel.’
Nineteen
Ladybirds in top hats, butterflies with long tapering tails, a mole in neck ruffles, rabbits dressed as clowns, flowers with smiling faces and multicoloured petals, a faraway castle flying an impossibly long shimmering flag. These were just some of the fairy-tale depictions Finn had added to the copy of Dorrie’s rabbit nursery rhyme.
‘I can’t admire it enough, Mrs R, your wonderfully cute poem and Finn’s brilliantly clever illustrations,’ Guy said enthusiastically. He was back from Bude, and he and Fiona were at Sunny Corner with Dorrie and Greg for afternoon tea. Eloise was asleep in her pram, the hood up to keep the sun off her delicate healthy pink skin. Guy looked happy and relaxed, and Dorrie knew it was because he was with Fiona. They almost seemed a couple in spite of the fact that Fiona would have to wait a long while to be divorced. It was a perfect sunny day and they were out in the front garden, under the magnolia tree, in lounging chairs around a circular table covered with crisp white linen. Having started off with iced drinks they were now on the treat taken from Dorrie’s precious cache of Earl Grey. ‘Ever thought of clubbing your talents together and trying to get a book published? I’m sure you could come up with many more wonderful rhyming stories
for kids, and your hilarious and ironic adult poetry would be just the thing too. Finn could quite ably illustrate both. The charm and fantasy of it would be just the ticket after the bleakness of the war years. People are ready for something new on all counts. The country is going wild over Princess Elizabeth’s forthcoming wedding. The new films are avidly popular. Why not get in there in another medium?’
‘Oh, I don’t know if I want to do such a thing myself,’ Dorrie said, more than doubtful. Also a little worried. She liked her simple life and did not want anything like personal accomplishment shaking it up, but to help Finn take a step out in life . . . She passed around the cheese straws, squirming inside for Greg had that familiar look of getting fired up about something. He could be a stubborn so-and-so when the bit was between his teeth.
‘That’s a jolly good idea! It’s a wonder I’ve never thought of you publishing your stuff, old girl. Collaborating with Finn could be the very thing for him, start him off on a good career.’
It set Dorrie thinking. If Finn could get a foothold in the market there were all manner of avenues he could approach after that. ‘Well, I suppose it would be fun to get some of my poetry into book form for posterity, but I wonder if Finn would care to work alongside an old dear?’
‘Finn doesn’t think of you like that!’ Fiona jumped in quickly, allowing a little amused laugh. ‘No one does. You’ve got more vitality than the rest of the village put together. He loves your rabbit poem and the other sort of verses you’ve written.’
‘Finn regards you as an aunt and a friend,’ Guy encouraged.
‘Yes, Dor. You’ve said he’s drawn Billy Bunnytop to a T. You could sit round a table and compare ideas but I should think if you simply give Finn some selected poems he’ll dash off the ideal stuff. He’s got a perfect instinct for what is needed. He got all the village buildings off pat. Haven’t heard a single suggestion of his work needing a tweak or two, not even from Mrs Mitchelmore, and that’s saying a lot. People love the portraits he’s done of their family members. He’s a dab hand at animals too. I’m in wonder of the drawing he did of dear old Corky as a gift to us. Pretty lifelike, got all Corky’s mannerisms. From your description of the late Lucinda Newton, she would have made a perfect lost princess for Finn’s paint brushes.’
And so, as always happens in conversations, the subject was changed. Fiona said, ‘I’ve started to become interested in the locals. Jack Newton has come to mind, with Verity now working for him. His young wife was something of a mystery, I understand. Has Verity found out anything about her?’
‘No,’ Dorrie replied with the pride she felt in her niece. ‘In this instance it would be snooping and Verity has kept strictly to the job she’s employed to do.’
‘So there is a mystery?’ Fiona said, pausing in picking up her cup.
‘Not at all,’ Dorrie replied firmly. ‘Jack’s wife was a shy young soul, that’s all.’
‘But she killed herself, Dor,’ Greg reminded his sister in the way Dorrie found maddening. He was a hound on the scent again. ‘Strangely enough, Hector and I were only saying the other day about her—’
‘You and Hector Evans are a couple of determined gossips,’ Dorrie chided. ‘Better-fit you just got on with helping in finishing off the hall when you’re there.’
‘We weren’t at the hall at the time,’ Greg retorted in the smarmy superior tone of one indulging in sibling rivalry. He resented Dorrie getting high-handed with him in company. ‘We were in the pub actually, having a drink with the landlord, Johnny Westlake. The three of us had been working our socks off plastering the hall’s inside walls. Johnny Westlake is a born and bred Nanviscan like me, and we’ve got the right to wonder about those who come among us.’
‘Only Mrs Newton did not choose to come among us. She wanted to retain her privacy, and Jack ensured she did, and that doesn’t make her life and sad demise anyone else’s business. The village can look forward to great things ahead thanks to your efforts in getting the hall built, Greg, concentrate on that.’
She had smartly put him in his place and Greg was flummoxed to find a word that would dig him out of his hole of embarrassment. ‘Where are the ginger biscuits?’ he demanded grumpily while stabbing his forefinger on the arm of his chair. ‘I made them specially for today. You said you would put them on the table.’
‘I’ll trot in and fetch them,’ Dorrie said sweetly. She had got into the habit of ‘forgetting’ to lay everything out for social occasions where Greg was included. It made the ideal excuse to escape a thorny subject he was set on analysing to dust. Affable and caring he may be, but he could be mulish in equal amount.
But in the eternal tug of the sexes, Guy came to Greg’s aid. ‘Can the ginger biscuits wait, Mrs R? I’m fascinated. Given Jack’s proclivity for sophisticated ladies, the sort not looking to tie him down, from what I’ve gleaned about Lucinda she was a very strange choice to take as his wife.’
Aha! Dorrie could read Greg’s mind exclaiming the word with satisfaction. Fiona was looking at Guy and nodding her agreement with him. All eyes fell expectantly on Dorrie. She considered them with a schoolmistress’s withering put-down stare. ‘Does it really matter?’
Faltering, the three glanced at one another hoping someone would come up with a suitable reply. Guy was the one to cough apologetically. ‘I suppose not.’
Smiling pleasantly, Dorrie said, ‘I’ll get the ginger biscuits.’
When she returned with the plate of delicacies, the others were chatting about Finn’s first time at Petherton. ‘I was just saying, Dorrie,’ Fiona explained, ‘that Finn’s having a glorious time rooting about in Mrs Mitchelmore’s cellars. He comes home very dusty, makes for extra laundry.’
‘Really?’ Dorrie peeped into the pram. Eloise was breathing deep and evenly and wouldn’t wake for a while yet. She was such a contented baby, and it was lovely to see Fiona enjoying mothering her now. Fiona had glanced in on her daughter every minute or so. ‘But boys do like anything dark, creepy and mysterious, I’ve found.’
Offering round the plate of his famed baking, Greg muttered drolly, ‘So it’s all right to find Petherton mysterious then?’
‘Any cellar that hasn’t seen the light of day for years is bound to evoke that kind of interest.’ Dorrie ignored Greg. ‘Tell us how Finn gets on with the redoubtable Mrs Mitchelmore, Fiona.’
Twenty
Wearing a cap pulled down tight on his head, Finn fought through a dusty curtain of cobwebs, which glowed eerily in the light from the three lanterns he had hung on nails from the overhead beams. By rights, the spiders that had made this clinging mass should be at least as large as sparrows, with hairy legs and feelers like pikestaffs. A mouse scuttled away from his feet and seemed bigger than the usual greyish variety. Its nails made loud scratching noises and Finn fancied those nails would make deep cuts through human flesh. This happened on the first day he had ventured down the narrow creaking stairs of the larger of the two storage cellars, this one running under the kitchen and ancillary rooms. The first thing he had come face to face with was a skeleton – a real one, he was to learn, for it was a relic of a former Mitchelmore who had been interested in medicine.
He could mention all this to Mrs R and she could form a funny or perhaps a spooky poem out of it. But Mrs Mitchelmore would not approve. She guarded the privacy of her not particularly historic home, striving for the same sense of mystery, Mrs R had remarked to Finn, that the Royals kept themselves in to remain above all other folk.
Finn found Mrs Mitchelmore bossy and starchy, with a hint of kindness, but also personal reserves. While spelling out her first instructions it seemed she quickly became aware she was standing too close to him and she’d backed away.
‘You are to tidy and stack, tidy and stack, that’s all you need to do,’ she had barked at the outset, leading him out from the scullery where he had entered the house. ‘Before my husband’s day everything unneeded was just pushed down into the cellars and they’re in a right merry me
ss. Except the wine cellar; Mr Mitchelmore was most particular about the way he kept his wine. You’ll find all sorts, from old clothes, unwanted furniture and a hideous rocking horse – that can come up, I’ll see if it’s worth restoring. Put it carefully in the corridor. When you’re completely done, Finn, I’ll take a look and see if there’s anything noteworthy or of value. Take the rubbish outside and make a bonfire of it. Ellery will tell you where.
‘Right, now to safety measures. I’ve propped the door open so it doesn’t get accidentally shut on you. There are no windows down there so don’t stay down too long at a time. Be careful you don’t pull something down on yourself. There’s the toolbox for you in case it’s needed, and brushes, a dustpan and rags.
‘I’ve shown you where the cloakroom is. Soap and towels have been put in there for you. Wash up at several intervals. I don’t want to see you looking like a coalman.’ The cellar door in question was opposite the side of the descending servants’ stairs and next to the laundry room. A narrow bench ran between the two rooms. The walls towering upwards were of flaking greenish paint – shabby, but in a proud aristocratic way. ‘A jug of water and tumbler will be placed on the bench for you. Have you brought a packed lunch and something for mid-morning?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Finn had patted the rucksack hanging over his shoulder. ‘A flask of tea and sandwiches.’
‘Good chap, your mother packed it for you, I’m sure, but tell her there was no need – Mitchelmores have never begrudged hospitality to casual workers. Food and drink will be provided for you from tomorrow. If you have any questions, then clean up and seek someone out and ask. I’ll stick my nose in on you from time to time. Let me know the minute you’ve finished all. Well, good luck and get to it!’