by Abigail Agar
Vera’s breath almost stopped. She had never been so close to a man in such a state of undress. The intimate setting of the bedroom, with its marital overtones, filled her with a sense of something powerful but murky. She followed the instructions Helen had given her in their quick walk to the room.
First the curtains. The huge velvet sheets were heavy and stuck on their rails over and over again; it took Vera several minutes to wrestle them open and stoke the fire back up to a proper flame.
Despite the noise she made, the figure in bed remained quiet as the dead.
So to the next task.
From the jug on the tray brought with her, she poured a glass of water setting it beside the table. Then she took the plate with two slices of bread on it to the fire and, taking up a toasting fork, she carefully cooked the slices until their edges began to go black.
These she set beside the glass.
For such a debauched young man, this seems an ascetics breakfast, she thought. Fit more for the board of a monk than a Lord.
Still no movement from within the bed. The covers were drawn up over the head of the sleeper so, as Helen instructed, Vera announced as loud as she could without slipping out of her Fidel voice: ‘Your Lordship. Breakfast is served.’
A groan issued from the bed as if from a dying man.
‘My God, Sir. Are you well?’ Panic crept into her voice; it would be a terrible thing to be in a house of sickness especially so early in her career as an undercover criminal. What if they thought she had poisoned him?
His Lordship rolled over and pulled the covers down to his waist.
His figure was the only thing healthy about him. His eyes were red and bloodshot, with deep grey bruises beneath them, and his hair hung lank over his pale and sickly face.
‘Hullo there,’ he croaked attempting a smile that managed simply to look sick. ‘You must be the new boy. What is your name?’
‘Fidel, my Lord.’
‘Well Fidel, I thank you for the vittles. Perhaps you could bring me a little tea. The previous manservant kept a kettle and china in those drawers over there. I like it made here rather than having it cool on the way over from the kitchen.
Here, at last, was a task Vera felt confident of. She made tea for her family all the time; there would be no issue with this.
‘I do not feel well this morning; something I drank last night did not agree with my stomach.’ He winced. ‘Or my head. Or indeed, most of my aching limbs.’
He leaned across the bed and picked up the plate, eating the dry toast gingerly with a look that suggested he was unsure if the toast might leap from the plate and attempt to reverse the current dynamic of power.
In the drawer indicated was an iron kettle and a beautiful wooden box in which tea leaves and a china cup were carefully placed. An ornate teapot with a pattern painted in faint pink on it was in the drawer below.
With some surprise, Vera noted that the pattern showed a number of wolves chasing a deer. Her dreams of the wolf pack came rushing up at her in delicate pink on the curved surface of the pot, the wolves chasing a hart around and around in circles.
She turned the pot and was relieved to see men atop horses painted in pursuit as well. The wolves were not the ominous portent of her dreams, but mere hunting dogs chasing the deer as quarry.
As she brewed the tea, she found herself stealing glances at the Lord in his bed.
Heavens above, she thought. If I only were not posing as a boy … such a handsome man
Knowing that his pallor and air of ill health had more to do with the excesses of the previous night than some terrifying plague, also calmed her a little.
She found herself dividing her attention between the tea and stealing glances at the Lord’s muscular frame as he ate the toast slowly and sipped the water. She spilt some water in the fire as she hooked the kettle out, and at the hiss, he glanced up; she dropped her head back to her work, embarrassed to have been caught looking.
When the tea was brewed she placed a slice of lemon into the cup and poured the tea over it.
‘Lemon instead of milk, Fidel? Where are you from?’
‘Trust me, My Lord. For an ailing constitution, the lemon is much better than milk. My mother was Polish; she brewed her tea the European way.’
‘Very well, Fidel. But in future, I expect to be consulted on matters of taste.’
‘Of course, Your Lordship. I will be sure not to pre-empt you like that again.’
‘Pre-empt. That is a rather Latinate word for a boy of your ilk … Can you read?’
‘I can read and write English, French and Latin, Your Lordship. My mother, God bless her,’ a pang of pain that was hers as well as Fidel’s ran through Vera’s heart. ‘I was well educated enough. It seemed important for a servant to be able to converse with his master on some topics as an equal.’
She felt herself floundering a little. Was he interrogating her to some end? There was a pointed, almost suspicious look to the way he asked the question.
‘Thank you, Fidel. I merely wanted to know if you could read that volume. He pointed to a copy of The Castle of Otranto.’
Vera smiled a little. ‘Indeed, I have read it myself several times.’
‘Do read it to me then. I must admit to being an admirer of this new Gothic form of writing – and to having some sort of affinity towards it.’ Lord Stanley reached up, pressed a hand to his forehead. ‘Truth be told, I have never been one to decline the offer of a sweet wine, and the young lady in my company last night was most insistent that I consume the entire bottle.’
Vera was shocked by the audacity of the man; here he was almost bragging about the conquest of an innocent the night before. ‘With all respect due to Your Lordship, perhaps such admissions are not wholly appropriate for a boy of my age.’
‘I have shocked you, Fidel? I must apologise. I presumed a strapping lad like yourself would have found himself, like Tom Jones or Childe Harold, seduced by many a beauty. It is a rare thing in these troubled times for a fair youth to retain their innocence.’
‘Perhaps all the harder for men like Your Lordship.’
Vera saw the change in expression, and she immediately wished she could take back her accusation. The line was crossed, and she might be for a thrashing now.
She issued prayer after prayer to the almighty, as Lord Stanley gained composure. Laughing lightly he said, ‘Careful, Fidel. Customs here are not the same as in your mother’s Poland. You will be more circumspect in your tone with me.’
‘Of course, My Lord. My apologies … it was not my place.’
Apparently satisfied with this response, the Lord leaned back and closed his eyes, saucer and cup held in front of him. ‘Read on my boy from where the page is marked.’
Vera sat in the chair beside the table. This was not unexpected, Helen had mentioned that His Lordship liked to be read to, but the prospect of performing before such a man made Vera feel as if she were about to be sent into battle as a boy rather than simply read from a book she had read many times before.
For some reason, she found herself wanting to please Lord Stanley, after all, he was rather handsome.
The book fell open in her hand, and she slipped the bookmark onto its side using it to mark her place as she read down the page.
Her voice trembled as she began: ‘Manfred, accompanied by the Friar, passed to his own apartment, where shutting the door, “I perceive, Father,” said he, “that Isabella has acquainted you with my purpose. Now hear my resolve, and obey. Reasons of state, most urgent reasons, my own and the safety of my people, demand that I should have a son. It is in vain to expect an heir from Hippolyta. I have made choice of Isabella…’
Her voice cracked and quavered at first, but as she read she found that the process of following the words closely had a calming effect. She became absorbed in the story.
‘Persuade her to consent to the dissolution of our marriage, and to retire into a monastery — she shall endow one if she will; and she s
hall have the means of being as liberal to your order as she or you can wish. Thus you will divert the calamities that are hanging over our heads, and have the merit of saving the principality of Otranto from destruction.’
As she read she became aware of the strange parallels between Otranto and Avonside Manse. The odd rumours and fearful tales. But now that she was here she could see the place was a beautiful one. Not sinister like the castle in the novel. It was only the people who were sinister, who carried their secrets. She read on:
‘“The will of heaven be done!” said the Friar. “I am but its worthless instrument. It makes use of my tongue to tell thee, Prince, of thy unwarrantable designs. The injuries of the virtuous Hippolyta have mounted to the throne of pity. By me thou art reprimanded for thy adulterous intention of repudiating her: by me, thou art warned not to pursue the incestuous design on thy contracted daughter.’
She couldn’t help chuckling a little at the scandalous world of Walpole’s work, all tortured romance and sinister houses.
‘Heaven that delivered her from thy fury, when the judgments so recently fallen on thy house ought to have inspired thee with other thoughts, will continue to watch over her. Even I, a poor and despised Friar, am able to protect her from thy violence—I, sinner as I am, and uncharitably reviled by your Highness as an accomplice of I know not what amours, scorn the allurements with which it has pleased thee to tempt mine honesty.’
Vera glanced up and caught His Lordship looking at her with a quizzical expression on his face. ‘Why on Earth do you voice the priest in such girlish tones?’ He smiled conspiratorially.
Horror hit Vera like a brick; she felt sweat in her armpits. She had indeed been doing the voices for each character and in doing so had abandoned the voice of Fidel for something closer to her own. Had she given the game away? Would she be caught?
Her mind was frantic, trying to find some explanation when Lord Stanley said, ‘Are you a secret Catholic, spying on us for Napoleon? Do you mock our mother Church? I wouldn’t have thought so virtuous a boy to be a one for satire.’
Again relief flooded her. ‘No, Your Lordship. I was thinking of a particular priest from my home parish whose voice did sound like a girl of twenty though he was a great big man of over fifty, some six feet tall and as bearded as the wolf.’
She was surprised that in the moment of calm the lie came so easily. Perhaps this plan would work out.
She read for another half of an hour until Lord Stanley had finished his bread and tea. Then he stopped her.
‘Thank you, Fidel. You have a very soothing voice. I will not be needing you again. However, be sure to wake me early tomorrow. Eleven o’clock. And have my riding gear ready; I wish to take my new horse out. Have you been taught to ride?’
‘Yes, Sir. I needed to in order to help keep my father’s land.’
‘Excellent. I like to have an attendant at hand when I take my dogs out – someone to hold the bottle of wine – and the last boy didn’t know which end the horse was to be fed and which end shat it out. Speak to the stable boy before you wake me tomorrow and have the new horse prepped for me. Pick your own to ride. Tell Caruthers I will not need supper today as I will be otherwise engaged in the arms of Morpheus.’
‘As you wish, Sir.’
***
The rest of Vera’s day was a welter of information from Caruthers. She was rushed through room after room, the kitchens and servants quarters where she met the rest of the staff, surprisingly small for so large an estate: Caruthers, two cooks, two scullery maids whose job it was to keep the house clean, Helen who seemed to have a more general purpose role, and Eli the gardener.
Caruthers spoke almost non-stop throughout his tour: ‘Lord Stanley keeps many more workers to tend to the general maintenance of the house and gardens, but they come in for one day of the week and are expected to be gone by sundown. Our master does not like to keep those he does not trust in his close employ. This means that you will be expected to assist me in attending to His Lordship’s direct needs, and when not employed in that task you will assist the female staff in their duties.’
On and on he spoke as they moved through the corridors of the house and he showed off the library, the two ballrooms, the small supper room and larger dining room. There was a room for billiards and cards, and three drawing rooms decorated in different styles.
There was a family portraiture in which a huge pianoforte stood beneath a large portrait of Vera’s new Lord. As Caruthers listed facts about the providence of the wood from which the piano had been made, Vera studied the face of her new employer.
The artist had given him a rather cruel curl to the mouth that she had not noticed in her employer while under the cover of his own bed. Now he stared severely from the painting in a frown; the painter had tactfully painted out the haggard and bloodshot air from his subject.
Apart from this, he was portrayed as attractive, with thick brown hair worn long without a wig and an athletic build that suggested the use of the stables and tennis court she had seen on the way in, matching her stolen glances.
In one hand he held a glass of wine while the other rested on the pommel of an old-fashioned sword in the style of a Roundhead or Cavalier with a carefully wrought handle. His suit was dark and his demeanour sad.
With all these flaws painted out, he seems perfect. I could fall in love with the man in that gilt frame, thought Vera as if that could shake the unsettling feeling of attraction she had felt for the real man of whom she disapproved.
‘An unfortunate picture, Fidel my boy,’ said Caruthers noticing her interest. He rested a gentle hand on her shoulder in a most familiar way as he explained. ‘Lord Stanley was in mourning for his father when they painted that. It has been seven years since that tragic year. Still, we must continue …’
Vera was shown the bedrooms which would hold visitors when there were any. All of them were empty at the time and apart from a smell of dust were all luxurious in their size and furniture.
Each one contained a four-poster, Ottoman sofa, and a number of armchairs upholstered in a range of European styles going back decades, each with a footstool.
Eventually, they came to the door of His Lordship’s chamber wherein, ‘Our Lord and Master is no doubt sleeping away in much the same state you left him.’ Caruthers looked faintly disgusted when he spoke these words.
Vera could only imagine what debauched and Sybaritic scene Caruthers was imagining Lord Stanley was guilty of. Then she was led past a number of locked doors which led to a closed-up wing of the house.
‘Why are we not touring the East Wing?’ Vera asked having checked the direction against the sinking of the sun when they passed a window.
A clock chimed out the seventh hour of the afternoon as Caruthers brushed the question aside. ‘It is closed up because it is not in use. We do not need to go into it and so do not. Nothing but sheet-covered heirlooms and more vases than the staff are willing to dust.’
When they returned to the kitchen, Vera was given a supper of bread and soup, with a glass of cheap gin cut heavily with water. She ate alone, the rest of the staff having already eaten.
Helen came in near the end; she had such a bright and sunny personality and was of an age that Vera would have seen as ideal for a companion had she not been in disguise as a younger man. It seemed a shame that they could not interact as friends but must stand at the formal distance required of their genders.
‘Hello, there,’ said Helen with great familiarity, surprising Vera as she sat down, picked up Vera’s glass, and took a sip. ‘What do you think of the place? Horrid isn’t it?’ Helen laughed gaily, showing her teeth and giving off such a charming sense of their having been friends forever that Vera almost spoke in her own voice when she asked: