The Snow Rose

by Lulu Taylor

  Arabella paid no attention at all.

  Cecily was the darling, as she was to their parents. Cecily’s brown hair didn’t stick out in all directions but emerged from the rags and pins in shining ringlets that Letty, with her kinks and flattened bits, envied. Cecily’s brown eyes sparkled hazel in the light and she danced very well. Her tendency to tell lies was never remarked upon, in a house full of people living in dream worlds. Besides, no one was really sure what was true and what wasn’t, with so many versions of events floating around. Nanny said one thing, the girls three different things. The housemaid saw something they’d none of them witnessed, and the parlour maid had seen nothing at all, but could make a good guess. Mama knew nothing of the nursery and believed whatever had been said to her last. And Papa laughed it all away and told them they were ninnies and would they please all be quiet?

  It was Cecily’s most bitter moment when the house had been left entirely to Arabella, and ten thousand to Lettice. Cecily received eight thousand because, Letty suspected, she had a husband whereas she and Arabella had not. Until then, Cecily had enjoyed the charmed existence of being pretty – in comparison to the others, at least – and engaged at eighteen to the younger son of a prosperous farmer whose only mistake had been to father seven boys, of whom Edward was the youngest, and eight girls. It had made sense, with Mama dead and Papa ailing, for the young couple to live in the large house, now without such a phalanx of servants as there used to be. Papa got rid of the butler and most of the footmen to avoid the manservant tax, and kept the gardeners, grooms and the driver, who didn’t count as taxable. Cecily seemed to have got used to her position in charge of Hanthorpe, chivvying Papa from armchair to bedroom and then, Arabella said, to death. The terms of his will came as a shock to Cecily. She’d assumed that she was evidently fitted to running the house and was preparing to fill it with children, and was loudly outraged that it had been left to Arabella, though what she had expected, Lettice didn’t know. The house could hardly be divided into three. Even though Arabella was its mistress, they all continued to live in it together, in a scratchy, rough kind of way, getting along but without much joy. Cecily and Edward must have always suspected that if Arabella married, they would have to leave, but perhaps they counted on her remaining a spinster. Marriageable men were at a premium these days. Edward had lost four brothers in the war, and three of his sisters had resigned themselves to their single fate and taken holy orders. Cecily would have been delighted if Arabella had done something so convenient and docile. But no. Arabella would never submit in that way. Whatever path she took would be full of adventure of some kind.

  And she has not disappointed.

  For one day, Arabella walked into a chapel in Farmouth and stumbled upon her revelation. She fell at once into utter and absolute devotion to the Beloved and his cause. She intended to be his most faithful disciple.

  The train rocked as it hurtled along the rails, chugging and snapping as it went. Letty was weary from her recent travel. She’d already spent three hours on the train this morning, and now another three in the afternoon.

  I don’t think Cecily and Edward would accept the Beloved. Even if the Beloved wanted them.

  The Beloved was a white-haired man who seemed ordinary enough until he turned those eyes to you. Like shafts of bright sunlight, their gaze seemed to flare out and pierce all they touched, as though he could see to the heart of everything. The Beloved had something magic about him, an undeniable charisma. Lettice had seen him only once, when Arabella had persuaded her to make the trip down to Farmouth to the chapel. ‘You must come,’ she urged. ‘I don’t know how long he’ll be allowed to preach there. The bishop is already talking of defrocking him.’

  ‘Why?’ Lettice asked, surprised.

  ‘Because he’s a fool, like all the rest,’ Arabella said impatiently. ‘They can’t see the truth. They’re blinded by evil, naturally. But you’ll understand when you listen to him.’

  The chapel was in a back street, some way out of the main part of town and far from the seafront where families were walking and taking the air. They went into its single storey, though it had a balcony level running around the three walls and facing the altar. The Beloved conducted the service, which began familiarly enough: a welcome, prayers, a collect and a shriving. Then a hymn was sung, and a reading given from the Bible, along with a psalm and a New Testament passage. A hymn and then the Gospel. After that, the Beloved – I mean, the Reverend Phillips, of course, I must stop calling him the Beloved – climbed into the pulpit and began to speak. He was ordinary enough to look at, except for his snow-white hair, unusual for a man in his forties, which surprisingly gave him an air of youthfulness, helped by his slightly tanned complexion. He wore the sober black clothes of a minister and seemed no different to any other man of God – but when he began to speak and his eyes to flash and his arms to lift to heaven, he was spellbinding. Afterwards, Letty never could remember what had been said in any detail, only what it had felt like to listen. He had started quietly enough, in a tone of hushed reverence, as he began to describe the Gospel story they had heard that day, and to make the link to the Old Testament reading, which had been the story of the near-sacrifice of Isaac. What was it in the way he told it, Letty wondered afterwards, that made it so thrillingly exciting? By the time he described Abraham freeing the beast in the thicket and sacrificing it in his son’s stead, the whole place was aquiver, a kind of shifting and breathing testifying to the pent-up emotion inside them all. When Letty looked about, she noticed that there seemed to be more women than men in the congregation, respectable widows who’d lost husbands in the war, and women who would have wed if there’d only been the men to marry when they were at their ripest. They all sat together in the pews, cheeks flushed under their best hats. Then, when Letty could practically feel the thrill that moved through them all, the anticipation of release, it began. In the pulpit, the Beloved started to groan and moan, and then to move. His shoulders jerked as if he were being shaken by an unknown force. His head flew from side to side as though an unseen hand were slapping each cheek in turn. The congregation was still, transfixed as he began to shudder and moan, then to shout. His hands clasped the pulpit as if to stop himself being thrown right out of it, and he cried out, his eyes squeezed tight shut as if better to commune with whatever was inside him.

  Arabella seized Letty’s hand and squeezed it hard, her chest rising quickly, her eyes ablaze as she stared at the Beloved, murmuring, ‘Yes! Amen!’ with increasing fervour, and the other women around them did the same, panting and trembling and crying out. Letty found herself stirred up by all the excitement and passion, clutching the pew in front as the Beloved shook and shouted and raised his face to heaven.

  The Beloved’s words, the exact words, she forgot almost at once, but he spoke powerfully of the Lamb, about the blood, and the nearness of judgement and salvation. She knew he had denounced sin, the way they all lived, and declared that he saw visions as clear as day, the vision of what the Lamb wanted, and what the Lamb wanted was—

  ‘Letty?’

  Arabella’s voice breaks into her thoughts, springing her out of them. She is flustered, as though she’s been caught in some lurid private fantasy of her own, something rather vulgar that ought not to happen in public. ‘Yes?’

  Arabella blinks sleepily. ‘What time is it? Aren’t we there yet?’

  ‘We will be soon,’ Letty answers, looking at her watch. ‘We’re nearly there.’

  The scene at home is not what Lettice expected, nor, by the looks of it, what Arabella expected either. The motor was, naturally, not at the station to meet them, and the one taxi was absent. By chance they found Billy Miller, the boy from Ashtree Farm, returning from collecting parcels for his mistress, and he said he could easily take them back on his cart. They didn’t talk of private matters while sitting up on the seat with Billy, and the pony went at a slow pace, which took some of the wind out of Arabella’s sails. Nonetheless, when they arrive at
the house, she manages to fire herself up again, jump down without Billy’s help, and rap on the front door with satisfied force.

  ‘Let me in at once!’ she demands, as though they’ve barricaded the front door against her. It is opened a moment later by a timid-looking maid, who gasps to see the familiar face of Arabella, and Lettice wide-eyed and apprehensive behind her.

  ‘Enid,’ says Arabella, her nose high in the air. ‘Where are my sister and brother-in-law?’

  ‘Mr and Mrs Ford are in the drawing room,’ stammers Enid, unable to prevent herself bobbing to Arabella as though she is a returning queen.

  ‘Thank you, Enid,’ says Letty, unable to keep the note of apology out of her voice as Arabella marches past, saying, ‘I shall surprise them there!’

  ‘Will you want tea, miss?’ whispers Enid.

  ‘No, thank you,’ Letty says, fearing broken china and hot spills in the fray that will follow, and hurries after Arabella as she reaches the drawing room door and flings it open.

  The afternoon light coming in through the large bay window, filtered through the dark green leaves of the rhododendron bushes outside, is pale grey and anaemic. Cecily sits on the sofa sewing her embroidery, while Edward stands by the fire, leaning on the marble mantleshelf, one hand thrust into the pockets of his tweed trousers, a country gentleman at home. Cecily lifts her head and Edward turns as Arabella pushes the door open and strikes an attitude in the doorway.

  ‘Ha!’ she cries. ‘You didn’t expect this, did you? Your plan has failed. I am home.’

  ‘So I see,’ Cecily says, putting down her embroidery. She has a studiedly dignified air. ‘Welcome back, Arabella. We’re very glad you’re well again. And as for it being a surprise, I’m afraid we’ve been expecting you. Mr Barrett telephoned a few hours ago to let us know you were coming home.’

  ‘And, naturally, we are delighted,’ Edward adds in a grave tone.

  Arabella blinks at them. Then she frowns. ‘What do you have to say for yourselves? You have behaved outrageously – criminally! I am within my rights to sue you, as well you know.’ She advances into the room, her chin still held high. ‘Perhaps I shall.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s any need for that,’ Edward says in a placatory way. He gestures at an armchair. ‘Sit down. We can talk about this amicably, can’t we? After all, we’re family, aren’t we?’

  ‘Family?’ Arabella looks scornfully at the armchair. ‘No true family would do what you have done.’

  ‘Please, Arabella,’ Cecily says with a sweet smile, ‘you know we only acted in your best interests, for your own good. We did what we thought was right, and if it was mistaken, then I’m sure we both heartily apologise. We are delighted that you are well and home.’

  Arabella looks at them suspiciously, and then casts a quick glance to Letty, who has followed her sister in, as if to see what she makes of this. ‘You two only act in your own interests,’ she says, ‘so forgive me if I don’t fall weeping into your arms. I know very well what’s going on, and I won’t stand for it. I’m as sane as you are, probably more, and I am the mistress of this house.’ She draws herself up again so that she stands very straight. ‘I think the time has come for you to leave and form your own household elsewhere. After what has happened, I do not believe that we can live harmoniously together.’

  There is a long silence. Letty looks from Cecily to Edward, trying to read the expressions on their faces. After all, this was what they’d been trying to avoid all along, and now Arabella has made her decision – unmaking her mind has always been next to impossible.

  Edward spreads his hands wide and smiles. ‘Arabella, I believe you’re right. The cause of this trouble has been an over-proximity between us. It’s not always easy to rub along, and religion, like politics, can divide the fondest families. The time has come for us to go. We shall start to look for another house immediately. Won’t we, my love?’ He appeals to Cecily with raised eyebrows.

  ‘Yes, Edward,’ Cecily answers meekly.

  Arabella stares, surprised at the way things are turning out, taken aback that her desire for a confrontation is to be thwarted after all. ‘Very well,’ she says at last. ‘Good.’

  Letty wonders where this leaves her. Will she stay here with Arabella, the two of them alone in this huge place, a pair of spinsters, one of whom is obsessed with the Beloved and the Day of Judgement? Or will she go with Cecily and Edward, no doubt to end up running their household, governing their children, her days disappearing in myriad tasks, requests and instructions? Is it better to be anchored in this life, or the next?

  But I wonder what Edward has in mind. It’s not like him to be docile, or to give up easily.

  She must not be unfair to them, though. They may have decided that the better course was to accept that the house belonged to Arabella, and to relinquish it to her.

  Cecily stands up. ‘Shall I ring for tea? You must be thirsty after your journey. Sit down, Arabella, you too, Letty, and we’ll have tea together.’

  Considering that two of the party have attempted to have another committed to a lunatic asylum, tea is very civilised. Arabella is unable to resist talking of her adventures, telling the story of her spell in the Moorcroft, her removal to Peckham and her escape, as though it was all a lark in which her cleverness triumphed. Cecily and Edward listen, rapt, as they absorb it all, almost applauding when Arabella reaches the part about her victory over Barrett and his men, as though Barrett were not their own agent.

  There is something very strange about all this, Letty thinks, watching them over the rim of her teacup. The game is not yet finished. Edward and Cecily have another plan. Her gaze slides to her older sister, animated and vibrant, full of talk, unaware that she’s been speaking for a full thirty minutes without a pause and is still going, words falling from her like water from a tap. Arabella is no fool and yet she can be so blind. Will they manage to persuade her of their good intentions? But she is determined that they should go. They will have to work hard to change her mind on that front.

  Nevertheless, by the end of the day, it seems that good relations have been restored and the unpleasantness is put behind them. Arabella even kisses her sister goodnight before returning to her bedroom, tired out from her long and exciting day.

  Letty goes to her room, also exhausted. She is certain that Cecily will punish her for her part in Arabella’s return. But how, she is not sure.

  Chapter Twelve

  Hello Rachel,

  You’ll know by now that two other guardians have arrived. Sophia and Agnes are terrific people – I’m sure you’ll enjoy having them around. Thanks for your report. It was invaluable in preparing for their arrival. I trust you’ve been able to maintain your privacy. Please do tell me if there are any issues at all but I have every confidence that the arrangement will work. Sophia tells me you’re painting in the front room! That’s great to hear. I’d love to see your artwork one day. Meanwhile, please ask if you’ve got any questions.

  All best wishes,

  Alison

  Yes. I have a question. Who or what is the Beloved, and when might it be arriving?

  I close Alison’s email, deciding not to reply. I’m beginning to realise that communicating with Alison is a one-way affair. My worries and queries bounce off her and she pursues her own course whatever. I might as well not bother fretting over who might arrive at the house or when. It will happen when it happens.

  I laugh drily to myself when I imagine Alison arriving and inspecting my art. The paper is covered in great splodges and splotches of paint, mostly black and yellow as though I’m a bee fanatic, applied in fierce whirls and abstract slashes. It means nothing. It’s an almighty mess. But no doubt she’d consider it thoughtfully, compliment my talent and lie herself blue in the face about how good it is, while privately thinking I’m a total fraud.

  It’s a bright morning, the sky clear and cerulean except for wisps of cloud that look like they’ve escaped from a bigger bank somewhere and have floated
off to find new horizons. The bite in the air has softened, and I’ve spotted some yellow trumpets of daffodils in the garden. I sent Heather out to play this morning, well wrapped up in jumpers, a coat and a hat. I worry about her fragile health, but I also know that fresh air is good for youngsters, so I think on balance it’s better for her to go out. Anyway, she’ll go stir-crazy if she’s kept in. I’m sure that she won’t be spotted by the women upstairs; I suspect Agnes and Sophia sleep late, in the way of people without children. Years of rising between five and seven o’clock in the morning to tend to babies has irreversibly altered my body clock and now I think of eight o’clock as a lie-in. I envy their ability to sleep on through the morning, and I’m glad it gives me a window of freedom.

  I feel the urge to be out there myself, breathing in the spring air, smelling the scents of the garden. I jump up, fetch my coat and let myself out of the French windows into the morass of overgrown shrubbery, making my way to Heather’s little den under the bay tree.

  ‘Heather?’ I stoop down to look into the hollow underneath. ‘Sweetie?’

  There’s no reply and no sign of her. A pile of old withered leaves that were once her plates and cups sits abandoned near small heaps of damp earth. There are scuff marks in the ground, but she isn’t here.

  ‘Heather?’ I don’t want to raise my voice too much in case the women upstairs hear me and look out. ‘Where are you?’

  I listen hard for her. Amidst the sound of the spring birdsong, I think I can hear a faint answering call. ‘Mummy!’ Her voice, soft as a breeze, carrying over to me.

  ‘Heather, are you okay?’

  I hear the reply: ‘Yes!’

  ‘I’m going over to the cottage next door, sweetie. I’ll be half an hour. Go back inside if you get cold. You can watch the tablet if you like. All right?’

  There it is again. ‘Yeeesss!’

  Where is she? The wind must be carrying her voice in a strange way. I am not worried about her, though. I’m sure she’s safe enough here in the garden, and she’s spent too long hiding away in the bedroom in case the women come downstairs and see her.