‘Has he been in India?’ Alan asked, facetious, and only to get attention. He was told to be quiet. Minnie asked Billie whether she’d like to help, maybe make a fair copy – six or seven were needed.
Billie paused, then explained that she couldn’t write. She didn’t blush – and it was the first time ever. Edith could no longer be shamed by their failure. It was only Billie’s shame now, and as only hers it seemed a smaller thing, a lesser form of orphanhood than being without Edith.
But Minnie was blushing. She apologised, said that since Miss Paxton’s sister was a teacher …
‘Yes. I know. Edith and Henry tried. But I can’t see the words right.’
Alan was plainly intrigued. ‘How do you see them?’ When Billie didn’t answer he began to guess. Was it poor eyesight? Did she mistake her letters – like, at dusk, he might mistake a rafting flock of guillemots for a bed of bull kelp?
‘You know, Miss Paxton, I would have taken a simple “no” for an answer,’ Minnie said, sulky.
‘I’m being honest, not rude,’ Billie told her.
Minnie reddened more. Even Alan was quelled. They went along in silence.
Two horsemen appeared behind them. The rider on the taller animal was Murdo Hesketh, his bearing both natural and martial. He looked like a hussar. The other man was well bundled, wore a bowler of not quite the right sort to be a riding hat, and rode with his elbows stuck out.
‘Well,’ said Anne, ‘Hesketh hasn’t any reservations about Scouse Beach.’ She looked at Minnie, then burst out, ‘You should have come down. It was lovely. Sheltered and mild.’
Minnie turned to Billie and explained. Her own older sister Ingrid had drowned on Scouse Beach two years before. ‘That’s what we have in common.’
‘He has business there,’ Alan Skilling put in, clearly defending Murdo Hesketh.
‘Father had already planned to build his alginate factory on the beach before Ingrid drowned – and Father is unswerving in his plans,’ Minnie said.
Billie asked if Mr Hesketh only minded Lord Hallowhulme’s business, or did he have an interest. ‘He is kin, isn’t he?’
‘He’s Father’s cousin. And Mother’s. On Mother’s side I think he’s my first cousin once removed twice.’ Minnie pulled a face and laughed at what she’d said. Billie found she was laughing, too. She choked out, ‘Was he very persistent?’
When Minnie had stopped laughing she explained that her grandmother and his mother were sisters, her grandfather and his father brothers. Which made him, by her calculations, a first cousin once removed twice. He’d been part of the Hallowhulme household since that summer. The summer Ingrid drowned.
Anne told Billie that the accident was directly after the Tegners’ last visit. ‘We all put on Twelfth Night that year. Ingrid was Olivia.’ Anne paused, then asked if Miss Paxton knew Shakespeare.
‘He who has but a tiny little wit …’ Billie sang, as Henry had taught her.
The horsemen were gaining on them. Minnie said to Billie, ‘The other man is Geordie Betler, Ian Betler’s brother. Mr Betler has rather made himself at home. He dines with the family sometimes, and sometimes in the kitchens. He’s quite comfortable in either place – which Father has noticed and admired. My father is very egalitarian, he doesn’t believe in “breeding” as in background, though he does believe in blood, as in inheritance, what one’s parents bequeath one in terms of health, soundness, ability. But I’m sure he’ll tell you himself.’
They all watched Murdo Hesketh’s smooth rise and fall in his stirrups. Minnie fixed her eyes on him, frowning. ‘I believe he had something to do with Ingrid’s death,’ she told Billie.
And Billie: ‘What? He killed her?’ Believing him capable of anything.
THE DOGCART was burdened and slow, and the mounted men soon came even with it. Geordie reined in. He walked his horse in order to ask Miss Paxton how she was, and Miss Anne and Miss Minnie if they’d enjoyed their outing. Perhaps he’d even ask to view the progress of Minnie’s landscape. She might say something astonishing. She had when he’d last spoken to her.
The day before the funeral Geordie had pushed himself up the wet road to the brow of the hill above Stolnsay Harbour, in a still spell between two scudding fronts of cloud. He had found the dogcart, Alan Skilling roosting in its lee, his head wrapped in his jacket, and Minnie sketching at her easel. Geordie stopped to catch his breath and admire the view. Minnie said, ‘Good day, Mr Betler,’ then put her diminishing glass up to her eyes and looked down at the town – removed the glass, added a few lines to her picture. Geordie asked if he could look at the instrument, and she passed it to him explaining – as he peered down its double barrel at the clouds coming in, a great flotilla at the height of the hill – that artists used diminishing glasses to ‘compose’ a landscape. Did Mr Betler see the measuring marks to one side of his field of vision? That was the device’s science – but mostly what the glass did was make the landscape more manageable, make it more like its own portrait.
Geordie gave the instrument back to Minnie, and she made her astonishing remark. Her father could be said to view things through a diminishing glass. ‘His landscapes always look like his designs for them. Otherwise, he simply doesn’t see them. Things are as they should be, and managed, or they are in need of management.’ The girl looked at Geordie from under her brows, her chin down, as if she was accustomed to peering over the top of reading glasses. ‘You do know that Father owns this island, Mr Betler? Both entities – Kissack with Skilling. He’s given the crofters their houses and land on the condition that they’ll consent to benefit from his industries and other planned improving institutions – on the condition that they’ll play with him. He’s purchased a whole population as playmates.’
Today, as he approached the dogcart, Geordie was expectant. He drew rein and tipped his hat. But all the cart’s occupants were looking at Mr Hesketh, passing on their other side, straight-backed on his big bay horse. All – but Billie Paxton. She glowered at the road between the pony’s ears.
Murdo Hesketh checked his pace so that his mare paused in her flowing trot and capered a few steps to one side of her straight course, her glowing neck bowed. ‘Good day,’ Murdo said, merely polite, ‘Alan, Minnie, Miss Anne, Miss Paxton.’
Miss Paxton hunched up. It wasn’t a flinch, but a blunt thickening of her whole body. ‘Pig,’ she said under her breath, without looking at him.
His horse surged forward, made a number of pretty parade-ground jumps, responding to her rider’s clenched muscles, then set off again at an even trot.
Geordie was at a loss, so put his hat back on and followed.
MISS PAXTON obeyed Lord Hallowhulme’s summons and appeared at dinner. Clara Hallow asked after Mr Maslen and Miss Paxton said that she and the hired nurse thought that he was less feverish this evening.
Billie Paxton sat opposite Geordie and he saw that, although she felt awkward, and was there without any expectation of pleasure, he wouldn’t have to give her secret signals about which utensil to use for which course. Geordie looked across the six-foot breadth of white linen, silverware, crystal, tureens topped by tumbling nasturtiums in bright glazed ceramic, and white soup bowls full of creamy mulligatawny. He saw that, despite her dull louring look, and her foul-mouthed frank opinion of Mr Hesketh, Billie Paxton was an unpolished but reasonably well brought-up young woman. He also saw that, between the road into Stolnsay, and the dinner hour, she’d had a bath and washed her hair. He’d seen her hair plaited, a pale red corona. It was now loose against her back and, when she moved, as alive and radiant as coral. Geordie considered – was Billie Paxton pretty, or a plain youthful girl with beautiful hair? Her jaw was set, and even her strong throat looked stubborn, blunt, above broad shoulders and a flat compact chest and waist. Yes – a plain girl with stupendous hair, Geordie thought till, seeing herself appraised, Miss Paxton’s nostrils twitched and her light brown eyes caught a candle flare, hot rather than hard, and Geordie saw that she was an odd beauty,
like the maned, staring women in the pictures Meela Tannoy admired and would buy. Pictures by Rossetti or Burne-Jones. Billie Paxton was odd, striking, but not enervated or drowsy, ill or bewitched, like a Burne-Jones or Rossetti model. Geordie saw also that Billie Paxton was afraid of Lord Hallowhulme’s table – its beauty, bounty, its company – but that she was in vigorous rebellion against her fear. He watched her thrust her strong, tapering fingers into her bread roll and tear it open. He caught her eye and then passed her a plate heaped with dewy whelk shells of shaved butter.
Lord Hallowhulme was talking, solving his and other people’s problems. The phone cables and batteries had been salvaged but were already set to corrode hopelessly. He’d had his secretary, Johan Gutthorm, order more. Hallowhulme nodded at the desiccated man seated on his left. At this acknowledgement Johan Gutthorm lifted his chin and pursed his lips. Hallowhulme said that the replacements would ship in next to no time – his plans were only a few weeks behind schedule, no harm done. The alginate factory was coming along – thanks to Mr Hesketh. Here Hallowhulme addressed himself to Geordie, his eyes sliding over Billie Paxton, who had just remembered to tilt her soup plate away from her, as she should. ‘As you must by now have divined, Mr Betler, I’m something of a visionary. A man like me needs someone practical near him. A man like me, with dreams and schemes and funds in abundance needs a canny executor, someone to deal with all the details, who will do what needs to be done. And here is my cousin, Murdo, the excellent Mr Hesketh, whom I treasure.’
Geordie responded to this with a polite nod. It was disturbing. Lord Hallowhulme was diligently salvaging the means of his plans – his cables and batteries – while there were people at his table whose losses were irreplaceable.
Hallowhulme went on to say he was concerned about progress on the herring cannery in Southport, at the other end of the island. He’d have to go there very soon.
‘Father, please do take account of the date of the performance of our play,’ Minnie said. She smiled at the man who removed her soup plate.
Her father asked was the performance at the end of July, as usual?
Rixon moaned.
‘Wait till you read it,’ his sister told him. ‘I’m making copies.’
‘Have you thought of using Mr Gutthorm’s typewriter?’ Hallowhulme asked. ‘Of course I can’t volunteer his time. We’re far too busy.’
‘May I use it?’
‘Ask Johan, Minnie.’
Johan Gutthorm bowed slightly and said Miss Minnie was welcome to use his machine.
‘I’ve done two fair copies already. Rixon, you and Elov can have yours this evening.’ Minnie turned to the salver of greens and took the tongs. She served herself. ‘It’s a modern play, by Mr George Bernard Shaw. You’ll like it. It’s called Fortune and the Four Winds.’
Clara wanted to know if it would be performed on the lawn, or in the ballroom. If outdoors, the gardeners would have to clear all the nettles out of the ha-ha.
‘Indoors,’ said Minnie. Then to her brother, ‘I wish you would read it tonight. You can choose whether or not you’d like to do it.’
He seemed astonished by this offer.
The serving dish came to Geordie, and he plied the tongs, smiled at Robert, the footman who was serving. Robert had eaten already. Geordie had a standing invitation in the kitchen and Robert had wanted to know why Geordie would choose to eat in there – the dining room. He said, ‘We have almost the same.’
‘Saving the wine,’ said Geordie, and saw that the footman might like to add that he wouldn’t want to join the family, even for the wine, but that theirs was too short an acquaintance for Robert to offer opinions of this sort.
Lord Hallowhulme was tendering more advice. Had his daughter thought to enlist Miss Paxton? He only glanced at Billie, with a stiff baring of his teeth, more grimace than grin. ‘Copying would be a quiet occupation for the sickroom.’
Billie Paxton was silent. Geordie supposed she was puzzling over how to decline, and still seem polite.
Ailsa Tegner said, ‘Miss Paxton can’t read.’ The twins were watching Billie intently. Apparently they had formed some notion of helping her.
Several people spoke. Some only to ask her, ‘Is that true?’ Clara Hallow disbelieving – hadn’t Billie and Edith received the same early education?
Billie put down her knife and fork – her hands were trembling, Geordie saw. She folded them in her lap, then gave a very brief account of her trouble, its history. Her father, sister, great-aunt, and Mr Maslen had all tried to teach her. ‘At a very poor return for their efforts,’ Billie said. ‘Once people see that I’m not very stupid, they begin to imagine I’m stubborn. But really it’s a mystery.’
Lord Hallowhulme was quite motionless, then he abruptly jabbed at the air with a raised index finger. He’d thought of something. He motioned Johan Gutthorm toward him and had a word in his ear. Everyone watched. Gutthorm removed his napkin and went out with his instructions – inaudible to most of the table. Hallowhulme fell to eating again. He kept silent and chewed thoroughly, all with an air of suspenseful significance.
Elov Jansen began to look bilious.
Acquitted, Billie resumed eating.
AFTER THE dessert was cleared the ladies retired. Geordie moved closer to the head of the table. Rixon asked his father if he and Elov could please have a small glass of port. They were allowed, and the boys watched Robert pour, their eyebrows up and urging him. Robert was scrupulous, but tantalising; he took his time and gave the decanter a flourishing twist to spin the last hanging drop back into its neck. He smiled at the boys.
Gutthorm came back with what Lord Hallowhulme had wanted – a number of the British Medical Journal for the year 1896.
Murdo declined the port. He pushed back his chair and slid down in its seat, extended his legs and crossed them at the ankles. He lit a cigarette and tilted his head right back against the headrest. He asked Gutthorm if the accident report had been typed yet. His understanding was that it had to be ready for the investigator sent by the Gustav Edda’s insurers.
‘Yes, Mr Hesketh, it’s done. You can have a copy tonight. But I don’t think you’ll find anything new, as it is largely based on your notes.’
‘I do need to see it in total, Johan. To have the full story.’
Geordie watched Murdo. He knew one salient fact about the wreck – its boiler was intact. He and Murdo had discussed it, or, rather, they had discussed how Murdo had acted on mistaken evidence – Miss Paxton’s still unexplained flight. Geordie knew that Murdo Hesketh had never altered his opinion – that the explosion was an act of sabotage. Murdo was only waiting for certain submerged facts to surface, like air bubbles on a long journey from a great depth. Murdo’s relaxation, the still silvery brown lashes of his closed eyes, all gave the somewhat menacing impression of patient appetite. He was waiting for something to come up. He was a white bear poised over a seal hole in pack ice.
‘Here it is!’ Hallowhulme made his announcement to the whole table. ‘Dr Pringle Morgan: “Congenital Word Blindness”.’ He was quiet, reading. He read solidly, for ten minutes, during which time Rixon, by licking his lips and dancing his eyebrows at Robert, inveigled another small glass for himself and Elov. Geordie noticed that both the boy and footman knew that Lord Hallowhulme wouldn’t see.
Johan Gutthorm waited behind his master’s chair. He didn’t read over his master’s shoulder – something Geordie would never have been able to resist in the circumstances – after all, it couldn’t be an indiscretion to read the Medical Journal, which was in the public domain, even if its reader’s thoughts at that moment were not.
Hallowhulme put the Journal down, and his hand fell on a letter that the secretary had placed by his port glass. ‘What is this?’
Gutthorm said it had arrived in the morning mail. He hadn’t passed it on at once because he wasn’t sure where the guest was lodged.
‘Capital!’ said Hallowhulme, eyeing the address – then, ‘Awkward.’ He gla
nced sidelong at Murdo. He cleared his throat and told Robert that they would join the ladies now, and were all ready for the coffee and cake. Rixon and Elov, startled, knocked back their glasses.
As everyone got up, Murdo said he had some business.
‘Nonsense, cousin, leave it for now. Come in and have coffee.’ Hallowhulme collected Murdo as he passed, wrapped an arm around his cousin’s shoulders, and led him into the parlour.
Geordie followed, intrigued.
In the parlour Lord Hallowhulme stopped abruptly; he looked angry and at a loss. ‘Where is Miss Paxton?’
‘She went up to sit with Mr Maslen,’ said Clara.
‘Send for her, Clara. I have something for her.’
‘Surely it can be carried up to her, James?’
‘Certainly not!’ Lord Hallowhulme wouldn’t sit. He posted himself by the mantelpiece and fidgeted. Clara kept him waiting, she let the maid who carried the coffee settle the tray before sending her out again with a summons for Miss Paxton.
When Billie came in Lord Hallowhulme took his seat. And, as soon as the fireplace was unoccupied, Murdo carried his coffee over to it and faced the fire, not the room.
‘Sit down, dear,’ Clara said to Billie. ‘Do have some cake.’
Miss Paxton was watchful; her chin tilted down, she looked at them from under her eyebrows. She appeared to have guessed that she hadn’t just been fetched for her share of the cake.
Then Lord Hallowhulme shuffled forward on his seat and asked her to attend a minute. He held up a knife. It was not a cake knife, Geordie saw, but one of the triangular knives from the dining table. It had a dull smear on it where Lord Hallowhulme had licked it clean before putting it in his pocket. ‘What is this?’ He asked.
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