Burnt Norton

by Caroline Sandon

  ‘It is handsome, but hardly a single wing. Surely, this house is big enough?’

  ‘How practical you are, but what is practicality, my dear, when I wish to do something for the two women in my life?’

  It was the first time that William had aired his affection for Molly in front of his daughter, and in front of the servants. Molly noted George Heron’s look of surprise.

  It flustered her. ‘I don’t know what to say, sir. Please don’t take any notice of my opinion.’

  William held up his hands. ‘Enough. Consider it a gift to you both.’

  ‘Please forgive me, I feel a little unwell.’ She ran from the room.

  For Elizabeth’s sake, Molly had prudently kept her own bedroom in the attic. Her dresses still hung in the wardrobe, the little vase beside the washstand was always filled with flowers; when she attended the dining room it was as Elizabeth’s companion. She had worked hard to regain her friendship and feared Sir William’s indiscretion had ruined it.

  Walking downstairs the next morning, Molly found Elizabeth on the landing, working intently on a drawing. She closed the pad and looked up, her fingers covered with black charcoal. ‘Do you think so little of me, Molly?’ she frowned.

  Molly was flustered. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘You should know me better, so please don’t ever judge me again.’

  It was the same with Ruth.

  ‘It’s all right, love; we won’t hate you just because you’ve got lucky. As long as you don’t act like a spoilt duchess, I’ll still love you.’

  It was not long before the building work started. Teams of craftsmen hired by the director of works appeared. Stonemasons, bricklayers, carpenters and plasterers filled the site. On the first Monday of every month, Mr Cartwright came to inspect the progress. Molly, at Sir William’s insistence, was usually at his side. She was flattered, but though she did her best to limit his extravagance, on these occasions he ignored her, so determined was he to create a house that would outstrip all others. As the end of the first stage approached, it became evident that the building lacked sophistication and refinement.

  ‘Something seems wrong with the proportions, Papa, though of course the design is excellent,’ Elizabeth observed.

  ‘I agree with you,’ Mr Cartwright said apologetically. ‘My efforts appear cumbersome and top-heavy. I have failed you.’

  ‘Of course you haven’t,’ she replied. ‘I’m sure you’ll find a solution.’

  In the end Elizabeth came up with the solution. She asked her father to contact the architect, and only a week after their previous meeting, she arranged to join them on the building site. George Heron pushed the chair over the uneven gound and stopped at the small group assembled in front of the house.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Heron,’ Elizabeth said, re-arranging her skirts. ‘Not an easy task I know.’ She watched for a moment as he picked his way back through the mud, then turned to Mr Cartwright and smiled apologetically. ‘I would be grateful if you would cast your eye over my drawing.’ She opened her notebook. The central portion of the house remained the same, but the two new wings added balance and symmetry, and the intricate railings and elaborate iron gates gave the desired elegance.

  ‘It’s merely a suggestion,’ she said.

  George Cartwright took the pad from Elizabeth.

  ‘I believe you would make an accomplished architect,’ he said, beaming at her. Elizabeth blushed and turned away, but not before Molly had noticed.

  When the group returned for tea in the library, Molly voiced her concerns again. ‘The mansion is already magnificent and there are only three of us to live in it. Do we really need the extra space?’

  ‘Just think of ways to furnish it and leave the worrying to me,’ Sir William said flippantly.

  ‘You see, Mr Cartwright,’ she said, defeated, ‘I have little influence. Sir William will not be outdone. After all, what is a Kite without wings?’

  During the following months the building work continued, and as the two extra wings rose steadily from the ground, rumours began to filter Molly’s way. Then she heard it straight from the foreman: he walked up to her while she was picking rosemary in the herb garden, and spat ungraciously into the ground. ‘The carpenters weren’t paid last month, and the plasterers the month before.’

  ‘I will talk to Sir William and Miss Elizabeth,’ she mumbled lamely, retrieving her basket. She knew her excuse was inadequate, for while William ignored any financial implications, Elizabeth was unaware of them. She had never dealt with bills, and throughout her life money had always been available. Why should that change?

  As the house grew, so did the garden. Henry Clark, the steward, began a scheme as elaborate as the house itself. Several hundred trees were planted, and above the yew walk, two large parterres were established, their central feature being a round stone table. When Molly asked about this, Sir William smiled. ‘I admit to an obsession: we have Merlin’s grove, and now we have Arthur’s table.’

  It seemed to Molly that a new project was undertaken every week.

  ‘Molly, will you accompany me to the new plantation?’ Elizabeth asked. ‘Lorenzo will come for us at nine.’

  As the cart drew up beside the young woodland, Elizabeth clasped her arm. ‘These trees will outlive us all. Think of it: they will be here for hundreds of years, long after you and I have been forgotten.’

  While Molly worried about the immediate future, Elizabeth looked beyond. She imagined the children from many future generations running beneath the trees; children from a new and altered world.

  In early spring, William asked Molly and Elizabeth to join him in the garden.

  ‘Don’t look so stern, Molly. After this we will tighten the reins.’ He gathered his daughter into his arms and carried her, urging her to close her eyes. Molly followed. They had left the garden long behind them when William stopped in front of a grove of trees.

  ‘Open your eyes, Lizzie. Look what I have built for you. I have called it “The Temple”.’

  Before them, light flickered intermittently through the dark canopy of branches. Hidden amongst the foliage was a small version of the new mansion.

  ‘Papa, it’s beautiful!’ she cried. ‘Molly, do you see the bust in the niche above the entrance? I’m sure it looks like me!’

  ‘It is you.’ Molly laughed.

  ‘And what do you think, Molly?’ William asked.

  ‘It is very beautiful, but—’

  Molly pushed all thoughts of escalating costs and financial ruin aside, and surrendered to the spirit of the occasion. ‘And yes, of course I like it very much.’

  Less than a week had passed when these same doubts were brought severely home. Sir William was in his study; Molly resisted the urge to knock and opened the door.

  ‘Come to bed,’ she said softly. ‘It’s late and you’ll make yourself ill.’

  ‘Go away!’ he snapped, putting his hand over the ledger in front of him. ‘If I don’t sort these figures, I really will be ill.’ William avoided her eyes, refusing to see the hurt he had caused. When the door closed behind her, he returned to his books. He tried to concentrate. He licked his lips, running his tongue around his dry mouth. The expenditure columns were filled with black numbers, row upon row of jumbled figures. They made no sense. He pushed the ledgers away from him and groaned. Shaking his head, he accepted that his desire to be known as a man of wealth and culture would come to nothing. Unlike so many of his class, who had built upon their family’s good name and their fortunes, he would have destroyed a name revered for centuries, and squandered a fortune accumulated with prudence and sense. While there was no doubt that some of his sentiments had come from generosity to his daughter and mistress, a large part of this enormous folly had appealed to his own vanity.

  ‘I shall be remembered only as a fool,’ he said, hysteria creeping into his voice, ‘a stupid, bloody fool.’

  Molly returned to her room and sat down at her dressing table. She star
ed into the mirror, flinching at the pained face that stared back at her. She knew the Keyt coffers were emptying fast. William’s demeanour, the rumours, the unpaid workmen all told the story. As William continued to spend, and as the money dwindled away, so too would his interest in his mistress.

  Molly’s dread escalated when he insisted on her presence only days later.

  ‘Come now, Molly, and don’t be cross.’

  ‘Why should I be? I’m hardly ever cross.’

  ‘You look at me with disapproval, and that is just as bad. I know you’ll think this an unnecessary extravagance, but I wish to build a theatre arranged around a circular pool. It will be a permanent open-air setting for concerts and plays. We must, after all, have somewhere to open our celebrations.’

  ‘What celebrations?’ she asked.

  ‘The county will wish to see all of this,’ he said. ‘We can’t let them down. It’s my last indulgence, the very last, I give you my word.’

  While William described his vision, she tried to listen, but she remained suspicious of an auditorium carved from the hillside, a column of limes and a circular pool. She could only see it all crumbling around her.

  Fifteen months after the first stone was laid, the building of the mansion was nearing completion and only the final details were left.

  ‘Do you like it?’ Elizabeth asked, as Molly pushed her around the hall.

  ‘Of course I do,’ Molly replied, choosing her words carefully. ‘It’s magnificent, it would be impossible not to like it.’

  They stopped in front of the chimney breast. ‘Mr Cartwright commissioned this in London,’ Elizabeth murmured, admiringly. Molly looked closely. Amongst the carvings of fruit and flowers, a violin rested on its side, the fineness of the strings demonstrating the supreme artistry of the wood carver. She was about to turn away when she noticed a skull buried amongst the foliage. She recoiled and Elizabeth laughed.

  ‘Papa thinks the skull a little morbid; I can see that you agree.’

  ‘Morbid? Whatever gave you that idea?’ Molly laughed also, but it was a feeble laugh. She took hold of the chair and pushed it towards the door.

  ‘I don’t feel like going to The College today – would you mind if my sister came here?’ Elizabeth asked, when Molly had manoeuvred her down the steps.

  ‘Of course I don’t mind. I will be out of the way, I promise you – I have several errands to run locally.’ She squeezed her friend’s shoulder. Sharp bones protruded through the flimsy material.

  30

  A maid was dressing Dorothy’s hair when she heard the coach. She stood up, brushing the girl’s hand impatiently aside, and rushed to the window. The Keyt horses were trotting down the short drive towards The College. She could see the coach clearly: Lorenzo was on the box, his face in profile; her eyes fixed on him, but when she realized the coach was empty, her excitement changed to concern. Without waiting, she ran onto the landing and down the polished stairs.

  ‘Where’s my sister?’ she cried, nearly colliding with Lorenzo as he entered the door.

  ‘Your sister’s a little unwell but in good spirits,’ he reassured her. ‘She wishes to see you. I have a note from your father.’ Dorothy took the note, and after quickly reading it, she ran to fetch her coat.

  ‘I will tell my mother and come with you at once,’ she said.

  Lorenzo helped her up the steps and into the carriage. For months Dorothy had thought about him, and though she had seen him briefly, on the occasions he arrived with her sister, they were never alone. Now, with his face only inches from her own, she could see the attraction in his eyes. Throughout the journey she remained silent but all the time she was aware of his presence, she was aware of the smell of soap, and sweet molasses, and dry winter hay. When she stepped down at the journey’s end, he held her hand longer than necessary, and the pressure of his fingers remained with her all day.

  It was strange for Dorothy to be back at Norton; and though she didn’t see Molly, her presence was everywhere. She walked from room to room; the atmosphere was calm and tranquil. Staff greeted her, but to some she was a stranger. Everything was the same and yet it felt different. She sat down to lunch with her sister, but though she talked and laughed and feigned interest, her mind was elsewhere. Outside, the building of a mansion continued unchecked, while she, Dorothy Ann Keyt, had no part in it.

  On her journey back to Stratford, Dorothy seethed at the injustice of it. This woman had stolen her father’s and her brother’s hearts, she had regained her sister’s friendship, and now she was having a house built for her. It was more than Dorothy could bear.

  When they arrived back at The College, Lorenzo took her hands as he helped her down.

  ‘I know how difficult this is for you,’ he said, ‘but Miss Johnson will learn that in this world you cannot have what is not yours by right.’

  Dear Lorenzo! He was a good man. She longed to forget about propriety and formality.

  She looked into his eyes. ‘Please, will you come for me on Monday? My sister won’t be well enough to return to Stratford, but I wish to see her. I will ride with you to Norton.’

  When Monday arrived Dorothy woke early. After putting on her riding habit she checked herself in the mirror; the dark blue cloth suited her. She pushed a strand of escaping hair behind the veil of her new velvet hat, applied rose water liberally to her face and neck, and went down to breakfast. Her stomach fluttered with nerves.

  ‘Are you all right?’ her mother asked, looking at the untouched roll on her plate.

  ‘I am well, thank you, I’m just not hungry.’

  ‘Give my love to Lizzie. I long to see her, but you know how it is.’

  ‘I know, Mama, Lizzie understands.’ She kissed her mother quickly and went to the hall. Once again she glanced in the mirror. After adjusting the veil to cover her face, she collected her favourite whip from the umbrella stand and went out through the side door and down the passage to the mews. Fidelia whinnied before she saw her. Dorothy smiled and slid the bolt to her stall.

  ‘She’s all done, miss.’ A stable lad looked in on her. ‘I’ve tightened your girth. She’s too bright, that one, she always knows when you’re going to ride her, and she has better hearing than any horse I know.’ By the time Lorenzo’s horse had clattered over the cobbles, Fidelia was stamping the ground with impatience. Lorenzo jumped down, handed his horse to the stable lad, and helped Dorothy up. For an instant she relaxed against him, but then with a small laugh she dug her heel into the horse’s side. Fidelia leapt forward and they were gone, galloping down the drive and out into the lane. Lorenzo soon caught up with her, and together they rode towards Norton. Throughout the ride she admired his hands, the long slim fingers that slipped expertly through the reins. When their legs touched, brushing imperceptibly against each other, she could hardly breathe.

  ‘How is your family?’ she managed.

  ‘They are all well. My sister married last year and her first child is on the way. Massimo now has four.’

  ‘You must miss them.’

  ‘Of course, but my life is here, not in Italy.’ He looked at her intently, and she blushed.

  When they arrived at Norton, Dorothy found her sister lying on the sofa in the drawing room with Letitia curled beside her. She bent down and kissed her.

  ‘Don’t look anxious, Dotty; it’s all right, I’m better now,’ Elizabeth promised. ‘Read to me, will you?’

  Dorothy sat down in a high-backed chair, picked the book up from the table beside her and opened the cover.

  ‘I love you reading to me,’ Elizabeth said, when Dorothy had finished a chapter. ‘It reminds me of our childhood, but then, of course, it was the other way round.’

  ‘Well, now it’s my turn,’ Dorothy said gently. She started on the next chapter but Elizabeth was asleep before she had finished it. Getting up, Dorothy rearranged the rug over her sister’s shoulders, and quietly left the room.

  Letitia ran after her and together they set off towards t
he mansion. She could see the house was nearly finished and as Dorothy entered the light and spacious hallway, and looked up the elegant staircase to the landing above, she thought she would be sick at the extravagance of it all. The ornate plasterwork was the obvious work of a master craftsman, and the curtains that even now were being hung at the tall windows were made of the finest silks. Flemish hangings adorned the walls and French chandeliers hung from the ceilings. Nothing had been spared in the lavish display.

  Upstairs, one of the exquisite panelled bedrooms would be her bedroom, where she would sleep with Dorothy’s father. It was too much. She had to escape.

  She called Letitia to her side, and going through the French doors at the back, they descended the recently laid steps towards the pool garden. Today even the garden annoyed her. The elaborate stone balustrade was new, as was the statue of Diana, the huntress. With the spaniel at her heels she returned to the old house, more wounded than before. When Letitia barked and ran to the winter sitting room, Dorothy followed her. Molly Johnson was reading there. She looked up from her book and stood uncertainly, but Dorothy made no move. Her pulse pounded in her head and she feared she would faint.

  ‘Miss Dorothy.’ Molly nodded, struggling to maintain her composure against the forceful hatred in the other woman’s eyes.

  ‘It’s you.’ They stared at each other a long moment before Dorothy fled through the door, clutching the collar of her dress as if it were choking her.

  She found Lorenzo in the coach house brushing Fidelia.

  ‘It’s too much,’ she sobbed, running towards him, and when he opened his arms to receive her, she fell into them, clinging to him for support.

  He kissed her hair, inhaling the delicate scent of rose water, and when she turned her face towards him, he kissed her lips. For a moment they were locked together until she pulled away, her hair falling around her shoulders.

  ‘Can we go home?’ she said in a small voice, and he held her in his arms while her tears came.

  They rode together in silence, each aware of the proximity of the other. But in coming face to face with Molly, Dorothy had recognized the parallels between her father’s love of a servant and her own. It could never be.