I did not see the house itself until we were nearly upon it. Poking above the trees on the lime walk were the chimneystacks and a brass weathervane in the shape of a ship, tacking and jibing in the wind; it appeared to be sailing across a sea of green leaves. Then a flash of light, and the windows on the north gable glinted through the trees. I stood up in my seat, eager for a better view and there, as we emerged from the avenue, was Tyneford House. I will never forget that first sight. It was a handsome manor, at once elegant and easy; the stone a different colour from the cottages – a warm yellow which glowed in the sunshine. A gothic porch stood at the side of the house, a family shield carved into its sandstone façade, a pair of stone roses in each corner, and around the westerly windows grew an ancient wisteria with a profusion of heavy blossom, shaking in the wind. It was not merely the beauty of the building itself that struck me on that afternoon or on the many since, but the loveliness of its position; there are few places in England where nature has done more. Beech woods edged the gardens and the house stood on rising ground, the bank of hills behind. A smart terrace ran along the length of the house, with a few stone steps leading to a velvet-striped lawn, sloping down towards the sea. Every window at the front gazed out upon the water which glittered, calm and beguiling. I breathed in that strange scent again: thyme, freshly turned earth, sweat and salt.
Art guided the cart to brick stables in a large yard at the back of the house, and set about unfastening Mr Bobbin and hosing him down. I climbed down and stood awkwardly in the cobbled yard, listening to the crash of the sea.
‘In there,’ said Art, pointing to a wooden door at the back of the house. ‘Git now. I’ll bring yer stuff in a bit.’
I frowned, realising that Art spoke to me in exactly the same tone he used to address the wayward cows. Only later did I discover that this was in fact a gesture of great trust and affection; there were very few two-legged creatures that Art esteemed. A pair of young stable lads appeared from one of the loose boxes and one started to brush down Mr Bobbin, while the other hauled a large bucket of water. One of the boys stared at me, mouth agape, and slopped the water all over Art’s boots.
‘Ninnywalling clod ’oppin’ turd . . .’ Art started to yell, and I decided to vacate the yard, before any of his wrath was directed at me.
The back door led into a dark passageway smelling of damp and mouse – a sickly stench, rather like urine. The walls were whitewashed but the slit windows cast almost no light. Voices came from behind a closed door at the end of the passageway, along with wisps of steam. I tapped on it with my knuckles, unsure whether I actually wished anyone to answer. While at home I was cautious on entering Hildegard’s domain, there was always the unspoken restraint – my mother was her employer. The kitchen door flew open, and I was knocked back against the wall.
‘Oh, what you standin’ there fur?’ said a stout girl in a white apron and a matching cap.
‘May Stickland. Stop idling, get them potatoes an’ come back inside.’
‘Aye. There’s a girl lurkin’ in the passageway,’ said May.
‘Well, bring her in then.’
I followed her into the kitchen – what seemed then a large modern room, with gleaming expanses of tiled counters and a huge wooden table in the centre covered in flour and littered with pastry cutters. Racks of utensils hung from hooks above a vast cast-iron cooking range, and armies of wooden spoons huddled in jars beside twin butler sinks. The windows were set high into the wall so that I could not see outside, but light streamed in, illuminating the particles of flour that hovered in the air like floating snow. I knew Hildegard would have wept with joy to even glimpse such a kitchen – this would be her Xanadu. The housekeeper, Mrs Ellsworth, sat in state at the table, surrounded by baking trays, a round pat of butter, flour bucket, packets of spice and yeast. Her grey hair was drawn back into a neat bun, her skin tanned and lined, suggesting a life out of doors, despite being monarch of the kitchen. She wore a starched white shirt and full black skirt with a crisp apron fastened around her middle.
‘Elise Landau.’ She made this a statement, not a question, and I was unsure how to respond.
I reached into my pocket and produced the envelope from the Mayfair Private Service Agency, and gave it to Mrs Ellsworth. She opened it and glanced at the contents: several coins and a receipt for my train ticket.
‘Did you have nothin’ for lunch? I hope you didn’t let some young man purchase you refreshments, missy.’
I said nothing and willed my cheeks not to redden. Mrs Ellsworth huffed, and waved at May. ‘Get the girl some bread and butter. She must be hungry. No dinner, indeed. I hope you’re not one of them continentals what doesn’t eat. I’m too busy for skinny girls.’
She scrutinised me with grey eyes. ‘Well, you don’t look like one them meal-skipping wenches. There’s too much work for you to pine away, mind,’ she warned.
‘She don’t speak much,’ said May, dumping in front of me an enamel plate with some bread and crumbling cheese.
‘Well, you could do with talkin’ a good deal less,’ said Mrs Ellsworth, and May slunk to the sink, where she could wash the dishes and spy without being criticised.
Mrs Ellsworth turned back to me. ‘In the morning I’ll show you your duties. Tonight you can ’ave an early night.’
I nodded dumbly, my mouth full of bread and cheese. She pushed a small pile of laundry across the table at me.
‘Tomorrow I want to see you wearing these. And we’re goin’ to have to talk about your hair.’
I wiped my hands down my skirt and picked up the clothing: a white cap and apron. The symbols of my new life and I hated them already.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Mr Rivers
I went to bed early, in a small room under the eaves. It had sloping ceilings, and I couldn’t stand up in two thirds of it, so I lay down on the bed (in my cotton pyjamas, finally having the confidence to remove my dress without fear of fleas) and stared at the rough wood beams. They had jagged saw marks all along the side and had never been sanded – why bother to smooth beams in a maid’s attic? Yet the room was scrupulously clean and newly whitewashed and if there had only been a small fireplace, it might have been cosy. I set the pictures of my family and Vienna on the single chest of drawers. The Belvedere Palace looked rather incongruous in the spartan surroundings. There was no radiator or light switch, and I sprawled by candlelight, feeling like one of Anna’s operatic heroines, save for the fact I was cold, miserable and without an applauding audience. From a tiny window, I glimpsed a sliver of slate-grey sea, turning to shining black as daylight faded into dusk. There was a knock at the door, and a white envelope slid underneath.
I shot up, and clutching the sheet around me, waddled to the door, but when I opened it no one was there. I stole into the corridor and glanced about. Empty. Shrugging, I padded back into my bedroom and, picking up the letter, closed the door. The envelope was postmarked Vienna and I recognised Margot’s curling handwriting. I ripped it open, and began to read.
I thought you might like a letter as you arrive. As I write this, you’ve not yet left. I can hear you arguing with Papa in his study – you’ve been cheating at backgammon again. But I miss you. You’ve not gone and I miss you. I hope you liked the chocolate. I’ve not packed it yet, but I will. And I know that by the time you read this, you’ll have eaten it all. Probably all at once so you felt sick and then were hungry the next day.
I heard that there are conch shells in Dorset that sing a perfect middle C. I want you to find one – then we can play together. I’ll play viola and you can whistle on the conch.
I snorted. Margot was always so desperate to include me in her music – to her it was like I was blind and she needed to find ways of showing me how to see. I’d given up explaining that I loved listening to music and felt no longing to play. I’d find her the conch, and I’d take it to America then she’d realise what a ridiculous idea it was. At the word ‘America’ I felt a pain in my chest. It was ev
en further from me than Vienna, across a wider sea.
Do as Hilde says, and read Mrs Beeton. All the English ladies use it, Anna says. You must try to behave, Bean. Try not to get dismissed from Mr Rivers’ service. At least not until we have an American visa for you. Then you can prance into the living room at teatime and pick all the cherries off the cake and cheek everyone as though you are at home and you can be expelled from the house and come to California in a hurry and I shall be oh so pleased to see you and we shall drink champagne. But until then, you must be good.
I pinched my arm to stop myself from crying. It was Margot’s lack of commas that did it – she sounded breathless, chattering without a pause like she did when she was excited. Sometimes I hated her, but I enjoyed hating her from nearby. From this distance I’d soon forget how much she annoyed me, and I’d miss her so much, it would become unbearable. I screwed up my eyes and concentrated on all the things about my sister that tormented me: she filched my books, underlining the passages she liked with purple ink; she strutted around my bedroom in her silky underthings displaying her superior bust; sometimes when we fought, she pinched the rolls of baby-fat around my middle between her fingers; and she always looked better in my clothes than I did. No, none of this made me miss her any less – despising my sister was a luxury belonging to the old life. I looked forward with greedy anticipation to the moment when I could hate her again.
I picked up the white maid’s cap and sauntered over to the small mirror propped on the plain wooden dresser and held it up to my hair. Even Margot couldn’t make this look good, not even if she spent an hour in the bathroom with peach lipstick, powder and the rouge sent from Paris. I dropped it on the floor in disgust, kicking the apron with my bare toe.
Art had lugged up my trunk and bags while I was in the kitchen with Mrs Ellsworth, and I decided to unpack. I had never unpacked my belongings before; we always had maids of our own to perform such tasks, and after we were forced to dismiss them, Hildegard and the Jewish daily kept our drawers tidy, and our clean linen continued to appear monthly, starched and folded. For the first time since I had departed Vienna, I unlocked the trunk and folded back the lid. Sure enough, the vast volume of Mrs Beeton’s Household Management rested on the top, like a brooding hen. I felt almost glad to see her, like I had a piece of Hildegard with me. I still had no intention of actually reading it. I shoved the undergarments into various drawers, and pulled out my skirts and dresses, spreading them carefully upon the bed. I had a tiny razor blade amongst my wash things, and sitting cross-legged on the blankets, I set about retrieving the valuables from their hiding places, trying not to slice my fingers and bleed over the clean clothes. I felt along the hem of each skirt before hanging it up in the wardrobe, and soon I had a small stash of gold, which I placed inside a stocking and shoved in the back of a drawer. Anna had packed in layers of tissue paper the soft pink evening gown I’d worn that last evening. I didn’t know when she had sneaked it in and, while I realised that I would never have occasion to wear such a dress, I should be glad to see it hanging in my wardrobe, a memento of better times. When I lifted it, I noticed that the hem was rumpled, as though something was concealed within. Taking the razor blade, I unpicked the extra layer of stitching, and carefully drew out a snake of white pearls. Anna’s pearls.
I sat on the bed as the evening dulled into darkness, and listened to the breakers on the beach. The string of pearls shimmered in the candlelight and I ran my fingertips along the smooth beads, pale as drops of milk. The stowaway pearls revealed Anna’s doubt that I’d ever see her in New York. I pulled them through my fingers, again and again, unwilling to fasten them around my neck, in case they choked me.
I fell into a fitful sleep, but the sound of the sea kept invading my dreams. I was carried on a ship into a far-off land, but it was not America, and I knew we sailed the wrong way to reach Anna and Julian and Margot. I howled at the captain to turn the boat around, but two muscled crewmen with wolfish faces picked me up by my arms and cast me into the sea. I thrashed and tried to scream, but my lungs filled with burning saltwater. I awoke with a cry, and found myself soaked with sweat, the bedcovers as wet as if I had drenched them with a bucket of water. My candle had burnt out and it was pitch dark. I took deep breaths, in and out, in and out, until I felt my heartbeat slow to a steady thud, and decided to go and wash my face.
I padded along the corridor in bare feet, feeling my way like I was playing a lonesome game of blind man’s bluff. I had never been afraid of the dark or night-time noises, and willed myself not to be scared now. I had not noticed the bathroom on my way upstairs, and had been directed to an outside privy when I’d requested the toilet. Several doors led off the corridors, but not wanting to disturb May or any other maids who might be sleeping, I decided to creep down to the yard and splash my face outside in the cool air. The back stairs lay in total darkness and I groped my way down keeping one hand on the banister, managing not to stumble on the narrow treads. I emerged in the corridor beside the kitchen and hurried along to the back door. It was unlocked and I stepped straight out into the moonlit yard.
The cobbles were cold beneath my feet and slippery with dew. As I skidded, stubbing my toe on a broken stone, I realised that it might have been sensible to put on my shoes, but then I only ever thought of sensible things when it was too late. Mr Bobbin’s brown and white dappled head rested on the stable door; his eyes were closed and he snored softly. I smiled; I’d never heard a horse snore before – only Julian when he’d had too much brandy from the decanter in the dining room after a good dinner.
The night air held a chill and I shivered in my damp pyjamas, but I liked the quiet. There was no one around but me and I experienced a rush of satisfaction. For now I was free from worrying about how to behave, what to say, which words to use and, if I wanted, I could skip around the silent yard without anyone scolding me for inappropriate displays. I stretched luxuriously, revealing my belly to the night and gave an unladylike yawn. My hair was sticky with sweat and clung to my face and I decided that I would wash, despite the cold. An old-fashioned water pump with an iron handle stood in the middle of the yard. I’d watched the stable boy use it earlier before scrubbing Mr Bobbin, and I mimicked his movement, pushing the handle up and down, until a steady stream of water sluiced my feet and gushed over the cobbles. Kneeling, I shoved my head under the flow, trying to pump at the same time and managed to rinse my hair as well as spray myself with freezing water. The cold took my breath away, emptying my mind of all thought, save for the sensation of icy liquid washing through my hair, over my cheeks and trickling down my neck. It was not unpleasant, and the rush of water crowded out my tumbling worries. The pump squealed and whined, filling the empty yard with the sound, so that it took me a moment to realise someone was speaking to me.
‘Hullo?’
I scrambled to my feet, banging my head against the pump. A pain exploded above my eye and I crouched, rubbing my forehead. The next moment, a man was kneeling beside me, pushing my wet hair out of my face with his fingers.
‘Are you bleeding? Or is this water? I can’t see. Come into the light.’
I allowed myself to be led into the corner of the yard, where a yellow oil lamp rested on a mounting block. The man touched my forehead, where I’d cracked it against the pump. I was too embarrassed to look into his face, and stared at my bare, slightly grimy toes.
‘No, you’re all right. I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to frighten you like that.’
I looked up and saw in the gloom a man of about forty with dark hair, and a slight smile playing around his eyes. Anna would have called him handsome, but I knew that men of forty were far too old to be considered any such thing.
‘Christopher Rivers,’ he said.
‘Elise Landau,’ I said, offering him my hand.
He glanced at my proffered hand for a moment, before clasping it warmly between both of his. I reddened, suddenly remembering that I was a maid now, and didn’t shake hands with gentlemen.
I realised how strange I must appear to him, standing in the middle of his stable yard in the middle of the night in a pair of drenched pyjamas. When he released my hand, I folded my arms tightly across my chest.
‘It is very pleasant to be making your acquaintance Mr Rivers . . . sir,’ I added as an afterthought, recalling that this was the way English maids addressed gentlemen.
‘Charming to make yours, Elise,’ said Mr Rivers, doing his best to repress the smile that was spreading from his eyes to his mouth.
I glanced back down at the cobbles. No man other than my father had ever addressed me by my first name before. In Vienna, only fathers, brothers and lovers used a lady’s familiar name. The few men I knew always called me ‘Fraulein Landau’ or ‘Fraulein Elise’ at the very most, and when this tall man called me by my first name alone it sounded intimate.
‘May I suggest that you go back inside? You are rather wet, and I would not like you to catch cold.’
‘Yes . . . erm. Mr . . . erm. Sir.’
‘Mr Rivers is just fine.’
I nodded and squeezing out the water from my long plait onto the yard, I turned to go inside the house. As I reached the back door, he called out to me.
‘Elise?’
I hesitated, my hand on the door handle.
‘I think it best that neither of us mentions this meeting to Mrs Ellsworth. We meet in the morning as strangers.’
The Novel in the Viola Page 6