The Novel in the Viola

by Natasha Solomons

  CHAPTER TEN

  Fish and a rose-patterned teacup

  Kit’s presence seemed to breathe life into the old house. Everyone woke up: the daily housemaids dusted each nook with fanatical care, humming as they rubbed beeswax onto the stone floors or beat the ancient rugs with hazel brooms. It was as though the manor and its inhabitants had been covered with an invisible dustsheet and Kit had shaken it off. The scent of Mrs Ellsworth’s baking pervaded the service corridor and wafted into the musty hall. Mr Wrexham retreated into a dark pantry that I hadn’t known existed, and began to fill cauldrons with water pulled from the spring in the kitchen garden. He appeared to have forgiven Kit his premature arrival as first thing after breakfast the pair disappeared into this pantry. Sounds of bubbling emitted from behind the closed door, while sweet yeast-filled steam trickled from underneath the seam. Even May seemed less resentful of my presence, going as far as to offer me a humbug from a newspaper twist.

  I did not speak to Kit again until Saturday. During the week I tried to linger outside the pantry, waiting for him to emerge but Mrs Ellsworth pounced, hurrying me away with a list of chores as endless as Penelope’s web. Every moment was occupied with tasks and Mr Wrexham did not choose to reinstate my privilege of waiting at the dinner table. But on Saturday morning, as I cleaned the sitting room windows, I glimpsed Kit pacing on the lawns with his father, their heads bowed in earnest conversation. Deliberately ignoring Mrs Ellsworth’s instructions to withdraw from view, I watched the two men. Mr Rivers’ face was grey and he looked tired and unhappy. Kit turned away from his father, his expression blank and unreadable. He saw me watching from the window and met my gaze for a second, before walking back towards the house. I continued to stare, cleaning forgotten, as Mr Rivers paced upon the grass, and then disappeared down the path leading to the sea. It occurred to me that Mr Rivers was the only member of the household apparently unmoved by Kit’s arrival. The porch door banged, and a second later Kit himself appeared in the sitting room, treading damp footprints across the polished floor. I frowned, ready to reproach him and then remembering my place, bit my lip, but he must have seen my look of displeasure. ‘Sorry. I’ll take them off.’

  I stared at him, saying nothing as he sat down in the middle of the floor and removed his shoes. He padded across the room in his socks to where I stood beside the windows clutching my rag and, opening the glass wide, threw out his shoes so that they sailed through the air, landing on the lawn with a thud-thud. He slammed shut the casement.

  ‘There. I’m sorry.’

  He smiled warmly, eyes blue and beseeching. ‘Did you meet the Forsytes?’

  It took me a moment to realise that he meant the paperback novel hidden beneath my pillow.

  ‘I have not had time,’ I said, standing stiffly beside a worn sofa. I had intended to read the book every night, but the moment I climbed into bed, I slipped into an exhausted sleep.

  He sank into an easy chair and swung a leg over the armrest, revealing a large hole in his sock. A toe peeped through.

  ‘Oh.’ He sounded so sad, as though my not reading the book were a personal rejection.

  ‘I am wanting to read. But I am finding so very busy.’

  ‘Oh, all right. But try and hurry up.’

  I studied Kit for a second, wondering if I’d ever been so impatient with Hildegard. Probably. I was always tired now. Every morning, I woke up with May banging on my door, wishing I could go back to sleep. I liked cleaning the large drawing room, as I could sit down on the Persian rug behind the sofa and daydream. If Mr Wrexham or anyone else came in, I was concealed from view and if discovered could pretend I was polishing the brass feet of the sofa or a mark on the parquet floor. ‘So will you come?’

  ‘I’m sorry? Beg pardon.’

  Lost in thought, I hadn’t heard a word Kit had said.

  ‘Church tomorrow.’

  I swallowed, and instinctively ran my hand through my hair. ‘I cannot. I do not go to church.’

  Kit sat up straight in the overstuffed armchair. ‘Just this week. I promise it will be fun.’

  ‘Fun?’ I thought it odd that church was so different to synagogue; the few occasions I had been dragged along by the great-aunts, I’d been dazed with boredom. On Yom Kippur, with the ban on teeth brushing, I’d spent all day avoiding the sour stench of the old ladies’ breath, ducking to avoid kisses.

  ‘Yes. Fun. Don’t come all the way in. Stand by the door, just this once. Trust me.’

  ‘I think about it.’

  The door swung open and Mr Wrexham stood in the doorway. Seeing me in conversation with Kit, his eyes narrowed with displeasure. I picked up my cleaning box and hurried out into the hall.

  ‘You are not to talk to Mr Kit.’

  ‘He speaking first.’

  Mr Wrexham frowned. ‘Yes, well. Mr Kit is most good-natured. They must not see you cleaning. It’s improper. Next time, you make your apologies and exit.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Wrexham.’

  The butler and housekeeper were quite determined the illusion be maintained that the house was cleaned by magic or elves. Fires should be laid and lit, curtains opened and closed, floors swept, rugs cleaned, silver polished, pictures dusted but the act of cleaning must never be seen. I found it very odd. Even Hildegard and our maids in Vienna scrubbed in our presence. Hilde especially huffed and puffed and muttered as she went. She was neither silent nor invisible.

  Mr Wrexham drew me into the corner of the hall, speaking in a low voice. ‘Elise, post arrived for you. It was a little late this morning. The fault of a flat bicycle tyre, I believe. So, if you wish, you may come to my little ro—’

  He stopped mid-sentence, face setting into his passive butler’s smile, as Kit wandered into the hall in his socks.

  ‘How’s the brew this morning, Wrexham?’

  ‘Coming along most pleasingly, sir. Would sir like to come and taste?’

  Kit grinned at me. ‘Wrexham is a dark horse, Elise. He’s a master brewer. Makes the best beer in Dorset.’

  ‘Sir is very kind.’

  Kit checked his watch. ‘Ten fifteen. A good time to sample the latest batch. Want to taste, Elise?’

  Mr Wrexham’s smile remained firmly pinned. ‘Elise has a great deal of work this morning.’

  Kit shrugged, and began to follow Mr Wrexham out of the hall and along the service corridor leading to the back pantry. I watched them for a second, and then, not caring if I was to be scolded later, called out, ‘Mr Wrexham?’

  He froze and turned around, fixing me with a look of cold displeasure.

  ‘My letter? Please. My letter.’

  ‘I am with the young gentleman, Elise. Remember your manners.’

  His voice held a note of warning, but Kit was oblivious.

  ‘Oh give Elise her letter, Wrexham. The beer can wait a minute.’

  I felt a rush of gratitude towards Kit, even though I knew the butler would be furious with me later.

  ‘Very well,’ said Mr Wrexham, without looking at me.

  We walked along the service corridor in silence, until we reached his room. I waited outside, while Kit continued along to the beer pantry. Mr Wrexham slipped inside, retrieving not one but two letters propped upon a plain side table beside the door. Wordlessly, he passed them to me.

  ‘Thank you.’

  I shoved them into my apron pocket and started to back away, desperate to disappear upstairs and read in peace.

  ‘Wait,’ commanded Mr Wrexham. ‘Take this polish and these cloths. The china in the library is in urgent need of cleaning. I will inspect it before lunch. I expect perfection. I would strongly suggest that you put these upstairs, and read them later.’

  Stifling a sigh, I bowed my head. As I glanced up, I met Kit’s sympathetic eye. He lurked in the gloom of the corridor, just out of Mr Wrexham’s sight. Thankfully, this time he said nothing, apparently realising that any more interference on my behalf would only incense the butler further. Having absolutely no intention of se
tting aside the letters for later, I took the cloths and scurried to the library, grateful that Mr Rivers was out on one of his walks and I could be assured of solitude.

  The library was situated in the north wing of the house, the drive and porch outside one window, and the front lawns outside the other. Unless Mr Rivers was present, the curtains were kept drawn to protect the fragile bindings of the ancient books. The sea air, so beneficial for rude human health, corroded the Rivers’ family library, so that when some of the books were opened the pages sloughed away to nothingness. I once ran my finger along a leather spine and a layer of crimson flaked away onto my skin. Mrs Ellsworth instructed me to burn pinecones in the grate each morning and dip candles in lavender oil, but the fragrance of musty books pervaded. The daily housemaids detested the room, complaining it was ‘duckish dark an’ puts us all in a bother’, and I earned their profuse gratitude when I offered to take over its cleaning. I liked the proximity of Julian’s novels, and I found the permanent twilight soothing rather than eerie and I liked it best at dusk. Then I would trim the scented candles while the orange sun lowered in the west, making the spines of the books appear to blaze for a minute and then dull, as the sun slipped behind the shadow of the hill.

  I knew Kit and his beer would keep Mr Wrexham busy, and Mrs Ellsworth was busy preparing luncheon, so I had a few minutes to read my letters. I borrowed the silver letter knife from the Victorian desk and settled on the hearthrug. I opened the one with the earliest postmark first. It was inscribed with Margot’s breathless scrawl.

  Tomorrow Robert and I leave for America. I hadn’t wanted to leave until Mama and Papa’s visa arrived and we could all go together, but Papa had a talk with Robert and afterwards they both insisted that we must take the next boat. I cried and so did Mama but the two men ganged up on us. So please don’t be worried if you don’t hear from me for some time as I will be on the boat and then I don’t know how long it will be till I can write again oh Bean how I miss you and how much worse it will all be when I am away from Hilde and Mama and Papa and even the aunts. I wish we could stay as it must all blow over soon and even Mama says so and I don’t want to go so far away and surely they will be only a month behind. I hope all is well with you and try not to eat too much.

  The ink was smudged with what I could only assume were Margot’s tears. I took a deep breath, feeling a little sick. My sister was always the one prone to hysteria, or what Julian called the ‘artistic temperament’ (since I was not an artist of any kind, my own moods were classified as childish immaturity). If Julian wanted her to leave, there must be a good reason for it. And Robert had been fired from the University a week after the Anschluss, and there was a well-paid job waiting for him in California. It made no sense for them to stay in Vienna any longer. We would all return in a year or two, until then there was no point in being sentimental. I gave a snort – when had I become so practical? My family would not recognise me.

  I reached for the next letter, postmarked one week later than Margot’s.

  Thank you for your telegram. But next time you write, you must use our new address. Your father, Hildegard and I left the apartment in Dorotheegasse for a smaller one in Leopoldstadt. Please don’t be upset, or worry about us in the least. The new place is bright and pleasant and much more sensible for the three of us. With you girls gone, Julian and I were rattling around in such a big place. We are really very cosy.

  All is well here. We miss you and Margot, even grumpy Robert, to tell the truth. But we are very glad that you are safe. You shouldn’t worry – I don’t think they are interested in old people like us. You must write and tell me what the English countryside is like. I’ve heard that it is very beautiful. I hope the food is all right, even if it’s not up to Hilde’s standards. You are not to get skinny.

  Your loving mother,

  Anna Julie Landau

  I slid the letter back into my apron pocket, unease gnawing at me. Anna, Margot and I always told each other everything but Anna’s letter clamoured with things unsaid. Why had they moved? Surely, with their American visas coming so soon, they could have waited a few weeks. I didn’t like being unable to picture my parents. Usually I thought of them in my childhood home: Julian scrawling in his study, Anna returning pink-cheeked from the shops, laden with parcels wrapped up in striped paper. Now I didn’t know how to think about them. Instead of a picture, there was blankness.

  That afternoon, Mr Wrexham instructed me to serve tea to the gentlemen on the terrace. He clearly felt that this was a treat I did not deserve, but Kit had requested the beer be bottled in time for lunch on Sunday and while I ought to be punished for my cheek (‘requesting a letter and delaying the young master is a household crime – their needs above yours, every time, missy’) he could not risk inconveniencing the gentlemen. I might be in disgrace, but tea must not be late.

  I stood in the kitchen, holding the vast tea tray, willing my arms not to shake as Mrs Ellsworth placed upon it the china teapot and strainer, a kettle of hot water, milk jug, scones, clotted cream, raspberry jam, a plate of lemon peel biscuits, and a pile of salmon and cucumber sandwiches. Henry the footman accompanied me, opening all the doors, guiding me through the Tudor porch and finally out onto the terrace.

  ‘You all right from here, Elise?’ asked Henry.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  The footman vanished inside. Mr Rivers and Kit sat on cast iron chairs, before a white-painted table. Kit was smoking, flicking ash into a terracotta flowerpot. His father ignored him and pretended to read his newspaper. I knew he was not actually reading as his routine was invariable: breakfast and the headlines at eight fifteen, afterwards, open the day’s post and study the news until ten thirty. The paper was always ready to be placed on the pile in Mr Wrexham’s study before lunch. As I placed the tray on the table and re-arranged the spoons, I wondered why Mr Rivers did not wish to talk to Kit.

  I picked up a rogue sugar-lump with the tongs and plopped it back into the bowl, hoping neither gentlemen noticed. Mrs Ellsworth had given me very precise instructions on how tea must be served, and only when I had practised the routine twice without fault on her and May was I given permission to serve the gentlemen. I set a porcelain cup before Mr Rivers and Kit, placing a tiny silver spoon on the edge of each saucer at two o’clock; then, picking up the teapot, I stood on the left-hand side of Mr Rivers.

  ‘Tea, sir?’

  ‘Yes, please, Elise. Pour away.’

  I sloshed tea into the cup, decided it was a touch dark and added a splash of hot water from the silver kettle.

  ‘Sugar?’

  ‘Ah, no thank you.’

  I looked at Kit. I wasn’t sure how to address him in his father’s presence. He smiled at me lazily from across the table.

  ‘Yes please and two sugars,’ he said, saving me the embarrassment.

  In less than a minute, there were two steaming cups of tea, without a drip spilt in either saucer, and plates laid with scones and jam. I felt rather pleased with myself.

  ‘Anything else, sir?’

  Mr Rivers lowered the paper, folding it in half and setting it down on the table. I eyed it greedily, hungrier for news than for any of Mrs Ellsworth’s cakes.

  ‘No thank you. That will be all.’

  As I picked up the tray, ready to return it to the kitchen, Mr Rivers took a sip of tea. A split second later he spat it out. A mouthful of leaves swam in the saucer. I’d forgotten to use the strainer. My hands flew to my cheeks in horror.

  Kit laughed out loud, and took a glug of his, swallowing it with a shudder. ‘Ah, so this is how they drink tea in Vienna, yes? Trying to teach us some manners?’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Rivers,’ I said, attempting to grab the cup from him.

  Mr Rivers smiled and gripped the teacup firmly; there was a crack and the handle snapped off. I looked at him, and then at the fragile rosebud handle in my fingers and wondered if it would be bad manners to cry.

  ‘I’m a terrible maid,’ I said, ey
es downcast.

  ‘Honestly, we’ve had much worse. Here,’ Kit passed me a handkerchief, clean this time. ‘It really doesn’t matter.’

  Mr Rivers gently prised the broken handle from me.

  ‘Please, of all the silly things to be upset by. The truth is, neither Kit nor I even like taking tea. It’s Mrs Ellsworth who insists upon it.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kit. ‘Even father’s afraid of Flo.’

  I couldn’t help but smile. Mr Rivers stood up and tossed out the contents of both cups onto the grass, leaving a black smudge of tea leaves.

  ‘I’ll tell Mrs Ellsworth that I broke it. I can take her scolding, I assure you,’ he said with a glance towards Kit.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  ‘We’ll ring if we need anything else,’ said Mr Rivers kindly, dismissing me.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  I’d seen the other girls perform a little bob or half curtsy as they said this, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Julian had taught me to bow to no man. The Kaiser was dead, the Empire rightly disbanded, and in a republic no one was greater or lesser than anyone else. I wondered how he reconciled this with Hilde washing his socks and making his breakfast and drawing his bath, but decided these were disloyal thoughts when Julian was not able to defend himself.

  On hearing the tinkle of the service bell, I returned to the terrace to discover that Mr Rivers had gone, and Kit sat alone. His food remained untouched, but a pile of spent cigarettes lay in a small heap beside his chair. I piled the tea things back onto the tray, trying not to clatter too loudly.

  ‘How is your family?’ he asked.

  ‘Most well, thank you. They have moved to a smaller apartment.’

  I swallowed and licked my dry lips. ‘Kit?’

  ‘Yes, Elise?’ He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I am very much liking to read Mr Rivers’ paper Times. I am having no news of Vienna. When he is finishing, maybe I can be reading? And also good for my English improvements.’