I gazed out of the little window above the basin. Far away down the Long Lawn, Arthur was walking across the grass, his wheelbarrow laden with of bricks for the construction of the new walled garden. He was a tall man and strong, but he had a ruddy complexion and a long, hooked nose, something which he seemed conscious of, preferring to spend his evenings in the gardener’s cottage rather than venture into the village to meet women.
Jimmy followed the wheelbarrow, his lanky body stooped under the weight of a coil of stable rope. He was barely eighteen with only a soft down on his lip and a creaking voice to suggest that he was approaching manhood. He would often bow his head, ashamed of his uneven features I thought, and I found that I could not imagine him talking to a woman without blushing. Arthur and Jimmy were the men who spent most of their days on the grounds of my estate but now, as I watched them, I realised how little I knew of their lives.
The object was still on the table when Rosalie returned from her errands at the farm and I noticed her glance at it when she set down her basket. Rosalie was fifteen but her growth had been stunted; the top of her head barely reached my chest and her body was still firm and girlish. I’d had to use the pattern for a child’s pinafore when I made her work dress out of scraps of an old mauve tablecloth, and the shawl she had chosen to match it seemed to smother her tiny shoulders and drain her skin of colour. She had a frailty about her that I feared would attract the coarse farmhands and her lack of education meant that she would never get to read about the concerns of married life in magazines or advertisements. I saw the prophylactic as my chance to educate her in the ways of the world – after all, she was a young woman, who lived under my roof, and I felt it my duty.
Rosalie had a type of innocence that had left me long ago for, as a thirty-five-year-old married woman, I had become well accustomed to the acts of married love. I had been considered quite a catch when I married my husband, Hugh – I had a fuller figure and deep green eyes that he always said could draw any man into bed but, over the years, I had lost my curves and become quite scrawny. Now I rarely had the time to make myself new clothes or pin my hair up, and Hugh’s desires had waned. I had now reached a point in my life where sex was frequent but served one purpose only – a purpose that was never achieved – and the sight of my naked husband did not excite me when it was a Monday evening again and all I wanted was a mug of cocoa.
‘Look!’ I said as I held the object dangling from my fingers but her face was blank and I realised that I would need to explain. ‘It is a prophylactic,’ I added.
Her eyes went round. ‘Oh!’ she gasped and stepped forward as if to take it from me.
‘Don’t touch it,’ I said. ‘It might be dirty.’
‘Of course,’ she said quickly and took a step backwards. ‘So, I suppose it must be for, um…’ At last she had worked out what it was but I fancied that her mind had been quicker than mine. I put this down to her youth and her upbringing in Oxworth, where workers’ terraces lined the railways, and the people of her age and class would loiter in the streets, spit, chew tobacco and joke about such things. The young always have sex on their minds, even if there is little they can do about their desires. ‘…Like sailors use to stop disease,’ she said awkwardly.
‘And to stop babies,’ I added, but now it was me that felt awkward. Rosalie must have wondered why I had been married a good five years and was still without child. Sometimes I fancied that she thought me a prude, but the truth hurt more. Even though she was a housemaid and almost twenty years my junior, she was the only female company that I had. My mother was dead, my younger sister had married and moved away and, because my husband shunned the society of the village, I had no social events to host or attend, even if I could afford to.
As another woman, I longed to tell Rosalie about how I had tried for a baby: the apologies from the doctor, the shaken heads, the pitying looks from friends, and the scorn from my mother-in-law who lamented the disappearance of her family line. But our sex was all that we had in common – there was nothing I could share, nothing she could relate to, nothing she would want to know. I wanted to say so much to her but in the end I just looked down at the sorry piece of rubber between my fingers.
‘Where did you find it?’ she said at last.
‘Under the sink,’ I said. ‘But I don’t know who would…’
‘Well, I suppose it could only be Jimmy,’ she said.
‘Jimmy?’ I laughed. I looked out on to the Long Lawn where Jimmy now sat on the grass, holding a stick out to the dog who limped slowly towards him. ‘I doubt he has it in him,’ I said.
She looked a little crestfallen and I started to realise that they were similar in age and must have an affinity.
‘Well, Arthur then.’
‘I doubt he has it in him either,’ she said and I realised that she too had been looking out on to the lawn, and then I saw what she did – Arthur on his hands and knees as he laid the first bricks of the wall, the seat of his trousers ragged and split. She did not need to say anything more – Arthur was a man of simple tastes who had worked in the garden or on my family’s farm since his retirement from the army. His cottage, at the far end of the Long Lawn, could be seen from the main house and I realised that I had never seen a visitor call there, man nor woman.
There was something about the way she had said it that made me giggle and then she started to laugh too. I suspected that she was laughing more at my giggles than at the sight of Arthur’s worn trousers but I did not mind; with all my woes and nothing but the talk of war on everybody’s lips, I needed a good laugh.
‘Well, he does not seem so old to me,’ I said in defence of poor Arthur, ‘but I am closer to his age I suppose.’
She said nothing more and I fancied that she thought she had spoken out of turn in front of her mistress.
I realised that the prophylactic was still dangling between my fingers and the awkwardness of the situation began to dawn on me and it was only then that I felt my cheeks warm. ‘Well, I can’t leave it here.’ I said brusquely, ‘That wouldn’t be right.’
‘But nobody will mention that they are missing it,’ said Rosalie quickly. ‘That would be too much of a confession, and the only way to find out who it belongs to would be to ask.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, of course.’ But I could not imagine myself questioning the men over something that was so personal any more than I could imagine either of them owning such a thing, and we both stared at the long, limp pocket in silence.
Then the back door swung open and Arthur appeared, scraping his boots on the mat.
‘Afternoon, Madam, apologies but I did not know you were down here.’ He nodded shortly. ‘Rosalie, I was just coming to get a jug of water. It is thirsty work out there with all the--’ Then he hesitated. ‘I’m sorry, did I interrupt something?’
‘It’s nothing,’ said Rosalie quickly, but I had been unable to find a place to put the object and it still dangled from my fingertips.
Arthur’s gaze fell to my hand.
‘I found it under the basin, Arthur,’ I said, and by the tone I heard in my voice, I realised I had become the proper lady of the house that he had addressed. ‘It is a prophylactic. It’s something that gentlemen use to—’
‘It’s mine,’ he said quickly, and with those words, a stillness fell over the room, one that seemed to last for several seconds, the air undisturbed by movement or breath, and I found that I dared not look either of them in the eye. ‘You had better just put it back where you found it, Madam,’ Arthur said at last. ‘I will deal with it presently.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Sorry, Arthur.’ I thought how strange it sounded – the mistress of the house apologising to a servant for his own impropriety – but then I saw that Arthur’s face had reddened and I realised my apology was for embarrassing this poor, lonely man.
A loud clatter came from above the dresser and everyone looked up to the row of service bells. The bell for the study was shuddering, the coil of wire cons
tricting behind the metal dome.
‘Well, Arthur,’ I said, glad of the distraction, ‘once you have dealt with it, please ensure that I do not find it again.’
He nodded grimly and Rosalie thrust a jug of water into his hands. Then he thanked us both quietly and returned to his duties in the garden.
What we had joked about just moments before was somehow no longer funny and Rosalie and I stood alone, unsure what to say, in silence but for the clattering bell.
‘Hugh will want afternoon tea,’ I said when I could find the words.
‘Does he know that you are down here again?’ asked Rosalie.
‘No,’ I sighed. ‘It would kill him to know that his wife has been scrubbing pans, he thinks I’ve taken embroidery into the garden.’
‘I will prepare it now,’ said Rosalie grimly, ‘but the bell can wait.’ She put the kettle on the stove, a tray on the table, and started to lay the service.
‘Here,’ I said, returning the prophylactic to its box and removing the flowers from the cupboard. ‘I fear they were part of Arthur’s assignations but they need to go in water before the petals start to fall, you can find something to put them in and take them up with the tray.’
She took the flowers from me. ‘I will get a milk can,’ she said and left for the pantry.
I returned to the basin and gazed back out the window. Out on the lawn, the men had returned to work, the chink of trowels on brick drifting through the window. I put my hands back in the basin but the water had gone cold. A lone petal swirled in the suds, the deep red of blood. I found that I got the strangest of feelings looking at it, as if something was not right.
The bell rang and rang.
Chapter 9
July 1915
They were peonies from the garden, and there were more of them this time. Their stems were tied with string and their fat heads drooped over the rim of the milk can. The word ‘Rosalie’ was crudely sketched on the back of an envelope and placed next to them.
‘It seems they are for you,’ I said, holding out the can to her, but she did not take it.
‘Thank you,’ she said embarrassed, and when I set it down on the draining board added: ‘I’m sorry, Madam.’
‘It is all right,’ I said. ‘You are up to your elbows in suds, but you must have something to cheer up the kitchen if you are to spend the rest of the afternoon scrubbing pots. Peonies only bloom for a short while and it is the end of the season, so it’s probably best they were cut.’
Then I thought of the last time I had seen cut peonies – it had been the bunch that had been stashed hastily under the sink along with the prophylactic, almost two months ago.
‘They are not from…’ but to even say Arthur’s name sounded ridiculous.
‘No,’ she laughed and I was glad for it. She turned back to the basin.
‘I’m assuming they are from Jimmy, then?’
‘Yes,’ she said, her face reddening.
‘He is a nice boy,’ I said.
But she said nothing more and started scrubbing a pan vigorously.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I had better get back upstairs.’
I waited for her to say something. Something more about Jimmy perhaps or the flowers, but she just looked up briefly and smiled and I felt sad that she gave me no cause to linger. I wanted to talk to her, to talk to someone, but what I wanted to speak of could not just be dropped into a conversation. I wanted to tell her that I had not bled for seven weeks. I wanted to tell her about my news that would put an end to all the doctor’s visits and the shaken heads of pitying neighbours. But something stopped me – I had not told Hugh yet, and somehow I felt unable. The news of a new life was something to be shared among women, something to be received joyously, with empathy and gossip – all the things I craved from women friends. For all that I had suffered, I wanted to indulge in what other women shared so effortlessly and a baby would give me a chance at that.
I opened my mouth but then the service bell for the bedroom started ringing and I knew that Hugh must have finished his work.
‘I will go,’ I said wearily. ‘You can’t let the water go cold. I have something to tell him anyway.’
*
Hugh was in the bedroom, adjusting his double-breasted jacket in front of the dressing mirror.
‘You’re looking dapper,’ I said, squeezing his thigh. ‘I did not know a tripe supper deserved such attire.’
He laughed and grabbed me round the waist. ‘Well, with you it would.’
‘I shall have to dust off the tiara,’ I said, but then I realised that he had said ‘would’ and the jacket was not anything that he would ever wear around the house. Hugh rarely ventured beyond the walls of the Grange but when he did, it was always to drink with old army pals and I realised that, once again, whatever plans he had for that evening did not include me. I did not say anything but sat down on the bed glumly and watched him as he fixed his cufflinks.
It was the same jacket that he had worn when we first met at the Evesbridge Hunt Ball, over five years ago at Chaverly House, his family’s estate. He had just been discharged from full service in the army and as the dancing stopped we had sneaked out into the garden and smoked his exotic Egyptian cigarettes in the moonlight, the notes of ‘Greensleeves’ floating from the ballroom, and I remember thinking that he had the look of Lord Kitchener about him.
He had worn the jacket again on our wedding day and we had staggered into the photographer’s studio as newly-weds, trying to stifle our drunken giggles as a strange box was pointed at us, the photographer opening the aperture as if it were a mechanical eye, capturing man and wife together in a grey-toned memory. The same married couple now stared from a frame on the bedside table, their smiles suppressed and their eyes blank, but the jacket worn proudly over Hugh’s muscular chest.
I marvelled at how well the jacket still fitted Hugh, even now that he was no longer in his thirties. His body spoke of privilege; he was a tall man, yet his back was not bowed by work, nor his muscles wasted by hunger and his hair and moustache were still thick. I fancied that he showed the same traits that his class looked for in their dogs and horses – healthy breeding animals born of a strong bloodline.
Igor sat at his master’s feet, his body stiff and proud. He had the bearing of a true Irish wolfhound, one that suggested an awareness of his breed’s history and its place among the upper classes. But Igor was no longer the fine beast from the oil painting that hung in the drawing room, for his head had a permanent tilt to it and he kept one withered paw raised from the floor. When he saw that I was watching him, he pressed his body against Hugh’s legs and let out a low whine.
Hugh laughed. ‘What is it, boy? Is your mistress giving you the evil eye again?’
‘Igor!’ I clicked my fingers down to him but he shrank away. ‘I can’t think why he’s never trusted me!’ I said.
‘Well, dogs have good instincts…’ Hugh began but then he fell silent and stared at his reflection and I began to doubt whether he had meant it in jest. But then his face brightened again. ‘I’m sorry, darling, what I meant to say was that Igor and I have a lot in common - we are both well-bred gentlemen who cower to our terrible mistress.’
I laughed and threw his tie at him, but he caught it mid-air and slid it round his neck. ‘Can you pass me the little box on the dressing table?’ he said.
I did so, reluctantly. ‘Do you have to wear that this evening, darling?’ I said as he opened the box. ‘Even with everything that is going on in the world?’
It was Hugh’s old service medal and I watched in silence as he fitted it to his jacket. Hugh had served with the British Army in India and had toured in Tibet. He had brought back no wounds or trauma, just trinkets; ornate coins and polished jade stones, which I was sure had been taken as battle spoils rather than gifts. He had also brought back his batman, Arthur, who became our gardener, and the pair had continued to serve together as reserves until their terms had expired. Yet while Hugh seemed to have prefe
rred the role of soldier to master, Arthur had always seemed perfectly comfortable as a gardener and would never join in with Hugh’s reminiscing about mountains and temples and animalistic natives running from Maxim guns.
‘“Everything that is going on in the world”, as you put it, gives me an extra reason to wear it,’ Hugh replied. ‘We should all show some national pride.’ Then he looked directly at his reflection and grinned. ‘Besides,’ he said, ‘I am going to meet Clement Walker.’
‘Again?’ I said dully.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘He is coming all the way from London to meet me in the Red Lion.’
‘Well it is not such a bad journey for him,’ I said. ‘I expect his motorcar will make the miles simply fly by.’
Hugh looked at me sternly. ‘He is making an effort to help us, Milly. Don’t forget that I have known him since we trained for Tibet. Clement, Arthur and I were quite tight back then. Army chums like us stick together. I gave Arthur the job here, and now Clement is looking to invest in the walled garden that Arthur is building for us.’
‘But every time you come back from meeting him all you talk of is selling him the Sunningdale Farm for one of his barmy housing developments. Clement Walker already has his fortune from family money, not to mention his new housing estates and his clothing factory. Investing in the walled garden would just be pennies to him. Are you sure that he’s not just meeting you to talk about the farm?’
‘Well, I admit that selling the farm would give us much-needed money and be a good investment for him.’
‘You seem to be forgetting that the farm is part of Missensham Grange!’ I said. ‘My family have owned this estate for generations.’
The Murderess Page 5