by Kelly Doust
Mother coughed, and Lizzie felt something twist in the pit of her belly. No other man called her mother by her first name – nobody except Papa, and Henry said it in such a familiar way.
‘We’d best be on our way,’ Mother said, uncharacteristically flushed. ‘Thank you, Henry. Carry on,’ she said, already hurrying the girls away.
Lizzie turned back to look as they made their way down the hill. Henry was still watching after them. He nodded, smiling again, before slowly returning to his work.
Ever since then, Lizzie had made it her business to keep an eye on him. Father would not like these new developments at all. He always said Rose took too many liberties with the servants as it was.
‘They’re not your ruddy friends, Rose, they’re our employees.’
‘I just thought . . .’
‘You thought what?’
‘I thought Maria would like our old things. They’re no use to me, I no longer fit into them, and these are some of the girls’ dresses they’ve grown out of as well. They’re too worn to keep. I thought we could give them to Maria’s sister and her two nieces.’
‘How the hell do you even know that she has a sister, or that her sister has children, Rose? That’s exactly what I’m talking about!’ he snorted.
Lizzie thought Papa was right – it didn’t seem right to fraternise with the servants just as though . . . well, as though they were just like them. Because they weren’t, were they? Otherwise they wouldn’t be servants. Why, some of them didn’t even read! Papa had told her that himself, thought Lizzie, enjoying his outrage.
Lizzie’s brow darkened as she thought of Henry. He might love Mama, but he’s not the only one, Lizzie thought to herself petulantly. Everybody does. Lizzie knew her mother charmed everyone, from Nanny Decker to Foster the butler to Lady Hardcastle and that very important, cross old man who came to their salon once, who everyone made a fuss over but Papa called a quack – Mama had had him eating out of the palm of her hand within minutes. Yes, it was true. Everyone loved Rose. But Lizzie was angry with her. She knew Rose and Henry were working on a special project – something to do with the garden – but did they need to spend quite so much time together? She was fairly certain that Papa wouldn’t think so. He was not impressed by Henry and his garden – he’d made that quite clear when her mother had drawn his attention to the flower display adorning the breakfast table.
‘Look at the arrangements, Archie – they’re spectacular. Henry’s been doing a wonderful job in the gardens. Did you see the new layout I was telling you about? I left the blueprint in your study. He’s picked up where Figgins left off, but has gone on to design a whole new area, right down to the duck pond. I must say, I think he’s doing a wonderful job.’
‘I couldn’t give a fig what he does, Rose.’ Archie had snapped his newspaper irritably. ‘We wanted a gardener, not a landscapist. It’s a mystery to me why he took the job here in the first place. I hear he’s been overhauling the gardens of Underwood House and Kiddington Hall these past few years, and those families are thrilled with his work, but I’ll have none of his Sylvan fancies around here. We have a design for Bledesford – there’s no need to change it.’
‘But I don’t think he’s planning to make any dramatic changes – merely enhance what we already have,’ Mother cajoled. ‘I like the new plantings he’s made, Archie. They’re lovely. Very inspired. Like these ones here . . .’ Rose nodded at the vase in the centre of the table, overflowing with roses and greenery and wildflowers.
‘You women are all the same,’ Papa snorted. ‘I do believe the fellow is trying to impress you.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Rose said, focusing on her plate.
Lizzie was eavesdropping from outside the door and she peeked around the edge of the frame to see Mother’s face in profile. The flush creeping up her neck betrayed her.
‘That’s it, isn’t it?’ Father said, eyes narrowing. ‘Fancy that – Rose Dearlove, smitten with the hired help. Well, when you feel like slumming it, you’ll know where to go. ’
‘You’re disgusting,’ Rose said, throwing down her napkin and standing to leave.
Lizzie quickly ducked around a corner, out of sight, but Rose paused by the door.
‘You don’t like me to have any friends, do you?’ Rose said quietly. Lizzie thought to herself that was not really not fair – she had people here all the time.
‘What are you talking about, woman?’
‘No one too close. The salons are fine because they make you look good, but a truly close friend – no, that would be too much for you.’ Rose’s voice shook. ‘You stop me from travelling with Birdie, and you discourage anyone from staying here. You know, I think I will take Clarissa up on her offer to go to Paris. Nanny can take care of the children.’
‘I told you: no!’ he called after her, but Rose was already halfway down the corridor, oblivious to Lizzie peeking out from behind a tapestry. She could just imagine Father’s expression, ruddy with rage.
‘You expect me to give you my blessing?’ He was standing at the door, shouting after her. ‘With that, that . . . bohemian! You come back here, Rose . . . Don’t you dare walk away from me!’
Later, hiding underneath the table, Lizzie heard him discussing it with Birdie in the dining room.
‘I won’t have her go without me. What does she think I am, a fool? I know that Clarissa. Her morals are looser than a windsock.’
‘Let her go, Archie.’ Birdie’s tone was impatient.
‘I will not!’
‘Then I suspect, dear brother, you will have to pay the price for choosing such a young and delectable wife.’
‘Not bloody likely!’ Archie slammed his hand down on the table with such force that the cutlery and the glasses clattered and clinked and Lizzie jumped. ‘She’s my wife and I won’t have her gallivanting off.’
Lizzie saw Birdie scrape her chair back from the table. ‘Well,’ she said crisply. ‘If you don’t let her go, you run the risk of losing her – that is, if you haven’t already.’
‘Poppycock,’ Archie blustered, but Birdie was already out the door, her neat little shoes clicking on the parquet floor.
Lizzie sat silently under the table, listening to her father pour himself more wine. How could you lose a person, she wondered, unless they wanted to be lost?
Postcard, dated 1929
You’ve done the right thing. Don’t worry, darling – I’ll keep my eye on the girls. I’ve moved in for now but they can come with me on my travels, if needs must. See you soon. B.
28
‘Here, you might appreciate this,’ Nick said, straightening up in the overgrown rose garden where they’d been hacking away for the better part of the morning. He presented her with a cutting. The sun was shining overhead and clouds sailed across the sky like skiffs on the ocean. Sylvie was red-faced and sweating, but enjoying herself despite that.
Brushing a strand of hair from her face, she reached out to take the rose. It was a soft, dusky mauve, full and weighty in her hand as a Christmas bauble, its petals catching the light like velvet. She smiled, looking up at Nick.
‘Wait – stop.’ He rubbed dirt from her cheek with his thumb.
‘This is gorgeous,’ Sylvie said, drinking in the rose’s intoxicating scent. She pretended not to notice Nick’s strong, tanned arms and work-roughened hands as she felt the tingle where his thumb had brushed her cheek.
‘Didn’t you realise they were here?’
‘No. To be honest, I’m surprised there’s any flowers left at all,’ she said, looking around. ‘How come the whole thing’s not overrun with weeds? I thought they would have choked the life out of everything long ago.’
‘Ah, nature finds a way . . . Here – take a look at this.’
Pulling his gardening glove back on, Nick pushed aside the thorny patch of brambles to reveal a perfect rosebush sitting at his feet. Sylvie gasped. The bush was covered in more beautiful blooms just like the one he’d given her.
‘You know, I�
�ve heard about this species,’ Nick said thoughtfully, crouching down. ‘It’s a bit like a David Austin but it’s not – it’s more rare. See how the head is so thick and crushed-looking, almost like fabric, and there’s twice the amount of petals than usual. It’s a graft, I think. I can’t quite remember the name . . . I wonder who planted it here. The only other place I’ve seen one like it is at Kew. Isn’t it extraordinary?’
Drinking in the rose’s perfume, mingled with Nick’s own heady scent of sweat, dirt and sun-kissed skin, Sylvie nodded, a little breathless. Nick was staring at her, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
Something soft and hesitant unfurled between them in the rose thicket, and Sylvie swayed, suddenly lightheaded.
Nick reached out and caught her arm. ‘Are you all right?’
‘It’s just the heat.’ Sylvie put her hand to her head as Nick led her out into a patch of shade under a tree. Still holding her elbow firmly, he steered her onto the grass, watching her with concern.
‘I’m fine, honestly.’
‘Here – have some water.’ Nick offered her his canteen. She gulped at it gratefully, feeling a little better.
Sinking down in the lush grass, Sylvie leaned back against the ground to watch the clouds. Dappled light fell through the tree branches overhead, and it was all so familiar, being here with Nick at Bledesford, just the way it had been when they were children. How long had it been since she’d just stopped, like this? She couldn’t remember. And yet she was reminded of all the hours they’d spent in the garden together as kids, cloud-watching and trying to make out familiar shapes in the sky. Nick had always seen faces and landmarks, planes, trains and automobiles, but for Sylvie it was always dresses . . . She smiled, feeling ten again.
Nick lay down beside her, stretching one arm out over her head. She shuffled up towards him, resting her head in the crook of his arm, against his chest. She could hear his heart beating and smell the sweat on his skin. He smelled like spice and earthy things, and it was a kind of balm to her senses.
‘Hey, did you hear anything about the estate grant application, or an expression of interest?’
‘Not yet, but I only just sent it off . . . Thanks for suggesting it, Nick. I just don’t . . . I don’t know if we’ll end up going through with it, that’s all. It’ll tie me to this place and, well, I’m just not sure what I want to do next.’
‘What do you mean?’
Sylvie let out a strange little laugh. ‘I don’t even know who I am or what I want any more . . . I thought I was desperate to be a designer in New York, and then I did that and now . . . well, I’m just not sure who I should be next.’
‘Why do you have to be someone else – what happened over there?’
‘You didn’t hear? Well, it was so competitive, and when my backers pulled out, I realised I just wasn’t cut out for it . . .’ Sylvie trailed off, her face crumpling – that wasn’t quite the truth. And she found she couldn’t bear to tell Nick, of all people, a lie.
Nick propped up on one elbow. ‘Hey, what’s wrong? Don’t cry. I’m sure it’s not that bad.’
‘You know, I’ve been trotting out that line, or some version of it, for the past year or so.’ Sylvie laughed mirthlessly. ‘Almost every time someone asks me what happened. But the truth is, I don’t even know what it takes to keep going, year after year, season after season.’ She swallowed. ‘To be brutally honest, I ran out of ideas. It’s that simple.’
‘Bullshit.’
Sylvie jerked away, surprised, but Nick pulled her back.
‘You’ve always been a true original, Quicksilver. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. You’re just tired, I reckon. Or ready for a change. Don’t you remember how I used to run around after you when we were kids, because I always wondered what new adventures the wonderful Quicksilver would think up next? You were always the one leading the charge. I just trailed after you. Like a puppy, if I remember correctly.’
She smiled gratefully. ‘Thanks for saying so. It’s not easy being back and being constantly reminded of what a failure I am – especially when everyone here seems so bloody accomplished, one way or another.’
‘Who? You mean your family?’
‘Yes! They’re all such high achievers in their way, so much more impressive than I could ever be. And calling my label Dearlove was just plain stupid. Now I’ve brought their name into disrepute, and unless I have kids of my own one day, that’s the way we’ll always be remembered. Bit of a crap legacy for them.’ She covered her face with her hands.
‘God, Sylv, you don’t half extrapolate something out of nothing, do you?’
‘What?’ Sylvie dropped her hands and stared at Nick.
Nick grinned. ‘Getting all doom and gloom about the future when you have no idea how it’s going to pan out.’ His face suddenly became more serious. ‘I got into a bit of trouble myself when I first moved away – did you hear anything about that?’
‘No!’
‘It’s true. I had this gang of mates from college, and we all used to go out together, get on the lash – that sort of thing.’
‘Fairly normal behaviour, Nick. I don’t think that counts as trouble.’
‘No, not on its own. But we used to . . . do things when we got hammered.’
‘Like what?’ Sylvie asked, fascinated – Nick had always seemed quite the opposite of a bad boy. That was one of the reasons he always felt like a brother to her. She’d always gone for more damaged types, finding herself drawn to their darkness. Ben had been her one attempt to break this habit; her plan to redirect her taste in men and get herself on the straight and narrow, as it were. But look at how that had turned out. Sylvie felt the reflexive guilt sour her stomach, then steadied herself. She and Josh both shared the responsibility for what they’d done together. What kind of guy slept with his best mate’s girlfriend, after all?
But Nick – Nick was calm, steady and sunny, and had always been the perfect son. Even when he was a teenager, he had seemed so safe and reliable, such a good guy. She found it hard to believe that he could ever get up to much mischief.
‘We broke into houses. And hotwired cars. Took them for joyrides, that sort of thing.’
‘Really? No – I don’t believe it!’
‘It’s true, we did. And I kind of led my mates into doing it. Went through my rebellious stage a bit later than everyone else, you could say. I was slow to mature. Remember you used to tease me about being such a runt?’
‘Did I? Well, you’re not one now, Paul Bunyan.’
Nick laughed. ‘Look, the point is, I got myself into a sticky situation. The police caught us breaking into this old guy’s house one night and trashing the place. We thought it might be a good idea to have a party there while he was away . . .’
Sylvie gasped, shocked. She never would have thought him capable of it.
‘See? I told you. Anyway, the cops frogmarched us down to the station and had us up on all sorts of charges. I was looking at time in prison because I was over eighteen, but thank God they gave me my one phone call. My brother drove down from London straight away and sorted things out for all of us. He had the charges dropped before daybreak. Luckily the owner had three grandsons himself and understood, so Greg got us off with a promise that we would never do it again. Greg really saved my arse. And he didn’t even tell Mum and Dad.’
‘That was good of him.’
‘Well, they were having a bit of an issue with Raspberry Hills at the time, and my fuck-up was the last thing they needed. Greg told me I needed to speak to someone – a counsellor. He promised he wouldn’t say anything, but that was contingent upon me going through with counselling. I didn’t have much of a choice. I ended up going to about eight sessions with her in the end, and checked in another couple of times over the following years.’
‘What did she say?’ Sylvie asked, fascinated.
‘She said I felt like I didn’t have much control over my life, and I was taking charge of things – how
ever misguided that was. Because Greg had left to become a lawyer, years before, Mum and Dad really needed me to help out on the farm. It kind of fell to me to study agriculture for them – that’s what they’d always expected. They were hoping for two boys who would carry on with Raspberry Hills. But I always knew I didn’t want to be a farmer. Wasn’t my thing. That’s why I started acting out.’
‘I always thought you seemed . . . too artistic, for farming.’
‘Are you saying that you thought I wasn’t into girls?’ Nick’s face was such a study of consternation, Sylvie had to laugh.
‘Nichol-arse – you know that’s not what I’m saying,’ she said. ‘Just that you were always so sweet and in touch with your feelings. You were such a kind little kid.’
Nick laughed, and the warmth of his smile lit his face up and made her grin back.
‘You’re right. I love landscaping. I mean, I’m also a bit of a bloke – painting or sculpture would be a bit much for me, but landscaping is just the right mix of creative and physical for me. I get to use my hands, be outdoors in this beautiful environment, and I get to create something really lasting . . . That makes me happy. So after those sessions with the counsellor, who was bloody brilliant, I have to say, I went and changed my course at uni.’
‘How did your parents cope with that?’
‘Mum and Dad employed more people, and when I told them how I felt, they weren’t upset at all. I’d done such a good job of convincing them, they actually thought I wanted to be in farming. So it was all a misunderstanding in the end. I’m glad it panned out. Or I might well have been milking goats right now, instead of lounging around here with you.’
‘Surely not? You’d have been up at the crack of dawn, milking the lovely goats then.’
Nick laughed, shifting beside her, and she snuggled into the curve of his arm.
‘My point is, we all make mistakes. It’s just about whether you can learn from them. Hey,’ he said shifting suddenly so her head fell off his arm. ‘Have you spoken to your mum yet about the place in Wells?’