The Echo of Twilight

by Judith Kinghorn

  The bedroom I’d been assigned was a long way from the other servants. Ottoline told me she’d put me there as a “little treat,” and because of the views. And though it was late and I had missed the twilight, and though there was no discernible view, the moon was almost full and hung over the valley like a huge pearl, opalescent against the amethyst sky. And I blew out my candle and stood gazing up at it—trying to imagine myself viewed from the moon, framed in that window, lost in the wilderness, and thinking once again how very, very small was my existence. Until, at last, my eyelids grew too heavy to hold open and I climbed into bed.

  I woke early the following morning, and it took me a few seconds to remember where I was and forget where I had been. Then I rose from my bed, pulled back the curtains and opened the window.

  The air was mellow and soft. A purple mist blurred the line of the far hills, and a slanting light lay over the valley. Beyond the pathways and clipped hedges, a ribbon of bronze curled and threaded its way through grassy terraces and green pastures, here and there glistening gold. And amidst the sweet chorus of birdsong was the sound of water cascading over rocks and boulders in its hurry to join the fast-flowing, peaty river.

  I dressed quickly, went downstairs and unbolted the door by the kitchen. The gritted path was rough beneath my bare feet, but the mossy flagstones by the lawn were already warm, and the grass soft and moist with dew. And as I breathed in that thin Highland air, my arms outstretched, exultant, Scotland smelled as sweet as anything my tongue had ever tasted. And I twirled about the lawn, relishing the privacy of the early hour and the vast surrounding wilderness.

  I have no idea how long the man had been there, watching me, but when I saw the figure—the distant shape of a head and shoulders above the hedge at the bottom of the lawn—I stopped. He raised a hand to his hat, and then moved on, disappearing into the trees.

  “Billy told me about last night,” said Ottoline.

  My heart trembled as I placed her breakfast tray down on the ottoman. “I’m very sorry, my lady. I was tired and . . . well, I don’t know what happened.”

  She sat forward in her bed. “Oh, Pearl, you have no need to be sorry. We all get tired.”

  The distracting thing about Ottoline was her beauty. She woke up beautiful. I knew. I saw. Each morning, I saw what her husband did not. Ottoline slept on her left-hand side, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, the other stretched out; one leg bent, the other straight and pointed like a ballerina’s; and her face, in repose, so childlike and serene that it seemed a shame to wake her. But I did, because I was paid to.

  Those first few seconds and minutes of her day were the only time she had no notion of who she was expected to be, no idea of her role—or mine. Always, after I drew back the curtains, I watched her as she came to, stretched and blinked. Sleepy and innocent, she slowly sat up, and with her unmade-up hair and unmade-up face, her nightgown twisted about her, her first words were nearly always the same: “I was having a dream . . .” And then she’d regale me with that dream, and with names.

  This day, our first in Scotland, as she buttered her toast, as I laid out her clothes for that morning, she said to me, “I feel quite awful, Pearl. Really, I do. I can’t imagine how tired you are after yesterday . . . the last few days . . . and the news, all this talk of war . . . so very depleting, too. I should have known better, should have told you to leave things until today. I simply didn’t think . . . but that’s no excuse. I hope you’ll accept my apology.”

  I said nothing. I felt my cheeks redden. It didn’t feel right for Ottoline to be apologizing to me. And it was in fact the second time. I continued smoothing one of her favorite silk blouses and laid it out on the upholstered ottoman at the end of her bed.

  “Did you sleep well?” she asked.

  “Very well, my lady.”

  “That’s the air—the altitude. It simply knocks one out,” she said, shaking her head. “You’ll be fine in a few days, once you adjust, but until then you’ll feel utterly, utterly exhausted. I suggest you try to grab a little siesta after luncheon. I always do during my first few days here . . . Couldn’t get through otherwise . . . Oh no, not that skirt, Pearl. It makes my hips look so very large, and it itches . . . Let’s try the dark green one . . . and that new belt from Liberty’s—the one with the big butterfly buckle . . . I don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to go outside yet?”

  “Actually, I have. I went out very early this morning, my lady.”

  “Ah, and what did you think?” she said, crunching on her toast.

  “I think it’s . . . It’s a stirring place, my lady.”

  Her blue eyes twinkled back at me as she lifted her teacup. “Did you by chance see my lovely Raffy?” she asked. “He’s usually out and about early with his paints.”

  “No, I didn’t see anyone, my lady.”

  It was later that same day, after Mr. Watts had informed us that Germany had declared war on Russia, and as I sat darning stockings and conducting an imaginary conversation with Stanley, persuading him not to sign up—because I knew his mood, how fed up he was with his job, and knew he would—there came a knock at my door. Billy appeared. He said, “Mother has asked me to come and fetch you.”

  I put down the stocking, the needle and thread, and followed him out of the room, along the corridor and then down the main staircase, beneath the stuffed heads and shields and swords. A number of guests had arrived at lunchtime, and I could hear the voices—and bursts of sudden clattering laughter—coming from the drawing room as we descended the stairs. But I really didn’t want to go in there; drawing rooms were not and never had been my place. So I stopped in the hallway, by the door, and said to Billy, “I’ll wait here, shall I?”

  “No, come in,” he said, opening the door and beckoning to me with his hand.

  I saw Ottoline immediately: standing on the far side of the room by the French doors out onto the garden. “No, no, dear . . . The whole place will end up filled with those beastly midges,” she was saying to one of the boys’ friends as he grappled about at her feet, wrestling with bolts.

  She hadn’t changed and wore the cream chiffon blouse and pale green checked skirt I’d laid out for her earlier. Her hair was piled up as I’d done it that morning, and in the loose style she favored; her face was devoid of any powder or rouge. But as I waited for her to look over and see me, I could tell she was a little on edge by the way she fiddled with the large cameo brooch fastened at her neck.

  I wondered if Virginia—Gigi—Parker had arrived, and though I didn’t want to be seen staring about or scrutinizing the assembled guests, I allowed myself a quick glance at a few of the ladies seated immediately in front of me, and decided on a long-jawed woman with a thin mouth and dead-fish eyes. The woman spoke to a silver-haired gentleman clad in green tweed, and I thought I heard her say the name Arabella, but at that same moment my attention was drawn back to Ottoline as she crossed the room, still fiddling with the brooch at her neck and wearing the very same smile she’d worn when I’d first set eyes on her at the Empress Club in London.

  It was only when she sat down that I noticed the suntanned face, the unmistakable golden hair.

  Chapter Six

  “Ah, there you are, Pearl,” said Ottoline, seeing me at last. “Raffy here seems to think you and he crossed paths at King’s Cross station . . .”

  And I tried to smile as I tried to breathe: and in . . . and out . . . and in . . . and out . . .

  I wasn’t sure what I was meant to do, whether I was expected to walk over to them and engage in conversation, or simply stand there and wait to be dismissed. But right at that moment, crossing over the great sea of tartan carpet and outstretched legs seemed like an epic and perilous journey, and one I wasn’t prepared to make. So I remained where I was—just inside the doorway—and like the idiot I surely was, I smiled as I waited for Ottoline to say something more.

  But she
didn’t. Instead, Mr. Stedman rose to his feet and walked toward me, and I was a little shocked by his attire, the sight of his muscular legs and bare knees. I’d seen picture postcards of Scottish men in short skirts, but I’d always supposed them to be a myth.

  “We meet again,” he said in a familiar deep voice, extending his hand, again.

  And it all came together: Ralph Stedman, Raffy, the painter, the man who had watched me that very morning—dancing about the lawn in my bare feet. They were all one and the same person. And I was more than embarrassed: I was ashamed of myself. And not only for my stupid lies. The news was bleak, the world in chaos, and I had been seen—seen by him—dancing. Dancing. And, just to make matters worse, on a Sunday, too.

  His skin was rough and calloused in my hand, and I longed to be dismissed. I glanced over to Ottoline, but she had moved alongside another man on the sofa and appeared to have forgotten all about me.

  “I’m pleased you’re here and not at Biarritz, Miss Gibson.”

  I kept my eyes on Ottoline.

  “I understand this is your first visit to the Highlands.”

  I heard myself say, “Yes, though I have traveled extensively in England.”

  I’m not sure why I said such a thing. But I suppose in spite of my lies—about my name, my claim to relations in Northumberland and traveling to Biarritz—I wanted him to know that I had seen places.

  “So I hear,” he said.

  Finally I looked back at him. And as his eyes crinkled up in a smile, I had the queerest sensation: a momentary but profound recognition, the feeling that all of this had happened before; that he and I had already stood in that room, on that carpet, looking back at each other, with Ottoline and war in the background.

  “Do you always dance at dawn?”

  “Only sometimes,” I said, bolder and more uncertain than ever.

  “Only sometimes,” he repeated.

  His gaze was fixed on me in a way I was unused to, and his teasing smile made me feel more awkward still. I was adrift, unsure what to say or how to navigate the conversation back to the place I belonged. Ottoline had summoned me, but she had not yet dismissed me, and I was used to being told what to do and where to go next. I was not used to standing in a drawing room making conversation with gentlemen—certainly not gentlemen in skirts.

  Then came a drip of courage, and staying with the subject of dance, I said, “I was actually hoping to go to a tea dance in London, but I gather they’re rather expensive.”

  His smile broadened. “Tea dances aren’t for people like you.”

  At first I thought he was being patronizing, implying tea dances were only for moneyed people. But he went on. “Imagine it: You’d have to wear shoes and waltz about with some clumsy oaf in a suit.”

  And immediately I thought of Stanley.

  “However, I’m at your disposal to teach you some Highland dancing . . . and as you can see,” he said, stepping back from me, “I’m dressed for it.”

  I smiled.

  He stepped nearer. “I hope I’ll have the opportunity to dance with you one day, Miss Gibson,” he whispered.

  At that moment, the door behind me opened and His Lordship entered. The room fell silent as everyone turned to him for another update. And as he began to speak, I saw that I was right, for the dead-fish eyes positively lit up; the thin lips pouted and pursed. And I quietly left the room.

  My third day in Scotland coincided with the third day of the month, and events were unfolding rapidly, and not just in Europe.

  Initially, I thought the bare leg hanging over the edge of the bed belonged to Ottoline. But as I walked farther into the room, I saw that it was a distinctly male-looking limb, muscular, and covered with dark, wiry hairs, and that it belonged to the naked torso and head lying facedown and half hidden beneath a pillow; a head I knew was most definitely not attached to His Lordship’s body.

  Unsure what to do, I froze.

  Was it Ralph Stedman, my lovely Raffy? Something told me it was, but I didn’t want to look back at the bed. The bodies upon it were naked and parts were exposed. I glanced to the floor, saw Ottoline’s discarded nightgown. I stared at the tray in my hands. I saw one cup, one egg, one teaspoon, and toast for one. I looked up at the curtains, wondered whether to pull them back and place the tray on the ottoman at the end of the bed, or whether to go back down to the kitchen and organize breakfast for two.

  Averting my eyes, I turned, but as I left the room, I made sure to shut the door loudly and firmly. Then, clutching the tray, I loitered about the landing. Returning to the kitchen with Ottoline’s breakfast tray would undoubtedly cause questions—and, perhaps, gossip. So I took a walk along the main landing and down another passageway where most of the guest bedrooms were situated—with a brass cardholder on each door and the name of the incumbent clearly printed in capital letters.

  My heart was still beating fast and a little shakily, and I placed the tray down on a deep windowsill and stared out at the gardens. I jumped when I heard the voice behind me: “I say, can you remind me what time breakfast’s served?”

  I turned. “Mondays are as Sundays here, sir . . . Nine o’clock.”

  “Thank you, Pearl,” said the young man, disappearing back into the room marked MR. F. COWPER.

  I was astounded he knew my name until I remembered that Ottoline had announced it when she’d been sitting on the sofa with Ralph Stedman and another man—Mr. F. Cowper, I realized now.

  I placed my hand on the silver teapot. Lukewarm, at best. I picked up the tray and headed back toward Ottoline’s room. If Ralph Stedman was still there, I’d simply leave the tray on the ottoman at the foot of the bed, I decided. But as I marched down the corridor and turned a corner, near the door marked MRS. L. PARKER, His Lordship appeared.

  “Good morning, Pearl.”

  His tone was distinctly somber, almost like a doctor’s, and I wondered if Mrs. Parker had perhaps taken ill. I stood aside to let him pass by and then followed him toward the main landing, but when he paused outside Ottoline’s bedroom door, I didn’t think. I couldn’t think. I simply shouted, “Nooo!”

  Of course I shouldn’t have called out like that and never would have normally. But what could I do? I thought His Lordship was about to open the door and enter the room.

  “I’m very sorry, Your Lordship,” I said, moving quickly to the bedroom door and standing in front of it. I held the tray between us like a shield. “Her Ladyship does not wish to be disturbed this morning,” I added in a whisper.

  “Then perhaps it would be more sensible for you not to be patrolling about these corridors shouting, hmm?”

  “Yes, Your Lordship. I do apologize, Your Lordship.”

  He shook his head and walked off.

  A potential catastrophe had been averted, but my heart continued to pound as I turned the handle, opened the door and entered the room for a second time.

  Ralph Stedman had gone; Ottoline was sitting up in bed and in her nightgown. She said, “What on earth was that commotion? I heard someone shouting.”

  I placed the tray on the ottoman at the end of her bed. I said, “I’m afraid it was me, my lady. I’m afraid I raised my voice to His Lordship. I didn’t think you wished to be disturbed.”

  It was the first time I’d seen her laugh. She said, “Oh my, I shouldn’t worry about him . . . He has absolutely no interest in what happens within this room.”

  I drew back the curtains, opened the window. I rearranged the pillows and passed Ottoline her breakfast tray. “I hope you’re not angry,” she said as I walked away from her and into the dressing room.

  I didn’t say anything.

  “You see, I know you came in earlier . . .”

  I was looking through blouses and thought perhaps she’d think I’d not heard.

  “I should have told you . . . warned you.”

 
I picked out a salmon pink silk blouse and a dark brown tweed skirt. Underwear. Stockings. I carried them into the room.

  “Have you ever been in love, Pearl?”

  I felt my cheeks flush. “I’m not sure . . . I don’t really know, my lady.”

  She moved the tray to one side, threw back the bedcovers and crossed her legs. “Then you’ve not been in love . . . You’d know, you see. You know when you’re in love.”

  I nodded. Though I had longed for it, imagined it or how it must feel, I knew I had never been in love. Not with Stanley or anyone else. And yet, like a pool of wisdom just beyond my immediate understanding, it seemed closer to me now. If I could only allow myself to fall into it, I might fall in love with Stanley, I thought.

  “Have you ever been touched by a man?”

  I had. By Stanley, at the pictures. “Sort of.”

  “Sort of?” she repeated, and smiled. “There’s no sort of to touch, real touch . . . real lovemaking.”

  And all I could think was that her tea would be cold by now, and her egg, and her toast.

  “I’m going to share something with you, Pearl. Because I like you, I like you very much, and you’re still young enough not to have to make mistakes. Sit down . . . Please, sit down,” she repeated, gesturing to the end of her bed.

  I sat down on the ottoman, taking care not to sit on the clothes I had just laid out. There was a small snag on the sleeve of her blouse, and as I reached out to it, made a mental note and wondered which color thread I could use, she said, “Please . . . Please look at me, Pearl.”

  I raised my eyes to her.

  “Isn’t it strange that we know so little about each other?”

  There was nothing to say to that. So I nodded.

  “You see, I respect your privacy, but I think it’s important for you to know and understand at least a little about me.”

  I wasn’t sure where we were heading. I felt as though we’d just boarded a boat together and were sailing into choppy, uncharted waters. I did not want any exchange of secrets, nor did I wish to hear about my lady’s intimate, personal affairs. And yes, I was a little angry. I felt compromised, and more than a little disappointed.