Beneath the Tor

by Nina Milton

  I was captivated by her eyes. They were the same blue as my mother’s, a summer-flower shade. I had loved my mother’s eyes. Almost twenty-four years after she died, these are the only feature I can clearly recall.

  Grandma Dare looked at me for a moment or two without speaking, or even moving. Then she said, “Peers, dear. Some tea, I think.”

  My aunt’s lips sucked into a point, but she flounced away to attend the request. I guessed that was how they spoke round here … attend the request … matronly bosom …

  “Would you move a little closer, please?”

  That made me jump. Because she hadn’t said hello in any fashion, I hadn’t thought that she had even noticed I was in the room. I came closer, as I was bid. Her hand lifted from under the rug. She held it as if she wished me to take it. I hoped she didn’t expect me to curtsy and kiss its back. The hand was plump and slightly freckled with old-lady marks, and the fingers each wore a ring. They glittered with bright gold and gemstones. I put my own hand out and she grasped it firmly. Her hand was cold, despite being kept under the rug.

  “So,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind tea. I rarely drink coffee now. It doesn’t have the flavour it used to have.”

  It occurred to me that one of us should open this conversation with some modicum of politeness; if she wasn’t going to do it, I’d better.

  “Good morning. I’m Sabbie Dare.” Perhaps I should have addressed her as Lady Dare, but it was already too late.

  “Sabrina.”

  “Yes.” I’d’ve loved to tell her that I had hated my full name since I was little, but I wasn’t brave enough.

  “My own mother’s name.”

  “Really?” I was genuinely shocked. My mother had given birth to me far away from all this pomp—far away from all this wealth. I found it hard to believe that she’d chosen a family name.

  “My mother’s family were shamefully theatrical, unfortunately,” said Lady Dare. She took in a breath, and began to recite.

  Sabrina fair,

  Listen where thou art sitting

  Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave,

  In twisted braids of lilies knitting

  The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair …

  “That’s beautiful,” I said.

  “Milton, of course. ‘Comus.’”

  “Oh, right.”

  “You have had some form of education?”

  “Er … I’ve got a degree, if that’s what you mean.”

  Lady Dare shook her head, as if that was not what she’d meant at all. “You should sit.”

  “Er …”

  “The chair in the corner. The light one. Bring it over.”

  The chair was what I’d call a carvery dining chair with a padded seat; heaven knows what Lady Dare might have called it. Hepplewhite or something. It wasn’t light at all.

  I positioned it a metre away from her and sat on it, crossing my ankles primly. I’d made a nod towards decorum and worn tights and a summer skirt for this occasion and now, for a reason I couldn’t have explained, I was glad I looked more ladylike than usual.

  “I think we’ve shot ahead of ourselves, Lady Dare,” I said as I settled into the seat. “I’ve not made any claim to being your granddaughter. I haven’t done any research into it, either. I was happy to leave all this well alone.”

  “Laetitia made that perfectly plain. It was I who instigated this meeting. I wanted to see you. I knew, if I set my eyes on you, that I’d be sure, one way or the other.”

  “Right!”

  “It is plain to me you are my daughter’s daughter.”

  “Even though I must look a good deal like my father?”

  It was a bold thing to say; I wasn’t sure how she’d react. According to things Lettice had told me, Lady Dare had refused to speak to my mother, or welcome her into her house, once she had taken up with a black man from Bristol.

  “Yes. No doubt you do have some features that might come from that side of your bloodline, but what I see is the shape of your chin, which must be drawn from my own heritage, and the line of your nose, which is not at all African.”

  When it came to barbs, this matriarch was perfectly able to duel with me and win.

  “You are my granddaughter, Miss Dare.” She caught my gaze and for a second, the corners of her lips turned up. “However much either of us dislike the idea.”

  At that moment the door opened with a sort of hush. I assumed it would be Mrs. Mitchell, but a woman I hadn’t seen before was managing the tray of tea. She was dressed in a brushed cotton blouse, a pair of lightweight slacks, and comfortable lace-up shoes. I hadn’t bothered to wonder what happened to Lady Dare when her sole-surviving daughter was not here, but it was obvious now; she had a care worker. Except I imagined this woman was never called that; she’d probably be the housekeeper or companion or suchlike. She placed the tray on a sideboard that stood at a far wall and brought over a small table, placing it between us. She poured the tea and brought over the two china cups on their saucers. She added a milk jug and sugar bowl to the mix, and the sugar bowl had lumps of sugar and a set of silver tongs. Finally, she brought two little plates and an assortment of posh-looking chocolate biscuits on a raised cake stand.

  “Thank you, Shreve, we will manage.”

  Shreve left the room, but first she bobbed her head as if in the presence of royalty.

  “Sabrina, would you please add one lump for me and a little milk?”

  It took me several seconds to get my head round that, because something had occurred to me as I’d watched Shreve do her bob, that perhaps I should have thought about long ago. What sort of lady was my grandmother? I hadn’t even researched what sorts of ladies there were. If you married a lord, were you a lady? That stood to reason. And if you became a member of the House of Lords, but were a woman, surely then you became a lady. Some women got called it from birth; how did that work? I had no idea, and although this was the opportunity to find out, I couldn’t think how to start. At last I managed to pass Lady Dare her tea. She took a sip and held it out again. The cup rattled on the saucer and I grabbed it.

  “I’ll have a Viennese, if you’d be so good.”

  I stared at the cake stand. This was the bit of my education that was patently missing.

  She pointed with one finger.

  “Those are Viennese.” Her finger shook and the ruby on it glittered red. “Those are mint crisps. And those, Florentines. Try one.”

  I thought I detected a flicker at the corners of her lips again, but it might have been my imagination. I lifted her cake by the little paper towel underneath it and passed it to her on a plate. I picked up a mint crisp. It was so thin and light, I didn’t bother with a plate; probably be hounded out of society, but, hey. I nibbled its edges. It was exquisite.

  “I have a selection box of these sent from Fortnum’s every twenty-eight days. They are the best.” Lady Dare took a bite from her Viennese and moved her mouth round it, like old people do. She lifted the cup without spilling, although her hand shook very slightly, and took another sip. As she placed the cup back on the saucer, she spoke again, and this time, there was no stopping her.

  “My husband was a baronet of the realm. Sir Sebastian. The baronetcy was granted to the Savile family by great Queen Anne, the last monarch of the Stuart dynasty, in 1712. He was Sir Simon, first Baronet of Zotheroy. He built this house and had a large family, creating an extended lineage. My husband, twelfth Baronet of Zotheroy was his direct descendent down the male line. This is my point; heritage moves directly and solely down the male line. My husband and I, as you must be aware, were unfortunate enough to produce only girls. The eleventh Baronet of Zotheroy is Sebastian’s second cousin, Guy Dare. He inherited this house immediately my husband passed away. However, he is, at this moment, living in South Africa. He owns several mines. Diamonds, I believe. I stay
here, as Dowager Lady Savile-Dare. Here I will remain, until my death, which, God willing, surely cannot be far into the future. At that time, Guy must decide what he will do with The Hatchings. Perhaps he will return here, retire here. Perhaps he will put the old thing on the open market. I sincerely hope he will not, as this house has been in the family since its construction in 1720.”

  She took a breath—her first, I think, since she’d begun. I couldn’t have spoken even if someone had goaded me to do so with the point of a Jacobean dagger. “I have brought you here, Sabrina, to inform you of these things. As my grandchild, it is only right that you know; that you do not go about the countryside in the belief that, as the only child of my elder daughter, you are in line to inherit anything.”

  There was a pause. I heard her breathing, a settling of breath after exertion. My own breath had almost stopped. My head spun. It felt as if my grandmother had directly responded to my earlier thoughts—everything I wanted to know about being a lady but was afraid to ask.

  “If you have any questions, Sabrina, you can pose them.”

  “Lady Dare, there is one thing I’d like to ask you.”

  “Laetitia calls me Grandma. I rather like that. You should do so too.”

  “Can I ask you about my mother?”

  She sighed, as if that was asking for the world. She took a couple of sips of cooling tea. “Your mother was, I’m afraid, not a perfect person.”

  “Who is?”

  “There are some things that are expected. Isabel was …” She coughed into her fist. “She was promiscuous.”

  “Oh.”

  “You do know what that means, I assume?”

  “Even thirty years ago … well, it feels an outdated description for a woman.”

  “Perhaps.” Lady Dare’s lips thinned. “This modern world is not for me.”

  My mother hadn’t been brought up to be a woman; she’d been brought up to be a lady.

  “So that’s why you didn’t speak to her, ever again?”

  “It’s not an attractive trait, Sabrina. She was my eldest daughter, and I was fearful that if I gave into her waywardness, Peers might similarly be afflicted.”

  I shook my head. I didn’t believe that Peers Mitchell would ever be attracted by anything that might afford pleasure, or even a bit of fun.

  “I did not give that final ultimatum. I did not say the words ‘never darken our door,’ The girls’ father was alive at that time, and it would have hurt him deeply. She left of her own free—of her own promiscuous—will.”

  “So it was Izzie that decided to break off from her family?”

  “Yes. And for Sebastian’s sake, I was glad. He was in failing health and he was my primary concern during the years after she left. I felt it was better that he should know as little as possible. And, after he had died … I felt it better that things should continue like that.”

  She drained her cup. I lifted my own, leaving the saucer where it was, and drank the tea, trying not to let the cup chime as I put it down. Her words had been carefully chosen. Almost as if she was leaving me to decide what she’d said.

  “What was it that my grandfather was better not knowing about?”

  “Perhaps you could pass me my pashmina. It’s over there, folded onto that chair.”

  It was of the softest cashmere in the deepest shade of rose. I longed to put it to my cheek, but I resisted. I opened it wide and she pulled herself forward a little so that I could drape it over her shoulders.

  “I still don’t understand, Lady Dare.”

  “Grandma, please. Or Lady Savile-Dare, if you insist.”

  “What was it that you didn’t tell your husband about? Or Mrs. Mitchell? Or anyone?”

  I knew, of course. I’d worked it out from things she hadn’t said, and the way her shoulders shook as she didn’t say them.

  I stepped back, knocking my legs against the carvery chair. “You knew my mother had died, didn’t you? You never told your family, but you knew. They always find next of kin and inform. Always. You knew she’d had a child before she died. That’s what you didn’t tell. You didn’t tell about me.”

  twenty-one

  juke

  Somehow, I was in Bridgwater. I must have driven on autopilot from Zotheroy while my thoughts frothed, as if my grandmother had thrown a sachet of brewer’s yeast on them. A lorry hooted as I trailed blindly into the middle of the road and I found it utterly impossible to drive any further. I swung into the next car park, turned off the ignition, but forgot to go into neutral. The car jumped forward as I took my foot off the clutch. I was going to sob. No; I was going to scream.

  I’d slipped away from the Hatchings. The thought of clapping eyes on Mrs. Mitchell had made me shake, and Lettice had still been hacking over the hills. If she’d seen the state I was in she’d have gone straight to her grandmother and got our conversation out of her with those beguiling eyes. I didn’t want Lettice to know the truth about her family. Even so, leaving without saying goodbye to anyone felt like running away.

  How stupid to think that my grandmother might welcome me into the fold. I’d met her daughter—the daughter who had stayed a daughter and taken on the family mantle of indifference to the world. Peers Mitchell should have been a lesson to learn; a shallow, repugnant woman who had never even thought to search for her own sister. Why had I allowed myself to believe for one moment that her mother would be different—in any way nicer?

  Six months ago, it had been plain to me. I’d made the decision not to link up with this new family. I’d all but broken Lettice’s heart when I’d told her. And I could remember my words, clear as day … we’ve been quite happy not knowing each other up to now …

  Finally, I gathered myself up and looked out on the day. I was parked on the edge of town, opposite the Angel Shopping Centre. Clouds hung like a bruise. I pulled my shoulders back and took a shuddering breath.

  I turned the ignition and the car fired, almost masking the tap that came at my window. A man was standing right outside the car. He tapped again, bending so that I could see his face. He was somewhere between forty and fifty and his pate was almost hairless, just a few brownish curls above each ear. In substitution he wore a mustache that was a slash of brown across his upper lip. He had a squat head, as if someone had taken a cricket bat to it sometime in the past. A cigarette burned between the fingers still resting on the glass.

  “Could I have a word?” he mouthed.

  I went to wind the window down, but thought better. For no reason I could put my finger on, I didn’t like the look of him. I turned off the engine and shoved the keys deep in my coat pocket. Then of course, I couldn’t operate the window. Instantly, I felt a fool. All the guy wanted was a word—which would probably be that one of my tyres looked a little soft—something like that.

  I opened the door and got out. The man stepped back to let me do so.

  His black jeans were low slung and baggy and he wore a black open neck shirt over a black t-shirt, the better to display the concentric circles of heavy gold chains wrapped round his neck.

  “Yes?”

  The guy moved into my personal zone. I shuffled away and my back hit the car door. As our gazes met, his face transformed from living flesh into grey stone.

  It was one of my “moments”—I was seeing the man’s otherworldly presence—a stone gnome. The bald head was polished granite and the mustache was a line of dark lichen growing beneath the gravelly pits and dents, lumps and bulges, that made up his features.

  Gnomes are a part of the Middle Realm of the otherworld. They love working with metal, often draping themselves with the glitter of gold. You never know which way a gnome will jump. Maybe they’ll help you on your journey … maybe they’ll throw a rock that catches your shin bone and trips you up.

  The alteration in the man’s features occurred for a few spine-

&nb
sp; tingling seconds and in that time, he’d said whatever it was he’d wanted to say. He stood there, expectant, waiting for my reply. I hadn’t heard a word.

  “… your face?” The stone mouth was transforming into soft flesh. All I could do was gawp.

  “Er—what?”

  “I recognized your face.” He gestured behind him. “From right over there. You’re Sabbie Dare, aren’t you?”

  “Uh …”

  “I knew it was you.”

  “I don’t think we’ve ever met.”

  “That’s right.” His voice had the local growl of West Somerset. “No, you don’t know me.”

  “Can you tell me what this is about?”

  “Heard all about how you’re so kindhearted, like.”

  I felt behind me for the door handle. He watched the action, his eyes trained. He ground his cigarette out under his foot, like a cue to action, and took my elbow. His grip was hard, stonelike. I shrugged him off and in doing so, moved away from the car door. He eased into my place. Now his back was at my door. “Please move. Move away from my car.”

  “Only want to talk. That’s all. Little talk.”

  I didn’t take my eyes off him as I fumbled at my remote key and zapped it from my pocket to lock the car. The lights flashed on, off.

  He made towards me. He was almost upon me, about to snatch at me. I swerved out of his path. His stride became wider, breaking into a jog. I could hear him pounding behind as I dodged between cars. I aborted my bright idea—to escape from the stone gnome by heading back to my car—and was running wildly, barely knowing why, taking the exit from the car park and sprinting over the road between traffic. I thought the hammering in my ears was his footsteps, but it was the surge of my own pulse. I glanced behind. He was stuck in the centre of the road, a fresh stream of heavy traffic moving through. He raised his hand as if that would stop me in my tracks.