The Last Summer

by Judith Kinghorn

  Later, some five or six years after my birth, electric lights were installed in a few of the formal reception rooms, their twentieth-century brilliance altering Mama’s color scheme, and causing much debate and consternation among the servants. At that time, a rumor drifted about the house that looking directly upon the electric light could blind a person, and one of the servants—Edna, I suspect now, though I have no evidence and it was a very long time ago—had told George this. My brother—in the midst of a scientific phase—had been determined to test this theory, and, as usual, appointed me his assistant. My role in this particular experiment was to stand guard as he climbed up on to the dining room table and then, once in position, beneath the new chandelier, and only when he gave me the code word eureka, to flick the wall-mounted switch. But as I stood on a chair, waiting for my cue, George became distracted by new possibilities, and as he flew along the highly polished mahogany table in his stocking feet he collided with Mama’s oversized and elaborate crystal epergne, taking the thing with him on its final short journey. George and the epergne landed on the oak floor in a crash loud enough to wake the dead and within seconds half the servants and Mama were in the room. Luckily George wasn’t injured, but the epergne—which, we were informed by Mama, was an heirloom—was pronounced unrepairable. Later on, in the library, George was tried: I was called to give evidence, and he was found guilty and sentenced by Papa to twenty-four hours’ solitary confinement. And that marked the end of George’s interest in electricity.

  Parts of our home, I’d been told, dated back to the sixteenth century, but from the outside, at least, the place appeared resolutely Georgian: built in the neoclassical style from honey-hued stone with a pleasing symmetry, perfectly balanced lines, and a multitude of tall windows. At the front of the house, in the center, two Ionic columns framed the doorway, supporting a stone pediment with the words Ubi bene, ibi patria carved into it. To the east of the house, around a cobblestoned courtyard—always referred to as the stable yard—were the stables, coach house and a few servants’ cottages. A warren of dark passageways and small interconnecting rooms led from the house to the coach house, where two motorcars now sat alongside the old wagonette and landau carriage of my childhood. And there, too, the sleigh: still used occasionally in the depths of winter, when the lanes around us were white and thick with snow.

  Father’s penchant for the neoclassical was a fitting backdrop to his and my mother’s vast collection of artifacts and souvenirs from abroad: antiques, paintings, books, bronzes and sculptures from their continental tours. A delivery of crates and the unveiling of new works of art for Deyning inevitably followed each return home. In his newly furbished library my father added to his burgeoning collection of rare books; books he would never read; books no one could read in any one lifetime. And while he indulged himself with his love of antiquities, Mama focused on our comfort, with new fitted carpets and expensive wall coverings from Harrods and Gamages. She’d taken advice, albeit paid for, from an old friend of hers who had an interior decorating business in London.

  Sumptuous would best describe Mama’s style. It was what she’d been accustomed to all her life; was what she knew. Consequently, our home was as lavishly furnished and decorated as any other fine country house: each window festooned, draped in richly colored silk brocades; looped back, tasseled and fringed; each vista—north, south, east and west—opulently framed in a color specifically chosen to match the light of that room, and the views beyond.

  From my bedroom window I looked out across the formal gardens and lake, beyond the six hundred acres of landscaped parkland to the South Downs in the distance. It was the only point in my vision that my father did not own, and I sometimes wondered who lived there, beyond my world, beyond Deyning. As a child I’d rarely ventured farther than the ha-ha, which separated the park from the formal gardens. Terraces, ornamented with statues, urns and fountains, led down from the house’s south façade to the striped lawns and broad herbaceous borders, extravagantly stocked with Mama’s prize-winning roses and peonies.

  A small army of gardeners and outdoor staff were employed at Deyning then. Even now, I see their faces, and their hands, my outside friends. Together, they managed the parkland, the home farm and the kitchen gardens; they maintained the formal gardens, and the tennis and croquet lawns, constantly rolling and trimming the grass to perfection. They pulled, planted, chopped, clipped and snipped, like defenders of a realm, for Deyning was a kingdom, guarded by acreage and entirely self-sufficient. The walled kitchen gardens produced all manner of fruit and vegetables: asparagus, strawberries, raspberries, loganberries, currants (white, red and black), gooseberries, plums, pears, apples, rhubarb, potatoes, cabbage, carrots, cauliflower and spinach. And in summer, up against the pink brick walls, peaches and nectarines. The home farm supplied us with all our milk, cream, eggs, butter and cheese, as well as our meat, poultry and game.

  We knew no lack, experienced no want, and I knew no other way. I had never looked from the outside in; never thought about how we lived. Until that time: until Tom Cuthbert entered my life.

  That summer we were all at home, still living a collective existence, still a family. At five years my senior, Henry had only just finished his studies at Cambridge, and William, two years younger than Henry, had completed his first year there, studying theology. George, my closest sibling—a year younger than William and two years my senior—was at Aldershot, training to be an officer. And, at sixteen years of age, it seemed my education was complete. Mama had been keen for me to attend a fashionable finishing school in Paris before coming out. It was what she had done, what everyone did, she said. But events on the continent had made my parents anxious, and so my sojourn in Paris was indefinitely postponed.

  Strange though it may seem, I had no desire at that time for a more eventful existence, or a broader vista. I filled my days with walks through the grounds, following the same paths, anticipating the same sights, content with familiarity. I lost myself in books, spent hours in my father’s library, pulling out whichever title caught my eye. And it was there, in the library, that I had my first proper conversation with Tom Cuthbert. I’d seen him about the place: walking down the drive, disappearing into the distance; helping one of the under-gardeners cut logs in the stable yard; and a couple of times in the kitchen, when I’d been sent to query a menu for Mama. He’d been sitting at the table, reading a newspaper, doing nothing in particular, and he stood up and said “Hello,” without any smile.

  When he appeared in the library that day I was perched at the top of the library steps, reading a volume of Emily Brontë’s poems, and I can’t be sure, but I think I may have been reading aloud. He cleared his throat. “Excuse me,” he said, “your father told me that I was welcome to borrow any books . . . I can come back later.”

  “No, please, I’m idling here. Do come in,” I said, looking down at him. He closed the door, and I had the faintest inkling of intimacy.

  “I was reading a poem . . . Do you like poetry, Mr. Cuthbert?” I asked, filling the silence as he surveyed the shelves on the opposite side of the room, his back to me.

  He pulled out a book. “Yes, I like poetry,” he said, without turning to face me.

  “I’m rather fond of the Brontë sisters myself . . . especially dear Emily,” I said, trying desperately to sound grown up and worldly. He made no reply but continued his inspection of the volumes immediately in front of him, occasionally bending down or stretching up. And I watched him, surreptitiously, in case he should suddenly turn.

  He was tall, taller than Henry, and his dark hair longer than my brothers’ or anyone else’s I’d seen. It hung down over his forehead in a wave he ran his hand through from time to time. He wore dark gray flannel trousers with navy braces, a plain pale blue shirt; no tie, no jacket.

  “I imagine it’s rather dull for you here,” I said at last, uncomfortable with our lack of conversation and longing for a break in the deadlock.

  He turned, smiled at
me. “Dull? No, not at all. Why do you say that?”

  “Well, it’s somewhat quiet here, especially when my brothers aren’t about the place, and not everyone’s partial to the peace of the countryside.”

  He laughed. “I think I may very well be dull then, Miss Granville. I’m happy to be amidst this peacefulness. I get quite enough noise and bustle up at Oxford.”

  “Oxford?” I repeated, climbing carefully down the library steps.

  “Yes, but only for another year, and then I’m done.”

  “And then what?” I asked.

  “I shall go to the bar, become a practicing lawyer.”

  “Oh, so you’ll live in London, I suppose . . .”

  “Yes, that’s my plan.”

  “Everyone seems to go to London, eventually, but I’m not so sure I shall. I rather think I prefer the country,” I said.

  He stared at me, half smiling, and I pushed my hair back from my face, glanced down at the book in my hand.

  “Well, you’re still quite young . . . you may change your mind yet.”

  “Oh no, I’ll be seventeen in August. I’ll be coming out soon, and then I shall have to be in London,” I said, and his smile broadened. He looked so handsome, so nonchalant at that moment, his hair hanging down over one eye. And as I felt myself blush I looked away once more. He was amused, quietly amused. I was still a child to him, naive and innocent; locked up in a modern-day fortress, talking nonsense.

  “And I’m sure you’ll have a gay time, and many suitors too,” he said, still smiling, still staring. “But it’s an odd ritual, is it not?” he continued, moving away from the shelves, a book gripped in his own hand now too. “Coming out? It’s about finding a husband, isn’t it?”

  “No, not entirely,” I said, unsure of what else to say, because I’d never really thought about it until that moment; what “coming out” meant, its purpose.

  “Oh?”

  “It’s more about parties . . . meeting new people, that sort of thing. I think originally, historically, it was about finding a husband, but of course it’s different now.” I smiled. “After all, this is the twentieth century,” I continued, feeling quite bold and modern, “things have changed.” Then I added, “Look at the suffragettes . . .”

  I wasn’t quite sure what I meant by that last line, but I liked the sound of it. For despite Papa’s misgivings (hooligans, he called them), I’d become deeply fascinated by the recent dramatic events I’d read about taking place in London. The window-smashing women, full of passion and fury, no matter how far from my own gilded cage, had captured my imagination.

  He smiled at me, and I noticed his eyes: darkest mahogany, glinting with light. “Have times changed?” he asked. “Are you sure about that, Miss Granville?” He frowned, looking at me quizzically. And I knew he was being provocative. Like my brothers, I thought.

  “I’m used to being teased, Mr. Cuthbert,” I replied. “I have three older brothers—remember?”

  “But I’m not teasing you. I’m curious, genuinely so. Do you really think times have changed? Do you truly believe that your own coming out and that of all the other debutantes isn’t about finding a suitable husband?”

  “Well, yes, I’ll be introduced to society, and that society may well include my future husband, or not, as the case may be,” I replied, perhaps a little too quickly. He said nothing, but tilted his head to one side and looked back at me through half-closed eyes. Then he shook his head and turned away.

  “I amuse you,” I said, without thinking.

  “You do somewhat, but it’s not so much you, it’s the way . . . the way your sort operate,” he replied, and I simply couldn’t understand what he meant. Was he being rude? Was he playing? I couldn’t be sure, so I shrugged and then laughed myself.

  “Yes, we’re a strange lot, aren’t we?” I said.

  “You’re right, of course. Things are changing, and changing fast. Look at me: the son of a humble servant, at Oxford and bound for a career in the City.”

  “Yes indeed, your mother must be very proud of you,” I replied, sounding like Mama.

  He laughed again. He was so handsome when he laughed; so utterly uninhibited and free. It was not a joke, but he was free enough to laugh. To laugh out loud at me, pretending to be something.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to be rude or disrespectful.”

  “No, I know that. I mean, I can see that.”

  He fixed his eyes on me. “Yes, yes I think you can . . . Clarissa.”

  And when he said my name, it was as though I’d heard it spoken for the very first time, as though he’d placed his hand upon my bare skin. No one other than my immediate family ever addressed me so directly, so honestly, using only my first name. Clarissa. He’d said my name, said it slowly, looking straight at me.

  I’d been released from a cage and allowed to fly.

  “I think I must go now,” I said, not entirely sure of how to deal with his entrance into my life. “I need to dress for dinner.”

  “Of course,” he replied, glancing over to the clock. “And I should get back to my studies.”

  “Really, Tom,” I said, adopting his familiar style, “you don’t need to go on my account. Stay here awhile. I’m quite sure no one will disturb you.”

  “No, I should go. But I’ll come back tomorrow,” he said, looking at me.

  I smiled, nodded. “Yes. Yes, do that.”

  Chapter Three

  The next day, when I awoke, I remember feeling quite different. In fact, everything seemed strangely altered. It was as though a door had finally opened on to my world, letting in light so every detail appeared sharper, more focused. And from that doorway I was able to look back on my life, my family, and begin to see us as others saw us: as Tom Cuthbert saw us.

  I’d slept in that morning. By the time I went down to breakfast it was after nine, and yet the house seemed unusually quiet. Henry, I knew, was away, staying with friends in Salisbury, and my father, as usual, remained up in town, attending to business. But I wondered where my mother was.

  As I sat at the dining room table, already cleared but for one setting, Mrs. Cuthbert emerged through the baize door with fresh tea. She asked if I’d like Edna to cook me something. And then she reminded me that my mother had caught the 7:38 to London—to attend a horticultural exhibition with Mr. Broughton, the head gardener—and wasn’t expected back until late that evening. She told me that George and Will had also risen early; already set off to attend their old school Speech Day. And I felt momentarily angry that they’d all gone and left me there, alone. Why had Mama not invited me to accompany her? And why could my brothers not have taken me with them to their Speech Day reunion? It didn’t seem fair. I was being treated like a child, I said to Mrs. Cuthbert.

  “Oh, but you have all the time in the world, your whole life ahead of you. Don’t wish it away too soon.”

  “I don’t wish it away, Mrs. C, but I’d rather like something to happen.”

  Then I thought of Tom Cuthbert.

  “And how is Tom?” I said. “It must be lovely for you to have him back with you.”

  She smiled. “Yes, it is. And he’s a good boy . . . a gentle soul,” she said, again, and then disappeared through the baize door.

  For so many years, since George, the last of my brothers to be sent away to boarding school, had gone, I’d languished in a daydream at Deyning. Floating through the house and about the grounds, inventing people, places and events: a revered guest at so many glittering parties out on the lawn; an actress upon the stage of the ha-ha; an intrepid explorer cutting a swath through the Amazon jungle of long meadow grass. And though those desultory days of my childhood, when an hour had stretched to a lifetime and time itself was of no import, lingered on, they were in fact drawing to a close.

  More latterly, the fantasies of my idle hours had taken on a different hue. For now it seemed I had to be rescued, and, perhaps inevitably, by a dashingly handsome—albeit slightly unkempt—yo
ung man. I was often confused, irritated by these unscripted interventions. I liked to imagine myself as one of those pioneering Victorian women I’d read about: independent, brave, and resourceful. But no matter which way my dream unfolded, a swashbuckling-style hero inevitably marched in to lift me up into his arms. And, more recently, a struggle of sorts had usually ensued, which almost always resulted in a kiss.

  The days of catching moths and butterflies were over. News of kittens in the stables or newly born lambs down at the farm no longer made my heart race. Though sometimes, particularly if Papa was present, I felt duty bound to feign that lost excitement.

  But that day, I could think only of him, Tom Cuthbert. I wondered where he was, what he was doing. I floated about the house, intermittently looking in on the library hoping to find him there. I went to the kitchen three or four times on the pretext of needing to speak to Mrs. Cuthbert about some sewing. I walked out to the lake, through the stable yard, past Mrs. Cuthbert’s cottage and back again the same way. I dawdled in the walled garden, distractedly helping a new kitchen maid pick raspberries, with one eye fixed on the gate to the yard, through which the door of Mrs. Cuthbert’s cottage was clearly visible. And then I dallied with Frank and John, the two youngest under-gardeners, as they sat on the bench by the greenhouse, eating the sandwiches Edna had sent out to them in a basket.