No Wings to Fly

by Jess Foley

  She got up from the bed, opened the drawer and took out the letter. Then, sitting at the little table, she prepared paper and pen and began to write.

  PART FOUR

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  There was a cool breeze blowing as Lily alighted from the train at Pilching. The signs of autumn were in evidence everywhere now, felt in the keener winds and seen in the yellowing of the leaves of the trees that overhung the far edge of the platform. That morning she had received from Mr Soameson a hurried reply to her letter, saying simply that he would expect her at the house that Tuesday afternoon, the nineteenth, at three or thereabouts.

  She found that certain details of the station were familiar to her as she moved along the platform, recognising them from her previous visit. Emerging from the station she found a fly waiting near the entrance, and soon she was seated in the carriage and they were jogging along the road. Happerfell was the next village, and once there the driver made for Bourne Way with no hesitation, and then he was tapping on the side of the carriage with his whip and calling out, ‘The Gables, miss. We be ’ere at The Gables.’

  Lily got out and paid him, and minutes later the cab was starting away again, leaving her standing in front of the house, looking at it across the lawn. The leaves of the two oaks were turning brown and the summer flowers in the borders had gone. When she had stood here before, she had felt like an intruder, and fearful every moment of discovery. Now she was here by invitation.

  From her reticule she took out her mother’s little watch, opened it and checked the time. Twenty minutes to three. She was early, but better early than late. She put the watch back in her bag and pushed open the wrought iron gate. Then, closing it carefully behind her, and aware of her every action, she moved up the flagstoned pathway and up the steps to the front door.

  A maid with red hair and a pale skin answered her ring on the bell. Lily gave her name and was asked to enter, and found herself in a wide, green-carpeted hall. The maid took her coat and umbrella, then said, ‘Come this way, if you please, miss,’ and showed her into a room on the left. ‘Please sit down, miss,’ she said, ‘and I’ll tell the master you’re here.’

  While the maid withdrew, Lily took a seat on a brown velvet-covered sofa and looked around her. The room was spacious, looked comfortably furnished, but though having its share of elegance, was in no way opulent. With its soft earth colours, there was a casual harmony of hues there. Against the coolness of autumn a bright, flickering fire burnt in the grate. Oil paintings hung on the walls: portraits, still lifes, and scenes of Venetian canals. On the closed lid of the piano stood a bowl of white roses, and there was another on the small table before the sofa. A small clock ticked into the quiet.

  A few minutes passed, and then the door opened and a man came into the room.

  ‘Ah, Miss Clair.’ He came forward, and Lily rose and shook his outstretched hand. ‘You made very good time,’ he said. He spoke in an unfamiliar accent, pleasantly musical, which she realised after a moment or two was Scottish; she had heard such a brogue once before in her life. As he released her hand he added, ‘I’m John Soameson.’ Then, gesturing back to the sofa: ‘Please – sit down again. My wife will be along shortly.’

  As Lily sat back on the sofa the man took the armchair nearby. He appeared to be in his late forties, and had a tall, angular frame. His thick hair was greying, as was the fine moustache that ran the width of his mouth. His features were sharp, as were the grey eyes that gazed at her through fine-rimmed spectacles. He wore a casual tweed jacket with a cravat and a plain waistcoat and brown gabardine trousers.

  Sitting back in his chair, he asked a few questions about her journey from Sherrell, then said, ‘I don’t mind telling you that I’m very pleased to see you, Miss Clair. Though I must say that when we didn’t hear back from you before we went away we thought it a lost cause. We assumed that the position was of no interest to you.’

  Lily apologised for not writing back sooner, then went on to add that for a time she had been uncertain of her own situation and in no position to commit herself. ‘I just didn’t know where I was,’ she said. It was not the whole truth, but she hoped it would suffice.

  ‘I understand,’ he said, ‘and anyway, as I say, I’m glad you’re here. You brought your testimonials, did you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ From her bag she brought out her references and gave them to him. After studying them he refolded them and handed them back. ‘Excellent, excellent,’ he said, then without further pause got up from his chair. ‘You stay where you are, Miss Clair. Mrs Soameson will have to meet you. I’ll just go and fetch her.’

  He left the room then, leaving the door open, and Lily sat alone with the ticking of the clock and the flickering of the fire. The seconds slipped by, and then into the quiet came from the hall the sound of a voice, a small child’s voice. Just a few words were spoken, uttered in a high, piping tone. She could not make out what they were, but she was sure who had spoken them. Immediately afterwards came another voice, a young woman’s, saying, ‘Come along now, dear, you know it’s time for your nap.’ Then the child’s voice came once more, a few words in a little tone of protest, joined again by the woman’s, and then the two voices faded away.

  A few more minutes passed and there came the sound of movement at the door. Lily got up at once.

  ‘Here’s my wife to meet you,’ Mr Soameson said, and as he made brief introductions, Mrs Soameson shook Lily’s hand and murmured a greeting. Her own accent was English. She was a tall woman, large-boned, with strong features. She wore a light grey dress with a small lace cap set on dark brown hair that was fashioned into coils at either side of her head. While not handsome, there was no doubt that she was a striking-looking woman.

  Mrs Soameson urged Lily to sit, and as Lily sat once more, the man and woman took seats in nearby armchairs. Now it was Mrs Soameson’s wish to examine Lily’s references, and Lily duly handed them over. Mrs Soameson studied them and passed them back a couple of minutes later with an expression of satisfaction.

  As Lily put the papers back in her bag, Mr Soameson asked her what newspapers she read. And did she read novels? Which authors? Charles Dickens and Anthony Trollope? Or perhaps she liked tales a little more sensational, such as those by Wilkie Collins and Mrs Henry Wood. Mrs Soameson questioned her too, asking of her tastes in music – did Miss Clair care for the piano works of Chopin? Or perhaps she liked the music hall – which certainly had its place. And what of the theatre and the opera, and the popular painters of the day?

  Lily answered as best she could. She often read the Morning Post, she said, and as for the novels of Dickens and Trollope, she had read several of them. She had heard piano works by Chopin, and Scarlatti too, on the occasion of a concert given at the Corster town hall, and it was at the theatre in Corster that she had seen Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night – and wonderful it was. As for the opera, a touring company had come to Corster and she and Miss Balfour had gone to see their production of Verdi’s La Traviata, which was most moving and beautiful. Of the popular painters of the day, she said, she liked best the paintings of Holman Hunt and Arthur Hughes, whose work she had seen in Bath while on a visit with Mr and Mrs Acland and their daughters.

  After going on to ask a few further questions, mainly about the level of Lily’s drawing and watercolour talents and her command of French, Mr Soameson said, ‘As I made clear to you, Miss Clair, we would require your services only for a limited period. We’re leaving in December to go back to Edinburgh, but we need a governess for our daughter Lavinia until that time. Lavinia’s teacher, Miss Clemence, has had to leave us – due to a crisis in her family – and will not be returning, sad to say. As I wrote to you, we can’t have our girl without tuition all this time, so – if the right person is willing to step into Miss Clemence’s shoes for that period it will suit us very well. Do you think you might be that person, Miss Clair?’

  ‘Well – I certainly hope so, sir.’

  Mrs Soameson spok
e at this. ‘Lavinia is eight – coming up to nine in February. She’s an intelligent child, but she needs to be kept occupied. When we get to Edinburgh she’ll be going to school.’

  ‘We have a son too,’ Mr Soameson said. ‘Did I mention that?’

  ‘No, sir, you didn’t.’

  ‘Yes – Joshua. He’s four and a half now. He’s a sharp little fellow – and not at all like his sister. Lavinia was born in Edinburgh, but Joshie’s a little Sassenach. He’ll be ready for some schooling himself before too long.’

  Hearing the boy’s name, it rang in Lily’s mind, and she seemed to hear again the sound of the child’s voice as it had echoed from the hall some minutes earlier. Then she became aware that Mrs Soameson was rising to her feet.

  ‘Don’t get up, Miss Clair,’ Mrs Soameson said, but Lily stood anyway, while Mrs Soameson continued, ‘I must go. I have much to do. My husband will deal with any other matters.’ Then she asked, bluntly, ‘Are you agreeable to coming to teach our daughter?’

  ‘Oh, yes, ma’am. I shall be very pleased to.’

  Mrs Soameson smiled. ‘Good, that’s excellent. When you’ve finished your business discussions with my husband I’ll show you your room. I hope also that you’ll be able to meet Lavinia.’

  With these words, Mrs Soameson disappeared into the hall.

  ‘Now, Miss Clair,’ Mr Soameson said as Lily resumed her seat on the sofa, ‘when do you think you could start?’

  ‘Well – as soon as you like, sir. This week if you wish.’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ He looked pleased. ‘What about Thursday – would that be too soon?’

  ‘No, sir. I can be ready by then.’

  ‘Excellent. Then Thursday will suit us very well. I shall be in the town, but my wife will be here to receive you.’ He nodded. ‘Right – and now we must talk about your fee. I think we shall require you to be with us some three months – possibly towards the latter part of December. In which case I would offer you the monthly sum of three pounds fifteen shillings. Would that be acceptable?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’

  ‘You will also, of course, have your board and lodging. Miss Clemence had every other Sunday off, and also occasional Saturday afternoons. Are you agreeable to that?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘So I take it that you accept?’

  ‘Indeed, sir, yes. Thank you.’

  ‘Very good. Then we shall depend on you, Miss Clair. Can we do that?’

  ‘Yes, indeed, sir.’

  ‘Good. That’s grand.’ He nodded and faintly smiled. ‘Now – as to the time of your arrival here. There’s a train from Corster at eleven-fifteen, that gets into Pilching just before twelve. D’you think you could manage that?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Fine. We’ll have the trap at the station to meet you.’ He pressed his hands together. ‘I don’t think I’ve left anything out. If you have any questions please feel at liberty to ask them.’

  Lily could do little but give a shake of her head. ‘No, sir . . .’

  ‘Very good.’ He got up from his seat. ‘If you come with me I’ll take you to my wife who’ll show you your room – and perhaps also you’ll meet our daughter.’

  Lily rose and, picking up her bag, followed him out into the hall, then along to a room on the left, where he pushed open the door. ‘We’ve finished our business, Edith,’ Lily heard him say, ‘and Miss Clair will be here on Thursday morning.’

  He stepped back into the hall, reached out and shook Lily’s hand. ‘Goodbye, Miss Clair. We shall look forward to seeing you on Thursday.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Goodbye, sir.’

  As he went back along the hall, Mrs Soameson came out of the room. ‘Well, all is settled, then,’ she said. ‘Good. If you come with me, I’ll show you to your room.’

  Lily followed her up the stairs to the second floor, the top, where she was led to a room opening off a wide landing. Mrs Soameson pushed open the door and ushered Lily in before her. Lily entered and stood looking around her. Fairly spacious, the room was furnished with the usual bed, chest, wardrobe, upright chair and small table. There was also a comfortable-looking little armchair, while on the bed was laid a colourful counterpane. There were shelves above the chest, and a pot with a geranium on the window sill. The window looked out over the back yard and the kitchen garden.

  ‘I think you’ll find it adequate,’ Mrs Soameson said. ‘Miss Clemence was comfortable enough.’

  ‘Oh, yes, it’ll suit me fine, ma’am,’ Lily said.

  ‘Very good.’ Mrs Soameson stepped back to the door. ‘Now – you must meet Lavinia.’ She led the way out and across the landing to another door. ‘She’s in here. Come in.’

  Lily followed the woman in, and saw at once that they were in a schoolroom. About the size of the room she had just viewed, it held numerous cupboards and shelves, a table and chair, an easel with a small blackboard, and, facing it, a child’s desk. Seated at the desk was a small girl who looked up with curiosity as Mrs Soameson and Lily entered. Mrs Soameson, smiling at her, said, ‘Say hello to Miss Clair, Lavinia. She’s going to be your teacher till we go back home.’

  At the words the girl put down her pencil and got up from her chair. She was a slim child, and rather small for her age. Her mouse-brown hair was drawn back in bunches and tied with yellow ribbons behind her ears. She looked at Lily with a shy half-smile, hardly raising her eyes. Lily smiled back.

  ‘This is Lavinia,’ Mrs Soameson said, smiling between Lily and the child, and Lily said, ‘Hello, Lavinia, how are you today?’

  The girl gave a little nod and murmured, ‘Very well, thank you, miss.’

  ‘She’s shy,’ Mrs Soameson said, ‘but she’ll soon relax when she gets to know you. I’m afraid she’s been a little lost without Miss Clemence – haven’t you, dear? She likes to be kept busy.’ She stepped closer to the desk and looked down at the paper on which the child had been drawing. ‘What is it you’re doing, dear? Are you working on your book?’

  ‘Yes, Mama.’ Lavinia picked up the paper and held it for her mother to see. On it were some quite well-drawn rabbits with daises and buttercups around them. ‘Lavinia’s writing a story, and drawing the pictures for it,’ Mrs Soameson said, passing it to Lily. Then added to the child, ‘Isn’t that right, dear?’

  ‘Yes, Mama.’

  ‘I can see you have talent,’ Lily said, looking admiringly at the picture. ‘I look forward to seeing more of your work.’

  She handed the drawing back to the girl, and Mrs Soameson reached out and gently touched the girl’s head. ‘Right, dear, you get on with your work for a while longer while I see Miss Clair out. Miss Clair’s coming back on Thursday.’

  As the child took her seat behind the desk again, Mrs Soameson turned to the open door. Lily, following, said, ‘Goodbye, Lavinia,’ and the child softly echoed her farewell.

  Out on the landing Mrs Soameson said, lowering her voice a little, ‘You’ll meet Joshua tomorrow.’ She gestured to a closed door across the landing. ‘He’ll be asleep at the moment.’ She turned then towards the stairs and Lily followed her down.

  When the pair reached the hall, Mrs Soameson looked at the long-case clock that stood at the foot of the stairs and said, ‘If you leave now you’ll be in time to catch the 4.50 for Corster. Would that suit you? Mr Beeching will drive you into Pilching.’

  ‘That would be most kind,’ Lily said. ‘Though I’m perfectly happy to walk.’

  ‘It won’t be necessary. Mr Soameson’s already sent to have the trap ready. Did you have an umbrella?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘Right, if you’d like to get it, and your coat, we’ll go and find Mr Beeching.’

  As they emerged into the yard a minute or two later Lily saw a mare and trap standing on the flags. A middle-aged man stood stroking the horse’s mane, and cooing to her in a soft voice. As Lily and Mrs Soameson approached he turned to them with a deferential nod and touched at his cap. ‘Ma’am.’ He
was a man of middle height, broad-shouldered and lean.

  ‘This is Miss Clair, Samuel,’ Mrs Soameson said. ‘She’s going to be with us for the next few weeks.’ The man nodded to Lily and murmured, ‘How d’ye do, miss,’ to which Lily murmured a ‘How do you do’ in return. His Scottish accent was much broader than that of Mr Soameson.

  ‘Mr Beeching’s been with us for many years,’ Mrs Soameson said. ‘He came down from Edinburgh with us – and I know he’s looking forward to getting back. He’ll see you catch your train, and he’ll be waiting for you on Thursday when you come back.’ She flashed a brief smile at Lily, showing her large teeth. ‘I’ll wish you good day, Miss Clair.’

  ‘Good day, ma’am, and thank you again.’

  As Mrs Soameson returned towards the house, Mr Beeching stepped to the back of the trap and held out a broad, weathered hand to Lily. ‘If ye please, miss . . .’ and helped her up. Then, a moment or two later, he was leading the horse down the drive. Outside on the road, when he had closed the gates behind him, he climbed up into his seat and they set off.

  He spoke little as they jogged along, beyond making a few observations on the weather and the state of the road, and Lily replied politely. Then after a while they arrived in the village of Pilching, and he pulled the mare to a stop outside the railway station. ‘You’ll be in good time for your train, miss,’ he said as he helped her down, ‘and I’ll to be here to meet you when you come on Thursday with your things.’

  ‘Thank you – that would be most kind.’

  She wished him good day and went into the station, and minutes later was on board the Corster-bound train. As she sat beside the soot-stained window watching the fields and the woodlands go by, she had the feeling of having taken a momentous step in her life. Though whether it was for good or ill she could not begin to guess.

  There was no sign of Miss Elsie on Lily’s return to Rowanleigh and she went straight up to her room. She was relieved that Miss Elsie was not immediately in evidence, for with her presence there were bound to come questions, and for some questions Lily was not fully prepared.