The Perfect Guests

by Emma Rous

  We followed the curve of the lake until we’d traveled almost halfway around it. When I looked back, I could just see the chimneys of Raven Hall over the tops of the scrubby trees on the central island. Here, we turned away from the lake and walked along the edge of a field dense with glossy broad-leaved plants, which Nina told me were sugar beets. Finally, we scrambled up a steep bank at the back of the field, and I found myself gazing down into a wide channel of slow-flowing water, bordered by lush grass and bright yellow flowers on either side, glinting invitingly under the high sun.

  “This is the drain?” I said.

  Nina grinned. “Yep. Milner’s Drain. It takes all the rainfall from the fields all the way along—it’s glorious fresh water, not swampy like the lake.”

  Jonas was already stripping off to his swimming trunks, and I half turned away, heat flaring in my cheeks.

  “Where does the water go to?” I asked, gazing as far up the channel as I could see.

  “To the sea, of course,” Nina said.

  Jonas sounded mildly annoyed. “Don’t say of course. How’s she supposed to know?” He gave me a serious look. “It’s all reclaimed land, the Fens—it used to be mostly under the sea. The water’s drawn out by big pumps now, and the coastal walls stop it flooding back in again.”

  “Oh my God,” Nina said. “I’ve just remembered why I hated school.”

  “Oh, very funny.” Jonas turned away, preparing to dive into the water. I watched his muscles tense. “You hated school because you can’t stand being told what to do.”

  He dived in cleanly, creating the smallest of splashes. I held my breath as I watched him glide under the silvery green surface.

  “We’re eight feet below sea level here, did you know?” Nina said brightly. “If those sea walls gave way . . .”

  She didn’t wait for me to respond, but stepped to the edge of the bank and dived in too. My heart rattled, and I scanned the horizon. How fast would the water come rushing inland? How quickly could we run back to Raven Hall? Did the family keep a store of food upstairs, in case of this eventuality?

  “Beth!” Nina called from the water. “Come in—it’s wonderful!”

  I checked that Jonas was still swimming away from us, not watching us, and I took a flying leap and plunged in feetfirst. My head went right under, and the shock of the cold took my breath away, even once I’d surfaced. Nina swam closer.

  “You okay?”

  I gasped in great lungfuls of air, and then I laughed.

  “Yeah, you were right. It’s freezing. But I love it.”

  The three of us swam for a while, and then we floated, chatting lazily, as the sun blazed down on us. Nina showed me a newt peeking out from the long grass on the bank, and the newt and I stared at each other for several seconds before it pottered away. It was the first one I’d ever seen. Jonas pointed out a buzzard circling overhead, silhouetted against the blue dome of a sky, and I heard its kee-yah call. I learned that the cheerful chirruping coming from somewhere nearby was a reed warbler.

  Eventually, we hauled ourselves out of the water and sat drying on the bank with dragonflies flitting around us. I was much paler than the other two, and I draped my T-shirt across my shoulders, not wanting my sunburn to get any worse. If I wasn’t allowed to cycle into the village to buy sun cream, how would I get hold of any? Would Leonora let me add it to her shopping list? I’d ask Nina later, I decided, when we were alone.

  “There’s a party tonight,” Jonas said casually, after a spell of companionable silence. I assumed he was directing this at Nina rather than me, although he kept his gaze fixed on the blade of grass in his hand. “A load of kids in the village. You could come, if you wanted to sneak out?”

  Nina rolled her neck, considering. “We can’t. Not tonight. My parents are kind of twitchy at the moment. I think they’d be on the lookout.”

  Her use of the word we—her assumption he was inviting both of us—gave me a glow of reassurance. I didn’t miss the implication that she’d snuck out on previous occasions.

  “Okay.” Jonas tossed his blade of grass aside and looked directly at me. “Maybe next time.”

  My pulse jumped, and I looked away, turning to Nina.

  “Why are your parents twitchy?” I said. “Not because of me, I hope.”

  When she didn’t immediately reply, Jonas gave her a speculative look.

  “Did you know,” he said, “that Markus’s dad is flying over from the States? He’s booked himself a room at our place at the weekend. Is he coming to see you?”

  “Markus’s dad?” I said. “As in”—I looked at Nina expectantly— “your grandad?”

  Nina’s voice was surprisingly harsh. “Yeah, great, he’s finally decided to visit, after all these years. He left the country when I was a tiny baby, never even sends me a birthday card—I mean, it’s nothing to do with wanting presents, but—he’s never acted like a grandad at all, even though he’s the only grandparent I’ve got.” She made a noise of disgust. “And suddenly he wants to come and meet me.”

  Jonas and I exchanged a look. He seemed just as unsettled by this outburst as I was.

  “That’s weird,” I said. “Do he and your dad not get on? Did they have an argument or something, and now he wants to patch things up?”

  “I don’t know, Beth.” Nina jumped to her feet. “And I don’t want to talk about it. I’m going back to the house. Are you coming with me, or not?”

  I glanced again at Jonas, who showed no sign of moving. I kept my expression light and got to my feet.

  “Of course I’ll come with you,” I said.

  Jonas said nothing further, and Nina and I left him lying there in the long grass, his golden arm shielding his face from the sun. We headed back along the edge of the field, talking of other things, and gradually her good mood returned. But I was careful not to mention Markus’s father again, and, privately, I added him to my growing list of prickly subjects where Nina was concerned. We retraced our route all the way to Raven Hall, and the cool air of the entrance hall felt like a welcome-home caress on my skin.

  Sadie

  January 2019

  The silver Mercedes S-Class arrives precisely on time, gliding between the hatchbacks parked along Sadie’s narrow street like a swan parting a flock of scruffy mallards. Sadie isn’t quite ready. She dashes to the bathroom to touch up her lipstick, then makes a last-minute change back into her own shoes—hers are more comfortable than the pair the company sent. The rejected ones she slips back inside the suitcase. Then she makes one final check of her reflection in the hall mirror. The ivory silk dress is perfect; she’s never worn anything so glamorous.

  The doorbell rings, and she flashes herself a quick grin in the mirror before hurrying to open the door. The chauffeur helps her with her luxurious coat, and he carries her case as he escorts her out to the car. I could get used to this, Sadie thinks.

  The night is bitterly cold, and once they’ve left the main roads, there’s nothing to see through the windows but the occasional lit-up farm buildings in the darkness. They could be heading anywhere in the black night. Sadie forces herself to relax against the leather seat; this isn’t an audition—she already has the part. No need to feel jittery. Drinks, dinner, and a game. It’s going to be fun.

  She runs through her character details in her head automatically: Miss Lamb, newly arrived in the area, seeking employment at Raven Hall . . . She locks eyes with her reflection in the blank window by her side, and she gives a wry grimace. Here in the real world, Miss Sadie Langton is twenty-eight. She can barely pay her own rent, and she’s never had a relationship or a job that’s lasted longer than twelve months. She summons her mother’s voice in her head: “You don’t need money or a man to make you happy, Sadie. But you do need to think before you act. You’re too impetuous.”

  Her mother was fond of dishing out advice like that—statemen
ts that always seemed carefully rehearsed; her mother wasn’t one for spontaneous heart-to-hearts. Growing up, Sadie learned that excessive displays of emotion on her part sent her mother into retreat, as if feelings were things that should be kept private and not shared, even between daughter and mother. When Sadie, aged eleven, came home from school in tears because she’d been given a detention for something that wasn’t her fault, her mother ate nothing that evening and drifted upstairs to bed before it had even grown dark. When Sadie’s first boyfriend rang her at home to tell her he was dumping her, her mother remembered an urgent appointment and went out for the rest of the day, leaving Sadie to sob on her bed all alone.

  The car slows as they approach the sparse lights of another village, and Sadie lets her reflection blur for a moment, focusing instead on the little she can see of the houses they pass. She never doubted her mother loved her when she was growing up; she just wished they could have been more open with each other.

  Around the time Sadie left home, when she was eighteen, her relationship with her mother grew spikier, no doubt fueled by what her mother described as Sadie’s “irresponsible attitude to employment.” Sadie was drawn toward acting, thrilled to be signed by Wendy at the drama agency, starry-eyed at the prospect of earning a living by pretending to be something she wasn’t . . . but it quickly became clear that she needed a backup income. So she lurched from one part-time job to another, keen to keep some of her time free in case, one day, Wendy was to ring with a truly exciting opportunity . . .

  “You’re too optimistic,” her mother had told her, only a few months ago.

  Sadie had laughed, but the comment had stung. “Why does that have to be a bad thing, Mum?”

  “You need to stick with one job for a while. Your CV must look terrible. How many times have you been sacked now?”

  “It doesn’t—”

  “Four, isn’t it?” Her mother knew full well it was four.

  “In ten years, Mum. And it was never—”

  “And how many other jobs have you just walked out on?” Her mother’s sigh filled the stuffy sitting room with her disappointment. “Please, just try to think things through a bit more calmly, will you? Before making snap decisions.”

  “You mean, Grow up, Sadie,” Sadie had replied. “Don’t you? You can just say it. I know that’s what you’re thinking.”

  Her mum had sounded weary. “I just want you to be happy . . .”

  The car hits a bump in the road, and Sadie’s focus is jolted back to her reflection in the glass. She asks her mirror image, silently, Are you happy? Scraping money together from one month to the next, auditioning for sometimes quite dubious jobs, eating beans on toast every night . . . Her reflection’s serious expression softens into a smile. Happy enough is the soundless reply. And this job tonight will make me a whole lot happier, when I get paid.

  A brightly lit B and B sign marks the end of the village, and they’re quickly plunged back into the darkness of yet another country lane.

  “We’ve made good time, miss,” the chauffeur says from the front—the first time he’s spoken since they set off. “We’re almost there now.”

  A minute or two later, they swing off the road, and Sadie spots the grand house lit up in the distance, familiar from the images she’s seen online. It reminds her of an ocean liner, all lights blazing in a sea of black. She peers around the chauffeur’s hat, her pulse quickening. The tower is still there, she sees. But the ivy has been cleared away—that’s promising.

  They pull up by a flight of steps, and the chauffeur leaps out and strides around to open her door. She takes his gloved hand and steps lightly onto the gravel, one high heel after the other. A stunningly beautiful woman in a long emerald green evening dress comes down the steps toward her, all black hair and dark eyes and heavy mascara, her arms opened wide in greeting.

  “Welcome to Raven Hall,” the woman says grandly. “I’m Lady Nightingale, your hostess. And you must be Miss Lamb. Please—do come in, out of the cold.”

  She waits, watching, hidden behind the scratchy leaves in the garden border.

  Eventually, there’s movement by the back door. The fluffy dog lifts its head. A hand appears, gripping the doorframe. Someone is stepping out cautiously onto the veranda, taking their time about it.

  Is this the new owner of Raven Hall?

  It’s a woman in her forties. A loose summer dress billows over her bloated frame, and her pale hair is scraped back into a ponytail, creating the impression that her head is too small for her body. She shuffles across the veranda and collapses onto a swing seat with a groan that rolls out across the lawn. The fluffy dog springs up beside her and nestles into the folds of her dress, and she rests one puffy hand on its little head.

  Almost immediately, a second woman, much younger, appears in the doorway. In stark contrast to the figure on the swing seat, this one is dressed to show off her slim frame: bright orange crop top, tight-fitting denim shorts, enormous hoop earrings. She hovers briefly on the veranda without saying anything, then swivels and disappears back inside the house with a swish of her waist-length hair. The swing seat rocks and creaks, and the older woman tips her head back and closes her eyes.

  So, these are the new owners of Raven Hall. A slow-moving woman and her spoiled brat of a daughter.

  She watches the woman on the swing seat for a while longer, but her resentment is an ache inside her rib cage, and her powerlessness makes her restless. She creeps back around the border of the garden and escapes over the curved branch, into the farmer’s field. Insects buzz all around her, and she stands perfectly still for a minute, thinking, weighing up her options. She needs to get back to the village; she’s got a long journey ahead of her, to return to her lodgings. But before that, she has a decision to make.

  She lifts her chin and retraces her steps around the boundary wall, until she reaches the point where she’ll have to veer out into the open—where she might be seen. Before she leaves, she places her palms against the warm stone wall again, and she tells Raven Hall, “Don’t forget me. I’ll come back.”

  Beth

  July 1988

  Each evening of my first week at Raven Hall, when Markus arrived home after work he asked me how my day had been and how I was settling in. By Thursday, I was able to give him a genuinely unforced answer.

  “It’s been a brilliant day, thanks. I really love it here.”

  He beamed, before hurrying away as usual, to check on his other projects. There was always a ditch that needed clearing out, or a broken piece of guttering that needed mending, or on this occasion some old gazebos that needed to be retrieved from the stable block before Leonora followed through with her threat to hire a grand new one for their upcoming party.

  Leonora grew more tense as the week wore on. She carried around guest lists and food lists, and I heard her several times chasing up the caterers on the phone. Nina and I spent our days outside, exploring routes around the lake, swimming with Jonas, or rowing halfway across to the island, shelving the oars and stretching out in the sunshine with a good book each and a picnic for when our stomachs began to rumble. But that Thursday evening, after Markus had gone off to look for the gazebos, Leonora told Nina to go and tidy her bedroom, and then she asked me whether I’d mind doing her a favor.

  “Of course,” I said. “What is it?”

  “There’s a dress in your wardrobe. I wondered if you’d try it on for me. I want to see if it fits you.”

  I hesitated. The dress had looked rather restrictive and uncomfortable, and I was perfectly content in my shorts and T-shirt; I didn’t enjoy dressing up. On the other hand, Leonora had been nothing but kind to me, and my new life at Raven Hall had so far been one carefree day after another. I didn’t want to seem ungrateful.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Come down and show me when you’ve got it on.”

  I hurried upstairs
and lifted the blue checked dress down from its hanging rail. My prediction was right—when I pulled it on, it felt tight and scratchy, and I no longer felt like Beth Soames at all. There was a big cheval mirror in the corner of the room, and I examined my reflection morosely. It wouldn’t be easy to scramble into and out of the rowing boat wearing something like this; I felt sorry for the olden-day girls who had to wear such things all the time. But I did as Leonora had requested, and I went down to the drawing room to show her.

  “Ah, Beth.” She set aside her party list as if she’d forgotten she was waiting for me, but I wasn’t fooled—her bright eyes scrutinized me intensely, and there was a twitchiness in her movements. She walked in a circle around me, tweaking at the fabric, and then she lifted a lock of my hair, which was tangled from swimming in the lake that afternoon.

  “Here,” she said. “Come and sit down. Let me brush your hair.”

  Warily, I sank onto a chair in front of the black marble fireplace. A fine mist coated my cheek as she sprayed something over my head. But as soon as she began to pull the brush through the tangles, I felt my muscles relaxing, and the smoother the brush’s strokes became, the more soothed I felt. I closed my eyes and inhaled her rose-scented perfume, and the pleasant chemical fragrance of the spray, and the background lavender-and-polish smell of Raven Hall.

  The sensation on my scalp took me back to a time when my mother used to brush my hair each morning before school. Sometimes she’d braid it into two long pigtails, and I’d skip all the way to my primary school, enjoying their thump-thump on my shoulders as I bounced. My brother, Ricky, used to walk tall in his high school uniform beside me, and he’d laugh at my enthusiasm and call me Skippy. I could have sat there and let Leonora brush my hair forever; I didn’t want her to stop.