by Mary Mackie
‘Some gentlemen hen’t got nothin’ better to do than career around makin’ life difficult for ordinary folk,’ Ben Chilvers said darkly.
‘Did you… did you see who it was?’
‘No, but I could make a fair guess. I replaced them springs on that there cabriolet, and chamfered the spokes to make that lighter, only a week or so back. That’s Mr Geoffrey Devlin’s rig.’
I had thought – hoped – feared – that it was so. Was it the same vehicle that had been waiting in the darkness off the road at Wolferton? Had Geoffrey been waiting for me, knowing I must come home today? I was trembling, my heart unsteady inside me at the absurdity of such imaginings. Why on earth would Geoffrey Devlin trouble to watch for my return?
‘On his way back from Dersen’am, I ’spect,’ Chilvers added. ‘Spend many an evening in the inn there, he do.’
We turned down the farm lane. Where the wood ended, fitful moonlight showed the gap where the old farmhouse had stood to the right of the lane. Behind it, familiar barns and outhouses still clustered round their yards. The new house had been built opposite, back from the lane, on rising ground where apple orchards clustered. Some of the trees had been cut to make way for the house and its sweeping driveway. Twin gables showed against a cloud-torn skyline. And, fronting the lane, a part-built wall led away either side from a wide gap where gates would hang one day.
Ben Chilvers stopped the horses, looped the reins and climbed down to assist me. ‘Good night, then, Miss Rose.’
‘Good night, and… thank you. Give my regards to your wife.’
‘She’ll be pleased to know you’re back.’ Twisting his sodden hat in his hands, he added diffidently, ‘You’ve been sadly missed, Miss Rose.’ Then, as if embarrassed by his own speech, he jammed the hat back on to his head, tugged it low on his brow, and climbed back to his wagon, circling it to go back the way we had come, back towards his home in Dersingham.
I waited, watching until the manoeuvre was safely accomplished and the wagon on its way, swinging lamps showing red from behind. The trees whipped wetly as the wind rushed by, bringing a fresh mist of drizzle, but I was too weary to raise my umbrella and battle the bluster. Soon I would be inside, warm and dry.
As I passed through the opening and started up the unfamiliar driveway, a dog began to bark from somewhere in the outhouses. No chink of light showed from the new Orchards House. No one looked out to see what was alarming the dog. The place might have been deserted.
Gaining the shelter of the porch, I made out the gleam of a brass bell-push, use of which resulted in a faint jangling from within. I set down my bag and waited, staring numbly at the garland of black crape that adorned the door.
What seemed like long minutes went by before I heard the patter of feet, heavy bolts being drawn, and then a key turning. The door opened just enough for me to see a young maid holding up a lamp by whose light she peered blindly out into the night.
‘Mr and Mrs ’amilton en’t receivin’ callers,’ the girl announced in a sing-song voice, as if she had learned the message by rote. ‘There’ve been a b’reavement in the family, but if you’ll leave your name…’
I was tired and wet, my shoulders cold, my skirts dripping. I hadn’t expected a warm welcome – not for me the fatted calf – but to be greeted like a stranger, by a maid I had never seen before, was one humiliation too many.
Containing my feelings behind clenched teeth, I said, ‘I’m not a caller, I’m a member of the family. This happens to be my home. Let me in, girl, and go and tell Mr Hamilton that Miss Rose is home.’
‘Miss Rose? Oh… Miss Rose! Oh, I’m that sorry. I didn’t know as you was… Oh, come you in, miss. Come you on in out of that there weather.’ Stepping back, she flung the door wide and hurried away into the house, shrieking, ‘Miss Narbro’! Miss Narbro’!’ She took the lamp with her, leaving me in the dark.
As I stepped into the hall, a door to my left flew open. Pale candle-light seeped out. Against it, my father’s tall, lean figure loomed in the doorway.
‘Silence!’ he rasped. ‘I shall have silence! I shall have respect for the dead in this house!’
The ragged edge to his voice made me flinch. I took a half-step forward and hung there uncertainly, saying, ‘Father?’
His head jerked, seeking me out among the shadows. ‘Who’s that? Grace?’
‘It’s I, Father. Rose. It’s Rose.’
He became still. I wished I could see his face, but the flicker of light behind him wasn’t strong enough.
His voice, when it came again, was ragged with accusation. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Why… you sent for me. Didn’t you?’
His only answer was a snort of disgust in his throat.
Beyond his shoulder, inside what appeared to be a large room, three candle flames fluttered in the draught from the open doorway. The room was silent, with no stir of movement, no hint of life. And yet in the hushed stillness I sensed another presence. The tightness in my throat increased to pain and I became aware of a clock ticking behind me, ponderous in contrast with the suffocating beat of heart against breastbone as I guessed what waited inside that room.
‘So… Rose…’ He spaced the words slowly. ‘Well… since you’re here…’ He stood aside, holding the door for me to enter the candle-lit room, ‘You’d best come in.’
A chill rippled through me and I hung back, keeping the friendly shadows about me. I could hardly breathe. Ever since Great-grandmama died, when I had been forced to kiss the corpse, I had had a horror of dead bodies. The memory came back now in full force – the square of cloth lifting to disclose the white, wrinkled face with its sunken eyelids and a bandage tied round its head to support its chin; the scent of lilies and lavender, the flicker of candles, the sickly-sweet odour emanating from the coffin. I had a mental picture of Victor lying in the same waxen pose. My soul recoiled from it.
‘You’d best come in,’ my father repeated, his voice hard-edged. It was an order, not an invitation.
‘Father…’ Knowing how deeply he must be hurting, I stretched out a tentative hand, wanting to comfort him. But he stiffened, withdrawing himself. A brusque gesture bade me do as I was bid. I let my hand fall, fastening it in the damp folds of my skirts as, with my gaze on the floor, I stepped into the room where Victor lay.
Mother’s portrait, curtained in black crape, still hung in the place of honour above the fire. Swathes of black material draped every surface, mantelpiece, picture-frames, furniture. A silver candelabrum stood on a table by the head of the coffin, which was raised on trestles covered in black velvet cloth. Light glanced across the polished lid, showing up the pattern of the grain. ‘Good English oak,’ Ben Chilvers’s voice echoed in my head. ‘That polished like velvet.’
Though I had feared seeing Victor dead, finding the coffin already closed made me feel excluded. Was I not even to have one last glimpse of my brother’s dear face? No chance to say goodbye, living lips on dead brow?
‘It’s closed,’ I managed. ‘Why is it closed?’
‘Because I ordered it so,’ Father said from behind me.
Grief dragged at my stomach, welling up with an insupportable sense of loss and hopelessness. Why had he done that – to shut me out yet again, to punish me for not being here when this dreadful thing happened? If it hadn’t been for him, forbidding me my own home, I would have been here long ago. Frightened of the emotion that raged through me, I stifled my mouth with Ben Chilvers’s handkerchief.
‘I closed it myself,’ the low, harsh voice came. ‘Screwed it down securely. I didn’t want anyone seeing him like that. Not anyone.’
I glanced over my shoulder, seeing him through aching eyes. ‘Like what?’
But he was unaware of me, looking into his own particular pit of hell and speaking as if to himself. ‘Cursed steam-engines. Devil’s invention. I should never have let him get involved… The thing exploded. I heard it. I knew what it was. Too late. He was dead the instant it hit. The ste
am, scalding, and the metal… Sheared off in great, jagged chunks, thrown with the force of the devil… He hung there, in the tree. Caught up in the branches. His body torn nearly in two, his entrails slithering out in a welter of blood and slime… Wounds in his chest, his limbs…’
The words beat at me like physical blows. Under their battering I sagged to my knees, my hands to my head as if to hold my shrieking brain in place.
Behind me, the brutal words went on, forcing me to share it all. ‘He had no face left. No face. Only a bloody mess.’ Quiet as it was, his voice shook with raw passion: ‘Do you think I’d let anybody see Hester’s son like that?’
There came a patter of feet, a bloom of more light. A swish of satin petticoats preceded the voice which breathed in horror: ‘Mr Hamilton! Oh, no. You mustn’t… Rose… Rose, my lamb…’
Narnie. Thank God for Narnie. Hands came on my shoulders, warm arms encircled me, helping me up. Tears burst from me, dredged up by ugly sobs. Giving way to my grief and pain, I wept helplessly on the shoulder of the old woman who had been nurse, nanny and confidante for so long.
‘You come along with Narnie,’ she crooned, guiding me towards the door and into the hallway where the young maid was waiting, her pale face lit from beneath by the two lamps she was carrying. ‘Bring some hot water,’ Narnie said, taking one of the lamps. ‘And hurry about it, girl!’ Then she was moving for the stairs, saying to me, ‘She’s not very clever, but she’s willing. Come, come, my lamb. Stop these tears now. Narnie will take care of you.’
By the time we reached the top of the stairs, I had myself more under control. I stopped to take a deep breath and calm myself, aware of familiar furniture and ornaments set in the different surroundings of the new house. The circle of light from Narnie lamp illumined the upper hallway where I discerned a female figure hovering uncertainly.
‘Grace?’ I queried.
My half-sister came closer, further into the light, showing me her pale face and swollen eyes. Her mouth trembled, her lips forming the shape of my name as she opened her arms and flew to hug me. ‘Oh… Rose. Oh, Rose, Rose! Rose!’
We clung together, both overcome by emotion. I remember thinking that here was one barrier torn down at last. Then Grace came to her senses, noticed my state and withdrew with delicate distaste, saying, ‘You’re soaked! Oh – you’ve wet my gown. I must change it at once before I catch a chill. Excuse me.’
I had been wrong: with Grace, nothing had changed.
‘Where’s Mama?’ I asked.
‘She’s in her room,’ Narnie said, the tone of her voice making me look at her.
‘She’s not ill, is she?’
‘No, no, Miss Rose, she’s not ill, not “ill”, as such. But she’s very troubled. Of course she is. She was very fond of Mr Victor, you know. She’s sleeping now. I gave her some laudanum and if the Lord be kind she’ll sleep till morning. It’s the best thing. Weeping like she’s been she’ll make herself ill if she doesn’t rest. Don’t you fret about your mama now.’
‘What about Johnny? Is he home?’
‘Yes, yes, and you can see him later. For now, let’s worry about you. Your room’s this way. Come and let me help you out of these wet things.’
She spoke to me as if I were a child, but at that moment I was only too happy to let her take charge. I seemed to have no reserves left.
* * *
The room which had been allotted for my use lay at the side of the house. It could hardly be called ‘my’ room, devoid as it was of any personal touches. I discovered later that my belongings had been stored away in the attics, and when I eventually had them brought down I found that most of my precious books, my toys and childhood mementoes had gone, given for charity or simply thrown away.
A fire had been laid in readiness, but lit only after my arrival. Its pale warmth nibbled the chill from a few square feet near the hearth as Narnie helped to free me from the constrictions of bonnet, boots, crinoline and corsets, and enveloped me in the embrace of a warm wrap. From her gossip I gathered that nobody had been entirely certain that I would come home, or at what time I might arrive. It would have been wasteful to light a fire that might not be needed, and to send someone to meet every train. They had known I would find my way, if and when I came.
This was obviously my father’s reasoning. He was determined not to bend in any way to welcome home his prodigal daughter, and no one had dared to go against his decision.
‘He’s not himself,’ Narnie said. ‘This has turned his mind. You know what store he set by Mr Victor. He’s taken it into his head that he’s going to stay in that room, guarding the coffin, until the funeral. All of us have tried, but he won’t come away, nor let one of us sit with him. Won’t eat. Won’t drink; only a drop of brandy and water now and then. “Leave me alone. Let me be with my son.” That’s what he keeps saying. As if he only had one son.’
‘Victor was the eldest. The heir. Father had all his hopes pinned on him.’
‘I know that. But it’s hurtful for Master Johnny, and for my poor Miss Flora. Cut to the quick, she is. Not allowed near her own husband. He’s shut everybody out, even her.’
‘And Johnny?’
‘Keeping to his room, poor boy. Sobbing his heart out. He thought the world of Mr Victor. White as a sheet he looked when he came home yesterday.’
I had not realised that Johnny had been so attached to Victor, nor that he too might feel excluded from Father’s affections. Mama adored her own two children, naturally, but Father, now that I thought of it, had never been as close to them as he had been to Victor. Victor had been special. Hester’s son, Father had said.
But I was Hester’s daughter! Didn’t that mean anything?
As Narnie was leaving, my wet clothes draped over her arm, I asked her which was Johnny’s room.
‘Maybe you’d best leave it ’til morning,’ she advised. ‘You’re tired now. I’ll send Howlett up with a tray, shall I? You won’t want to come down for supper.’
‘I must see Johnny first.’
Narnie started to argue but before she had done more than take breath I added, ‘I intend to see him, Narnie,’ and she subsided with a sidelong glower, seeming disconcerted by my firmness.
‘His room’s at the front,’ she said, leading the way along the hall where she pointed out the door I wanted. Then she went away, muttering, ‘On your own head be it.’
A gentle tapping on the door received no reply. I tried again, and called softly, ‘Johnny! Johnny, it’s Rose.’
After a long moment, his voice came low, saying, ‘Go away.’
I rapped harder. ‘Let me in, Johnny. I want to see you.’
Silent seconds ticked away; then the key turned and the door opened a few inches. I laid my hand on it, pushing it slowly wider.
Johnny had retreated to the far side of the room. Back turned to me, he leaned on a tallboy seemingly intent on rearranging the lead soldiers which paraded there. Lamplight shone softly on his lank, pale brown hair, so like Father’s in colour and texture. Since last I had seen him, he had grown like a reed, adding several inches to his height without increasing his breadth. Though I couldn’t see his face, the set of his thin shoulders expressed stubborn misery. Thirteen is a dreadful age to be.
Closing the door, I moved slowly across the room saying, ‘I know how you’re feeling. I loved Victor, too. Johnny…’ I put out my hand, but had hardly touched him before he pulled away and went to sit in a chair. He had one of his soldiers in his hand and pretended to study it, his head bent over it.
Watching him, I hurt for him. ‘It doesn’t make sense that this should happen, does it? But life often doesn’t make sense. We have to trust that God has a purpose, even if we can’t see it. We have to lean on each other and—’
As I reached to touch his hair, he ducked under my arm and ran to place himself with his back to the wall, regarding me with a set face. ‘Why did you have to come back?’
‘What?’ The attack astounded me. ‘This i
s my home!’
‘No, it’s not. Nobody wants you here.’
Distress bit behind my eyes, as if I had breathed pepper. ‘Don’t speak to me like that.’
‘It’s the truth!’
What had he been told about me? What had he heard, surmised, imagined? I couldn’t blame the child for being confused. ‘If you’re trying to hurt me, Johnny, you’re succeeding. Does it make you feel any better to know that?’
His expression remained sullen, but I saw his eyes flicker with uncertainty.
‘You’re not the only one who’s grieving,’ I said. ‘I know how unhappy you must be, so I’ll make allowances, for tonight. But tomorrow… tomorrow we must talk about this. We should all try to help one other.’
He said nothing, only looked at me with hard bright eyes, so that I thought again how like Father he was, more like him than Victor, or I, had ever been. Thinking that we should both feel better in the morning, I left him and returned to my own room.
The new maid, Howlett, brought me a supper tray, but I only toyed with the food and left most of it, having no appetite. Eventually I pushed the tray aside and went to sit near the fire, trying to soak up some of its warmth.
Everything had changed. And yet, depressingly, everything was very much the same.
Narnie appeared again, ostensibly in order to help me with my hair but actually, I felt certain, because she too was in turmoil and needing reassurance. The tragedy had touched everyone.
I sat with eyes closed, hands folded in my lap, my mind drifting inside my aching head, while Narnie tended me. As she unfastened pins and loosened the knot at my nape, so the tension eased out of me. How soothing the slow rhythm of the brush in her expert hands, beginning at the ends, smoothing every knot and tangle, sweeping and stroking. I felt drained, welcoming the thought of a warm bed.
‘Rose?’ Grace said from the doorway. ‘May I come in?’
Though I could have wished to delay any more confrontations, I opened heavy eyelids to smile at her and held out my hand. ‘Yes, come and join us. Come and tell me how you are.’