Ann Granger (7 page)

The elder sister broke her silence at last to say, ‘Thank you, Williams. We’ll take tea now. Ask Mrs Craven if she would join us, would you?’

‘I’m Miss Roche,’ she informed us as the housekeeper withdrew, confirming her senior status by this old-fashioned manner of referring to herself. ‘This is my sister, Phoebe. Do sit down.’

‘I’m very pleased to meet you both, ladies,’ said Dr Lefebre with a courtly bow. If he thought it odd or discourteous to have been kept waiting in this way while he – and I – were so obviously sized up, he didn’t show it.

‘How do you do?’ I added, determined to add my response to this cool welcome.

‘Your journey was comfortable?’ Miss Roche asked now in the same rather perfunctory way.

‘Very tolerable, ma’am,’ returned Dr Lefebre, ‘and not without interest.’

‘No, indeed,’ I put in. If they thought I would prove a mouselike creature who barely uttered a squeak, they might as well find out at once I wasn’t. ‘I enjoyed the ferry journey very much indeed. I’d never been in any kind of boat before.’

‘Really?’ returned Miss Roche with a faint flicker of an eyebrow.

‘And your countryside hereabouts,’ the doctor added quickly, distracting Miss Roche’s attention away from me, ‘it’s really most attractive. Wild and perhaps not all of it conventionally beautiful, but very interesting. We had a curious encounter, not far from here, on the heath. The trap overtook a fellow with his wife following him, who your man Greenaway told us was a travelling rat-catcher by trade.’

‘Brennan?’ demanded Miss Roche immediately in a sharp voice. ‘Is he back in the district?’

‘I don’t like that man,’ said Miss Phoebe nervously, entering the conversation. ‘He frightens me.’

‘Nonsense, Phoebe,’ said her sister, without looking in her direction, ‘he is always perfectly civil.’

‘So you always say, Christina. But he brings bad luck with him.’

‘Don’t be foolish, Phoebe,’ Miss Roche advised briskly. She turned her head towards her sister at last but it was to deliver a reproof. ‘You’ve been listening to village gossip.’

Phoebe persisted, supporting her argument with, ‘Last time he was here, one of his horrid little dogs killed the kitchen cat.’

‘Then Cook should have kept the animal shut up until Brennan left. Anyway, we’ve need of him again. I must tell Greenaway to ask him to call. There is a rat around here somewhere. I’ve seen it twice recently.’ She indicated the room about us with a general gesture.

‘I haven’t seen it,’ protested Miss Phoebe anxiously.

‘Because you usually have your nose in a book. The last time it appeared, in the middle of the afternoon, it was just over there.’ Christina Roche pointed an imperious finger to a far corner.

We all looked in the direction with some apprehension. What was that under a chair? Did it move?

‘It ran out into the hall,’ said Miss Roche. ‘But it’s certainly still here. Brennan will flush it out.’

‘Couldn’t Cook just put down arsenic as usual?’ asked Miss Phoebe, waving her hands despairingly. ‘Must Brennan be involved?’

‘No, no, the creature has its nest nearby somewhere, probably behind some skirting board. I cannot have dishes of arsenic set about the drawing or dining rooms. If you don’t want to see the man when he comes, you don’t have to, Phoebe.’

It was fortunate that the tea arrived at that moment and the topic of the rat dropped. The tea-things were brought in not by Williams, the housekeeper, but by a middle-aged parlourmaid. She had not left us for more than a minute when the door opened again. Dr Lefebre rose to his feet. Lucy Craven had joined us.

I already knew that she was young but I hadn’t realised just how young and I must confess it shocked me. This child could not long have passed her seventeenth birthday. She was very pretty, or would have been with some liveliness in her face. It was still babyish, with a rounded chin, full lips and snub nose. Her most striking feature was a pair of large blue eyes, fringed with dark lashes. Their colour was tinged with purple and reminded me of bluebells. The shade was reflected in the simple lilac striped gown she wore. Her fair hair had been braided into a long plait curled into a knot at the back of her head. She was very pale and wore no jewellery other than her wedding band, no lace or ribbons. The effect was of a porcelain doll.

Why, she is no more than a schoolgirl and looks it!
I thought, shocked.

‘Your servant, ma’am,’ said Dr Lefebre, bowing to her.

Animation entered her face then, or rather, entered the blue eyes. Suddenly they blazed with such hostility directed fully at him that I was even more taken aback. But it was only for an instant and then the expression was veiled, the striking eyes returning to their previous doll-like lack of any expression. Lucy merely nodded acknowledgment of his greeting.

Knowing the doctor already as I did, I was sure he wouldn’t have missed the brief enmity shown him. Lucy had probably had enough of doctors. But even so, such a real hatred and towards a total stranger?

‘And Miss Martin,’ said Miss Roche, gesturing towards me.

‘I’m very happy to meet you,’ I said as sincerely as I could.

The girl stared at me for a moment and I wondered if I, too, was to be treated to such a look of dislike. But she only nodded, as she’d done to Dr Lefebre.

We took tea in an atmosphere of such awkwardness I couldn’t wait for it to be over. Fortunately Dr Lefebre proved skilled at light conversation and conducted most of it with Miss Roche. Miss Phoebe said little and sat frowning at the tea-things, perhaps still worrying about the rat. I didn’t say much more. Lucy Craven said nothing at all except to decline a slice of cake in a subdued and light, childish voice.

I was relieved when Miss Roche set down her cup and said to me, ‘I dare say you’d like to see your room, Miss Martin. Your baggage will have been taken up there by now. Lucy, perhaps you’d show Miss Martin where we’ve put her?’

Lucy got up silently. I followed her out of the room and up a wide staircase. At the top we followed a corridor, still without a word spoken, until we reached a room at the far end. Lucy opened the door and we both entered.

The room was small and square but very well appointed. I’d be comfortable here in this respect, if in no other. Best of all, it looked over the sea.

Unable to wait, I ran to the window and threw it open to gaze out over the expanse of bobbing waves. A pair of white-sailed yachts played a game of chase in the distance and beyond them I could see the purple outline of the Isle of Wight. The light had a wonderful luminous quality to it. The warm sea breeze caressed my face. After the smells of London it tingled so cleanly in my nostrils I had to fill my lungs.

I turned to Lucy and exclaimed: ‘You can’t imagine how exciting this is to me! You live by the sea and I dare say think little of it, but I come from a Derbyshire mining town where the air is filled with coal dust, and have only otherwise lived in London which is a place of fog and smoke.’

She had been standing in the middle of the room watching me. Perhaps my enthusiasm had the effect of allaying some of her reserve. She spoke at last and her tone seemed to challenge me to contradict her.

‘They’ve sent us both out of the drawing room so that they may discuss me with that doctor.’

‘Dr Lefebre and I travelled together,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know him before today.’

I don’t know quite why I said that. I think I sensed that she saw the doctor and me as a joint force. I wanted her to understand from the first that I was quite independent.

She shrugged her slight shoulders. ‘He’s come to watch me – as have you, Miss Martin.’ She fixed me with a knowing, mocking look and her full lips twisted into an unbecoming cynical smile.

For a moment she looked older than her years and the effect was unpleasant. She reminded me of those ragged children I’d seen roaming the streets of London, their years belied by their sharp little faces; or worse, decked out in tawdry finery, lining the pavements of an evening offering their immature bodies, their eyes mirroring the loss of all innocence, of all hope.

I had to take charge of this situation immediately or we should never get anywhere. ‘In the first place,’ I said, ‘please call me Elizabeth, or Lizzie, if you like. I’d like to call you Lucy, if you agree. Secondly, I’ve certainly not come to “watch” you.’ I drew a deep breath, ‘Lucy, I know, of course, you’ve suffered a sad loss—’

At this her expression altered again. She looked so fierce, I hurried on, ‘I’m truly very sorry for – for your present unhappiness. I hope we can be
friends
and I’ll be able to offer at least some comfort and support. I’ve come to be a companion, that’s all. I haven’t the skills to be a nurse or the inclination to be a gaoler! So, that’s not my purpose in being here. Please, do believe me.’

I found myself wondering, as I spoke these words, if Lucy had ever had a real friend, if the notion of friendship was itself strange to her. At any rate, my words seemed to make little impression.

‘He
’s come to watch me,’ she repeated impatiently as if I were being particularly dense.

‘Not you, Lucy, just the general situation on behalf of your uncle,’ I protested. ‘He told me. Your uncle can’t come himself. He just wants Lefebre to tell him how you are all getting along here and, probably, to report back on how suitable I’m proving. The doctor told me particularly that he hasn’t come to treat you.’

I tried to sound confident but a pang of doubt had struck me. She was so sure of my complicity. Could Ben be right? I was beginning to have a horrid feeling I’d been tricked in some way.

She hissed in annoyance and shook her head violently to dismiss my argument. ‘He’s telling lies,’ she said, as if this were a statement beyond any doubt.

‘I am not!’ I retorted, rather sharply.

Perhaps the sharpness reached her in a way my reasoned earlier speech hadn’t. ‘How do I know
you
are telling the truth and you really aren’t his assistant?’ She searched my face.

That annoyed me. I felt it would do her no harm to see that it had. ‘That’s an insult. I’m not untruthful and I’ve not come here with any secret purpose. You’ll find that I speak my mind, perhaps sometimes when I ought not to. The one thing I most certainly am not is devious!’

She seemed confused. A faint pink flush entered her pale cheeks. ‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘But if you really haven’t met the man before today…’ She paused for reassurance but her eyes were not antagonistic now, only anxious.

‘Never,’ I said stoutly. ‘I didn’t even know he existed, much less that he was to be a houseguest and on his way here. I got into the same compartment on the train only because the ladies only compartment was full. I was reading Miss Roche’s letter and he saw it and recognised the handwriting. He introduced himself. I was very surprised.’

‘Well, then,’ said Lucy, ‘you perhaps won’t know what kind of doctor he is.’

A tremor ran over me as if a cold breath had touched the nape of my neck. Perhaps it was only the draught from the opened window. ‘No,’ I confessed, ‘he didn’t say. I told him my late father was a doctor but he didn’t tell me anything of his own practice. He appears to be successful.’

She gave a bitter bark of laughter. ‘Indeed, very successful! Our family’s interests are in silk and in tea. Dr Lefebre’s interest, his
business,
is insanity. He is an alienist.’

I gasped. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Oh, yes. He has come here to judge whether or not I am mad.’

*   *   *

The Roche ladies dined at seven. I’d been deeply shaken by what Lucy had told me. But I’d no time to think it over now and none to begin a letter to Ben Ross letting him know of my safe arrival. I knew I mustn’t be late joining the company downstairs. It wouldn’t be well viewed. I chose to wear the grey silk I’d bought when in half-mourning for my father. That wouldn’t give rise to a twitch of Miss Roche’s eyebrow which, I’d already realised, indicated I’d said or done the wrong thing. I fancied I’d see that twitch often during my stay at Shore House.

The Roche sisters had also changed for dinner. Their gowns, like their day attire, were again apparently cut from the same cloth: in this case very expensive dark blue watered taffeta. Phoebe, the more adventurous in dress I decided, had ruffles at the hem of her skirt and smaller ruffles down the middle of the bodice. Christina inclined towards a plain style with a row of little buttons of the same material down the bodice. The saddest thing was that these beautiful gowns were quite wasted on such a plain pair of wearers and in this sober setting. Or had the presence of a gentleman at the table led them to bring out their finery? I didn’t imagine it was because of me.

The dinner was also very plain but well cooked. Conversation was polite and uncontroversial. Lucy, looking very pretty but subdued in pale pink, took no part in it. I noticed that she watched the doctor surreptitiously but if he turned to speak to her, immediately looked down at her plate and only mumbled the minimum reply. More than ever she struck me as a child: one who had been thrust into a hostile adult world with little preparation and did not know, finding herself there, how she should fight off its slings and arrows. I wondered about her upbringing, whether her aunts Roche had had charge of it or whether she’d been sent away to school. What of her parents? There’d been no mention of them. All these things I meant to find out, if possible from Lucy herself, but it would require considerable tact. Tact was not always my strongest point, alas, and like poor Lucy, I felt myself adrift in unknown waters.

After dinner we ladies retired to the drawing room leaving Dr Lefebre to sit in solitary splendour in the dining room with the port decanter. Miss Roche led the way out, followed by her sister (both with much rustling of taffeta), and then by Lucy and me.

Lucy murmured resentfully, ‘I am a married lady and I ought to go first!’

But she seemed to make the observation more to herself than to me so I didn’t feel I had to reply. It would be a brave person who undertook to debate this nice point of etiquette with the formidable Miss Roche. Looking at the sisters walking ahead of me, I realised that both of them were a good head taller than I was. I wondered briefly what they’d been like as girls of Lucy’s age. Nothing like their young niece, I decided.