No Moon (8 page)

When I take the children out in the garden after breakfast, the gardener feeds us strawberries by the
handful. He shows them the grapes growing in the greenhouse. I ask him to speak to Miss Portia and Miss Alexandra about not going too close to the pond. He is most helpful.

“There are frogs and their babies in the pond. Don’t you go too near, missies, and frighten them. But at night you will hear the frog mother and father sing to them.”

So every night, after I have tucked the girls up in their beds, I open the window and let them listen to the parent frogs sing to their babies. And every night, Miss Portia says, “I can hear them
croak
,
croak
.” I am careful to close the window after a few minutes, as Nanny does not approve of night air!

She has developed a new habit since we’ve come here. Several times, late at night, I hear her footsteps, back and forth in the nursery.
Why?
So far, she has not ventured into our bedroom, but one never knows with Nanny Mackintosh!

It is our last day. A whole month has gone by and Lady Portman takes the girls out in the horse and carriage for a picnic. This allows me to finish packing. By the time Nanny brings the children back to the nursery, it is completed. Nanny can find no fault with me!

The children have been asleep for hours, but I am restless. It is too warm in the night nursery. The
house has long settled. Hoping for a breath of cool air, I get out of bed, open the window, and drink in the sweet fragrance of the breeze. The garden beckons to me, as always: tonight–our last in this lovely, lovely place–more urgently than before.

On impulse, I rearrange my bedding to look as if I am lying, fast asleep, under the coverlet. I creep out to the landing. Holding my breath, I stand motionless, listening. Nothing stirs. I tiptoe downstairs, past the gong, careful not to brush against it in case its deep tone raises an alarm, then safely through the baize door into the servants’ domain, just like at Chesham Place.

My bare feet make no sound in the long corridor. I enter the kitchen and pass the stove, still warm from tonight’s farewell dinner, through to the whitewashed scullery. At the sink, I fill a glass to the brim with cold water and drain it to the last drop, careful to rinse the glass. I savor the coolness of the flagstones on the soles of my bare feet. I must not linger more than a few moments.
But what harm would it do to take just one last look…?

The latch on the back door lifts easily, and I am outside at last, free to breathe in the sweet-smelling night. Mint and thyme, lavender and rosemary perfume the air. From every direction, the scent of late-summer roses reaches me. A breeze tugs at my nightgown and blows gently through my hair.
I promise myself that I will stay just long enough to try the swing, which I have ached to do from our first day.

I run through the long grass, reach out for the swing, sit and push myself off. Slowly at first, then faster and higher, I fly into the night. My white gown billows around me. Up and up I go, into the starlit sky–a caged bird released from its cage. Alone in the peaceful dark, I hear no voice to remind me of my place! Nearby, the turreted gazebo gleams like a great ship on a still sea of grass. Now and then, there is a ripple as the breeze skims the surface.

I close my eyes to feel the touch of the breeze on my skin more intensely, to breathe in the scents of the garden more deeply, and to listen more carefully to the whisper of foliage.
Do the trees and flowers ask each other about the strange white bird that intrudes into their kingdom?

A voice reaches me from the shadows: “Open your eyes, you foolish, irresponsible girl. Return inside, where you belong!”

I look around, behind, then towards the house.
Is that a face looking down at me? Did the curtains twitch? Is someone else unable to sleep tonight?

The swing slows to a stop. The moon, hidden until now behind the clouds, appears, shining more brilliantly than the stars. The garden is illuminated as though lit by a hundred candles. They draw me down
the path towards the pond. The lily pads, their faces yellow-centered, gaze longingly up at the sky.

Moonbeams in ever-widening circles skim the water around them. Frogs begin their nightly dirge–a keening sound. I crouch down in the grass, afraid, my hands over my ears. I don’t want to remember how my sister and I listened to cries we once believed were made by ghosts!

I force myself to stand, to turn my back on the moonlight and the voices in the pond, and return to the house.

Did you call out to us, Johnny, before your small body was dragged down under the water? Why didn’t we hear you? I am sorry, I will always be sorry! I’ll never forget
.

I run back up the path, away from the moonlight shining on the water, away from ghosts that still haunt me.
If only I were dreaming…if only Kathleen were here to wake me and comfort me!

I reach the door at last. I should not have left the children. I replace the latch and lean against the scullery door for a moment. I have wiped my feet so as not to leave marks on the clean floor. No one has seen or heard me. In a moment, I will be back in my bed. The moon distorts everything–sights and sounds in the dark, which in daylight seem nothing.

I go through the baize door and up the stairs. Nanny Mackintosh stands, looking down at me, waiting.

“Did you think you were unobserved? I watched
you, behaving like a creature, demented! Have you come to your senses at last? I had hopes for you, Louisa Gardener. I see I was mistaken. All my efforts to tutor you, my words of wisdom learned painfully over the years, have been wasted. Willful girl, how dare you go outside improperly clothed! Look at your hair, your bare feet! I should dismiss you on the spot!”

“I am very sorry, Nanny Mackintosh. I had a nightmare, I couldn’t breathe, the heat…”

“Go in and sit; do not move!” She disappears and comes back holding a spoon and a large bottle of castor oil. Outwardly meek, I force down two spoonfuls of the evil-tasting liquid. I know better than to refuse. This is the worst punishment I can think of!

“A touch of heatstroke and overindulgence in rich foods may partly explain such an exhibition. Never, in all my years of service, have I encountered such unseemly behavior from a member of my staff! Get to your bed. We depart for home immediately after breakfast. I will decide how you are to be dealt with in due course!”

She watches me until I am back in the night nursery. The girls sleep peacefully; I kiss their cheeks. They are already dear to me.
Will I be dismissed?

After I hear Nanny’s door close, I open my window one last time. There is no moon now, and the frogs
are silent. I fall asleep to the steady breathing of the little girls.

I cannot eat my breakfast, though Cook has sent up boiled eggs for a special treat. I nibble a piece of dry toast, dreading the long journey back to London. Nanny looks very pleased with herself, whether it is because she will once more be in charge of her own nurseries, or because she believes she has quenched my spirit, I do not know.

Mr. Harris has arrived and stowed the luggage away. The gardener hands him a basket of fruit and vegetables to give to Mrs. Porter.

Lady Portman kisses both little girls good-bye. “I shall miss you, my darlings. I hope to see you again very soon.” She turns to Nanny. “My dear Nanny Mackintosh, what would we all do without you? I am so pleased that your nursemaid has adapted so well to your methods–a most suitable choice! We will look forward to your visit next summer.”

“It is kind of you to say so, Lady Portman,” Nanny says, looking gratified. There is even the glimmer of a smile. At least the corners of her mouth turn up, ever so slightly.

I
have been with Lord and Lady Milton for over half a year. The preparations and the excitement of the Christmas and New Year festivities are over. Everyone is exhausted, particularly the servants. There was a puppet show for Miss Alexandra’s third birthday; then a visit to the theater, with three small friends of Miss Portia’s and their nannies, in anticipation of her fifth birthday. I could not help laughing when Miss Portia told me the nanny in the play
Peter Pan
was a dog! Who could have imagined such a thing?

However, when I caught Miss Portia about to jump off the nursery table in an attempt to fly like Peter Pan, Nanny banished her to the corner for half an hour. “If this ever occurs again, Miss Portia, it will be the broom cupboard for you!” Nanny meant it too.

The highlight of the season for me was our Christmas party, held in the servants’ hall on Christmas Eve. We pulled crackers and wore paper hats. Mr. Harris played the piano, and Mrs. Ransom danced with Lord Milton. So did Mrs. Porter! Nanny, festive in her black silk dress, danced with Mr. Briggs! To my surprise, Charlie Phipps, the footman, asked me to dance. I did not think he had even noticed me! I had never danced with a young man before. Each of the maids got a length of beautiful material, and Mrs. Wilson will make up new Sunday dresses for us all.

We had the most wonderful time at home on Christmas Day. I had missed the family, despite getting to see them once a month on my day off. It was not the same somehow, hearing about the news instead of being a part of it all … looking at the twins making excuses for their latest piece of mischief, or watching our little George take his first steps, or having a quiet cup of tea with Mother when the washing and ironing were finally done for another week.

I do miss sharing a room with my sisters. But I am settled now at Chesham Place and have come to enjoy the life upstairs and downstairs. Most of all, I like feeling grown up and independent and proud, too, when I can put a few coppers in the housekeeping jar!

Mother cooked a goose for our Christmas dinner. Emily found the threepenny bit in her slice of Christmas cake, and Father brought home a pineapple from the stall, which was only a bit bruised. There was an orange for each of us, too. Kathleen and I had time to tell each other all that we had been doing. I am almost as tall as she is now!

It is bitter cold, and it takes me a long time each day to stuff the children into the many layers of warm winter clothing they must wear. Two pairs of stockings each, both cotton and wool. Nanny’s only concession to the cold is to shorten our afternoon walks.

This morning, I am just getting the girls ready for their walk, when Dean asks Nanny to come down immediately to see Mrs. Ransom. Nanny removes the key that unlocks the gates to Belgrave Square from the hook hanging above the mantel. She hands it to me, as though it were some precious heirloom. I am surprised she does not warn me not to lose it.
Has she begun to trust me at last?

“Return in one hour, Gardener. There is snow in the air.”

The first snowflakes begin to fall shortly after I have unlocked the iron gates of the small square. I spot two robins fighting over a crust on the frost-tipped grass under the great oak tree. But the children are
too excited by the first snowfall of the season to keep still, and the birds soon scatter. Miss Alexandra has not seen snow before and screams with delight. I promise the girls that if the snow does not melt in the night, I will let them make a snowman next day. Meanwhile they content themselves with putting out their tongues–normally forbidden–to catch flakes, which fall more heavily by the minute.

After our walk, we return home precisely on the hour to see a white-faced Nanny Mackintosh being helped into the new Daimler by Mr. Harris. He drives off quickly. Nanny does not turn round to wave to us, but sits with her head bowed.
What has happened?

I am on my way upstairs when Dean stops me. “I am to take the children to the nursery,” she says. “Mrs. Ransom wants to speak to you.”

Mrs. Ransom is writing notes on her meticulously tidy desk. She looks up as I come in. “There you are, Gardener. You have just missed Nanny Mackintosh. She has received some bad news, I am afraid. Her father passed away unexpectedly.” The big clock, which stands in the corner of her parlor, seems to tick louder than usual.

“Mr. Harris is driving Nanny to the railway station to catch the afternoon train to Scotland. She will be away for at least a week. Lady Milton has decided that you are quite capable of managing the girls while Nanny is in Edinburgh. Roberts will take over
your usual cleaning duties in the nurseries. This will enable you to maintain the children’s normal routine. Lady Milton will see the children after tea, in the drawing room, for an hour. Any concerns, Gardener, during Nanny Mackintosh’s absence should be immediately brought to my attention. That is all.”

I am dismissed. Nanny has never mentioned her parents. I wonder if her mother is still alive. I am very sorry about Nanny Mackintosh’s loss, but a whole week without being found fault with will make a pleasant change! I can sit in the rocking chair by the fire and dream of what it would be like to be always in charge of the nursery….

Mrs. Porter sends up a delicious lunch of chicken and rice, and Miss Portia clears her plate. The snow has sharpened her appetite. Roberts comes in to take our tray without as much as a thank-you to me for stacking our dishes.