The Amber Keeper (5 page)

FIVE

1911

I
t all began on one of those perfect sunny days in early September, the glorious russet, amber and gold of the Lakeland woodlands reflected in the still waters of the lake. Sheep dozed in the soft shadows and the only sounds to be heard were the cooing of wood pigeons, the lap and splash of water and the happy gurgles of childish laughter. A bright yellow sun warmed the lake and the children hadn’t been able to resist putting on their bathing suits for a swim while the adults dozed in their deck chairs, or sipped Pimms as they quietly chatted.

Inside the house was a very different story, Carreck Place a veritable maelstrom of activity. I hadn’t seen it so busy since the party to celebrate King George V’s coronation in June. Maids bustled back and forth, any undercurrent of panic and concern they might be suffering quelled by long experience as they efficiently went about their many tasks. Lord and Lady Rumsley’s special guests, their aristocratic Russian cousins, Count Vasiliy Belinsky and his wife Countess Olga, had been staying for some weeks, and the climax of their visit was to be a grand dinner and ball held that evening.

The kitchens had been out of bounds for days. I always felt a great pity for the scullery maids, poor little devils, their hands red raw from scouring saucepans and scrubbing dishes all day long. I’d done my share of such chores, having started my career as a scullery maid at fourteen, then moved on to kitchen and parlour maid before deciding that I hated housework. It had seemed natural for me to go into service, as my French mother was a lady’s maid and my father a gardener for Lord Lonsdale. When the opportunity came to take this job, I grabbed at the chance, as I adore children. I also lived in hope that such a position would allow me to travel with the family, which had ever been a dream of mine.

The footmen had spent hours polishing the family silver, now set out on a pristine white damask tablecloth together with a centrepiece of yellow roses from the garden. The long dining table was laid following the carefully arranged seating plan devised by her ladyship, ably assisted by the housekeeper. Precedence was of paramount importance, particularly since Count Belinsky was connected to Russian royalty, being a distant cousin of the Tsar. But then who should sit next to whom was always a veritable minefield. House parties of this nature were notorious for illicit affairs, which must naturally be kept discreet. Whenever there was any doubt, Jepson the butler would decide, as he knew better than most who were lovers or social adversaries, and in either case needed to be kept well apart.

The efficiency of the entire operation was due primarily to the butler’s skills; he looked almost regal himself in his best black tail coat with gold buttons, starched white shirt, collar and cravat. Even the menservants were resplendent in their finest livery, and, as I’d passed through the servants’ hall earlier that afternoon, I couldn’t help but giggle at how ridiculous they looked in their brown breeches and yellow and white striped waistcoats, like creatures from another age.

‘Is it me you think so funny?’ Liam, one of the footmen had asked, catching me around the waist to pull me into his arms.

I didn’t struggle to free myself or protest too much, as I rather liked Liam. He was a fine, handsome young Irishman, and his attentions to me, a naïve young girl of almost nineteen, were really most flattering. ‘You look as if you should be in the village pantomime,’ I teased.

‘Aw, and there’s me thinking I was the bees’ knees in this get-up. Don’t I at least deserve a kiss for looking so smart?’

I pecked a quick kiss on to his cheek, except that he moved at the last moment so that it landed full upon his mouth by mistake.

‘What’s going on here?’ The butler’s commanding voice rocked Liam back on his heels, and sent me fleeing from the room, only too happy to escape.

Fortunately, none of these frantic preparations were any of my concern. My task as nursemaid was simply to look after the children: Miss Phyllis and Master Robin, plus the two
Russian
offspring
who were currently occupying the nursery during their stay.

Serge, aged eight, seemed to have a great deal to say for himself. ‘My full name is Serge Vasilovich Belinsky,’ he’d proudly announced when first he was brought to the schoolroom to meet me. ‘My second name comes from my father, a tradition you don’t have in England, I believe.’ Spoken with some contempt for our failure in this respect. A fine nobleman in the making, I thought.

His younger sister Irina, aged six, was a sensitive child who cried a great deal. She gave me a shy little smile then hastily began to tidy her hair as she noticed her mother frowning at her.

I loved my job and delighted in supervising the children on that sunny afternoon, first with a game of hide and seek, then serving them a picnic of egg and cress sandwiches, sponge fingers and home-made lemonade. The two boys tried their hand at fishing, without much success, and the little girls enjoyed paddling, and giggled a great deal, instant friends with only a year between them.

‘Keep to the edges, Miss Phyllis. The lake quickly becomes quite deep further in,’ I called, ever aware of my responsibility, and she was but five years old. When a cool wind sprang up I decided to take them indoors for their afternoon nap. I, at least, was ready for a rest.

‘Come along, children. Let me dry you off, then we’ll go indoors for some hot chocolate and a siesta.’ This brought forth a series of groans, and, laughing, I picked little Miss Phyllis up out of the water to carry her wriggling like a giggly worm, if worms ever do giggle, back to the rug, where I began to rub her down with a towel.

‘
Mamochka
, I want to learn to sail,’ Serge called to his mother. In the centre of the lake cruised a small boat in which Countess Olga was reclining in the sun, her footman rowing slowly back and forth so as not to disturb her rest too much.

‘Perhaps tomorrow, Master Serge,’ I called to him. ‘It’s growing quite chilly now. Time for you to get dry and have something warm to drink.’

Lazily turning her head, the Countess smiled at her son. ‘Swim out to me if you wish, my darling,’ she called. ‘I am here for you, as always.’

‘I want to come too,’ shouted Irina, and before I could stop them both children had flung themselves into the water, each desperate to out-swim the other and be first to reach the boat and their darling mother.

I was on my feet in a second, watching anxiously, itching to call out that it was too far for them to swim, too deep in that part of the lake, but how could I when the Countess had already defied me? They were, after all, her children.

Serge reached the boat easily to grasp the side, ready to haul himself aboard. His mother clapped her hands in delight, and there was a wide grin of triumph on his young face. I almost sighed with relief until I suddenly noticed that he was holding something under the water, a great splashing and bubbling going on all around. He glanced down at whatever it was, and laughed out loud. Shock hit me like a hammer blow to the chest when I realised that it was his little sister, Irina.

‘Master Serge, what are you doing? Let her go this minute!’

Leaving little Phyllis on the rug, I raced down the grassy bank and plunged into the water, still fully clothed in my nursemaid’s uniform. Fortunately I’d been taught to swim by my own father. No child, he’d said, should live in the Lake District and not be able to swim. I reached the boat in seconds to snatch the girl up in my arms. For one terrible moment I thought I was too late as her tiny face appeared ashen, with no sign of life. Then she took a great gasp of air before bursting into tears.

‘Didn’t you see that he was holding her under the water?’ I shouted at the Countess, without a thought to good manners or my lowly status. ‘Your daughter could have drowned.’

She gazed at me wide-eyed for a moment, and then laughed. ‘Nonsense! Irina should have had more sense than to try and swim so far. My darling son was rescuing her. She’s a silly little girl, always fussing, and foolishly jealous of her brother.’

I stared at the Countess in open-mouthed astonishment, my feet furiously paddling in an effort to stay afloat as I clutched the child tightly in my arms. How could this woman be so blind as to not see the truth of the incident? I’d noticed before how the
Countess
always gave preference to her son, but what kind of mother cared so little for her daughter that she would make no effort to save her from obvious drowning?

But what could I say? I was a young girl, a mere servant, and she a fine aristocratic lady, married to my master’s cousin. I knew full well that any accusation I made against the Countess, or her precious son, would only result in my being given notice for rudeness to an honoured guest, not to mention overstepping my position.

‘My little hero,’ she was saying, hugging and kissing the boy as she helped him into the boat beside her.

I became aware of Irina’s skinny arms clinging tightly about my neck, her small body shivering against mine. My own feet were likewise beginning to feel the numbing effects of the cold water, my long skirt tangling about my legs. It was never safe to linger in the lake for more than a few moments so, turning about, I swam for the shore, the child tucked safely under one arm.

That was my first confrontation with Countess Olga, but it would not be the last.

Later that evening, while the assistant nursemaid served the children their suppers, I stole a moment to have a word with Liam, quickly telling him of what had occurred.

‘The bitch,’ he said, in his blunt Irish way. ‘Does the woman have no feelings, save for herself?’

‘It would seem not,’ I agreed.

We were tucked behind an outhouse in a shadowy corner of the kitchen yard, and Liam wasted no time in taking advantage of the growing darkness to steal a few kisses. Not that I objected too much, as the very touch of his lips set ripples of excitement soaring through my veins. I was, as I say, young and impressionable.

‘I can’t linger, I’m afraid,’ he apologised between kisses. ‘Or Mr Jepson will have my guts for garters. Can I mebbe see you later?’

Timing for these functions was of the essence. It was essential that everyone be seated ten minutes or so before the main guests of honour arrived, particularly if, as in this case, they were connected with royalty. Mr Jepson naturally did his utmost to ensure the meal was not kept waiting too long, or there would be even greater panic and mayhem in the kitchen if trays were brought up too soon and food left to go cold in the serving room. None of this effort was fully appreciated by either Lord and Lady Rumsley or their guests, but rather taken for granted.

I knew that Liam, along with all the other footmen, including many extras hired especially for the occasion, would be rushed off their feet throughout the evening. He would not only be
serving
dinner but later providing snacks and drinks, constantly supplying new packs of cards for the gamblers, calling for carriages, and
fetching
jugs of hot water or night caps for those who were
staying
overnight, entirely at the beck and call of the hundred or more guests.

‘I very much doubt it will be possible to see you later, Liam. You’ll be busy and I must stay with the children.’

‘Aw, couldn’t you sneak away for a half hour at least? I’ll wait for you at the back of the summer house the minute everyone has gone.’

‘It’ll be nearly dawn by then.’ But I was starting to waver.

‘Naw,’ he said. ‘Midnight or just after should be fine.’

I giggled at his optimism but after another exciting, long-drawn-out kiss that left me breathless, he strode quickly away before I had time to object further.

The kitchen being awash with steaming dishes and harassed chefs, also specially hired for the occasion, I carefully avoided the chaos and hurried up the back stairs, already worrying about the prospect of a midnight rendezvous. I was quite fond of Liam, as a friend, but had no real wish for our relationship to go beyond a few chaste kisses. Even at eighteen my ambitions lay in quite a different direction to marriage.