The House at Tyneford (13 page)

As I suspected, Mr. Wrexham was exceedingly put out by Kit’s unanticipated arrival. He was fully prepared for Kit’s disembarking the 11:43 train from Basingstoke on Thursday morning. Art had been told to prepare the car; the appropriate brand of cigarette had been sent from London, the
Sporting Life
had been ordered into stock at the general store and additional marmalade taken down from the high shelves in the pantry. However, May was in the middle of washing the curtains in Kit’s room, and presently they lay draped all around the scullery and laundry, and the room was not ready. If he had been able, Mr. Wrexham would have reproached Kit, but since he could not, he made do with scolding me. He somehow connected Kit’s early arrival with me, and though he could not quite deduce why, I was deemed responsible.

“These things should not happen. How is a butler to be prepared in such circumstance? And with such a small staff. It’s not to be borne. Not to be borne.”

All my work was found to be at fault: the knives were dirty, the mirrors smeared and the fires did not draw properly. Mr. Wrexham was so dissatisfied with my duties that he banned me from serving at dinner, a dishonour he was certain I must feel keenly. “Go upstairs to bed early tonight, girl. Study your English and let us try to do better tomorrow.”

That night I lay on my bed watching the evening sky turn orange, then black, and wondered if I was disappointed to be banished from dinner. I was grateful to have another hour of freedom; usually I crept into bed wanting nothing but sleep. Yet I experienced a pang of disappointment at the thought that I would not see Kit again until tomorrow. And perhaps not even then: I knew from watching Anna’s operas that foreign gentlemen were inevitably fickle and not to be trusted. And yet, life at Tyneford already seemed less awful than it had that very morning when I had raged at the sea. When I thought of Kit, I felt a fulsome glow in my belly, as though I had eaten a large helping of Hildegard’s goulash and dumpling stew.

K
it’s presence seemed to breathe life into the old house. Everyone woke up: the daily housemaids dusted each nook with fanatical care, humming as they rubbed beeswax onto the stone floors or beat the ancient rugs with hazel brooms. It was as though the manor and its inhabitants had been covered with an invisible dust sheet and Kit had shaken it off. The scent of Mrs. Ellsworth’s baking pervaded the service corridor and wafted into the musty hall. Mr. Wrexham retreated into a dark pantry that I hadn’t known existed and began to fill cauldrons with water pulled from the spring in the kitchen garden. He appeared to have forgiven Kit his premature arrival, as first thing after breakfast the pair disappeared into this pantry. Sounds of bubbling emitted from behind the closed door, while sweet yeast-filled steam trickled from underneath the seam. Even May seemed less resentful of my presence, going as far as to offer me a humbug from a newspaper twist.

I did not speak to Kit again until Saturday. During the week I tried to linger outside the pantry, waiting for him to emerge, but Mrs. Ellsworth pounced, hurrying me away with a list of chores as endless as Penelope’s web. Every moment was occupied with tasks and Mr. Wrexham did not choose to reinstate my privilege of waiting at the dinner table. But on Saturday morning, as I cleaned the sitting room windows, I glimpsed Kit pacing on the lawn with his father, their heads bowed in earnest conversation. Deliberately ignoring Mrs. Ellsworth’s instructions to withdraw from view, I watched the two men. Mr. Rivers’ face was grey and he looked tired and unhappy. Kit turned away from his father, his expression blank and unreadable. He saw me watching from the window and met my gaze for a second, before walking back toward the house. I continued to stare, cleaning forgotten, as Mr. Rivers paced upon the grass, and then disappeared down the path leading to the sea. It occurred to me that Mr. Rivers was the only member of the household apparently unmoved by Kit’s arrival. The porch door banged, and a second later Kit himself appeared in the sitting room, treading damp footprints across the polished floor. I frowned, ready to reproach him, and then, remembering my place, bit my lip, but he must have seen my look of displeasure. “Sorry. I’ll take them off.”

I stared at him, saying nothing as he sat down in the middle of the floor and removed his shoes. He padded across the room in his socks to where I stood beside the windows clutching my rag and, opening the glass wide, threw out his shoes so that they sailed through the air, landing on the lawn with a thud-thud. He slammed shut the casement.

“There. I’m sorry.”

He smiled warmly, eyes blue and beseeching. “Did you meet the Forsytes?”

It took me a moment to realise that he meant the paperback novel hidden beneath my pillow.

“I have not had time,” I said, standing stiffly beside a worn sofa. I had intended to read the book every night, but the moment I climbed into bed, I slipped into an exhausted sleep.

He sank into an easy chair and swung a leg over the armrest, revealing a large hole in his sock. A toe peeped through.

“Oh.” He sounded so sad, as though my not reading the book were a personal rejection.

“I am wanting to read. But I am finding so very busy.”

“Oh, all right. But try and hurry up.”

I studied Kit for a second, wondering if I’d ever been so impatient with Hildegard. Probably. I was always tired now. Every morning I woke up—May banging on my door—wishing I could go back to sleep. I liked cleaning the large drawing room, as I could sit down on the Persian rug behind the sofa and daydream. If Mr. Wrexham or anyone else came in, I was concealed from view and if discovered could pretend I was polishing the brass feet of the sofa or a mark on the parquet floor. “So will you come?”

“I’m sorry? Beg pardon.”

Lost in thought, I hadn’t heard a word Kit had said.

“Church tomorrow.”

I swallowed and instinctively ran my hand through my hair. “I cannot. I do not go to church.”

Kit sat up straight in the overstuffed armchair. “Just this week. I promise it will be fun.”

“Fun?” I thought it odd that church was so different from synagogue; the few occasions I had been dragged along by the great-aunts, I’d been dazed with boredom. On Yom Kippur, with the ban on teeth brushing, I’d spent all day avoiding the sour stench of the old ladies’ breath, ducking to avoid kisses.

“Yes. Fun. Don’t come all the way in. Stand by the door, just this once. Trust me.”

“I think about it.”

The door swung open and Mr. Wrexham stood in the doorway. Seeing me in conversation with Kit, his eyes narrowed with displeasure. I picked up my cleaning box and hurried out into the hall.

“You are not to talk to Mr. Kit.”

“He speaking first.”

Mr. Wrexham frowned. “Yes, well. Mr. Kit is most good-natured. They must not see you cleaning. It’s improper. Next time, you make your apologies and exit.”

“Yes, Mr. Wrexham.”

The butler and housekeeper were quite determined the illusion be maintained that the house was cleaned by magic or elves. Fires should be laid and lit, curtains opened and closed, floors swept, rugs cleaned, silver polished, pictures dusted, but the act of cleaning must never be seen. I found it very odd. Even Hildegard and our maids in Vienna scrubbed in our presence. Hilde especially huffed and puffed and muttered as she went. She was neither silent nor invisible.

Mr. Wrexham drew me into the corner of the hall, speaking in a low voice. “Elise, post arrived for you. It was a little late this morning. The fault of a flat bicycle tyre, I believe. So, if you wish, you may come to my little roo—”

He stopped midsentence, face setting into his impassive butler’s smile, as Kit wandered into the hall in his socks.

“How’s the brew this morning, Wrexham?”

“Coming along most pleasingly, sir. Would Sir like to come and taste?”

Kit grinned at me. “Wrexham is a dark horse, Elise. He’s a master brewer. Makes the best beer in Dorset.”

“Sir is very kind.”

Kit checked his watch. “Ten fifteen. A good time to sample the latest batch. Want to taste, Elise?”

Mr. Wrexham’s smile remained firmly pinned. “Elise has a great deal of work this morning.”

Kit shrugged and began to follow Mr. Wrexham out of the hall and along the service corridor leading to the back pantry. I watched them for a second and then, not caring if I was to be scolded later, called out, “Mr. Wrexham?”

He froze and turned around, fixing me with a look of cold displeasure.

“My letter? Please. My letter.”

“I am with the young gentleman, Elise. Remember your manners.”

His voice held a note of warning, but Kit was oblivious.

“Oh, give Elise her letter, Wrexham. The beer can wait a minute.”

I felt a rush of gratitude toward Kit, even though I knew the butler would be furious with me later.

“Very well,” said Mr. Wrexham, without looking at me.

We walked along the service corridor in silence, until we reached his room. I waited outside, while Kit continued along to the beer pantry. Mr. Wrexham slipped inside, retrieving not one but two letters propped upon a plain side table beside the door. Wordlessly, he passed them to me.

“Thank you.”

I shoved them into my apron pocket and started to back away, desperate to disappear upstairs and read in peace.

“Wait,” commanded Mr. Wrexham. “Take this polish and these cloths. The china in the library is in urgent need of cleaning. I will inspect it before lunch. I expect perfection. I would strongly suggest that you put these upstairs and read them later.”

Stifling a sigh, I bowed my head. As I glanced up, I met Kit’s sympathetic eye. He lurked in the gloom of the corridor, just out of Mr. Wrexham’s sight. Thankfully, this time he said nothing, apparently realising that any more interference on my behalf would only incense the butler further. Having absolutely no intention of setting aside the letters for later, I took the cloths and scurried to the library, grateful that Mr. Rivers was out on one of his walks and I could be assured of solitude.

The library was situated in the north wing of the house, the drive and porch outside one window, and the front lawn outside the other. Unless Mr. Rivers was present, the curtains were kept drawn to protect the fragile bindings of the ancient books. The sea air, so beneficial for rude human health, corroded the Rivers family library, so that when some of the books were opened the pages sloughed away to nothingness. I once ran my finger along a leather spine and a layer of crimson flaked away onto my skin. Mrs. Ellsworth instructed me to burn pinecones in the grate each morning and dip candles in lavender oil, but the fragrance of musty books pervaded. The daily housemaids detested the room, complaining it was “duckish dark an’ puts us all in a bother,” and I earned their profuse gratitude when I offered to take over its cleaning. I liked the proximity of Julian’s novels, and I found the permanent twilight soothing rather than eerie and I liked it best at dusk. Then I would trim the scented candles while the orange sun lowered in the west, making the spines of the books appear to blaze for a minute and then dull, as the sun slipped behind the shadow of the hill.

I knew Kit and his beer would keep Mr. Wrexham busy, and Mrs. Ellsworth was busy preparing luncheon, so I had a few minutes to read my letters. I borrowed the silver letter knife from the Victorian desk and settled on the hearth rug. I opened the one with the earliest postmark first. It was inscribed with Margot’s breathless scrawl.

The ink was smudged with what I could only assume were Margot’s tears. I took a deep breath, feeling a little sick. My sister was always the one prone to hysteria, or what Julian called the “artistic temperament” (since I was not an artist of any kind, my own moods were classified as childish immaturity). If Julian wanted her to leave, there must be a good reason for it. Robert had been fired from the university a week after the
Anschluss
, and there was a well-paid job waiting for him in California. It made no sense for them to stay in Vienna any longer. We would all return in a year or two; until then there was no point in being sentimental. I gave a snort—when had I become so practical? My family would not recognise me.

I reached for the next letter, postmarked one week later than Margot’s.