The House at Tyneford (14 page)

I slid the letter back into my apron pocket, unease gnawing at me. Anna, Margot and I always told each other everything but Anna’s letter clamoured with things unsaid. Why had they moved? Surely, with their American visas coming so soon, they could have waited a few weeks. I didn’t like being unable to picture my parents. Usually I thought of them in my childhood home: Julian scrawling in his study, Anna returning pink cheeked from the shops, laden with parcels wrapped up in striped paper. Now I didn’t know how to think about them. Instead of a picture, there was blankness.

That afternoon Mr. Wrexham instructed me to serve tea to the gentlemen on the terrace. He clearly felt that this was a treat I did not deserve, but Kit had requested the beer be bottled in time for lunch on Sunday, and while I ought to be punished for my cheek (“delaying the young master, by asking for letters, is a household crime—their needs above yours, every time, missy”), he could not risk inconveniencing the gentlemen. I might be in disgrace, but tea must not be late.

I stood in the kitchen holding the vast tea tray, willing my arms not to shake as Mrs. Ellsworth placed upon it the china teapot and strainer, a kettle of hot water, milk jug, scones, clotted cream, raspberry jam, a plate of lemon peel biscuits and a pile of salmon and cucumber sandwiches. Henry the footman accompanied me, opening all the doors and guiding me through the Tudor porch and finally out onto the terrace.

“You all right from here, Elise?” asked Henry.

“Yes, thank you.”

The footman vanished inside. Mr. Rivers and Kit sat on cast-iron chairs before a white-painted table. Kit was smoking, flicking ash into a terra-cotta flowerpot. His father ignored him and pretended to read his newspaper. I knew he was not actually reading, as his routine was invariable: breakfast and the headlines at eight fifteen; afterward, open the day’s post and study the news until ten thirty. The paper was always ready to be placed on the pile in Mr. Wrexham’s study before lunch. As I placed the tray on the table and rearranged the spoons, I wondered why Mr. Rivers did not wish to talk to Kit.

I picked up a rogue sugar lump with the tongs and plopped it back into the bowl, hoping neither gentleman noticed. Mrs. Ellsworth had given me very precise instructions on how tea must be served, and only when I had practised the routine twice without fault, on her and May, was I given permission to serve the gentlemen. I set a porcelain cup before Mr. Rivers and Kit, placing a tiny silver spoon on the edge of each saucer at two o’clock; then, picking up the teapot, I stood on the left-hand side of Mr. Rivers.

“Tea, sir?”

“Yes, please, Elise. Pour away.”

I sloshed tea into the cup, decided it was a touch dark and added a splash of hot water from the silver kettle.

“Sugar?”

“Ah, no, thank you.”

I looked at Kit. I wasn’t sure how to address him in his father’s presence. He smiled at me lazily from across the table.

“Yes, please, and two sugars,” he said, saving me the embarrassment.

In less than a minute, there were two steaming cups of tea, without a drip spilled in either saucer, and plates laid with scones and jam. I felt rather pleased with myself.

“Anything else, sir?”

Mr. Rivers lowered the paper, folding it in half and setting it down on the table. I eyed it greedily, hungrier for news than for any of Mrs. Ellsworth’s cakes.

“No, thank you. That will be all.”

As I picked up the tray, ready to return it to the kitchen, Mr. Rivers took a sip of tea. A split second later he spat it out. A mouthful of leaves swam in the saucer. I’d forgotten to use the strainer. My hands flew to my cheeks in horror.

Kit laughed out loud and took a glug of his, swallowing it with a shudder. “Ah, so this is how they drink tea in Vienna, yes? Trying to teach us some manners?”

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Rivers,” I said, attempting to grab the cup from him.

Mr. Rivers smiled and gripped the teacup firmly; there was a crack and the handle snapped off. I looked at him, and then at the fragile rosebud handle in my fingers, and wondered if it would be bad manners to cry.

“I’m a terrible maid,” I said, eyes downcast.

“Honestly, we’ve had much worse. Here.” Kit passed me a handkerchief, clean this time. “It really doesn’t matter.”

Mr. Rivers gently pried the broken handle from me.

“Please, of all the silly things to be upset by. The truth is, neither Kit nor I even like taking tea. It’s Mrs. Ellsworth who insists upon it.”

“Yes,” said Kit. “Even Father’s afraid of Flo.”

I couldn’t help but smile. Mr. Rivers stood up and tossed out the contents of both cups onto the grass, leaving a black smudge of tea leaves.

“I’ll tell Mrs. Ellsworth that I broke it. I can take her scolding, I assure you,” he said with a glance toward Kit.

“Thank you,” I said.

“We’ll ring if we need anything else,” said Mr. Rivers kindly, dismissing me.

“Yes, sir.”

I’d seen the other girls perform a little bob or half curtsy as they said this, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Julian had taught me to bow to no man. The Emperor was dead, the Empire rightly disbanded, and in a republic no one was greater or lesser than anyone else. I wondered how he reconciled this with Hilde washing his socks and making his breakfast and drawing his bath, but decided these were disloyal thoughts when Julian was not able to defend himself.

On hearing the tinkle of the service bell, I returned to the terrace to discover that Mr. Rivers had gone and Kit sat alone. His food remained untouched, but a pile of spent cigarettes lay in a small heap beside his chair. I piled the tea things back onto the tray, trying not to clatter too loudly.

“How is your family?” he asked.

“Most well, thank you. They have moved to a smaller apartment.” I swallowed and licked my dry lips. “Kit?”

“Yes, Elise?” He raised an eyebrow.

“I am very much liking to read Mr. Rivers’ paper
Times.
I am having no news of Vienna. When he is finishing, maybe I can be reading? And also good for my English improvements.”

He smiled. “Of course. I shall ask Father. He won’t mind.”

“Thank you very much.”

Kit waved away my gratitude and flicked a stray crumb from the table.

“Come to church tomorrow. Take your mind off things. It’s nothing to do with God, I assure you. It’s to do with fish.”

“Fish?”

“Yes. See, now you’re intrigued, but you’ll only find out if you come.”

“Fine. I shall come if Mr. Wrexham permits it.”

Kit snorted. “’Course he will. Chance to convert a Jew. He’ll be perfectly delighted.”

K
it was quite correct. Mr. Wrexham had to refrain from rubbing his hands together with glee when I informed him the following morning that I wished to attend the Sunday service with the other servants.

“Ah, good. I’m gratified Mr. Kit persuaded you. That boy has a pure soul.”

I remained silent, confident that my presence in church had nothing to do with anybody’s soul.

I was sent upstairs to find a hat, but on discovering my pink cloche cap flattened at the bottom of the wardrobe, I tied a silk scarf over my hair instead. Margot always used to tease me that in a head scarf I resembled one of the frumpy Yiddish housewives arrived from shtetls in the east. They jostled in unhappy gaggles before the counter in the Jewish deli, jabbering in their rough German. We were embarrassed by these peasant Jews, who had nothing to do with us. At school they kept to themselves at the other side of the playground, huddling in their brown wool coats and crude head scarves, while Margot, I and the other bourgeois, assimilated Austrian Jews played tag with the Catholics and giggled at them from afar. But according to Margot I was secretly one of them; even in Hermès I looked like I ought to be selling potatoes.

By the time I returned downstairs, the household had already left for the small church at the foot of the hill. This suited me fine; I preferred to walk alone, free from Mr. Wrexham’s litany of behavioural suggestions, and it also meant I could linger by the door, without pressure to sit with the others. I did not want to venture all the way inside and I would not pray.

I remember that Sunday with absolute clarity—it was one of those perfect June mornings that make one certain Eden was a summer’s day in southern England. The bells rang out across the hillside, chiming with the tinkle of the sheep bells in the field beside the churchyard. Swallows zoomed across the empty sky, while on a stone wall a black cat watched yellow ducklings dabble on the pond with greedy eyes. I took a deep breath and filled my lungs with summer. The air was laced with the fragrance of a thousand wildflowers and the sunlight made the snapdragons and foxgloves in the cottage gardens shine vermillion pink. The entire countryside was smeared with colour; the sky a bold, throbbing blue and beneath it the meadows sprinkled with buttercups, shining like gold coins. Back then I didn’t know the names of the flowers—they came later—but now instead of patches of orange and yellow petals, I recall cowslips and creeping jenny. In the distance the sea sparkled and glittered, white spray crashing on the shore. It was tempting to forgo church entirely and disappear to the beach, but, knowing this would only get me into trouble with Mr. Wrexham and Mrs. Ellsworth, I hastened through the churchyard. I hesitated beside the oak door leading into the nave. The congregation crowded in tight rows, singing a dreary hymn, and Mrs. Ellsworth’s large black hat, perched on her head like a bedraggled rook, was visible above the swaying mass. At the front on a raised pew stood Mr. Rivers and Kit.

I waited at the back, propped against the cool lime-washed wall, keeping my lips tightly sealed. I would not sing. What would Julian or Anna think if they knew I was here? I felt my cheeks redden and was nearly resolved on slipping away, when Kit caught my eye and smiled. It was a look of pure delight. To my amazement, he appeared genuinely glad that I had come. I decided I must stay, if only for fifteen minutes.

I half closed my eyes and listened to the soft drone of the vicar as he mumbled through prayers and parish notices. He was a balding man in a long black frock coat and white cassock and seemed ill at ease as he stood muttering beside the altar. There was a faint scent of mothballs mingling with the damp in the church, as though the men and women were all dressed in outfits stored at the back of their wardrobes for six days a week. The service was every bit as tedious as my rare visits to synagogue, and I felt oddly reassured. I did not find God or his worship spectacular in any language or incarnation. On a shelf in his study Julian kept a hand-painted Indian prayer book, containing hundreds of fantastical illustrations edged in gold; blue-skinned gods with many hands cavorted across yellow cities or hunted howling tigers through green forests. I suspected that even if I should attend one of the exotic Hindu services with incense and marigolds and blue gods, I would still be bored. I surveyed the parishioners, and while a few studied the vicar with careful concentration, most fiddled with their prayer books or stared up at the open window, where a butterfly with brown and purple wings fluttered in a draught, frantic for an escape. In the backmost pew, Burt and Art engaged in a surreptitious game of cards. When a particularly loud chorus of “Amen” distracted Art, Burt slid an ace of clubs into his trouser pocket and shot me a conspiratorial wink.

I fidgeted, toying with the ends of my silk scarf, and swallowed a yawn. I couldn’t understand why Kit had told me to come, and was just about to slip away, when I noticed a girl at the front of the church with red hair. She wore no hat or head covering of any kind and her long hair fell down her back in scarlet waves, like a bloodred sea. She stood in the row directly behind Kit, and he swivelled around to whisper some secret, holding up his prayer book beside his mouth so no one else could eavesdrop. She giggled and blinked. I decided to stay.

The congregation grew restless and Burt and Art each tucked his cards inside his jacket. As I watched, I realised that every man was silently unfastening his tie or cravat, shoving it into a pocket or handing it to his wife. There was a low hum of anticipation. Now every set of eyes watched the vicar. He was patently aware of his parishioners’ sudden focus, and beads of sweat began to trickle down his forehead and he stumbled over the next prayer. The people were coiled, drawn back like the hissing tongue of a snake, and I was glad to be beside the door. The vicar tottered toward a vast leather tome laid open on a wooden lectern, brushing his damp brow with the back of his hand. He cleared his throat twice, his voice catching as he began to speak.

“Today’s lesson is from Numbers . . .”

There was a collective intake of breath.

“Balaam . . .”

All the men in the congregation rose to their feet.

“. . . and Balak.”