The House at Tyneford (18 page)

I stamped my feet and rubbed my hands together. A frost was beginning to form along the cobbles and the ivy clinging to the stable’s brickwork glittered in the darkness. A few months before, in Vienna, I had been one of them. Now I wasn’t sure what I was. The other servants barely spoke to me. They knew I wasn’t one of them either. I belonged nowhere.

“What is it that you want?” I asked, careful to stand away from him, on the other side of the yard.

Poppy stopped feeding sweets to Mr. Bobbin and looked back at Kit, who cleared his throat and stubbed his cigarette out on a cobblestone.

“Well, I thought it would be fun—you know, shake things up a bit—if you and Poppy came to my party dressed as chaps. I’ll lend you each one of my old tuxes. It’ll be fun.”

I stared at Kit, feeling myself redden with anger for the second time in as many hours.

“You are mad. Quite mad. I’m a maid. I serve drinks. I fill glasses. I clean things. I am not some cabaret girl. This is not the Simpl.”

Kit remained unfazed by my rage. He watched me through his too-blue eyes and gave a tiny shrug.

“No need to shout. Thought it would be fun. Thought you were the kind of girl who liked to break a rule or two.”

I had to admit that it did hold some appeal, as did the prospect of annoying Diana, but the rational part of me realised it was not sensible. I recalled Margot’s warning: I must behave. There was no visa waiting for me in New York.

“No. I am going to bed. Do you need anything, sir?” I used the “sir” to irritate him, remind him of the difference in our positions.

Kit looked at me, and for the first time in our six-month acquaintance, I saw a flash of anger glide across his face. His eyes narrowed.

“Yes, thank you, Elise. I would like a brandy and a cigar.”

I glared at him, but after my little barb, I couldn’t very well refuse.

“And you, Poppy?” he said, turning to her. “Can I tempt you into a tux? You’d look very fetching, I’m sure.”

She shook her head. “No, thanks. I have a new dress. I want to wear that.”

“Good,” said Will. I’d actually forgotten he was there. Will was so quiet; he sat and he watched Poppy, eyes big with love, saying nothing. “I maint be a gentleman like yoos, but it gives me a nasty feelin’, this stuff. Don’t think them folks will see it as a bit o’ fun an’ nonsense.”

“Tosh,” said Kit. “What do you know? You won’t even come to the party.”

“No. I doesn’t need to be sneered at by yer chums.” Will spoke slowly without raising his voice, watching Kit levelly and unafraid. “I wish yer a very happy birthday and I’m right glad of yer friendship. But I ent comin’ dancin’ an’ makin myself ridiculous. Them others won’t git that things is different here. They won’t git Tyneford ways.”

I had never heard Will disagree with Kit before. Kit didn’t answer, only thrust his hands deep into his pockets and kicked at a piece of straw. He knew Will was right. He noticed me hovering beside the back door, staring at him.

“Aren’t you supposed to be getting me a brandy?” he snapped.

Muttering under my breath, I slipped inside the house. When I returned a few minutes later, they were laughing again, peace restored. I couldn’t imagine that Kit could stay angry for long, especially not with Will. The two had been friends all their lives. I knew very little about the England outside of Tyneford, but I suspected that in most places stone wall builders and sons and heirs were not close friends. Kit, Will and Poppy had run around together, looking for wild duck eggs and fishing for elvers, as soon as they were tall enough to clamber over the stiles and wooden gates that divided the valley. Kit was at ease with Poppy and Will. When I watched him with his Cambridge chums and the society set, he pulled on a new personality like Diana donned her fur coat. He was rakish and charming and he drank and I wasn’t sure whether I liked him or not.

“I’m goin’ ter walk Poppy home,” said Will, draping a hefty arm around her shoulders.

Kit gave him a playful slap on the back and kissed Poppy on the cheek. She waved good-bye to me, and they walked away into the darkness, leaving Kit and me alone in the stable yard. I thrust the brandy into his hands.

“You can have this, but I’m keeping the cigar.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You smoke cigars? That’s new.”

He pulled a box of matches out of his breast pocket and struck a light. I sucked at the cigar, but couldn’t get it right. Kit plucked it out of my mouth, lit it and placed it back between my lips. I sucked gently, drawing the smoke into my mouth, and succeeded in not spluttering.

“My brother-of-law. Robert. He used to give me his cigar sometimes at parties.”

“I hope ‘brother-of-law’ is the same as ‘brother-in-law’ or I shall be jealous. And I’ll have to fence him or something. And I’m appalling and he’ll probably kill me.”

I laughed, but my heart was beating loudly in my chest. I wondered that Kit could not hear it. He drained his brandy.

“It’s wicked, Elise, but sometimes I find myself wishing for war. Because then you’d have to stay.”

“Kit. Don’t. My family.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I wish you could meet Anna. She’d charm you in a second.” I passed him the cigar. “What do you remember about your mother?”

“That’s the thing, Elise; I don’t.”

“I suppose you were very small when she died.”

“I was four—quite old enough to remember her. She died very suddenly. She drowned.”

“Drowned? Oh, Kit, how awful. I’m so sorry.”

He rubbed his nose, leaving a grey smudge on the tip. “Funny thing was, she was an excellent swimmer but she drowned in the bath. Had some kind of fit. My father found her. For years he was terrified I suffered from the same weakness. Wouldn’t let Nanny bathe me. Insisted on strip-washes instead. I must have been a very smelly little boy.”

Not knowing what to say, I reached for his hand. He allowed me to squeeze it for a second and then disentangled himself, flicking cigar ash from his trouser leg.

“When they told me, apparently I fainted. Then, when I woke up, she was gone. Disappeared. I couldn’t understand why everyone looked so sad. Why my father wouldn’t stop crying. All my memories of her had vanished, you see. I look at family photographs and I see myself standing beside a pleasant-faced stranger. I remember parties, picnics, boat trips and I know she was there but she’s not in my memory of any of them.”

“Do you dream about her?”

“No.”

I wished I could offer some words of comfort, promise him Anna’s love, but I had no consolation and Anna was far away. I kissed him on the cheek, smelling the sandalwood of his cologne mingling with the cigar smoke.

We sat in silence, side by side, our fingers not touching, and listened to the huff of the horses, their breath steaming in the cold air like water vapour from a singing kettle.

T
he next morning May woke me before dawn. It was Kit’s twenty-first and the day of his party. Over a hundred guests were expected for dinner and dancing, and we had hours of preparation to do, plus eight houseguests to care for. I cleaned the living rooms and laid the downstairs fires before the sun crept up behind Tyneford Hill. As I carried the basket of kindling upstairs, dawn blazed through the window above the porch. The hillside seemed to crackle and burn with light, the backs of the cattle shone rosy red and the hawthorn bushes were licked with scarlet. I thought of Moses and smiled.

“Elise,” called a soft voice behind me.

I turned to see Mr. Rivers in the hall, wearing his dressing gown and slippers.

“Have you been reading the papers?”

I scoured the
Times
every evening before falling asleep, searching for even the slightest piece on Vienna or Austria, but I had read nothing but the usual dismal stories on page fourteen: Jews harassed, property seized, arrests and inflammatory speeches by Herr Ribbentrop and Herr Hitler. Stories buried among notices about the planting of geraniums, the King opening Parliament and the famous Corry triplets needing their tonsils removed.

Mr. Rivers frowned, worry lines appearing on his forehead.

“The attack in Paris? I hope Herr von Rath survives. I fear it will be bad for the Jews if he does not.”

He gestured to me and I followed him down the stairs and into the library. Automatically I went to the windows and opened the curtains, so that the early morning light trickled into the room. Mr. Rivers sat at the desk and fiddled with the dials on his wireless. Static crackled as the instrument warmed. I felt a swirl of nausea and a pain thrum in my temples. I recited their names as a prayer:
Annaandpapannaandpapannaandpapapapapa.
Then the voice of the newsreader over the airwaves: “The King opened Parliament yesterday. A grand ceremony . . .”

We listened to the news in silence for a few minutes. The attack in the German embassy in Paris was not mentioned. As the shipping forecast began, Mr. Rivers switched off the wireless.

“Well, it would appear the BBC does not share my anxiety. Perhaps they are right and all will be well. You will let me know as soon as you hear from your parents?”

“Yes, sir.”

He settled in his chair behind the desk and studied me without speaking. I was not sure if I should leave. Mr. Rivers was always kind to me, but I never forgot that he was my employer. He possessed a cool reserve that demanded respect from even the fickle Diana and Juno. I always felt he was at a distance, as though he existed behind a pane of glass. He never slouched or spilled his whisky or made a mess of any kind. His desk was meticulously ordered, envelopes stacked according to size, and letters were responded to by return. He lacked Kit’s ease and warmth, and he rarely spoke to me unless it was a polite request for some refreshment. I sometimes wondered that he was Kit’s father. I supposed Kit must have taken after his mother. I never knew what Mr. Rivers was thinking. Sometimes I caught him watching me, though usually he looked away so quickly that I was not sure if I had imagined it. Mr. Rivers gestured to the row of Julian’s books on the shelf behind him.

“Is your father writing something new?”

“Yes, sir. But he won’t find a publisher in Austria. His books are banned now.”

He watched me, not blinking. I wondered what he would think if he knew that Julian’s latest novel was hidden upstairs. For a moment I was almost tempted to tell him. No. The novel was mine and I would not share its existence with anyone. The secret belonged to me and to Julian. It struck me that I had never seen Mr. Rivers unshaven before. A shadow of black stubble grazed his chin and lip. I swallowed and licked dry lips—there was something I had always been curious about.

“Do you speak German, sir?”

Despite the nauseous feeling in my gut, I smiled and clapped my hands. I felt a rush of happiness at hearing my mother tongue, even when slightly garbled.

“Sir, you speak wonderful German. You must tell me if you wish to practise. I would be so happy to help you. Really, I would. You can tell me which of Papa’s books you like the best.
The Minotaur’s Hat
has always been my favourite.”

“Slow down!” he said, laughing. “I can’t understand when you speak so fast.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I should very much enjoy some German conversation lessons. Perhaps after all this party chaos has dissipated?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And I shouldn’t have worried you. I am sure all will be well. If I hear anything more, I will tell you right away.”

After leaving the library, instead of lighting the fire for Diana, as I ought to have done, I ran up the stairs to my little attic. I fumbled through my drawers and pulled out Anna’s pearls. I don’t know why, but I wanted to wear them that day. I fastened them under my blouse, tugging the collar up so that they were hidden. I hastened to the guest room and slipped inside to discover Diana already awake.

“You’re late. I’m cold. I need tea right away.”

“Yes, your ladyship.”

I stood up and started to hurry away to fetch the tea tray but Diana called me back.

“Light the fire first. I can’t believe this place doesn’t have proper radiators.”

It was true; the house only had central heating in the downstairs reception rooms. None of the bedrooms had radiators. Kit explained that his father had been forced to sell one of the good paintings to pay for the ground-floor heating to be installed. Mr. Rivers decided that instead of selling the Turner seascape as well, family and guests alike could manage with old-fashioned fires. Except for the servants. We had neither radiators nor fires and had suffered with chilblains from late October. It seemed very odd to me that a man who owned such a large and magnificent house as Tyneford could not afford to heat it properly. Kit informed me that the profit on the estate was marginal and when faced with a choice of having staff or heating, his father always chose staff. He was a gentleman of the old school and believed it his responsibility to employ as many people from the village as possible. The two men rarely spoke and appeared to take little pleasure in one another’s company, but when Kit discussed his father, his voice resonated with pride.