The House at Tyneford (19 page)

I put a match to the fire, blowing gently on the tiny flame, and in a minute there was a roaring blaze. I added coal and pine logs, and warmth spread into the room like reaching fingers. I stood up with a smile, taking satisfaction in my new skill. Before that year I had never lit a fire before, but now I reckoned I was as good as Hildegard.

“He can’t help it,” said Diana.

She sat propped up on embroidered cushions, her tight blond curls a halo around her head. In the morning light, her eyes appeared violet.

“I beg your pardon?” I said.

“You’ve cast some spell over Kit. You Jewesses. You’re nothing special to look at. But men can’t resist.”

I knew I oughtn’t to, but I laughed out loud.

“Don’t you dare laugh at me! Don’t you dare.”

I attempted to swallow my laughter, tickled at the notion of myself as some species of exotic temptress. I supposed that with all the running up and down stairs I had lost a little of the baby fat around my middle. I pictured myself as a turbaned seductress in an oriental fantasy and giggled. Diana picked up a cushion and hurled it at me. It struck me on the cheek and flopped onto the rug. I scooped it up, fluffed it and placed it on the armchair by the window.

“I’ll fetch your tea, your ladyship.”

“You were part of the smart set in Vienna?” asked Diana, smoothing her silk nightgown.

I hesitated. Even in Vienna, my family was bourgeois, part of the new class of Jewish artists and liberals, but however assimilated we remained separate, like cream on milk. Anna was feted at the Opera Ball because all Viennese society wanted to hear her sing, but the Landau family name did not procure us a box, or the best table at Café Splendide. Diana did not need to know this.

“Yes,” I answered. “Part of the smart set.”

“Oh,” said Diana, her voice soft and sad. “Because I thought Viennese women were the height of fashion. And everybody knows that a lady doesn’t wear pearls until after six o’clock.”

She burrowed into her pillows, a satisfied smile playing on her pink lips. Irritation prickling down my spine, I disappeared to fetch her breakfast tray.

The ladies and gentlemen had been invited to a shoot over at the nearby Lulcombe estate in order to give the servants time to prepare for the evening’s festivities. For us, the day passed in a whirl of frantic activity. It was regimented by Mr. Wrexham’s staff plan, a document of military precision. The butler himself supervised the polishing of the silver; I cleaned the knives again and again, while Henry rubbed salt dishes, pepper shakers, candlesticks and placeholders to a gleam. Mrs. Ellsworth held the keys to the linen closet and watched closely as May and I carried the starched tablecloths to the dining room and spread out specially hemmed cloths along the side table in the billiard room, which was to be set up as a bar. Lanterns were strung up across the terrace, and white roses sent from Harrods filled every room. Art and Burt laid out lines of candles across the lawn, ready to be lit at dusk. A pair of girls from the village assisted Mrs. Ellsworth and the kitchen boy, and even Poppy appeared before lunch to help with the baking of game pies. In a corner of the heaving kitchen, she skinned pheasants, diced venison and wood pigeon and hacked up chunks of honeyed ham. A tin bath was carried into Mr. Wrexham’s room and packed with ice, then bottles of champagne. With great difficulty, three extra maids and another footman had been hired for the evening, borrowed from neighbouring estates, and the servants’ corridor hummed with voices and scurrying feet, like a hive of honeybees. The larder brimmed with iced cakes: lemon sponges, chocolate truffle, cherry and oozing mandarin. Syllabubs rested beside trifles, while trays of poached salmon decorated with paper-thin slices of cucumber sat on low boxes. Cold chicken and exotic peach and cumin chutneys lined the pantry. I scurried to and fro with messages and cutlery and trays of water glasses; rolls of napkins and lists of guests; paper place cards from Liberty of London; sugar cubes and crushed sea salt; cocktail shakers, ice buckets, sprigs of mint and bottles of whisky, rum, gin and kirsch; painted fruit plates and porcelain coffee cups.

Unable to concentrate, I dropped a tray of butter dishes on the kitchen floor, just after May had stamped the butter pats with the family crest, and was sent in disgrace to empty the compost. Even at the back of the house, the gardens were immaculate. White ribbons had been tied around the box trees and I glimpsed the stable boys sluicing down the yard, where space had been cleared for thirty cars. Art’s room was filled with bales of straw and jugs of beer and sandwiches, so that the chauffeurs could wait in comfort. I wanted Mr. Rivers to return, so that I could find out whether there was any more news, but they were not expected back until it was time for the ladies to dress for the party. There was nothing I could do but fetch and carry and clean and wait and worry.

The servants’ dinner was held early, at four o’clock, and for the first time during my residence at Tyneford we filled the benches in the dining hall, squeezing in together elbow to elbow as we spooned our soup and gobbled our bread and cheese. Excitement buzzed among us like electricity, and we listened to Mr. Wrexham with something akin to pride.

“I know you are all very tired. You’ve been working hard for many weeks. Tonight is the culmination of all that effort. Tonight is the coming-of-age of Mr. Christopher Rivers, heir to Tyneford. Let us ensure that all the ladies and gentlemen who attend the evening’s celebrations speak in glowing terms of Tyneford service. Let us be a credit to Tyneford and the Rivers family.”

There were cheers as the assembled servants toasted Kit. Mr. Rivers had given permission for a bottle of champagne to be opened, and we each had a drop in our glass, which we savoured like ambrosia. Even Henry and May smiled at me—tonight, at least, I could be one of them. As I hurried upstairs to change into a clean uniform and a specially ordered lace cap and apron, I found myself tingling with anticipation, greater than anything I had experienced in Vienna when attending parties as a guest. The door to my attic room was ajar and I shut it firmly, wanting a moment’s quiet. I retied the pearls around my neck and thought of Anna. Was she safe? Did she think of me?

Dusk darkened into night and there was a rumble of tyres on the driveway. Diana and Juno would be clamouring for me in a moment. I couldn’t fathom how two grown women could be so helpless. They needed their clothes spread out on their beds, packets of soap unwrapped, towels warmed and scented. I hastened downstairs to the blue room and started to draw the curtains. I paused and opened the casement, peeping out across the house and gardens; lights blazed in every window, and on the lawn Art stooped to light the candles inside the storm lanterns, so that small flames flickered in the gloom. The night air was cool against my skin, and the wind sang in the larch leaves.

“Is my bath drawn?” said Diana, barging into the room and discarding her gloves on the floor.

Sighing, I drew the curtains and slammed the window shut.

“I’ll run it now, your ladyship.”

I slipped into the small tiled bathroom and turned on the taps. The water thundered against the sides like a screeching train in a tunnel, and I poured in handfuls of rose-scented bath salts, which filled the closet with sweet-smelling steam. I was exhausted, my limbs ached and my temples throbbed, and I wanted nothing more than to slip into the scalding water myself.

“I need unbuttoning,” called Juno.

I hurried back into the room and unfastened the bone buttons on the back of her riding cape. It was a ridiculous garment, and I could imagine few things less suitable for actual riding. Not that there was any danger of that with Juno. I couldn’t imagine her venturing outside unless it was to climb into a motorcar.

“Did you have a pleasant day, Lady Juno?”

“Don’t talk to me,” said Juno.

“I should like a lemon cordial,” said Diana, who had at least undressed herself and now lounged in the chair beside the window, flicking through a copy of
Vogue
.

Resisting the urge to say a bad word, I ran down to the kitchen to fetch a glass. I knew from experience that there was no point returning without ice, and so I sought a cube from the bucket in the larder. It was all melted into slush, and so I was forced to take a piece from the champagne cooler in Mr. Wrexham’s room. It was a full five minutes later when I scrambled back up the stairs to the blue room. The sound of rushing water greeted me and, shoving the glass of stupid lemon cordial at Diana, I ran into the bathroom. Water poured from the tub and onto the floor. Wading through the puddle in my shoes, I turned off the tap. Furious, I stalked into the bedroom to face Diana and Juno. They sprawled in their silk chemises on the twin beds, discussing the drawings of the season’s Dior dresses.

“Could you not have turned off the tap?” I said, almost shouting.

Diana turned to me with cold eyes. “I could if I were a maid.”

“I was downstairs fetching you a drink.”

“Yes. Thank you. You remembered the ice.”

There was no point in arguing further. I cleared up the mess as best I could and then called that the bath was ready.

“Jolly good. And my dress is hanging in the wardrobe, if you could be so kind as to lay it out on the bed. I believe it might need another press,” said Diana, flicking the page in her magazine.

I went to the wardrobe and unbolted the door. Before me hung a row of skirts, blouses and dresses in green, rose and cream silks.

“The emerald is mine,” called Juno.

I picked it out and hung it on the back of the door, examining the chiffon for creases.

“I shall wear the pink,” said Diana.

I pulled out a dress in pale pink watered silk and lifted it up to the light. My heart began to hammer and rage swelled inside me.

“This is mine.” I held the dress close to me. “You can’t wear it.”

“Can’t I?” She spoke very quietly. “You’ll tell Wrexham that it’s yours?”

I knew Mr. Wrexham would not care whether the dress was mine or not. It was all about their comfort. I was a maid and this was a minor humiliation.

“You could always run to Kit,” she whispered.

I stared at her. So this was about Kit. From downstairs, I heard the tinkle of breaking glass. I closed my eyes and thought of Anna. I felt as if I were walking on quicksand; the ground beneath my feet sank and sucked. I was so tired.

Dropping the dress to the floor, I left the room.

I checked my cap in the hall mirror and descended the grand staircase. The panelled reception hall was empty, the servants not yet in position. Everything was ready: tables laid, glasses prepared, drinks pleasantly chilled. I could hear clattering and muffled cries emanating from the service corridor and decided to stay well away. The door to the library was ajar, and I pushed it open. Mr. Rivers sat beside his desk, toying with a brandy glass. Kit lounged by the window, for once not smoking. Neither man smiled.

“Many happy returns. Mr . . . Kit . . . sir,” I mumbled. I never was sure how to address him in his father’s presence.

“Thank you, Elise,” he said, his face grim.

Mr. Rivers poured a glass of brandy and slid it across the desk toward me.

“Herr von Rath is dead. He died several hours ago and there are reports of a pogrom in Germany.”

Feeling dizzy, I snatched the glass, taking a glug of brandy. My throat burned. “And Austria?”

“All across the Reich,” said Kit.

“There are reports of arrests. Smashing of Jewish property. Synagogues burning,” said Mr. Rivers, pouring me another drink.

“Elise, I’m so sorry,” said Kit, crossing the room and taking my hand.

Conscious of Mr. Rivers’ eyes upon us, I withdrew my fingers from his grasp. I drained the brandy and blinked.

“Is there anything else, sir?” I said, turning to his father.

Mr. Rivers shook his head, his face full of sadness.

“No, Elise. You may go.”