The House at Tyneford (24 page)

I frowned with the effort of explaining. “It’s all about ids and egos and superegos. I think he puts his id, or is it his ego, into your superego and then you both experience sublimation. It’s very complicated. And there were lots of things about the phallus.”

“Ah, yes,” said Poppy. “I’ve seen those before. On horses and dogs. And once on a bull who was making intercourse with a cow. Well, if what cattle do is called intercourse, that is. It looked angrier than that. I certainly didn’t notice any ids or egos with the cows. But then, I wouldn’t know what to look for.”

“No, me neither.”

“Well,” said Poppy, “I suppose people got along all right before Freud explained things to them, so maybe we’ll be all right.”

“Perhaps. But I rather wanted to be better than all right.”

Poppy raised an eyebrow.

“It’s nice to be good at things,” I said, blushing and trying not to think about Kit. “And I don’t think Will would mind if you’re a beginner. After all, everyone has to start somewhere,” I added kindly, repeating the phrase Mrs. Ellsworth used whenever she taught me something new.

“I suppose if I sleep with Will, I shall be a floozy,” said Poppy, not unhappy at the prospect.

“I don’t think so. Not if you love him. And besides, all the best heroines are floozies sooner or later. Eve. Floozy. Anna Karenina. Tragic Floozy.”

“Would you be one with Kit?”

I knew I ought to say no, I should not dream of it. Anna was rather less bohemian in moral matters affecting her daughters. She had forbidden Margot to go on holiday with Robert before they were married. I thought of my mother, small and furious, berating my sister, “You shall not go gallivanting in Düsseldorf. Think of the poor aunts. They will die of shock.” I felt a sharp pang. Anna would know exactly what advice to give Poppy.

Outside the cavern the light was fading into evening, and dark clouds buffeted the shore. The black sea glittered, a slice of moon bobbing on the waves.

“Come,” I said, standing up and reaching for her hand. “We should go back.”

The following morning, I slipped into the breakfast room while Mr. Rivers lingered over his coffee. He studied his newspaper with a set frown, not noticing as I entered. I reached into my apron pocket, pulled out a handful of gold chains and set them down on his side plate. He glanced up, startled.

“Mr. Rivers. This is to pay for the bribe. To get Anna and Julian out of Austria.”

He said nothing, only stared at the yellow gold spooled on the china, the colour of fresh butter.

“It was to pay for my ticket to New York. The chains are quite valuable. Please sell them.”

He shook his head and pushed the side plate toward me, knocking over the marmalade.

“No. Keep your money. I shall do everything I can.”

I folded my arms behind my back.

“Take the chains, Mr. Rivers. The money is not for you, it is for them.”

There must have been a note in my voice, as he gave a sharp nod and, folding the gold into his handkerchief, slid it into his pocket.

That night, as I lay in bed listening to the distant sea rumble against the pebbles on the shore, I worried the money from the chains would not be enough. I thought of the viola hidden beneath my bed. No one would publish Julian in Austria, but what about England? Mr. Rivers read all his books, and if I translated them into English, then maybe a publisher would want them. I jumped out of bed and rummaged through the stack of paperback novels on the chest of drawers. I chose one with an austere grey and black cover, deciding it looked suitably gloomy, and composed a letter to the publisher.

Climbing back into bed, I was warm with hope, confident that Julian had sent with me the means to procure his own escape. As I slept, the song of the viola mingled with the rush of the tide.

If February was cold, March was quiet. I missed Poppy’s chatter and took my walks alone. I pounded across the hills or along the rain-lashed beaches with my sister’s letters in my coat pocket, reading and rereading until I was word perfect. I hated corresponding via letter—the conversation was too slow. I felt Margot and I were two old ladies, stuttering out our thoughts, with pauses the size of the Atlantic between each idea. I told her about the sale of the gold chains, but not about the novel in the viola. Perhaps I ought to have told her, but we are all wise with hindsight. It was my secret and unless the publisher summoned me to remove the pages from the viola, I chose to remain silent. She wrote eager letters guessing the value of the gold, and I replied, speculating on the number of weeks it would take for the visa to arrive. Sometimes I liked to sit at the pinnacle of Tyneford Cap, the hardy hillside sheep grazing the slope below—the bells around their necks tinkling in the wind—and gaze at the blue clouds rushing across the sky, their shadows trawling the hill like great outstretched nets.

I perched on the low stone wall beside Flower’s Barrow and read with growing disappointment the reply from the London publisher:

March brought gales that hurled tiles off the stable roof and sent Art up rocking ladders to nail them back into place. Snowdrops sprang up beneath the hedgerows and brown banks, and yellow and purple crocuses studded the lawn before Tyneford House, opening and closing in the sun like the mouths of hungry chicks. Spring arrived, causing the tulips to sprout in the terra-cotta pots on the terrace and blond primroses to unfurl on the sunny banks. The fishermen took to their boats in droves—happy as the cackling coots that milder weather had returned. I watched the boats and birds from the cliffs or from my high roost on Tyneford Cap. One afternoon, a month or so after Poppy’s departure, I sprawled in my usual spot on the cap, watching with Art’s binoculars as a rough-legged buzzard soared and then hovered, wings pulsing. I lay on my back, transfixed by the bird’s black belly and vast outstretched wings, and lost all track of time. Then the church bells chimed three, and I shot up with a start. I was late. Binoculars slapping against my coat, I raced down to the house, skidding on stones and mud, scattering the bleating sheep as I ran. I arrived at the back of the house in twenty minutes, face bright red and glistening, shoes caked in muck. I paused in the driveway to catch my breath, bending over to stretch out the stitch in my side. As I straightened, I noticed a silver Wolseley gleaming beside the front door. Kit lolled beside it, smoking a cigarette. Without a thought, I bounded up to him and threw my arms around his neck.

“You’re back. Thank goodness you’re back.”

He chuckled and allowed me to embrace him, making no effort to disentangle himself. “So you did miss me?”

I stood back. “Well. It’s been awfully quiet without you. Especially now Poppy’s gone.”

Before he could reply, a slight figure in a tan-coloured Burberry raincoat came out into the driveway, putting up a small, gloved hand to shield her eyes from the sharp spring sunshine.

“Oh, that’s still here,” said Diana, with a scornful glance in my direction. “I thought it was fired.”

I balled my hands into fists and said nothing. I needed Mr. Rivers to help me, not dismiss me for impertinence.

“Stop it, Di,” said Kit. “Her name is Elise, as you jolly well know. Play nice.”

He leaned forward and whispered in my ear, “Sorry. Part of my penance. Being charming to Diana Hamilton. Taking her out to lunch and being gentlemanly. Tough act. But she’s all right really.”

That I rather doubted. I excused myself and disappeared into the house to prepare tea.

Now, in front of Kit, Diana was polite to me. She’d clearly decided that to insult and ridicule the housemaid was not the way to endear herself (even if said housemaid was jumped up and frightful). During that first tea I decided, irrevocably, that Diana was not all right. She had not improved, whatever steel wool she had pulled over Kit’s eyes. As I poured Earl Grey into china cups, Diana giggled. Not at me, but at some remark of Kit’s. In fact, she never ceased giggling—she was like one of those rattling birds out on the marshes. Everything he said was a scream. She simpered and pouted, while I scowled and huffed and tried not to drop the biscuits. Kit could be quite amusing, but Diana was making herself ridiculous. Or at least, I hoped she was. I scrutinised him for his response, but Kit was staring lazily across the lawns to the sea.

“I’m glad to be home. I’ve missed you,” he murmured.

I wasn’t sure if he spoke to the house itself, to Tyneford or to me.