The Last Dance (8 page)

‘Er, yes . . . yes, that would be most agreeable, thank you.’ She looked back at the Ainsworths but the elder was beginning to stand, as though their meeting was now over and Georgina was already returning to the main subject concerning her.

‘So, Brighton tomorrow, Mummy?’

‘Yes, why not,’ her mother replied, running a hand across her forehead as though a migraine might be edging forward and sounding as though the whole business of juggling a conversation with both daughters, housekeeper and new tutor was taxing; that it was clearly time to drift away and find a divan to collapse upon. ‘Stella, I’m sure you could use a free day to acquaint yourself with the surrounds, unpack, get organised.’

Stella wanted to say she could be unpacked in under five minutes. Instead she lifted a shoulder and said, ‘An hour tomorrow morning is fine with me.’

She felt Georgina’s shooting glare like a blow. ‘I’m on holiday, Mummy. I’m not getting up with the birds for French lessons and especially as I want to get going early to Brighton. Tell Potter eleven is perfect.’

Stella gave her employer a quizzical look. Was the mother really going to allow herself to be trampled over? Beatrice looked resigned but Stella leaped in just before Georgina’s mother could relent. ‘Mrs Ainsworth, if you didn’t need me to begin lessons immediately, then I have to wonder why I am here in advance? I could have stayed longer with my young siblings.’ Stella knew this was not her employer’s problem but once again her mouth had spilled her thoughts faster than she could censor herself. Her irritation now danced between them. ‘Given that I’m here and delighted to begin work with Georgina tomorrow as arranged by the agency, then with all due respect I think we should commence lessons.’

Beatrice looked to Georgina. ‘Your father did say that he wanted to see you doing something productive in these holidays. It’s why he suggested it.’

‘Mr Ainsworth suggested it?’ Stella remarked.

‘Yes, Dougie leaves these things usually to me but he seemed especially determined that the girls don’t “squander” their mid-term break, as he put it.’

‘Mummy, please! Daddy’s not even around to know.’

Stella was not going to let Georgina win this debate outright because she sensed this early battle of wills had to be a compromise at the very least, if not a triumph for herself against what seemed to her now to be a student so indulged she would have nothing but problems with her if she didn’t stamp some authority. ‘Georgina, how about we agree that if your mother wishes for you to go shopping in Brighton tomorrow morning that you and I plan to have our first lesson in the afternoon . . . could that work more easily?’

Georgina was now trapped, Stella thought. Anything but agreement would be churlish, perhaps deliberately hostile.

‘Ah, there you are, darling. That sounds like it could be a happy arrangement,’ her mother agreed. ‘Let’s not argue. I want your father to be happy with us for once.’

Happy with us
. Stella would think on that later. ‘That’s settled, then,’ she said, not giving the youngest woman in the room the opportunity to have her say. ‘So, I shall see you at, let’s say, three o’clock. Where is best, Mrs Ainsworth? I mean, for our study times?’

‘Mrs Boyd is taking care of all that. Check with her.’

‘Well, thank you again for the tea. It’s lovely to meet you both.’ Stella extended a hand to Mrs Ainsworth who shook it distractedly. She turned to Georgina and smiled warmly. ‘See you tomorrow. We can set up our program for the rest of the holidays after tomorrow’s lesson.’

Georgina could barely disguise her scowl as she gave Stella a slit-eyed gaze that could have been taken as anything from loathing to threat. Stella didn’t care. She’d anticipated a difficult student and if this first meet was anything to judge Georgina Ainsworth by, then she was living up to that expectation. Grace would be entirely different, she suspected.

‘I’ll see Grace in the morning,’ she said to them as she departed. ‘Good afternoon.’

Neither woman responded but Stella was sure Georgina’s sharp stare was raking her back.

Mrs Boyd escorted Stella via the back stairs to the third level of the house.

‘This will be your suite of rooms,’ she said, standing at the entrance. ‘I hope you’re very comfortable here.’

Stella gaped at the high-ceilinged room with its two tall picture windows. She crossed the threshold to see it was painted in a cool soft green with dazzling geometric wallpaper on one section of the wall behind her bed that echoed the colour. ‘All of this?’

Mrs Boyd smiled, as if satisfied by the response. She entered the room, spoke in a sighing tone. ‘This is one of our smaller guest suites.’

‘I would have been more than comfortable in an attic room, Mrs Boyd,’ she assured, feeling helplessly out of place in such elegance.

‘Oh, dear me, no, Miss Myles. The entire top floor is off bounds to all staff,’ Mrs Boyd replied, looking suddenly horror-struck by Stella’s suggestion. ‘Mr Ainsworth has his private rooms up there. You will have no reason to reach them and there is a locked door anyway, you may have noticed?’ She looked over her shoulder towards the hallway and Stella nodded. It was the right response again for the older woman smiled benignly and returned to her more breezy voice. ‘The family redecorated all the guest rooms about two years ago now. This one has been painted in a colour that Mrs Ainsworth had mixed to her precise specifications that she calls
eau de nil
.’

‘It’s very beautiful. Mrs Ainsworth has exquisite taste.’

‘She does. You will see it on display throughout Harp’s End.’

‘And Mr Ainsworth?’

The housekeeper gave her a look that was halfway between mind-your-own-business and sympathy for her ignorance that she might ask such a question. ‘Mr Ainsworth does not get involved in the décor of the house, or the running of the household.’

‘Really? Mrs Ainsworth has just informed me that it was her husband who hired me.’

‘Perhaps. I wouldn’t know about that,’ Mrs Boyd replied, barely missing a beat at being caught out. She gestured with a brief wave. ‘Your bathroom is through there. Towels are replaced every three days. And you have a small dressing room just through there,’ she said with another light wave. ‘We do laundry once a week – if you wouldn’t mind putting your clothes for washing in that bag and for ironing in that one.’ She pointed. ‘Leave them outside on a Sunday evening for Monday washing day. I think everything else you’ll work out for yourself easily enough. Oh, and if you’re cold, I can have a fire made up but we’re all pretty hardy here in Kent, Miss Myles, and we probably won’t light fires from hereon until the end of September. It’s the cusp of summer, after all.’ Stella gave a weak smile. ‘You’ll find the coverlet and eiderdown more than sufficient for this time of year but there are extra blankets in the cupboard over here.’

‘I shall be fine, thank you.’

‘Breakfast for staff is served at six-thirty, although you are very welcome to come down at seven-thirty if that is easier?’

‘No, no . . . I shall be there when the rest of the group has breakfast. How many staff are there?’

‘Depending on the time of year and whether we have any formal houseguests, it could swell to a dozen but we are usually around eight of us permanent staff, nine now with you. We have breakfast in the main parlour and you can access that via the staff stairs. No need to move through the main house. In fact, if you don’t mind, Miss Myles, unless you’re with a member of the family, it is probably advisable to access the house, your room, the parlour and so on, via these stairs we’ve used just now. If you take a walk around this evening, you’ll see where they come out into a side entrance via one of the boot rooms.’

‘Of course,’ Stella murmured, the notion of hired help fixing firmly into place in her mind; her education and striving towards a career at an abrupt halt while she acted as servant to a family. Another gripe to lay at her parents’ dead feet . . .

‘Shall I send your dinner tray up at six-thirty?’

Stella looked back, unsure. ‘Whatever is easiest for you,’ she offered. ‘I may go out for a walk so please don’t do anything special on my account.’

‘I’m sure Mrs Bristow can do a cold spread if that’s all right? Then you can please yourself. I’ll have it set up over here,’ she gestured.

‘Dinner in the evening . . . what do I . . .’

‘You will join us in the parlour for dinner. It’s served promptly at six because the family eats at half-past seven. Your luncheon will be available at noon; something simple – usually a sandwich or piece of pie – again in the parlour. The family is served at half-past midday in the front salon at this time of year, if it is taking a meal at home. Afternoon tea is in the conservatory if you’re with either of the girls. If not, please always take your meals/drinks in the parlour.’

Stella was getting the idea loud and clear. ‘Thank you. In terms of lessons, where am I holding those with Georgina?’

‘We have a room chosen on the next level down. I shall show you tomorrow. It is plenty big enough for lessons. Have you arranged a time yet?’

‘Yes, Georgina and I are meeting at three and hopefully Grace and I can begin tomorrow morning.’

Mrs Boyd blinked as she thought about this. ‘Miss Grace’s horse riding lesson is at nine. Is mid-morning all right?’

‘Perfect.’

‘Until tomorrow, Miss Myles . . .’ At Stella’s enquiring stare she corrected herself. ‘Until tomorrow,
Stella
. If you need anything —’

‘I know . . . the back stairs to the parlour.’

‘Indeed. I hope you sleep soundly.’

After the housekeeper had left, Stella took a slow tour of her room that felt almost as large as all bedrooms combined from her home in London. She opened one of the windows to let in some air and was delighted to see that her room overlooked the moors which stretched out behind the house for as far as she could see. It appeared windswept and so thoroughly lonely that she fancied it could almost be virgin grass that no human footstep had fallen upon. As she toyed with this thought, she caught the flash of a figure cresting one of the hillocks so briefly it was almost as if he was from her imagination because he was gone again so quickly. She squinted, straining to see if he might appear again – it was definitely a man – but after a full minute of near enough holding her breath, no person broke cover. There was something comforting in the realisation that those hillsides were not as deserted as she’d first thought and while today was perhaps not the best time, she planned to take long, head-clearing strolls across those grasses as often as she could.

Stella stretched the unpacking to take fifteen minutes, carefully hanging up the garments she’d brought. The rest would arrive in a day or two, she was sure. Two trunks of items were being picked up from her house – mainly books. The three she’d carried with her she now put on a shelf over her desk. A photograph of Carys and Rory she placed on the bedside table with her small alarm clock that had been her mother’s; she had bought it new a few years back because she liked the enamelled green exterior. It was a Waterbury Thrift, made in America and sold through the department store. Stella had got it on a special staff discount for her mother. She wound it up carefully, making sure her watch and the clock matched times, for she was sure Mrs Boyd brooked no delays for parlour meals.

Her mother’s clock told her it was past four. Despite a yawn she decided she should clamber into some sturdy shoes and go for that walk. ‘Blow out some cobwebs,’ she muttered.

Stella left her room, closing the door but not locking it, although it did have a key; she remembered that a tray was going to be left for her. As she entered the stairwell of the back passage she noticed the door that accessed the attic rooms. She listened against it. No sound. And for no reason she could explain, Stella twisted the door handle and discovered it was secured, as Mrs Boyd had warned. She presumed Ainsworth reached his private room, as Mrs Boyd had referred to it, via the main area of the house. She shrugged. It felt secretive. Stella told herself it was none of her business and she should focus on the next four weeks and getting back to seeing her family at the end of it. She soon found the small corridor at the bottom of the stairs that would take her either into the boot room or into the parlour.

She decided to face the staff tomorrow morning rather than now and as cowardly as it felt, she tiptoed into where she found John Potter pulling off his wellington boots and hanging up his waterproof coat.

‘Hello again,’ he said. ‘Settling in?’

‘Trying to. I thought I should get my bearings and take a walk.’

‘Don’t go too far. There’s some rain coming. I’d stick to the flat if I were you.’

‘Really, rain?’

He tapped his nose. ‘Have you got a pair of gumboots?’

‘Not with me,’ she admitted.

He looked around and selected a small pair. ‘These should fit. Hardly fashionable but you’re in Kent now, Stella. You don’t want to get dirt all over your nice shoes.’ She looked down at her brogues. Her father had polished them; it was one of the last jobs he’d done before he’d swallowed the pills. Her parents had both left the house so neat and tidy, every possible chore done, including polishing every pair of shoes for their children.

‘No, I don’t,’ she answered, taking a breath to keep that sudden wash of emotion from spilling.

‘Get yourself into these. I’ll pick you up a pair in Tunbridge Wells tomorrow. What size are you?’

‘These are perfect.’

‘Those belong to Hilly – she’s our housemaid. I’ll get you a size five, then. You might as well take this waxed coat as well. The one you’re wearing won’t be any use if you get caught in a downpour but this hood will save you. It’s Hilly’s too.’

‘You’re very kind. Hilly won’t mind?’

‘Not at all. Got to make you feel welcome, don’t we? Can’t be easy.’ He looked at her in a way that made Stella suddenly aware that Mrs Ainsworth was not the only person who knew of the tragedy in her family.

She left, trying not to give the impression of fleeing. Stella took Potter’s advice, however, and didn’t go far, never even making it up onto the hills behind the house as she’d intended. Instead she stuck to the driveway that led her to a path cutting away and skirting the property through fields. She clambered over a stile and admired the rich soil of Kent before fringing some pasture where contented cows watched her carefully with large liquid eyes as they chewed. The lowering sun turned the late afternoon decidedly cold and she was glad of the gumboots that were now quite grubby from her efforts.

She toyed with the idea of climbing up the hill to get a look at the house and her windows but when the first teardrop of rain splashed on her arm she changed her mind and pulled up the hood of the wax jacket. John Potter certainly knew his Kent climate. Even so, she was surprised to see the low grey clouds that had gathered like silent sentinels overhead and it felt like they were now driving her back from the moors and inside.

Stella wondered about the man she’d seen and where he may have been headed, especially if he was striding over the forty acres of Harp’s End land. By the time she was at the back door again and stamping off the mud she’d gathered, rinsing Hilly’s boots at the tap nearby, she’d forgotten about him. Stella glanced at her watch, amazed how time had slipped by her. It was almost six and her belly was telling her she hadn’t eaten anything other than sweets since her breakfast this morning in London.

Home felt so distant now. She hurriedly pulled off the damp jacket and hung it back up, easing off the boots as quietly as she could and then picking up her own shoes and overcoat from where she’d left them. Stella avoided meeting any of the staff by skipping back up the stairs. She could hear their voices, though, as they gathered for their evening meal but then even that sound disappeared as she ascended quickly to her floor.

Once again she paused at the locked door to the attic rooms; she didn’t need to listen at the door because this time Stella was sure she could distantly hear someone humming to himself.