Through Glass Eyes (2 page)

‘Thank you, I have seen enough. I would like it delivered to Heaton Hall.’ Lord Farnley hesitated. ‘On second thoughts, I have my carriage outside. I will take it with me.’

Mr Terry glanced at his wife. ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but am I serving his lordship himself?’

Lord Farnley nodded.

The man behind the counter appeared flustered and bowed awkwardly. His wife tucked the feather duster into the folds of her serge skirt and dropped several curtsies.

‘Is there anything else I can assist you with, your lordship?’

‘No, thank you.’

The remainder of the business was transacted with a degree of obvious nervousness on the part of the shopkeeper. His wife assisted him with the packaging, as he was hardly able to tie the ribbon around the box. When he presented the parcel to its purchaser, he appeared both pleased and relieved. Mrs Terry dropped several more curtsies, as his lordship was leaving.  

Outside, the pavement was wet. The driver, who had been sheltering under the wooden awning, took the box from his master and opened the carriage door.

‘The Hall,’ said Lord Farnley, pulling the tartan rug across his knees.

The servant nodded and laid the box on the seat opposite him. It took up almost the full width of the carriage.

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the lawns, as the carriage rumbled past the old coach houses and up the driveway of Heaton Hall. The wearied poplars were turning rust and gold. A few had already started to shed.  Soon the ground would be littered with leaves, and smoke curling from the gardeners’ fires would drift into the stately house. Lord Farnley never minded the smell of autumn, or the chill of winter, providing there was still some sunshine.

‘Shall I take that for you, your lordship?’ the butler asked, as his employer stepped down from his carriage.

‘No, I shall take it myself.’

‘Doctor Thornton is upstairs in the red room. Mrs Gresham is with him.’

‘Thank you, Simmonds. I will go straight up.’

‘Of course, my lord.’

 The square staircase, dating back over 200 years, was decorated with elaborate carvings of twisted vines, fruits and exotic flowers. A huge glass chandelier hung from the ornate ceiling but, as Lord Farnley mounted the stairs, he noticed neither.

The first-floor corridor was shrouded in gloom. It looked longer than usual, and uninviting. The narrow windows offered little of the day’s dying light and the lamps had not been lit. It was not as Lord Farnley remembered it from his childhood.

‘Dr Thornton,’ he whispered, as he entered the end room, ‘how is she?’

‘Resting quietly, I am pleased to say.’

Miss Gresham got up from the chair and excused herself. The two men waited until she had left the room.

‘But what of the infection?’

Standing beside the bed, the physician looked down at his patient. ‘If it were only that then we could be hopeful. But the chest infection is but a complication of the major problem and—’ He hesitated.

‘Please, say what you must.’

‘I have grave fears.’

‘Papa.’
The voice was hardly audible. ‘Papa, is that you?’

Lord Farnley touched his daughter’s hand.

‘I shall wait downstairs,’ the doctor said, closing his bag.

‘Thank you.’

Lord Farnley waited until the man had gone before he turned up the wick on the lamp and drew back the curtains. ‘That’s better,’ he said, sitting down on the bed and lifting her limp hand onto his. When he spoke, his voice was tender. ‘Now I can see you.’ 

Beatrice’s eyes had sunk deep in their sockets, her hair was lank, her cheeks sallow, her lips slightly blue.

‘I have something for you,’ he said softly, resting the long box across her legs and guiding his daughter’s hand to the ribbon. His eyes smiled sadly as together they unfastened the bow.

‘What is it, Papa?’

The paper rustled as he carefully lifted the doll from its nest of wrappings. A pair of luminous blue eyes blinked open and glistened in the light of the lamp. From the silver buckles on the tiny black shoes to the tip of the ostrich feathers decorating the delicately flowered hat, the exquisite French doll stood over twenty-four inches tall. The peacock blue of the cloak, flowing loosely from its shoulders, contrasted strikingly with the room’s red furnishings.

Lifting her hand to touch the lace stockings and brush her fingers across the strip of soft ermine which edged the peacock velvet, Beatrice’s face beamed with delight.

Her father smiled. The shopkeeper had advised him well.

‘Papa, she’s beautiful,’ Beatrice said, then suddenly her expression changed. ‘May I keep her?’

‘Of course, why do you ask such a foolish question? The doll is yours.’

‘But Mrs Gresham said I couldn’t have any dolls because I would make them sick. She said that was why Fred and Bertie had been sent away. She said I would make them sick too.’ Her breathing was shallow and fast. ‘I hope I will not make you sick, Papa.’

‘Hush,’ he said, laying the doll on the bed beside her. ‘No one will get sick and soon you will be well again. Well enough to play in the garden. To watch the bees and butterflies down by the lake as you always used to do, and to have tea parties with the other children. Imagine what fun that will be.’

Winding her frail arm around the doll’s waist and drawing it close to her, Beatrice smiled weakly. On the pillow, her cold grey face rested against the doll’s blushed cheeks, their brown hair tangled together. Within seconds her eyes were closed.

‘Sleep,’ Lord Farnley said, as he held her hand in his. ‘Sleep, my angel.’

‘She warned me, if I didn’t keep my hair under my cap she’d cut it off!’ Lucy growled.

No one in the kitchen answered.

‘Honest she did!’ said Lucy. ‘I swear Mrs Gresham has something against me! She’s always finding fault. First it was the way I spoke, then it was the way I ironed my apron, then it was my shoes squeaking, now she’s complaining about my hair. That woman had better not come near me with a pair of scissors!’

‘Lucy Oldfield, enough of that!’
Cook was angry. The kitchen maids were familiar with the tone.

Lucy held her tongue – though she knew it was true. The housekeeper picked on her more than the others, even though she was always particular about her appearance, and neater than most of the other maids. Unlike some of the girls, she liked her uniform and remembered the times she used to stop at the top of the stairs to catch her reflection in the long window. That was until the day one of the under-butlers saw her. 

‘Don’t you know vanity’s a sin?’ he had said, with a glint in his eye.

How embarrassed she’d felt and how she had blushed and run down the stairs so quickly praying he would not follow her into the kitchen. After that, it was a long time before she raised her eyes to her reflection again.

Jennie put down the peeling knife and dragged her stool closer, interrupting Lucy’s thoughts. ‘Tell me about the young fellow who sent you that letter. Who is he?’

‘Just a fellow I met.’

‘Well then, tell us where you met him? What does he do? Where does he come from?’

‘I don’t rightly know what he does. I only met him twice and that was by chance. The first time was at Skipton market about two years ago. The second time was in July when I went home for my week’s holiday.’

‘And you gave him your address here.’

‘Not really.’ Lucy’s brow furrowed. ‘I just told him where I was working.’

‘And now he’s writing to you. Tell me,’ said Jennie, drawing her stool closer, ‘what does he say in his letter?’

‘That’s none of your business, Jennie Porter,’ barked Cook.

‘Oh, go on. I ain’t got no young man writing to me.’

Lucy took off her cap and, not noticing the disapproving look Cook gave, pulled the ribbon from her hair and flicked her dark curls over her shoulders.

‘I’ve only had the one letter and it was quite respectable. He asked me how I was, if I still had the same job and asked what it’s like living at the Hall.’

‘Are you going to write back and tell him what you think of Mrs Gresham?’

‘Jennie! Get on with those spuds.’

‘Yes, Cook,’ the scullery maid said, shifting her stool and dragging the pail of potatoes across the stone floor. ‘Go on,’ she whispered, as she continued peeling. ‘Tell me more.’

‘He just asked lots of questions like where I came from. He wanted my address. Wanted to know about my mother and if she went out to work. Asked what happened to my Dad and if I had any brothers and sisters living at home. That was all, I think.’

‘You’ll have lots to tell him,’ Jennie said enthusiastically. ‘You are going to write to him, aren’t you?’

Lucy shrugged, ‘Maybe.’

After glancing at Cook to make sure she was not listening, Jennie leaned across the table. ‘When are you going to see him again?’

‘I don’t know that I am,’ Lucy said. ‘I won’t be home again till next July.’

‘That is if Mrs Gresham doesn’t send you packing before then!’

One of the bells on the wall jangled.

‘That’s for me,’ Lucy said, quickly tying her hair and pushing the loose ends inside her cotton cap. ‘Do I look tidy enough?’

No one answered.

‘Will someone put another pot on to boil? I expect it’s hot water she’ll be wanting.’ Lucy didn’t wait for a response and hurried to the back stairs.

‘What’s this fella’s name?’ Jennie called.

Lucy turned, ‘His name is Arthur Mellor.’

‘You can leave the rest to me, Doctor Thornton. I will take care of things.’

Washing his hands in the china bowl, the doctor thanked Mrs Gresham. ‘It’s been a long and rather exhausting day and I don’t mind getting along. Now with regard to advising his lordship—’

‘We don’t expect Lord Farnley back until tomorrow but, you can be assured, he will be told as soon as he arrives. Obviously the final funeral arrangements will not be made until he returns.’

The doctor sighed. ‘If you ask me, I’d say it’s a blessing in disguise. Amazes me she managed to linger as long as she did.’ He took out his watch. ‘Almost eleven. Time to bid you good night, Mrs Gresham.’

Lucy was about to knock when the nursery door opened. She stepped back and let the doctor pass.

‘Blessing in disguise,’ he murmured, as he shuffled out.

Lucy hardly dare look towards the bed. ‘Has she gone, ma’am?’ she asked.

‘I’m afraid so.’ The housekeeper’s voice was softer than usual. ‘Peacefully, I’m pleased to say. I’m sure his lordship will be relieved to know that. But he’ll be very sorry he wasn’t here.’

Tears formed in the corners of Lucy’s eyes and the lamp appeared hazy. As she squeezed her lids, a warm trickle ran down her cheek. She didn’t see the housekeeper looking at her.

‘We must make everything neat and tidy. I know it’s late, but we can’t leave it the way it is.’

Lucy had wondered why she’d been called from her room at such a late hour. Now she wondered why the housekeeper had picked her to assist her and not one of the other maids. Perhaps it was because she was the only one who was still awake. Most other evening she would have been fast asleep before ten o’clock but, this evening, she had stayed up to write a letter.

The women didn’t speak or even exchange glances as they straightened the sheet and pillow under the dead girl. They also straightened her legs and arms and nightdress, and combed her hair. Lucy folded the quilt and placed it in the blanket chest, and finally they straightened the top sheet and pulled it to the head of the bed covering Beatrice’s face.

‘What do you want me to do with this?’ Lucy asked, picking up the French doll which had slid to the floor.

‘Burn it!’

‘But it’s brand new!’

‘Are you deaf as well as daft, girl? I said, burn it!’

Lucy hesitated. She knew it was a gift from Lord Farnley.

‘Things like that carry diseases and we don’t want Miss Beatrice’s illness passed on to anyone else. Now take it downstairs and burn it! Do you hear me?’

Lucy nodded, tucked the doll under her arm and tiptoed out, closing the door quietly behind her.

Chapter 2

An Ill Wind

The kitchen smelled of meat fat, cabbages and caustic soda, but it was empty. The scullery maids had gone to bed early, as usual, and the milk churn standing by the door indicated Cook had also retired, as putting it out for the under-footman to collect was the last job she did each evening. Heat radiated from the great stove and the large kettle standing on the corner of the hob breathed gentle puffs of steam and rattled intermittently. On the pine table, a lace-cloth covered a silver tray. The butler had prepared it in case Lord Farnley returned unannounced during the night.

Lucy was relieved the kitchen was empty. She was tired and in no mood to answer questions. In the morning all the talk would be about the death of Miss Beatrice, but for the moment she preferred to keep her thoughts to herself.

The kitchen at Heaton Hall, though large, was a homely place, warm and comforting. It was the only room the maids could relate to the homes they had come from – most of them from many miles away.

Lucy cast her mind back to the house in Leeds where she had grown up, the back-to-back terrace in Loftholme Street with one room downstairs, one up, and a toilet down the street shared between six families. She thought of the cobbled street and the narrow strip of stone paving where she played as a child. She remembered the warp of washing lines running from one side of the street to the other, and the tall wooden props which held the sheets high enough for the rag man to drive his horse and cart beneath without getting tangled in them.

She pictured her mother down on her hands and knees scrubbing the stone doorstep. Remembered the fear she felt when gypsies were seen in the street. The joy when she heard the tunes turned on a tingle-airy and was allowed to drop a farthing in the tin cup rattled by the man’s pet monkey.

Lucy thought about her mother, living alone but had only scant memories of her father. She was seven when he died. Seven years old – the same age as Miss Beatrice. Instinctively her arms folded around the doll. The porcelain face was cold as marble against her cheek.