by A. M. Howell
“Do you think he knew we were trying to catch the thief?” Clara asked.
Will nodded. “And used it to his advantage. He would have known Mr Gilbert’s brother was going to keep watch in the hothouse – and that he’d catch us in there. Robert could have taken the fruit afterwards and hidden it in the boiler house. But don’t hate him for it. There will be a reason he has done it.”
A reason? But if Will was right, Robert had stolen from the Earl and may have planned that Will would take the blame all along. “Are you sure about this, Will? Your own brother…”
Will dropped his head into his hands. “I’m not sure of anything any more, Clara. I have no proof it was him. If I’d asked him, he would have just denied it. I thought if we kept watch…it would put him off…be a warning. I didn’t want him to get into trouble.”
“I will go and tell the Earl…he will free you—” Clara said firmly.
“The Earl? What good will that do?” Will interrupted, his voice tight. “No one will believe it’s Robert.”
“I believe it was Robert. I know you would never steal those pineapples.” Clara reached through the bars, grabbed one of Will’s hands and pushed all of her warmth and hope and bravery into his palm. She would get him out of these cellars. She just hoped the Earl would listen.
As Red led Clara to the servants’ staircase to the main part of the Big House, she wondered how she should address the Earl. Should she drop into a curtsey, or shake his hand? She uncurled her fists and groaned inwardly at the sight of her coal-stained fingers and the dirt under her nails. She looked as if she belonged in a coal pit. She wiped them on her apron but that just added to the existing filth. At the foot of the stairs, bright lights shone down from the Big House, beckoning her upwards. A blackboard was attached to the wall. Clara’s breath caught in her throat as she read the cursive chalk writing.
Message from the housekeeper
Servants rules to be observed when entering the upstairs areas of the house
Ensure your voice is never heard by the ladies and gentlemen of the house
Always make room and turn away if you meet one of your employers
Never offer your opinion to the ladies and gentlemen of the house
Unless your duties require it, do not touch the furniture or belongings of any of the ladies and gentlemen of the house
Any breakages or damages to the house will be deducted from wages
Signed: Mrs Gilbert
Voices. Getting nearer. Clara’s feet froze to the stone floor.
“Go, Clara. Now.”
She turned.
Red gave her a desperate glance. “I will divert them,” he said. He darted off in the direction of the voices. The footsteps paused. “You are not supposed to be in this corridor,” a woman’s voice said sternly.
“I…kn-know…” stammered Red.
His voice spurred Clara’s feet forward. She ran up the stairs, past the words on the blackboard, which seemed to be giving her a disapproving stare. She paused in front of the door which led into the gentlemen’s part of the Big House – to the Earl and his family. She cracked it open and could see a grand entrance hall with glossy berry-red marble pillars, which stretched to a high ceiling capped by a glass dome. Gilded paintings as large as she was hung on the walls, and in the centre of the hallway was a plinth bearing a white marble carving of an enormous pineapple.
The fear knotting Clara’s stomach tightened as she opened the door fully and stepped into the hallway. Although this was too huge and sumptuous to be called a hallway. Her hallway at home could fit into this one a hundred times over. Clara blinked. She wished she could stand for a while, saying hello to each and every painting, statue and wall hanging. The black-and-white marbled floor. The shiny wooden tables adorned with china ornaments. The display of flowers which scented the air with the smells of summer. But there was no time for any of that. She had to find the library, and fast. She took a step onto the marble. Click-click-click. The noise from her boots echoed around the cavernous room. Bending down, she quickly slipped off her boots and, clutching them in her right hand, half-ran, half-slid across the floor to a large wooden door at the back of the hall. It was at least three times the height she was – fit for a giant.
She heard a murmur from inside. Was that the Earl?
“Hey, you there.” The voice came from behind her. She turned. There was a man, smartly dressed in a black tailcoat, with a white shirt and gloves – a butler. “Who are you? What in heaven’s name are you doing up here?”
Clara turned back to the door, grasped the huge bronze doorknob and gave it a twist. It didn’t move.
The butler was approaching, his footsteps echoing.
She gave the door a push. A larger push.
“Wait. You can’t go in there. Stop!”
Clara threw all of her weight against the door, which swung open with a low groan, tipping her into the room. She gasped. Pineapple-yellow marble pillars. Silky green sofas and easy chairs. A large crystal chandelier twinkled in the sun streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Masses and masses of bookshelves. A fire crackled in the grate, the chimney so huge that Clara and her entire family could stand inside it with room to spare.
Clara heard another murmur, saw the back of a narrow head, with thin hair that was greying at the nape of the neck. A trail of pipe-smoke puffed to the ceiling.
As she took a step forward she felt a hand clamp on her shoulder.
“That’s far enough, Missy,” the butler said under his breath.
Clara tried to twist from his grasp, but his fingers were holding her tight.
The greying head was turning, as the man rose from the chair, his pipe in his hand. The newspaper he had been holding dropped to the rug.
“I say, what on earth is going on, Richardson?”
“I am so sorry, Sir. I am not sure how she got in,” the butler said in a clipped voice. His nails dug into Clara’s skin and she squirmed.
The Earl’s eyes narrowed. He looked Clara up and down. At the boots still clutched in her hand. At the streaks of coal dust on her apron and her face.
The hothouses. Will. Robert. The stolen pineapples. Everything Clara wanted to say jumbled and spun in her head.
The butler steered her to the door. “I am so sorry, Sir. I will get rid of her immediately.”
No. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. As the butler steered her away from the Earl, Clara’s fingers unclenched, and her boots thudded onto the shiny parquet floor. She grabbed onto a small console table as she was pushed to the door. A small china figurine of a shepherd boy standing next to a woolly sheep wobbled. Clara held her breath as it rolled to the edge of the table. She lurched forward, tried to save it, but she wasn’t quick enough. The china boy fell, his angelic head separating from his body with a loud crack and rolling under the table. She looked at the pieces of (no doubt precious) china with a large helping of dismay. Another lovely thing broken – but unlike Mrs Gilbert’s tapestry frame, she very much doubted she had enough coins remaining in her purse to replace it. The Earl would be furious and surely wouldn’t want to hear what she had to say about Will. And if that was the case, how was she to help her friend now?
The tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the corner. The crackle of the fire in the grate. The sharp intake of breath from the butler. Clara’s ears burned. “Oh,” she said, dropping to her knees. She scooped the broken pieces of china into her hands. “Oh dear.”
“Give that here,” said the butler through gritted teeth. “You will be charged with trespassing and damage to private property. Shall I inform the police, Sir?”
Clara sat back on her heels, staring at the broken china. She thought about the rules Mrs Gilbert had written on the blackboard. She was about to break one more. She stood up and stared into the Earl’s furrowed face. “I’m sorry for the breakage…Sir. But I came to speak with you because you need to know that the boy being held in the cellars – he is not the pineapple thief.”
&
nbsp; The butler grabbed her shoulder again with an even tighter grip. “I knew it. Friendly with that other trespasser, she is.”
“Wait.” The Earl held up his palm. He laid his pipe down next to a glass bowl containing a few mandarins, picked up his newspaper and folded it, all the while looking at Clara. “Perhaps it’s best if we start with introductions. And you are?”
“Clara. Mrs Gilbert’s niece,” she said, her voice wavering.
“Mrs Gilbert’s niece. Our Mrs Gilbert. The housekeeper?”
Clara nodded. Perhaps Mrs Gilbert didn’t undertake her work as invisibly as she thought.
The Earl gave his butler a firm nod. “That will be all, Richardson.”
Richardson’s clawlike hand dropped from Clara’s shoulder. “But, Sir…”
“I said that will be all.” The Earl gave his butler a stony look. Clara could almost hear the butler’s skin prickling and cracking in indignation. He left the room and gently closed the door.
The Earl beckoned Clara forward.
Clara held the broken figurine in her open palm. “I am sorry…I will ask my parents to loan me the money to pay for a new one.”
The Earl gave her a small smile. “That was a wedding present from a distant cousin in France. Never liked the blessed thing.” But there was something wistful in the Earl’s voice which made Clara wonder if he was telling the whole truth. He took the broken pieces from her and carefully laid them next to the bowl of mandarins.
“Please let Will go. He is not a thief,” Clara said quietly.
The Earl’s eyes narrowed.
“He…loves the gardens. It is his ambition to work there one day. He loves the pineapples like…family. Except, now he has no family. If he is charged with stealing it will ruin him. He will surely go to prison.”
The Earl turned to the fire, which was spitting in the grate.
“I have spoken with the boy’s brother – a gardener. Robert, isn’t it? It seems this Will has rather a reputation for stealing.”
“No. You are wrong.”
The Earl rubbed his right ear, as if those were unusual words for him to hear.
Will was in those dank cellars, depending on her to make things right. “It is the other way around. It is Robert who took the fruits.”
The Earl turned to look at her, his head tilted. “That is…rather a serious accusation.” He rubbed his chin. “Do you have any evidence?”
Clara stared at him blankly. Evidence. She had no evidence at all.
“Do you like books, Clara?”
Clara nodded.
“What are you reading right now?” the Earl asked.
Clara blinked. The conversation had taken a rather curious turn. “The Jungle Book,” she said.
“Ah, yes. Mr Kipling does spin a good adventurous tale, doesn’t he?” The Earl’s eyes flickered to the bookshelves. “I am very partial to the odd detective story, myself. Sherlock Holmes is a particular favourite. If I were him, I would be saying to you that the evidence presented to me is irrefutable. I have seen with my own eyes the sack of fruit found in the boiler house, the list of stolen fruit in the boy’s notebook. And his drawings of the hothouses and the pineapples. Although I must say, they really were rather good.” The Earl scratched his chin, gave Clara a long searching look and waited for her to speak.
But she had nothing to say. Nothing at all. Clara felt like a sailing boat, at sea with no wind. The Earl was right. She had no proof that Robert had taken the pineapples. There was nothing she could do or say to save Will.
The Earl rang a small silver bell. Richardson appeared and gave a small bow. He appeared to be breathless, as if he had been running up flights of stairs.
“See that Miss Clara returns safely to Gardener’s Cottage,” the Earl said.
Richardson nodded and gave Clara an imperious look. “It is already arranged, Sir. I sent a message down to Mrs Gilbert. She is on her way to collect the girl.”
Clara saw the glimmer in Richardson’s eyes. It implied he knew full well what a telling-off Clara was going to get from her aunt when she arrived. Clara pushed her hands into the pockets of her apron and straightened her shoulders. She would take all the punishments thrown at her in order to try and clear Will’s name, but it was clear she was fast running out of time.
Mrs Gilbert did not utter a single word to Clara as they walked down the hill to Gardener’s Cottage. Her hair was pulled into a severe bun. It exposed the pale skin near her eyes, the faint unused laughter lines, like rusty spokes on a bicycle wheel. When Richardson had handed Clara over, Mrs Gilbert had given him a curt nod. Richardson had given her a haughty stare in return, which had caused Mrs Gilbert to sniff, pull Clara’s arm and steer her away from the House.
As they passed the stable block, Clara saw Robert cleaning out the horse cart, stacking it with empty crates ready to be loaded with produce for the hospital. He lifted his head as they walked past. Clara lowered hers, biting the inside of her lip until it was sore. How could he let Will take the blame for something he had done? Anger rose inside her like a storm.
Mr Gilbert was waiting on the front step as they walked up the gravel path. He stepped to one side, letting Mrs Gilbert and Clara pass through the door. He puffed out a mountainous sigh. It made Clara feel ever so slightly sick.
Mrs Gilbert led Clara into the parlour, then stood with her back to the window and fiddled with the cross she wore around her neck, rubbing her thumb over the gold. So much had happened and it was still only a little after 10 o’clock. Mr Gilbert had lit a small fire. Clara had never seen the flames shiver to life in the morning before. Perhaps it meant she would be spending quite some time in this room with her aunt and uncle, discussing her wrongdoings.
“So,” Mr Gilbert said in a low voice, coming to stand beside his wife. “You ran away from me and took it upon yourself to visit the Earl. This will not do, Clara. It’s not how things work around here.”
Clara thought of Mrs Gilbert’s rules chalked onto the blackboard. She had broken all of them in a single hour. “I just wanted to help Will.”
“Thomas caught Will. The boy cannot be helped,” Mr Gilbert said.
Clara’s skin tightened. She glanced beyond Mrs Gilbert, out of the window to the small lake. Two swans were gliding across the water, their necks like question marks. “Why did you meet Thomas in the early morning, give him produce from the gardens and comfort him when he cried, Mrs Gilbert?” she asked in a rush. “Why did you write those letters – the ones in the locked room upstairs?”
Mrs Gilbert’s face was almost transparent, like all the blood had leeched from it. “Frank,” she whispered.
Mr Gilbert’s cheeks flushed pink.
Clara’s eyes flicked from her aunt to her uncle and back again.
“You’ve been in Frank’s room? Read my letters to him?” Mrs Gilbert’s voice was shrill.
“Frank’s room?” Clara asked in confusion.
“He was six. Only six,” Mrs Gilbert said. Her eyes were wild and bright.
Clara shrank away from the Gilberts, until heat from the fire flared against the backs of her legs.
“Frank was our nephew,” Mr Gilbert said. “My brother’s child – Thomas’s son. He came to stay with us two summers ago. There was an accident. Frank…died. I’ve found it…hard to speak to my brother Thomas since it happened. The guilt, you see.” He looked at the ceiling. “When Lizzy found out that Thomas was camping on the estate with the Regiment, she decided to talk to him, to try and mend things between us.”
Clara nibbled on a thumbnail. The talk in Mrs Gilbert’s letters of picnics and Kitty the horse. These were all things a child had done. The person in her letters was a boy.
Mrs Gilbert sank to her knees on the rug like a deflated balloon. Mr Gilbert kneeled beside her, placed an arm around her shoulders and stroked a stray hair from her cheek. It was so tender it made Clara’s throat ache. Mrs Gilbert pulled away from her husband’s arm, wiping her nose on a handkerchief. “We did not have
children of our own and Frank was like a son to me that summer. I suppose that those letters are my way of dealing with…the grief. When I write, it’s almost as if he’s still with us.” Her bottom lip wobbled.
“I’m sorry. Father never told me,” Clara said quietly.
Mrs Gilbert glanced up. “Some things are too difficult to say.” She turned her head to the window. “Frank loved the hothouses, especially when it was stormy. We would pretend we were in a ship at sea, the rain and wind howling and rattling the glass.” She swallowed. “One evening, he begged me to take him to the pineapple house. He loved it there the most – the warm earthy smell, the plants. Little heads, he called them. He would speak to them, give them names. Maestro was his favourite.”
Maestro. The name on the piece of paper under the tapestry. The inscription on the brass plate, Deep peace of the quiet earth – that was in memory of little Frank.
“The wind was fierce as we ran across the gardens. It happened in an instant. A branch fell from the tree near the hothouses. The Earl knew it was too close to the pineapple house. He’d been talking about removing it as it had grown so big, but no decision had been made. His daughters liked to play in that tree, you see, and there was no sign it was unsafe. The branch hit us both – me on the leg and Frank on the head.” Mrs Gilbert rubbed her neck. “He died instantly. He did not suffer.”
Tears burned Clara’s throat.
“The Earl…was devastated. He sometimes leaves fruits on the tree stump by the pineapple house and in other places in the gardens where Frank liked to play – his way of remembering, I suppose.”
The mandarins she and Will had found – they had not been connected to the fruit thief at all. The Earl had left them because he felt so terrible about Frank’s death.
“The Earl is generous and allows us to help ourselves to produce from the gardens. I’ve been passing the extra vegetables to Thomas for the Regiment, trying to do some good,” Mrs Gilbert said. “Mr Gilbert and Robert were worn out with the worry of the stolen fruits, so Thomas offered to help – to watch the hothouses.”
