by Rose Meddon
Eventually, too weary to concentrate any longer, she gave up. It was a task she would finish in the morning; there would be plenty of time before Miss Naomi was up and about and able to notice that the shoes weren’t back in her wardrobe.
Relieved by the chance to stand upright, she straightened her back and rolled her head in circles. Golly, her neck felt stiff. Her feet ached, too. Today, she had been on them even longer than usual, the number of times she had run up and down the stairs impossible to count. On any other night, she would be looking forward to sitting with them in a bowl of Epsom salts dissolved in warm water, last thing before bed. But not tonight. Tonight, she had plans to watch the fun.
It was the evening of Pamela Russell’s party. And, throughout the day, there had been so much kerfuffle surrounding costumes and outfits – the fittings conducted secretly in an unused bedroom – that she was itching to see the results. Even now, with things about to get underway, she still didn’t really know what was going to happen. The only things she did know had been gleaned from catching snippets of conversations and from glimpsing a hand-written card left lying on a side table: Fête Champêtre – A Diverting Evening of Costumes, Food and Rustic Amusements.
Even Miss Naomi, retiring earlier than usual to her room to change, had been unusually tight-lipped.
‘Can you manage ringlets, do you think?’ was all that she had asked.
Taking cover now amid the rhododendrons at the edge of the lawn, she sighed. All things considered, she was fortunate to have made it down there in time; now she would at least be able to watch everyone coming out of the French doors onto the terrace and proceeding down the steps.
When she drew a breath of anticipation, her nostrils filled with the smells of the shrubbery: damp earth; leaf mould; the bitter aroma from the leathery foliage of the rhododendrons themselves. Hearing distant voices, she carefully lifted aside one of the branches obscuring her view. Already, something was happening.
With her eyes not knowing what to settle upon first, she gasped: Miss Naomi, in a gown of deep blue silk, was on the arm of… Ralph Colborne. Ralph Colborne? Not Lawrence, for whom she would surely have been hoping? Not even Aubrey, for whom she wouldn’t have? In military uniform, Ralph Colborne looked distinguished, the scarlet of his jacket a blazing contrast to the silver of his hair, the gold of his buttons glinting in the evening sunshine. But where on earth could Mrs Russell have found such costumes, especially at such short notice? And particularly here, in Devon. It defied belief.
On Mr Colborne’s arm, Miss Naomi looked like a princess and she could see now why she had asked for ringlets, her appearance suggestive of the young woman in the oil painting that hung, forgotten, in a dusty frame on the staircase. Entitled simply Amelia, 1858, it was said to be one of only four paintings to have survived the fire that, almost forty years ago, had destroyed the manor house. Studying Miss Naomi’s appearance – as best she could, given the distance – Kate sighed. The blisters to the ends of her fingers from the curling iron had been worth it, the smell of scorching, too; her painstakingly created ringlets perfect for that gown.
From behind Naomi Russell came further movement: Cicely Colborne on the arm of Lawrence, the latter also sporting military uniform. Tonight, Mrs Colborne’s thinning grey hair looked to have been expertly styled but her frail frame appeared even more petite than usual, dwarfed as it was by yards of lilac silk, a full skirt falling in tiers, each of them edged with a contrasting lace. Added to that, the low angle of the sunshine was doing her complexion no favours, picking out the wrinkles around her eyes and across her forehead to add at least a decade to what Kate supposed to be her true age. It was widely held among the staff that she was younger than her husband by some margin, also that she was his second wife, her husband’s first choice having died in childbirth, the infant tragically passing with her. Terribly sad, really. But sad also, surely, to be someone’s second choice.
When, for a while, no one else seemed about to appear, Kate redirected her attention through the branches of the rhododendrons to the lawn. The transformation from formal gardens to rustic pasture was startling. Little more than a few hours previously, all manner of props and materials had still been arriving, most of them unimaginable in this remote part of Devon. From where had they all come? All anyone below stairs knew was that Mrs Russell had spent ages calling on the telephone and then issuing precise instructions to Edith about desserts and cakes that were to be prepared. But only desserts and cakes: the other courses, she had disclosed, were being prepared elsewhere by a proper chef de cuisine.
Almost from first light, a stream of visitors and deliveries had begun arriving. No one could recall anything like it – not even Ma in the days before the old manor had burnt down. Clearly, Kate had determined, watching as a dozen or so pitch torches had been unloaded from the rear of a delivery van, when it came to throwing a party, Pamela Russell took no chances with the arrangements, nor, seemingly, did she spare her husband’s money.
‘She’s doing it to get back at him for not being here, you know,’ Kate had overheard Miss Naomi comment to Aunt Diana. At the time, she had failed to comprehend her remark. Now, though, it made sense.
From her sideways viewpoint among the gnarly trunks, she tried to look along the terrace. Nearest to, at the foot of the retaining stone wall, a canopy of canvas had been tethered to the lawn with ropes and poles, the effect being like a tent without sides. Beneath it stood four chairs and four music-stands. Earlier in the day, the words string quartet had been muttered, mainly by those with no idea of what one was. Quartet, she knew, meant four, and so, presumably, there was to be an orchestra, albeit a small one. Several yards from the front of the canopy, bales of straw had been arranged in a semi-circle, which she supposed were intended to serve as benches. How odd, though, for an event where money was clearly no object, to expect the ladies, in all of their finery, to sit upon straw.
Beginning to tire of waiting for something else to happen, she let her eyes wander to the far end of the terrace, where, earlier in the day, she had watched four men in overalls erecting a tent about a central pole. At the time, she had been unable to glean its purpose. With its flap now fastened against prying eyes, she was still none the wiser.
Other items of interest that had appeared since her earlier covert visit included oversized blankets, spread on the ground as though for lounging or picnicking. At one corner of each them, smaller blankets had been stacked in twos and threes, perhaps for use against the late-evening chill. She gave a wry chuckle: at that very moment, with perspiration trickling down into the small of her back, it was hard to imagine there being demand for such a thing. And anyway, dotted about the lawn were braziers, fashioned from metal to look like baskets and so laden with logs that, once alight, were sure to give off a blistering heat.
The downside of choosing to conceal herself in the shrubbery, she now realized, was that she had no idea of the hour. In any event, it might not be a bad idea to let herself be seen indoors. Last time she had looked into the kitchen, Edith had been bent over a tray of tiny pastries spun with sugar. And Ma had been talking to the mustachioed man with the thick notebook, who had been present all day. From what she’d been able to determine, he was in charge of ensuring that Mrs Russell’s instructions were carried out to the letter, Ma having apparently been reduced to passing on his orders and then watching as he scribbled notes or ticked off things on his list. Either way, in the general busyness of below stairs, no one had noticed either her arrival or her departure – which was just how she liked it.
She looked back to the French doors. How much longer before Ned came out? Having stood for so long on the uneven ground, her feet were beginning to ache but, knowing her luck, if she left now, she would miss seeing him. And she was desperate to know which of the women would have the good fortune to be on his arm. She had thought it might be his sister but, since it wasn’t, perhaps it would be Aunt Diana.
Again, she sighed. It had been a peculiar
sort of a day, the upheaval to the normally smooth running of the household disorienting. All day, a trail of strangers, some of whose roles she had been able to deduce from their livery – chefs, waiting-staff, and so on – had sought out the stubby little man with the ornate moustache, waiting while he flicked backwards and forwards though the pages of his notebook before being directed to their place of work.
She glanced again to the doors. Finally, movement. She strained to see, disappointed when it was only the musicians, already looking rather sticky in their stiff evening dress. With nothing more exciting to occupy her, she watched them step from the terrace onto the lawn and then cross to their seats under the canopy. Several moments of settling down and rearranging things followed: the heights of their stands; the pages of their music; the distances between their chairs. When they finally took their seats, there came the sound of strings being plucked. Then came the examining and tweaking of bows, and finally, the humming of a single note, easily a match in resonance for a swarm of bees.
Carefully, she shifted her weight, unable to risk that the leaf debris beneath her feet might crackle loudly enough to draw attention. It was bad enough that her nose was itching, making her feel as though she was in continual danger of sneezing. Settling into a marginally more comfortable position, she brought her hand to rest on a nearby branch and once again peered out through the foliage: someone was just inside the French doors. It was the little man with the notebook, and he was leading out a stream of liveried waiters bearing wicker picnic-baskets, each one carried to one of the rugs. There, the waiters unfolded and laid out linen tablecloths. That done, with a flourish, the lid of each basket was unfastened and opened back. By now gathered upon the terrace to look down upon the spectacle, the assembled guests applauded and, from their midst, Pamela Russell stepped forward. Ned: she was on the arm of Ned.
Although it was to see him that Kate had been suffering such discomfort, it was Pamela Russell’s gown that caught her eye. Off-the-shoulder and extraordinarily low-necked, it had a full skirt, beneath which she could only imagine there to be all manner of hoops and petticoats. Devoid of the ruffles and frippery adorning the gowns of the other women, it was stunning in its simplicity, its colour as rich as, but more scarlet than, blood. To Kate, it seemed a dress chosen purely for its ability to draw attention, rather than for any particular historical accuracy.
Her curiosity as to Mrs Russell’s outfit satisfied, Kate turned her attention to Ned, only partly visible beyond his mother. He, too, was in military uniform, except that where every other man wore crimson, Ned was wearing blue. His jacket was trimmed with a collar of gold, so high that it looked most uncomfortable to wear, and gold epaulettes that made him seem very square of frame. Drawn to studying him, she realized that he had been dressed in blue in order to act as a backdrop to his mother’s gown; Mrs Russell hadn’t chosen that jacket to make him stand out from the other men but in order to display her own appearance to best advantage. Had Ned worn a crimson jacket, the colours of the two outfits would have clashed, whereas the blue set off his mother’s gown nicely. She had to hand it to Mrs Russell, it was a very clever idea. Miss Naomi might maintain that her father was shrewd, but seemingly, her mother didn’t miss a trick, either.
Returning her eyes to Ned, something about the vision of him as an army officer made her shiver. She didn’t like to think of him going off to war. And so, she wouldn’t. Tonight, she would just look at him and hope that, later on, she would have a chance to talk to him. Scarlet or blue, the colour and nature of his uniform altered nothing; he was still, by a country mile, the most handsome man in sight.
* * *
Kate smiled. Her decision to creep away from proceedings in the garden and let herself be seen indoors had proved worthwhile. Casting no more than a single glance in her direction, and with her arms full of napkins, Ma had merely nodded at her, her mind clearly on other things.
Edith, likewise, had barely looked up from her work.
‘My, Edie, they’re beautiful,’ she’d said, making a point of remarking about the creations to which her sister was putting the finishing touches.
‘Aye,’ Edith had absently replied. ‘Damned fiddly, though.’
With that, Kate had been left free to slip along the corridor and up the stairs to her room. Since no one needed her – and she had given them every chance to say otherwise – she felt it safe to change out of her uniform and into her own skirt and blouse. The rest of the evening was hers.
Having freshened her face with soap and cool water, she angled the small mirror to check her appearance. What she saw made her shake her head with dismay. If she wanted to look… well, comely… having her hair pinned ordinarily back was no good at all. While she couldn’t wear it loose about her shoulders, she could fasten it more softly. Pulling it from its knot, she stood brushing through the length of it until she had counted one hundred strokes. Even in the murky light of her attic room, she was quite pleased with the way it shone.
With her hair re-pinned in a style similar to that favoured by Miss Naomi, she turned about, trying to peer over her shoulder at the reflection of the back of her head. Unable to see anything, all she could do was trust in her pinning. At least as the evening wore on, the failing light would disguise any waywardness.
When she arrived back at the bottom of the staircase, she hesitated. Sounds from the scullery suggested that clearing up had started, which probably meant that, outside, the guests were now eating. The question thus became one of what was going to happen next? What, precisely, were these ‘rustic amusements’ that Mrs Russell had planned? The only way to find out was to go and look. But, for that, creeping about among the rhododendrons would be pointless. For a start, it would soon be too dark to navigate a path through their twisting limbs: much better to go out through the scullery and head for the far end of the lawn. From there, she ought to be afforded a reasonable view.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, may I beg your indulgence.’ Arriving at the corner of the house, Kate could see Pamela Russell, posing on the terrace as though on a stage. From the picnic blankets on the lawn, her guests had turned towards her, while, back against the house, apparently concealed from their sight by the shadows, stood a figure Kate didn’t recognize. All she could tell was that it wasn’t one of the guests. ‘Thank you, everyone,’ Mrs Russell continued. ‘Now, I should like to introduce to you one of the most intriguing women I have ever had the good fortune to meet.’ Although none of her audience would have been aware of it, at Mrs Russell’s announcement, several of the men sat more upright. Hardly surprising, Kate thought, deciding that most of them looked tipsy: their hostess had mentioned an intriguing woman. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Madam Sybil, seer, mystic and prophetess extraordinaire!’
From down on the picnic blankets came murmurs of puzzlement, although, from politeness, there was also light applause. On cue, the figure in the shadows stepped forward. Wearing a long gown, dark in colour and formless in style, she stood erect, on her head a turban almost identical to the one favoured by Aunt Diana – but black.
From somewhere down on the lawn, a man’s voice called out. ‘Prophetess? Ha!’
Without even a glance to Pamela Russell, Sybil the prophetess proceeded slowly down towards the lawn, the hem of her robe slinking down the steps behind her. Not knowing what was going to happen, Kate held her breath.
‘Among you this evening,’ the woman stopped a few steps short of the grass to announce, ‘is one whose offspring keep her from peaceful sleep.’ Kate gulped. She hadn’t been expecting anything like that. Nor, from the bewilderment on the faces of the guests, had they. With everyone’s attention secured, in a clear and commanding voice, Sybil continued. ‘She is blessed with sons, two of them, similar in appearance and age, both on the cusp of manhood. But the younger one troubles her, the younger one…’ From one of the blankets on the grass came a little gasp followed by the sharp turning of heads towards it. Cordelia Fillingham? Was it she with her ha
nd over her mouth? Looking back to where Sybil was partially silhouetted by the light from the torches, Kate willed her to go on. The younger one what?
‘My God, Pamela! What is this business?’
Although the observation surely came from Cordelia’s husband, Sibyl was undeterred. ‘Rest assured, sir, I reveal my prophecies only to those for whom they are intended.’
‘Hogwash, I say. Bunkum, all of it!’ And that, Kate knew without a doubt, was Aubrey Colborne. And, already he sounded the worse for drink.
‘I have a strong sense of you, too, sir,’ Sibyl turned to him to respond, a hush once again coming over the blankets. ‘The path you choose is a dangerous one. Mists swirl about you. You would wear them like a cloak. But I caution you to beware. I urge you, seek my counsel – be willing to hear it.’
Kate blinked rapidly. This woman, this stranger, had the measure of everyone present? How could that be?
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Pamela Russell stepped forward to say, ‘Madam Sibyl will now take private consultations. Who shall go first?’ When, in the startled silence, no one answered, she went on. ‘Nobody? Come along, now. Don’t be shy. Who among us is not intrigued?’ As she continued to stand, awaiting a response, her arm held wide, it was as much as Kate could do not to leap forward and volunteer. What an opportunity to learn her fate! Oh, if only! As it was, it fell to Mrs Russell to say, with Kate felt not a small amount of irritation, ‘Then while you all gather your courage, I shall show you that not only is there nothing to fear, but much to gain.’
