The Housekeeper's Daughter

by Rose Meddon

  For a while afterwards, and to Kate’s disappointment, nothing much seemed to happen. With Mrs Russell having accompanied Sybil into the tent, most of the guests remained seated on their blankets, one or two of the men moving about to confer and glance uncomfortably towards it.

  ‘She’s gone too far this time,’ a male voice opined loudly enough for Kate to hear.

  ‘Devilish thing, what?’ his companion seemed to concur.

  But, just as Kate was debating whether she could wait around any longer on the off chance of seeing Ned, the flap of the tent opened back and, from the gentle glow within, Pamela Russell emerged, smiling and serene.

  ‘Marvellous,’ she murmured, to Kate’s mind, a little too loudly to be entirely genuine. Swiftly, Cordelia Fillingham went to her, her manner hesitant, furtive almost. ‘Of course, my dear,’ Mrs Russell said. ‘Allow me to introduce you.’

  And thus began what was to become a steady trail of female guests to Sybil’s tent, each of them remaining for what felt to be around ten minutes before reappearing, their expressions ranging from surprise through pensiveness to, in one case, what Kate could only think of as alarm.

  ‘What do you think? Do we have a fraud on our hands?’

  With Ned’s voice coming out of the darkness, Kate jumped. How had she neither seen nor heard him approaching? And what must he think to find her once again spying on his mother and her guests?

  ‘Umm…’

  ‘It seems none of our guests can quite decide.’ At least the cloak-and-dagger nature of her presence didn’t trouble him. ‘Those who would chance a reading seem to feel she is entirely genuine. Their husbands, I suspect, feel differently.’

  ‘Only to be expected,’ Kate replied, her initial surprise at his arrival slowly subsiding.

  ‘Please, do explain to me why you think so.’

  In the darkness, Kate frowned. If he had spotted her, then who else might also have done so? Who else might, at this very moment, be watching them conversing?

  ‘Well,’ she said, deciding to worry about that separately, ‘seems to me, men prefer to rely on the things they can see with their own eyes or touch with their own hands – real things that they can… poke an’ prod. Whereas women strike me as thinking that oftentimes, there be greater forces at work – ones not always so easily explained away.’ Feeling as though she had revealed rather too much about her own way of looking at the world, and catching sight of what looked to be mild amusement on his face, she hastened to add, ‘Leastways, that’s how it seems to me. And I can only say it as I see it.’

  For a moment or two, he didn’t respond. Despite the cooling of the evening, she thought he looked warm, his blue jacket abandoned and his hair bearing the signs of having been swept, repeatedly, away from his face. In addition, the sleeves of his shirt had been rolled back and the neck of his shirt unbuttoned: highly inappropriate for an army officer.

  ‘So,’ he eventually said, ‘when it comes to… well, shall we call them unearthly forces, is it your contention that we separate into believers and cynics along the line of the sexes?’

  It was precisely how she saw it. Men even called women fanciful for it. But, rather than give him the chance to deride her, she was struck by a means with which to lend her idea weight. ‘Will you be going in?’ she asked him. ‘For a reading… or an audience or whatever it is?’

  ‘Hardly. Will you?’

  ‘Were I at liberty to, then yes, I should jump at the chance.’

  ‘And with which I suppose you rest your case?’

  She smiled. ‘I do stand by my belief, yes.’

  Less than two paces away from her, he reclined against a tree. It seemed beyond her to accept that she was there with him, the mantle of the night allowing them to once again converse, free from the usual conventions. Blissful, Kate thought, that’s what it was. If only it didn’t have to end.

  ‘Hmm.’ When she looked across, his faint smile bore a suggestion of mischief. ‘It seems to me, Miss Bratton, that your case, while not entirely without merit, flounders for want of more participants – a broader sample, if you will.’

  In the same vein, she rose quickly to her own defence. ‘It don’t need no more. I know what I’ve seen with my own eyes.’

  To this, he inclined his head, his expression a mixture of amusement and consideration. ‘As reliable a source as any, I suppose.’

  Her point seemingly won, they fell to stillness. To Kate, the silence felt comfortable. Even so, she would prefer that they continued to talk. And so, to that end, she asked, ‘Are you enjoying the evening?’

  ‘Mamma seems to be. And that’s the main thing.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘And, despite the manner in which she has just unsettled some of her guests, tomorrow morning, they will all rush to compliment her upon the marvellous spectacle – the imaginative theme – and thank her, profusely, for a most enjoyable evening.’

  ‘Why are you the only man not rayed in crimson?’ she asked. She knew that conversation-wise, she was leaping about but, since she didn’t know how long he would remain, she wanted to make the most of this unlikely chance.

  ‘On account of Mamma changing her mind. It was her wish that the men be colourful and dashing, so the uniforms supplied by the theatre company—’ A theatre company, well that explained it! ‘—were those of infantry officers. But, at the last minute, she changed her mind about her own gown and, since I was to be her escort, and the colour of my costume clashed with hers – or so she would have it – something had to be done. At that late stage, the only other uniform to fit me was for an officer of a lancer regiment, which just happened to be blue. Intolerably stiff collar, by the way. Don’t know how the original chap stuck it, dress uniform or no.’

  In the darkness, Kate smiled. His explanation was much as she had expected: it was all about Pamela Russell and how she appeared to her guests. But then it was her party. ‘The scarlet uniforms are striking,’ she said. ‘But the blue is nicer.’ The blue is nicer on you.

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘May I ask you something?’ she ventured, recalling something she wanted to know.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What exactly is a fett champetter?’

  ‘A fête champêtre?’

  At his correcting of her pronunciation, she blushed. ‘Forgive me my ignorance. It’s how it looked written down.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what it’s not,’ he said, unbothered. ‘It’s not what you see before you here tonight, which is more a faux champêtre.’ It wasn’t the answer for which she had been hoping. In fact, it didn’t feel like an explanation at all. Besides which, from him, the sarcasm was unusual. ‘I’m sorry. That wasn’t very helpful,’ he said, immediately contrite. ‘It’s just that sometimes, mother should… oh, never mind.’ With a shake of his head, he sighed. ‘The words fête champêtre don’t translate terribly well into English, but the term usually describes a sort of pastoral or rural celebration or festivity. At the end of the last century, it was the thing – especially, for a while, among the gentry of France – to don the dress from earlier times and fashion an idealized rural setting in which to make merry.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’

  ‘It was imaginative of Mamma, I’ll grant her that. And, given that we’re so very far from the people she would ordinarily summon from her address book, no mean feat. It’s just that she could have settled for a far simpler affair. People would have been just as happy. But no, she always has to try and outdo her last great event, fearing if she doesn’t that people will no longer speak of her gatherings with the same awe.’

  Unsure how to respond to this frank admission from him, she settled for, ‘Mmm.’

  ‘By the way, I’ve written to Cousin Elizabeth, making enquiries on your behalf.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, determined to remain calm even though it was as much as she could do not to grin with delight.

  ‘I walked to the letter-box at the crossroads yesterday morning.’ Opening her mouth
to tell him that there was a box on the hall table for letters requiring posting, she decided against it: perhaps he had wanted the walk. ‘Of course,’ he went on, ‘I have no way of knowing how long it will be before she replies. As I think I said to you, her volunteer work keeps her very busy.’

  ‘‘Course,’ she said, feeling her cheeks colouring under his gaze. She realized then that this was the first time she had seen him since the evening before last. Yesterday, after lunch, the entire group – family and guests alike – had decamped to the cove, where rugs had been set out and elaborate sun shades devised so that no possible discomfort could spoil a picnic tea. Hampers of provisions had been ferried, drinks had been cooled, and bundles of towels had been supplied for those tempted to risk a dip in the sparkling water.

  His time on the beach, Kate thought, had given him a glow and made him look even more relaxed – if such a thing were possible, something that prompted her to ask, ‘Was it nice down in the cove yesterday afternoon?’

  That she had thought to enquire seemed to please him. ‘Do you know, it was. It was delightful. For once, everyone seemed calm and agreeable. But, with the sun shining and the location so picturesque, it would be a soulless creature whose thoughts kept returning to war, would it not?’

  Shifting a little, she nodded. ‘It would.’

  ‘Not that the likelihood of war recedes just because a dozen people on a beach in Devon refuse to talk about it for an afternoon.’

  ‘Although perhaps,’ she ventured, in two minds whether to continue, ‘if everyone were to spend an afternoon on a pretty little beach, they’d all be more calm and agreeable, and then they might think twice about the need to go to war.’

  ‘I say, what a charming idea! Perhaps I should write and suggest it to Sir Edward Grey. Sir, rather than watching as Russia mobilizes her army and navy, might you not suggest to St Petersburg that they spend a week at the beach instead? While you’re at it, suggest it to the German Chancellor, too, salt water and sea air a proven tonic for calming all manner of hysteria.’

  For a moment, she wondered whether he was mocking her. His face, though, seemed to suggest only amusement.

  ‘Just a fanciful notion, sir. Ma says I’m full of ‘em.’

  ‘No harm in that, Kate.’ Kate! That was the second time he’d called her Kate. Not Miss Bratton, but Kate!

  ‘Aha.’ He straightened up. ‘Aunt Cicely emerges from her audience. She looks shaken, do you not think?’

  Straining to make out the expression on Cicely Colborne’s face, Kate nodded. ‘She does. I wonder what was said to turn her so pale?’

  ‘Charlatans play on people’s emotions. It’s part of their power – their hold over their subject, if you will.’

  Wanting desperately to believe that Sybil’s gift of foresight was genuine, his remark disappointed her. ‘You’d still have her a fraud?’

  To Kate, the little snort he gave suggested whole-hearted agreement, even before he had replied.

  ‘Almost certainly.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘But you still don’t?’

  Unexpectedly, she saw her chance. Although hanging wraith-like in the night air, it nevertheless felt worth trying to grasp. ‘I shouldn’t venture to judge either way, not without having first seen for myself.’

  ‘You would have an audience?’

  Nothing ventured, nothing gained. ‘I would. I should like to hear what she has to say and then decide for myself. The way I see it, if all she does is spout bromides and speak of things so general that they might be made to fit any woman on earth, then I should agree with you that she is a fraud. But, should she know something about me, some detail that no one else could have told her, then I should hold otherwise.’

  ‘And what would you ask her to bring that about? How would you go about your investigation so as not to lead the witness, as it were?’

  Having not expected to be so deeply questioned, she frowned. ‘Since I shan’t be seeing her anyway, I must confess to not having thought so far ahead.’

  Throughout their conversation, he had been leaning idly against the tree but now, pushing himself away from it, he stood looking directly at her. ‘What if I could get you in to see her? Would you go?’

  Goodness. Had her ploy worked? ‘In an instant.’

  ‘Stay there.’

  Before she could enquire as to his intention, he was striding across the lawn towards where his mother was talking to Miss Naomi. When he arrived alongside her, barely a dozen words seemed to pass between them, the gesture accompanying Pamela Russell’s response suggesting deep disinterest in whatever he had said. Clearly, then, he hadn’t asked his mother whether she, Kate, might be granted an audience.

  Puzzled, she watched, as, turning towards the house, he went indoors. Now what should she do? His parting instruction to her had been stay there — but she was no longer certain that he was going to return.

  For what felt like ages, she repeatedly scanned the lawn and the terrace for sight of him. More time passed with still no sign. But then, hearing someone coming through the trees towards her, she spun about, her heart thudding in her chest. ‘Oh! I was thinking you’d forgotten me.’

  Although, in the darkness, it was hard to determine his precise expression, her remark appeared to surprise him. ‘I wouldn’t do that. But I did have to be careful. You see, I asked Mamma whether, when whoever is with Sybil at the moment has finished, I might take a turn.’

  ‘You? But I thought you said—’

  ‘A ruse. I didn’t think you’d want me to ask whether you could go in—’ Relieved to hear it, she shook her head. ‘So, while I go in through the front of her tent, you are going to slip in through the back—’

  ‘I’m going to do what? Oh, no, I couldn’t—’

  ‘Don’t worry, I have it all worked out. I shall go in, explain to Sybil what is happening, unfasten the back of the tent, let you in, and then go out the same way. When you’re done, I shall slip in through the back and exit through the front. No one will be any the wiser.’

  All Kate could think was that she felt peculiar. Was he really proposing to do this for her? Would they get away with it? Would Sybil even agree to go along with such deceit? What if this Sybil woman told Mrs Russell? Would they get into trouble? So many questions!

  ‘You definitely don’t want to go in – for yourself, I mean?’

  In answer to her question, Ned shook his head. ‘I don’t need someone to tell me what lies ahead. My belief is that almost without exception, one gets the future one deserves, endeavour generally bringing its own reward. Aim for what you want, strive diligently towards it, and generally, success will come.’

  ‘That’s always been my thought too,’ she said, astounded to think that while they were so completely different, they should hold such similar views. ‘It’s just that I never thought to meet another person who felt the same. Most folk around here hold either that things are meant to be, or else that they’re not.’

  ‘Like you, I disagree. But, if you want an audience with Sybil, I have every faith that my plan will work. Just don’t be too long making up your mind. Whoever is in there at the moment is unlikely to be much longer.’

  Unexpectedly, Kate was beginning to regret showing her hand. ‘Do you think me foolish to be curious – to want to see what she has to say?’

  ‘As it happens, I don’t. Mamma brought her here for entertainment. Why not let her entertain you?’

  At that moment, she realized she was no longer sure what she wanted. But, if Ned was prepared to stick his neck out for her, then it behoved her not to appear ungrateful. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Thank you. Tell me what to do.’

  * * *

  It wasn’t what she had been expecting. Inside Madam Sybil’s tent there were just two easy chairs and a low table with a hurricane lantern from within which, a stubby candle was giving off a yellowy light. No crystal ball, no deck of cards featuring sinister drawings – not even saucers with tea leaves. To Kate, it was
a bit of a let-down.

  ‘The young man tells me you specifically requested an audience,’ Sybil said once she had bid Kate sit down.

  ‘Umm… yes. I mean, yes please.’

  The prophetess smiled. This close-to, she was younger than Kate had imagined. Her complexion was evenly-coloured – in this light, slightly golden – and her eyes unusually large and dark and rimmed with black. Her nose was prominent – hooked, even – and her lips full and painted scarlet. Apart from that, she wore no embellishments; her fingers were uncluttered by rings, her throat was free from collar or necklace, her ears devoid of gold or stones. Not at all what she had been expecting.

  ‘Sit quietly,’ the woman instructed her. ‘Remain still, keep your eyes upon mine and let me speak of what I see. Do not utter a sound, for to do so will break the connection.’

  Again, Kate had to force herself to swallow. ‘I understand,’ she said, her voice barely registering. And then, doing as she had been told, she stared back at the pair of dark eyes, feeling as though they were searching her soul, picking over her innermost thoughts, and uncovering her secrets.

  ‘You have questions about your future,’ Sybil began. ‘A natural state of affairs: you are young and still seeking your path through this life. But, I have a strong sense that what burns away at you most, is the question of whom you shall marry. Well, my dear, the answers to those questions and more are there for you to see. Your future is already written and, once you master the art of seeing it for yourself, you will become mistress of your own destiny. You will see your true path.’ Briefly, while trying to make sense of this, Kate lowered her eyes. Remembering Madam Sybil’s instruction, she quickly raised them up again. ‘Are you destined to remain in service or is there a Prince Charming in your future? The answers are there for you to see.’

  Momentarily forgetting Madam Sybil’s instruction about remaining quiet, Kate couldn’t help herself. ‘But how do I do that? See my future, I mean.’