by R. N. Morris
Sir Aidan rose from his desk with a spring in his step. He crossed to a glass-fronted cabinet displaying a collection of crystal decanters, containing various levels of subtly different dark-hued liqueurs. This was the thing to do with Cavendish, loosen him up a little, flatter him with attention, make him feel important. Fix him a drink, in other words.
Sir Aidan held out a satisfyingly weighty cut-glass tumbler, filled with effervescent amber liquid. He breathed in its intoxicating whiff as he surrendered it. ‘I may incur some expenses in relation to the concert myself.’ He was careful not to look at the treasurer as he said this.
Cavendish’s dubious expression sharpened into out-and-out suspicion. ‘What expenses?’
‘Small, small expenses. I wouldn’t want to trouble you with the details. You already have so much on your plate. Perhaps the easiest thing would be for you to pre-sign one or two cheques for me …’ Seeing the look of horror on the treasurer’s face, Sir Aidan quickly changed the subject. ‘How is Ursula?’
He went back to the cabinet for his own drink, raising his glass with what he hoped was a broad, easy smile. In fact, he found that it took considerable effort to pull it off. And he still could not look his treasurer in the eye.
That dark tone was still in the treasurer’s voice. ‘Why do you ask?’
There was something eating Cavendish, that much was clear. Sir Aidan had no wish to get to the bottom of it. Something to do with his wife, no doubt. They must have had another argument. He made a nonchalant gesture with one hand. ‘Good old Ursula. She really is a brick.’ What he hoped to achieve by these bland observations, he really had no idea.
He felt the man’s gaze boring into him, to the point that he could not ignore it any longer. He glanced up, startled by the glare of animosity that was directed at him.
Sir Aidan frowned and gave a brief, bewildered shake of the head, before dipping his eyes to focus on his suddenly very interesting drink.
TWO
The coals in the grate cracked and settled, heating the room to a toasty warmth. The fire gave off more than warmth, however; it gave off contentment, which the sleeping tabby curled up on the hearthrug inhaled with every gentle snore.
Two children sat at an undersized nursery table, absorbed in the activity of turning sheets of paper into artefacts of their imaginations. A young woman squatted on a chair that was much too small for her, encouraging them with her benign and smiling presence.
‘Here, Daphne, let me help you with that.’ Hattie Greene reached across the table towards the sheet of pink paper that four-year-old Daphne was at that moment grappling with.
‘I can do it,’ Daphne insisted.
But it was a difficult fold, along the length of the foolscap-sized sheet, which appeared gigantic and unruly in Daphne’s dear little hands.
Hattie carefully suppressed her own instinct for perfection, remembering that it was a different kind of perfection she was aiming for – the perfection of a happy, confident girl, who would one day grow up to be an accomplished woman. No, she must smile and nod and utter approving sounds and even whole words of encouragement, without going so far as to lie, of course. She must let Daphne know how pleased she was with her for making the attempt.
‘That’s very good!’ And actually, it wasn’t too bad, though by no means the perfect alignment of edges that was necessary for the next stage in the construction of a Chinese lantern.
‘No, it’s not,’ said John, with a brief, contemptuous glance down at his sister’s handiwork. He effected all the hauteur of the senior sibling, although it was only two years that separated them. ‘It’s no good. When you cut the slits, they will be all skew-whiff.’
A more fragile personality than Daphne might have been reduced to tears by such forthright criticism. But the fact was she could see nothing wrong with the loosely folded paper in her hand. As far as she was concerned, she had achieved exactly what she had set out to achieve. Which was, quite simply, to sit next to Hattie Greene and play with paper.
‘Don’t be unkind, John. Daphne’s doing very well.’
John sat up and appraised Daphne’s work again, this time with deeper consideration, indicated by a conscious furrowing of his brow. At length, he stuck out his lips and gave a deliberate shrug, followed by a heavy sigh: John was bored and he wanted them to know it. He had long finished making his lantern, which was, of course, a perfect example of such artefacts. It stood on the table in front of him as an advertisement of his superior skill.
Hattie could read the signs, and if she wasn’t careful, John’s boredom would turn into something nastier. He would continue goading his sister until he provoked a quarrel.
If they could get to jam sandwiches and cocoa without tears, it would be a miracle. The trick with John was to distract him. ‘I say, John, dear, why don’t you find a book to read while Daphne finishes her lantern.’
‘Will you read to us?’ said John, brightening, and Daphne also smiled to herself at the prospect.
‘Perhaps I will, if you find something that everyone will like.’
John jumped up from his seat and crossed to the bookshelves. He cast Hattie Greene a sly, sidelong glance. He knew exactly which book to pick.
Hattie gave a little smile too, for she was fairly sure which one he had in mind.
And, sure enough, he came back clutching to his chest the splendid illustrated edition of The Wind in the Willows, which he had been given as a present the previous Christmas.
It was wonderful and strange, the spell the book held over his young imagination. He was particularly fascinated by the illustrations, which, in truth, Hattie found rather disturbing. John’s favourite was a colour plate depicting Mr Toad in a garishly lit corner of Toad Hall, his shadow cast sharply against the wall. Indeed, he had opened the book to that page now.
In Hattie’s view, the illustration had a slightly nightmarish quality, quite unlike a picture in a children’s book. For one thing, the animal was shown naked, as a real toad in the wild would be, of course, but this toad was standing upright, in a most un-toadlike way, gesticulating with his webbed fingers. The characters in the story behaved in an all too recognizably human way, but by emphasizing their animal natures in his paintings, the illustrator seemed to be hinting at something feral within the human heart. This was not a story about animals who behaved like humans, but humans who were revealed to be animals.
Miss Greene preferred the clothed and homely creatures who populated Beatrix Potter’s books.
John ran his finger along the line of the toad’s mouth, as if he was willing it to open and speak to him.
Hattie smiled indulgently. ‘Now, where did we get to?’ she said, moving her seat so that she could look over John’s shoulder at the book.
Just then, the wind hurled a ragged volley of winter against the panes. It was a vast, weary sound. A gasp of frustration and despair. Although she was not in fact cold, Hattie gave a momentary shudder.
‘Just a moment.’ She sprang up from her tiny perch with the lithe decisiveness of a cat (though the tabby on the hearthrug showed no sign of stirring) and crossed to the window.
Hattie stood for a moment, gazing into the glassy blackness. She saw her face reflected back at her, pale and tremulous, floating like the face of a ghost.
There was something out there that she wanted to keep at bay. Something huge and hostile and unimaginable that threatened the calm peace of the nursery that she worked so hard to create. It was impossible to think of reading the story while she sensed it looming.
She strained to hear it. The boom of war. Men shooting precision-engineered projectiles into other men. But it was on the other side of the darkness. Even so, she knew it was there.
Hattie herself had a brother and several cousins and one very dear friend, who would soon be joining in that terrible endeavour. They were safe for the moment, bored silly in various training camps dotted around the country, and that consoled her.
The letters that she rece
ived from them were determinedly droll and arch, as if drollery and archness could protect them from the onslaught to come. It pulled at her heart to read how impatient they were for action. Their greatest fear, it seemed, was that they might miss out. The war would be over before it had even begun. Their glib self-effacing witticisms drew laughing sobs and had her shaking her head, half in admiration, half in anguish.
Only that special friend, James Delaware, dared to speak to her with anything she recognized as honesty. He alone confessed that he was afraid, but that it was the thought of her – taking care of her precious little charges – that gave him courage.
Drawn by an eruption of giggles, Hattie redirected her attention to the children. She was startled to see their father standing in the doorway of the nursery. How long had he been there watching her? There was something about his unguarded look, when she first caught sight of it, that she did not like. Something that reminded her, more than a little, of the leering Mr Toad.
Sir Aidan bowed a condescending greeting as he stepped into the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Greene.’
‘Papa!’ cried Daphne, noticing her father for the first time. ‘Look what I made!’
‘You haven’t made anything, Daphne,’ said John. ‘You’ve sort of folded a piece of paper.’
Sir Aidan exchanged an indulgent look with Hattie, which left her feeling oddly compromised.
‘Well, I must say,’ declared Sir Aidan, his avid gaze lingering on her still, ‘it is very gratifying to find everyone so industriously employed today.’
‘We’re making Chinese lanterns,’ said John.
‘Are you? Are you indeed? That’s jolly clever of you, I must say. And Miss Greene has taught you how to do this, has she?’
‘Hattie Greene,’ said Daphne, for no very good reason.
‘Hattie Greene. Yes. Indeed. Hattie Greene.’
Hattie bowed her head and felt herself, foolishly, blush. What was it about his repetition of her name that so unsettled her? It was almost as if he were casting a spell. As if the presence of her name on his lips gave him some claim over her.
Well, he was her employer and so she supposed he did have some claim over her. He was perfectly entitled to come to the nursery, her place of work, and satisfy himself that she was doing her job in a manner that met with his approval.
‘You children must be very good for Hattie Greene, you know. You are very lucky to have such a …’ Sir Aidan trailed off. Hattie could not resist looking at him. And she saw that he was gratified by her curiosity. ‘Delightful … yes, such a delightful … such a delightfully pretty young nanny to look after you. Oh, Hattie Greene, you would not believe some of the frightful old horrors we have had before you …’
She wanted to tell him that she did not think it was right to talk so disrespectfully of her predecessors in front of the children. But it was not her place, surely, to do so?
‘Isn’t that right, children?’
She didn’t like the way he drew the children in either, making them complicit in his nastiness.
‘Remember Miss Hardcastle? What an old battleaxe she was!’
Perhaps not understanding what he meant by battleaxe, or perhaps sensing Hattie’s unease, Daphne and John did not respond, except to frown uncertainly.
‘Sir, please, I …’ Hattie raised her eyebrows pleadingly towards the children.
Sir Aidan, if he understood the meaning of her gesture, refused to acknowledge it, except with a sly ratcheting up of his grin. ‘She was no fun. Not like Hattie Greene, was she, children?’
And he looked her up and down approvingly.
‘Do you sing, Hattie Greene?’
‘Sing, sir?’
‘Yes, sing. You look like you have a fine pair of lungs.’
‘I don’t know what you mean, sir?’
‘You’re young, healthy. You keep yourself in good shape. Anyone can see that. Haven’t I heard you singing to the children? I’m sure I have.’
Sir Aidan walked over to the old upright piano that stood against one wall. An album of nursery songs was open on the music stand. The fingers of his right hand effortlessly picked out the melody of ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’, while with his left he improvised an elaborate arpeggio accompaniment. He winced at the fractured notes produced. ‘Must get this old box tuned.’
‘We do, sir. We do sing. The children like to sing.’
‘Will you sing something for me now?’ Sir Aidan had found a dead key, a high F natural, and was repeatedly hammering it.
‘Now, sir?’
‘I would very much like it. And I’m sure the children would like it too. Wouldn’t you, children?’
But the children’s response was not unanimous. While Daphne was enthusiastic, and was even now giving her own lisping rendition of the song her father had just played, John was suddenly abashed. He watched his father with a wary scowl.
‘Come over here, my dear Hattie Greene, and let me look at you.’
It was endearing when the children called her by her full name. But somehow, Sir Aidan’s adoption of their habit struck a false note. She found it increasingly sinister.
Hattie told herself that she was being a fool and approached the piano.
‘What would you like to sing for me?’
‘I could sing one of the songs from that book?’
‘A nursery rhyme? No, no, no. That will not do. I was hoping for something more romantic. Something passionate. Something that shows me a little of the fire that burns within you. There is a fire burning within you, is there not, Hattie Greene?’
‘I am sure I don’t …’
‘I am sure I do. How about “I Can’t Tell Why I Love You But I Do”? Do you know that one?’
‘I d-do …’
‘Splendid.’ Sir Aidan sat at the piano stool and briskly vamped the introductory chords, giving Hattie the nod at her cue to come in.
Hattie swallowed down her apprehension and began to sing, in a small, tentative voice: ‘On a summer’s day in the month of May—’
Sir Aidan broke off playing. ‘No, no, no! That won’t do at all.’
He sprang up from his seat and looked her up and down appraisingly. ‘Stand up straight, Hattie Greene.’
He came up to her and stood behind her, placing one hand against the small of her back as he gently eased her shoulders back with the other hand. ‘Shoulders back, chest out. Nothing to be ashamed of there, Hattie Greene.’ He came round the front of her now and looked down approvingly at her breasts. He touched her chin and tilted her head up, as if he were moving the parts of an artist’s mannequin. ‘That’s better, so much better. You’re very beautiful, you know, Hattie Greene. That’s why we do all love you so. Isn’t that right, children?’
But John and Daphne said nothing, simply watched in open-mouthed stupefaction at their father’s handling of Hattie Greene.
‘Stand with your legs slightly apart and your toes angled outwards.’
Hattie adjusted her posture. All she wanted was for the ordeal to be over. She thought that if she did as he said he would leave her alone. But it was not to be.
‘Almost. Let me help you.’
Sir Aidan dropped to his knees and took hold of one of her feet, twisting it into the desired angle. ‘I do like your shoes, Hattie Greene.’ And he stroked the left shoe once to show how much he liked it, finishing by cradling her ankle in his hand. She yanked her foot out of his grip. He gave a throaty laugh. ‘Spirited! I like that. Let it show in your performance. I want to hear something of that passion coming through. But this won’t do, you know. You’ve lost your position.’ Sir Aidan took hold of the recalcitrant foot once more and returned it, with rather more firmness than before, to the required spot.
He breathed in deeply through his nose, which happened to be inches from Hattie’s crotch. ‘Ahh!’ And with a wistful gaze, he tore himself away from the contemplation of that part of her body and resumed his seat at the piano
.
‘Let’s try that once more, shall we? This time, with heartfelt emotion, please. You are in love, remember. Is that so hard to imagine, Hattie Greene? You have abandoned yourself to a passion that you do not understand, perhaps one that you do not even welcome, but one which you absolutely cannot deny.’
She closed her eyes and sang the song through with a full-voiced emotion. But it was not the passion that Sir Aidan had asked for. It was anger.
At the end of her performance he held his hands over the keys of the clunking, discordant piano and listened to the tremulous dying of the last chord as if it was the most beautiful sound in the world.
‘I knew you had it in you,’ he said at last. ‘I just had to find a way to get it out.’
THREE
He was in there.
She didn’t need to press her ear to the nursery door to know. Who else would it be? The baritone rumble of his voice was unmistakable. She felt it in the pit of her stomach. But whereas once that vibration would have stimulated a warm tingle of excitement, now it was like the twanging of an over-tightened violin string. It provoked the entirely unpleasant sensation that something was about to snap.
Not that Lady Emma Fonthill was spying on her husband. It was not a question of that.
Well, perhaps it was. But she had her reasons.
He had to be protected from himself. She had given him too much latitude as it was. He’d made a fool of himself over the Seddon girl. Hadn’t he learnt his lesson by now?
She heard a few thin chords strummed out on the nursery piano. Despite the horrid tone produced, she recognized his touch: firm, deft, assertive. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have gone anywhere near the old, out-of-tune piano, not for musical purposes at any rate. Why would he when he had the Danemann in his study? But his purposes here were not musical.
She ought to burst in on them now and put an end to this embarrassing courtship display before the damage was done. But something kept her on this side of the door. Was it a lingering illusion that she might be wrong?
