by Sara Rosett
I looked at Father. “You’re letting her move Mum’s rosebushes?”
“Tate House is her home now.”
Anger sizzled through me. “So you’re going to allow her to wipe away everything, change everything? Remove every trace of Mum? There’ll be nothing of Mum left by the time she’s done. I saw she’s taken down Mum’s portrait.”
He placed a papery hand over mine. It was light and birdlike, and I felt a pang as I remembered how sick he had been. “We have our memories of your mother. That’s the most important thing. I thought you’d like to have the portrait. Sonia is sending it out to have it cleaned.”
“Oh.” My flurry of emotion cooled a bit at the thought of owning the painting.
“Sonia can’t take away the memories we have,” he said. “Those will always be with us. Rosebushes are just . . .” He shrugged his bony shoulders. “Rosebushes.”
I knew he was right, but I didn’t like the situation. I placed my hand over his. “You make it difficult to argue with you. You’re much too commonsensical.”
Sonia came up the steps from the garden. As she stripped off her gloves, she caught sight of me, and her steps checked. Her mouth was naturally set in a downturned curve, but now her expression deepened into a frown as she came across to the table and put down her gloves. “Olive, we didn’t know you were coming.” She made it sound like an accusation.
“No, it was rather unexpected.”
Father said, “Olive is spending a few days at Parkview.”
The frown eased slightly. “How nice.”
A breeze stirred the leaves overhead and ruffled the pages of an open book in front of Father. He reached out to hold the book open at the point where he was reading, but Sonia beat him to it, deftly placing a marker at the page. “It’s time for tea. It should be along shortly.” She closed the book and stacked it with the books on the table. “You mustn’t overdo it.”
I tensed, waiting for his protest. Father never willingly left his studies. I’d often had trouble coaxing him to come to dinner, even when we were expecting guests. But he only smiled and replaced his glasses. “Of course, my dear.”
I gave a mental shake of my head, marveling at the changes Sonia had brought about in the short time since she had become mistress of Tate House. Tea arrived, brought by a maid I didn’t recognize. After she left, I asked, “Is she new? I don’t recognize her.”
“Yes,” Sonia said. “I’m training her up. Susan left for London last week.” Sonia handed me a teacup. “Someone put ideas into her head. No one wants to stay in the country anymore, even in a nice position such as this. They all want to go and become factory girls.”
This was clearly a barb aimed at me, and I opened my mouth to defend myself. Father cleared his throat. “And how do you find London, Olive?”
“Yes, have you found anything?” Sonia asked in a tone that indicated it would be beyond the bounds of believability for me to say anything other than no.
“Nothing firm, but I have several possibilities.”
Sonia’s eyebrows flew up. “Oh, you’re so much in demand that you can’t decide which job to choose?”
I lifted my chin. “I’m sure I’ll have some exciting news in a few weeks.”
Sonia focused on passing a slice of seed cake to Father, and I shot a look at him as guilt pricked me. He was the most easygoing and usually absentminded of men, but there were certain things that he simply could not and would not abide, like lying, hypocrisy, and cheating. But he was taking the piece of cake and didn’t notice what I’m sure was a guilty look on my face.
Sonia selected a sandwich. “I only hope you find a respectable position. Something in an office or a bank. Since you insist on working, you must consider your position and how it reflects on your father.”
Father said, “Olive always makes me proud. I’m sure whatever she finds to do will be perfectly suitable.”
Sonia adjusted the elaborate lace cuffs at her wrists. She wore a long-sleeved white shirtwaist with a high neck. It was tucked into a skirt that fitted tightly about her waist, an ensemble that was stylish a decade ago. With her puffy hair piled upon her head and gathered into a bun, she looked positively Edwardian. Perhaps that’s exactly what she wanted. She was only ten years older than me. Possibly her clothes and hairstyle were a deliberate choice, an effort to convey her maturity.
Sonia inspected the sandwich and plucked off a bit of crust that hadn’t been cut away. “Perhaps you can stay for dinner tonight? The curate is coming. I’m sure he would be delighted to see you again.”
“No,” I said. “I’m afraid Gwen has something arranged for this evening.” I didn’t know if she had or not, but I wasn’t about to allow myself to be maneuvered into sitting beside the sweaty curate with his bobbing Adam’s apple. “In fact, I should be going. Ross picked me up at the station in Upper Benning and has taken my bags on to Parkview. I’m sure Gwen will be wondering where I am.”
“That will work out well. It’s time for your father’s afternoon rest.” Sonia couldn’t disguise the relief that shaded her words.
Father said, “No need to fuss, Sonia. I can rest here just as easily.”
She placed a hand on his arm. “You mustn’t overtax yourself. You get wrapped up in your books and lose track of time. Before you know it, you will have done too much.”
I expected Father to shake off her hand, but he sent her a look of fondness, which she returned.
I set down my cup with a snap. “I really must be going.”
I gave Father a kiss on the cheek, said goodbye to Sonia, then went back through the house. I set off down the path through the trees that would take me over the bridge and into Parkview’s grounds, the sun hot on my hat and warming my shoulders. That look that they’d exchanged had cut through me. It was as if they’d drawn a circle around themselves, leaving me on the outside.
For over a decade it had been Father and me. Sonia had wormed her way into that pairing and pushed me right out. I increased my pace, trying to slough off the hurt of being excluded. I turned my thoughts to Gwen. She was capability itself. Aunt Caroline was a sweet woman, but she had little interest in household management. Gwen oversaw the day-to-day running of Parkview and enjoyed the task enormously. What Gwen could want my help with, I couldn’t imagine.
Chapter Four
I leaned over the edge of the bridge, my elbows pressed to the warm golden stone, and watched the river current as it parted and flowed around the limestone piers in a swirl of liquid movement. The swish of the water, birdsong, and the rustle of the leaves as the wind rushed through the trees were the only sounds. I pushed away from the bridge’s parapet. On the other side of the bridge, the road twisted away through the trees, but I set off diagonally through the woods, a shortcut that would bring me to Parkview more quickly.
The gate in the wall that enclosed Parkview’s grounds on this side was well hidden and covered in ivy, but I went to it unerringly. I pushed back a few strands of trailing ivy, then poked two fingers into a cleft in the masonry of the wall. My fingertips brushed against solid metal, and I extracted the heavy key. I unlocked the gate, replaced the key, and slipped through the gate into the dense wood. A little while later I emerged from the thicket of oaks and stepped onto the drive.
I paused to take in the elegant lines of the Georgian mansion with its portico, pediment, and divided staircase. The graceful lines of the building hadn’t changed, but the grounds looked rough around the edges. The lawn around the house had been cut, but where I stood farther away, weeds poked through the gravel, and the shrubbery sprouted pointy new growth that needed to be trimmed.
In the distance, a disappearing figure in tweed and a flat cap climbed up one of the rolling hills and entered a grove of trees, two dogs trotting along beside him. I squinted but couldn’t make out who it was. It could be Uncle Leo, who liked to walk the grounds to keep an eye on things. Or it could be Peter, who walked the grounds in an effort to exhaust himself so he could sleep.
It seemed he was trying to outpace his memories from the war.
As I neared the house, the front door opened and a blonde figure glided down one side of the pair of curving staircases and met me, arms outstretched. My cousin Gwen hadn’t embraced bobbed hair. She still parted her fair hair in the middle of her forehead and smoothed it back into a knot at the nape of her neck, but her fluttery cream-colored linen dress with a dropped sash was the latest style.
She gripped my hands and squeezed. “Thank you for coming.”
“Of course. I’d never ignore a telegram from you.”
Tall and lean, with brown eyes and a gentle manner, she was one of the most restful people I knew, but today her eyes were troubled. “I’m so glad you’re here. It’s too late, but at least you’re here.”
“Too late? What’s wrong?”
“It’s Violet.”
“Isn’t it always?” I said jokingly. Five years younger than Gwen and me, Violet had always been the one scampering along behind us, wanting to be involved, pestering us to do exactly what we were doing.
Gwen said, “She’s always been a handful, but this is worse than usual.”
“Yoo-hoo! Olive, over here.” I turned. A figure in pink waved frantically from the edge of the terrace at the side of the house. “Olive, you must come up now. I have wonderful news.”
Gwen shouted back, “Give her a moment, Violet. Olive hasn’t even been to her room.”
“But this can’t wait,” Violet said.
I waved a hand at Gwen. “It’s all right. I’ll go along now. We both know we won’t get a minute’s peace until I do.”
“That’s true, and I’m sure Violet will demonstrate exactly what’s wrong.”
We rounded the corner of the house and climbed the steps. As we emerged onto the terrace, Violet pounced on us, tucking a blue croquet mallet under her right arm and extending her left hand, fingers splayed. “I’m engaged.” The square-cut diamond caught the bright sunlight and refracted it.
“Violet,” Gwen said, “you haven’t even said hello.”
Violet tossed her head, and her short curls quivered against her flushed cheeks. Violet had the same shade of bright blonde hair as Gwen, but that’s where the similarities ended. Violet was shorter and rounder than her sister, all bounce and energy.
“I can’t help it. It’s just too, too exciting. Come on, you can meet him. He’s here now.” She grabbed my wrist and propelled me across the flagstones to the other side of the terrace where another flight of steps led down into the expansive gardens at the back of the house. Beyond the banks of flowers, a game of croquet had been set up on a stretch of the flat green lawn. A dark-haired young man in tennis whites was toeing a red croquet ball, inching it closer to a wicket.
“Alfred!” Violet said. “Come meet Olive.”
As we crossed the grass, Violet tucked her arm around my elbow and leaned close. “Isn’t he handsome? He’s simply the sweetest man ever. I never have to ask him to fetch me a drink when we’re at a party. He always has one for me, just when I want it. He’s a divine dancer too. And he has a lovely motor.”
“Well, those are all the top attributes one would want in a husband,” I said.
Gwen snorted, and Violet scowled at her. Alfred crossed the grass and met us, a wide smile on his face, which displayed perfectly even teeth that showed up brightly against his suntanned face. Violet released my arm and shifted to Alfred’s side as she introduced me.
“Congratulations to you both,” I said, aware that Gwen’s frown was a counterpoint to Alfred’s cheery expression.
He wrapped an arm around Violet and squeezed her in a side hug. “I’m the luckiest man in the world.”
Violet looked at me. “Isn’t he a dear?” She planted a kiss on his cheek. “We’re going to be married in August,” she said, her gaze locked with Alfred’s.
Gwen crossed her arms over her chest. “Nothing’s been decided yet.”
Violet pouted. “Daddy’s being such a fuddy-duddy. But I’ll bring him around.” She pressed into Alfred’s side.
Gwen said, “I thought you two were playing a game of croquet.”
Violet planted a hand on Alfred’s chest and pushed him away. “We are. And I’m going to trounce you.” She twirled her mallet and ran toward the wickets.
“Care to join us, ladies?” Alfred waved his red mallet toward the discarded mallets on the terrace. “Plenty of room for more players.”
“No,” Gwen said instantly. “I’m sure Olive would like to have some tea first.”
I didn’t think it was possible for Alfred’s smile to get any bigger, but he exposed a few more teeth. “Perhaps we can play a game of doubles later.”
“I’m afraid I feel a headache coming on. I’d better spend some time in the shade.” Gwen marched back to the terrace and up the stairs.
I hurried to keep up with her. “Are you feeling unwell?”
She looked a little shamefaced. “My headache isn’t a literal one. It’s figurative.” She shot a glance at Alfred as we sat at a table in the shade where tea had been laid out.
“Well, he’s certainly handsome,” I said.
Gwen rang for a maid, who took my hat, gloves, and handbag away to my room, then Gwen poured me a cup of tea. “I’m afraid that’s his only qualification. I know it’s the only one that matters to Violet.”
“You forget, he also has a very nice motor and is a divine dancer.”
Gwen laughed and handed me a cup of tea. I took it even though I’d already had tea that afternoon. After weeks of my stomach rumbling and growling with hunger, I wasn’t about to refuse a drop of tea or a bite of food. I settled into the wrought iron chair and sipped my tea, feeling cosseted. I truly appreciated the rarefied atmosphere of Parkview, probably for the first time in my life.
On the lawn, Alfred was holding Violet’s hand as she balanced on one foot to adjust the strap of her shoe. I said, “He seems to be solicitous of Violet.”
Gwen watched them, then asked, “What do you think of Alfred? What’s your first impression?”
“He smiles too much.”
“I knew I could count on you. You’re good at grasping the meat of the thing.”
I grimaced. “That doesn’t sound pleasant.”
“It is a compliment,” Gwen said. “I asked you here hoping you could convince Violet to slow down, to rethink this engagement. You know how she admires you. But it’s too late now. She’s sent off the announcements to the newspapers.”
“I don’t think anyone could influence Violet to do anything she doesn’t want to. She seems to be set on Alfred.”
“Yes, that’s the problem. If Mum and I try to talk her out of it, you know she’ll dig in her heels.”
Aunt Caroline came up through the garden and climbed the steps to the terrace. She held her box of paints in one hand and a canvas shiny with wet oils in the other. “Oh, hello, Olive. We’re so glad you could come. Careful, dear. The paint is still wet.” She held the canvas away as I gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.
“It’s lovely of you to have me.”
She propped the painting up against the stone balustrade at the edge of the terrace, then set her box of paints on the table and dropped into a chair. The painting was a combination of blobs and splashes in bright colors. It might be the shrubbery maze . . . or possibly a turtle. I wasn’t quite sure, and I knew better than to ask Aunt Caroline.
Aunt Caroline and Father were brother and sister, but if they stood side by side, there was no physical resemblance. Father was dark and on the weedy side, while Aunt Caroline was tall and fair with beautiful skin that she’d passed on to her daughters. Violet had inherited her voluptuous figure. The only thing Aunt Caroline and Father had in common was their ability to delve so deeply into their pursuits that they became absentminded and tended to view the goings-on around them with a hazy, confused air. Many a time, I had taken Father his tea in the afternoon, and he had looked up with the same expression that was on Aunt Caroli
ne’s face right now. “Tea?” she said. “I can’t believe it’s so late.”
Gwen handed her a cup. “It is.”
The croquet game continued on the lawn. The thwack of a mallet hitting a croquet ball carried through the air, and Violet’s blue ball sailed across the lawn to the far side. She smacked Alfred’s arm with her palm. “Beast!”
Alfred’s reply floated up to the terrace. “Darling, you know I always play to win.”
Aunt Caroline put her teacup down with a crack, her gaze sharp and focused. “I don’t trust that young man.”
One difference between Father and Aunt Caroline was that she occasionally emerged from her self-absorbed fog and came out with a statement of striking clarity. “Who is Alfred Eton? That’s what I want to know,” Aunt Caroline said. “He’s made a few blunders—it makes me wonder.”
Gwen asked, “What do you mean, Mum?”
“Did you see him when Violet introduced him? He didn’t wait for me to put my hand out. He put his hand out first.”
“Oh, Mum,” Gwen said. “Don’t be so old-fashioned. He was probably nervous.”
“And he didn’t let Violet precede him last night when everyone came down for dinner.”
“Things are much more informal now,” Gwen said. “You’re making too much of it.”
Aunt Caroline said, “Well, his behavior is ill-mannered. And that’s to say nothing of his friends. That photographer—that Sebastian Blakely—he’s not what I consider good company.”
“Sebastian is Alfred’s godfather,” Gwen explained to me.
“And, more importantly, who are his people?” Aunt Caroline picked up a macaron, looked at it, and put it on her plate. “In my day, we courted at home, not out. We knew the families people came from. Alfred is so vague. All this about India. Just because he grew up on another continent doesn’t mean he can’t be specific.”
“His father was in the civil service,” Gwen said. “I did manage to get that out of him.”
Aunt Caroline leaned over her teacup. “But does he have any prospects? As far as I can tell, he doesn’t, except assisting that society photographer. And that’s certainly not something you can establish a household on.”
