The Silk House : A Novel (2020)

by Nunn, Kayte

  She was fair dizzy with the industry of the town, the foreign aromas and strange calls, the noise, snippets of conversation as tantalising as the smell of a stew on a cold day. In Inkpen, she had recognised the faces of everyone, known them all by name and they her, but now … who knew there could be this many unfamiliar souls contained in one place? She caught a glimpse of a butcher’s boy, running errands through the throng, his handcart laden with joints of meat, strings of sausages, a flitch of bacon. Something in the turn of his head, the curve of his jaw reminded her of Will, the eldest of her brothers, and she felt a sudden pang of homesickness for the cottage she had left behind and the quiet of her village.

  The man stopped suddenly at a large dwelling set back from the road and she halted a pace behind him. ‘Here we are,’ he said, a note of pride evident in his voice. ‘Hollander’s Fine Silks.’

  Rowan stared at the house. It was bounded by two smaller dwellings that leaned up against it like buttresses. As wide as it was tall – which was plenty – it was made of red brick with a steeply gabled tiled roof. Two large square-paned oak-framed windows looked out from either side of a broad doorway and a painted sign depicting a pair of shears swung above the lintel. Even from her swift survey, it was clear it was one of the town’s most impressive buildings.

  The ground floor was a shopfront, and displayed in the window to her left were bolts of fine cloth: plain, striped and some that were richly woven with exotic birds and flowers. It was to be several months before she would learn that the colours that so delighted her were turquoise, chartreuse, violet and vermilion, but only a few weeks before she would feel fine silk fabric between fingers that had previously only known coarse linen and broadcloth.

  Rowan dragged her gaze away from the fabrics and craned her neck skywards. The house was so tall it seemed to touch the sky. She counted three sets of windows, one atop another, those of the first floor paned with diamond-shaped glass. There were six chimneypots and four dormers jutting out of the pitched roof, and she knew from the height of it that there would be a great many stairs to reach the very top.

  The man retrieved a set of keys from the pocket of his coat and beckoned her into a small entranceway. Doors led off it to the left and right and a passage continued on towards the back of the house, which was dim and shadowed. ‘We live at the back and upstairs,’ he explained. ‘Your room – if you meet with my wife’s approval – will be at the top of the house, with Alice. Now follow me, for Mistress Hollander should be hereabouts.’

  He ushered her along the passageway and into a large, square room. Sconces lit the panelled walls and her boots sank into the thick carpets laid upon the floor. At the far end was a grand stone fireplace the colour of honey, where a fire burned smokily, the green wood spitting and hissing. She knew that there was a better kind to use.

  Beside the fire, a young woman sat reading in a chair. Her hair, dressed in loops and curls, shone fair, and her skin glowed, struck with firelight. Her gown was the colour of autumn cider and lace frothed at her slim wrists like a syllabub. She had a smallish, pink mouth, and a pointed chin that sharpened her otherwise serene features. A mole at the high point of her cheek, which might have been mistaken for a courtier’s beauty patch, drew attention to her round, china-blue eyes. Rowan had never encountered anyone quite like her before: she was so clean and dainty; she looked as though she might snap at the slightest pressure.

  ‘Ah, my dear Caroline,’ the man said, rubbing his palms together as if he were unsure of himself. ‘What do you think to our new maid?’

  ‘Rowan Caswell, ma’am.’ Rowan spoke up, for Mr Hollander – she presumed that was he – had not bothered to ask her name. She remembered that a curtsey might be in order and bobbed self-consciously.

  His wife turned and put down the book she had been reading, now studying Rowan with a languid curiosity. Rowan was grateful that her face was in shadow, that her scar might not be seen so clearly.

  ‘This will not do. It will not do at all.’

  Rowan’s spirits sank to the thin soles of her boots.

  ‘Were we not after a boy, someone we could train to be your valet?’ She shook her head, as if the fact of her husband returning with something other than he intended was not an unusual occurrence.

  ‘There was no one suitable.’

  ‘What? Not even early this morning?’

  ‘No, I am afraid not.’

  But there had been; Rowan remembered several boys of about her age, as well as older men, waiting to be hired.

  Caroline Hollander sighed, and inspected Rowan more closely. Her eyes narrowed, and Rowan knew that she had seen her scar. ‘She is no painting, but that is perhaps a good thing,’ she said. ‘All right, if there really was no one else, she will have to do, for now anyway. We shall have to get her clean, for I doubt the girl’s seen a bath for a good while. Probably lousy and with goodness knows any manner of other infestations.’

  The unkindness of her words was tempered by a sweet smile, but Rowan was affronted, though she knew better than to show it. She might be the worse from her long journey, but she used a tincture of rosemary, peppermint, clove and geranium that kept the lice at bay and her hair shiny. When necessary, she also rubbed a paste of fenugreek seeds and mustard oil on her body, which wasn’t as sweet-smelling, but was certainly efficacious. She might be a simple girl from a poor village, but she was no peasant.

  ‘Have Prudence arrange it tonight. But for heaven’s sake, Patrick, make sure she is fed first; the scrawny baggage looks like she hasn’t seen a meal for months.’

  Rowan allowed herself to breathe out. It seemed that she met with Mistress Hollander’s approval, enough to be employed on a trial at least.

  ‘And she will need new dresses. I’ll not have my servants clothed in rags. She can have an old one of Alice’s for the time being.’ Caroline Hollander picked up her book again, as if they had already taken their leave.

  ‘Of course, dearest,’ he replied. Then, to Rowan, ‘Come along, then, I’ll show you upstairs.’ He took a glass lamp from a sideboard and led them back along the hallway. Rowan glanced behind her as she left the room, seeing shadows gathered around her new mistress. She blinked and they disappeared; she told herself it was simply the effect of her unfamiliar surroundings.

  THREE

  Now

  A light rain had begun to fall, spotting the pavement, and Thea sheltered under the lintel in front of the house as she juggled the keys, trying to decide which one might open the newly painted front door.

  The house was at the far reaches of the long high street, just before it narrowed and curved upwards towards distant hills she remembered seeing on her first, daylight, visit. It was three storeys tall and square-fronted, with red-brick walls and a rust-coloured, lichen-spattered tiled roof. Four dormer windows were set in the steeply pitched roof, with chimneys at each end. Wide white-framed, multi-paned windows flanked the front door and a smart plaque next to it proclaimed the residence to be ‘Silk House’. A smaller sign underneath in black lettering, which looked to have been recently added, warned that it was ‘Strictly Private’. Not a single welcoming light shone from within.

  Thea had passed several pubs along the way to the house, hearing the roar of conversation and smelling the aromas of log fires and bitter ale seep from one as a couple entered, and she’d been sorely tempted to stop for a drink and something to eat, but thought better of it, even when it had begun to rain. Priorities, she reminded herself.

  She turned her attention back to the keys, selected one and then moved to insert it in the lock, but the front door now stood ajar. She stared at it, certain it had been shut a few seconds earlier. Pushing it with her fingertips, gently in case someone stood behind, she called out, her voice a question.

  ‘Hello?’

  A streetlight on the pavement nearby gave some illumination, but the interior of the house was pitch black. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched, and glanced behind her but
saw nothing. She stepped determinedly over the threshold and sniffed – the air inside the house smelled smoky and sharply herbal, as if somewhere a fire had been lit using damp wood. She didn’t scare easily, but an empty house on a dark night in an unfamiliar town was enough to give her pause. Swallowing the first inkling of a misgiving, she walked on, pulling her suitcase behind her. Once she was further inside, she set the case upright and shrugged off the zippered bag of hockey sticks that had been slung over her shoulder. She turned back, feeling along the wall by the door for a switch. Her fingers closed around a round dome and she pushed down on the button she found there. A light flickered and then glowed dimly.

  ‘Miss Rust?’

  She jumped when she heard the voice behind her and swung around.

  Standing at the other end of the passageway was a tall, gaunt woman, her silver-grey hair pulled back from her face, glasses shading her eyes. The light cast dancing shadows about the hallway, so that the woman’s body seemed insubstantial, melding with the gloom around her.

  ‘Yes, I’m Thea. Thea Rust,’ she said, ignoring a desire to turn back to the pub she’d passed, to the light and the warmth and the life there.

  The woman seemed to glide across the floor before stopping a few inches from her. The oversized, opaque-lensed glasses and severe hairstyle were at odds with her delicately patterned blouse. ‘You look hardly older than the girls we’re expecting. Mrs Mary Hicks. Dame of Silk House,’ she added, tucking her hands behind her back. A large cat the colour of smoke curled about her feet, disappearing and reappearing from under her skirts, hissing furiously at Thea.

  Now the woman had come closer, she was less intimidating, but nevertheless there was something about her that sent a shiver down Thea’s spine. ‘Very nice to meet you, Mrs Hicks,’ she said, doing her best to sound sincere. ‘I wasn’t sure if anyone was here – it was dark …’

  ‘Well, of course I would be here, Miss Rust. The girls arrive tomorrow. I have been so busy readying the house that I didn’t have time to turn on a light at the front. That is all.’

  Thea bit her lip at the condescending tone but said nothing. She didn’t want to make an enemy of the woman before they’d had a chance to get to know each other.

  ‘What a lovely cat,’ she said, trying to be friendly and bending down to stroke it. The cat slunk beneath the Dame’s skirts once again and Thea straightened, feeling foolish.

  ‘Isis. A damn fine mouser.’ Her lips twitched and she eyed Thea, as if silently evaluating her. ‘Be careful, though – she scratches.’

  ‘Got it.’ Thea had only a sketchy knowledge of Greek mythology, but knew the cat was likely named for a goddess not the Islamic State.

  ‘Well now, we should get you settled. Your room is at the top of the house,’ Mrs Hicks said, pointing in the direction of a staircase further along the passageway. ‘Turn left at the top, second from the end. I am at the back, to the left, on this floor. The girls will be on the first, second and top floors, with the communal rooms and breakfast area here on the ground. There’s also a garden at the back, off the breakfast room, and at the end, past the fishpond, is a gate in the wall that leads to the river. Going beyond the gate will be strictly out of bounds.’

  Thea sensed that dictate extended to her as well.

  ‘And in future, I would prefer if you call me Dame Hicks. It’s an Oxleigh tradition.’ She smiled, but Thea had no way of knowing if it reached her eyes or not – the glasses made her quite inscrutable. ‘I’ll give you a full orientation tomorrow,’ she added. ‘You’ll need to be up to speed before the girls arrive.’

  ‘When will that be exactly?’ asked Thea.

  ‘From three; enough time for them to settle in and unpack before supper at the house.’

  Thea knew from the copious briefing notes she had been sent, that the girls – fourteen of them – were to eat their early and late meals at the boarding house, but would have lunch and dinner at the main school with the rest of the pupils.

  ‘And Mrs Jackson? The housemistress?’ Thea had met her at her interview, a lovely, warm dumpling of a woman who smelled of talcum powder and peppermints. It occurred to her that if Mrs Hicks, or the porter for that matter, had been on the interviewing panel, she might have had second thoughts about taking the job. She could only hope that Mrs Jackson would smooth her path.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s been a slight hiccup there. She rather unfortunately injured herself playing badminton last weekend. Tripped over the shuttlecock. Has put her back out, so it seems,’ Dame Hicks said. ‘The school was obviously unable to employ anyone to replace her at such short notice, and I have been informed that you will stand in for her until she is recovered. Which will be quite some weeks, I am told.’

  Thea, who had been momentarily distracted by the thought of the chocolate bar in her bag, started. Had she heard correctly? She was to take responsibility for the new girls? The Dame sounded as happy about the prospect as she was and her mood plunged as she realised that it would mean being involved with their wellbeing and welfare. She loved teaching history and sharing her passion for the subject, but she had precisely zero experience in pastoral care, and had little patience for the petty dramas and emotions of teenage girls. She could still remember what it felt like to be sixteen years old, pivoting from crippling self-doubt to boundless self-belief, sometimes in the same minute. Although it was probably considered a step up in responsibility, she mused, it was not one she had planned on.

  ‘Obviously, I shall also be here,’ said the Dame. ‘But my role is to ensure the house runs smoothly, supervise the kitchen and cleaning staff, oversee the laundry and so on. Come along, then,’ she said, glancing at her watch, ‘and bring your bags. Let’s not waste any more time.’ She marched off at a smart pace, flicking on another light as she went, not checking to see if Thea was following. ‘On this floor we have the dining room – it was the hotel restaurant before the school bought the house.’ The Dame indicated a room off to the right and Thea looked through a half-open set of double doors, seeing two long tables and rows of chairs flanked by a serving area. Cheerful patterned curtains hung at the windows and she could smell that the room had been recently painted.

  ‘The kitchen is behind there,’ she said, pointing to a set of double doors at the end of the room. ‘Now, follow me upstairs.’

  A wide oak staircase, the time-buffed newel posts carved into acorns, led to the first floor. Thea hefted her suitcase and bag up the uneven treads, glad that she hadn’t given in to the temptation to pack more than absolutely necessary.

  They reached the first floor, where a long landing ran towards her right, off which were five doors, two on one side and three on the other. ‘The girls will sleep two or three to a room.’ As the Dame opened a door Thea peered around it to see twin beds, made up with white cotton duvets and thick pillows, and two desks with comfortable-looking chairs filling the space. Pinboards were fixed above each desk, a circular rug lay between the beds, and a wall of cupboards lined the back. To Thea the room looked, for the moment anyway, rather antiseptic, the only accessory a curious disc about the size and shape of a large pebble on one of the desks. Thea’s own teenage bedroom had been a similar size, though plastered from skirting board to ceiling with posters of hockey players, glossy thoroughbreds and tennis stars. She remembered with embarrassment a crush on Andre Agassi that had endured throughout her teenage years and wondered if the girls would be allowed to personalise their space. She suspected they might be limited to the pinboards.

  The Dame indicated a smaller staircase at the end of the hall that twisted upwards into darkness. ‘That leads to the attic, and also runs all the way down to the ground floor – I believe it was the original servants’ staircase. Two girls will share the larger room up there, and then there is your room, and a study for your use as well.’

  ‘Super. I can probably take it from here, thank you,’ said Thea, anxious to find her room and set down her heavy bags.

  ‘Very well. I wi
ll see you in the morning, then.’ As noiselessly as she had appeared, the Dame disappeared.

  Thea shifted her suitcase to the other hand, shouldered her hockey bag and carried on along the hallway. The first room had the names of three girls affixed to the door: Aradia Bianchi, Morgan Addington-Clay, Sabrina Fox. She opened it a few inches and saw a large space with two dormer windows that faced the high street. Despite the sloping walls, there was ample room for three beds, desks and a large wardrobe. There was even space for a pair of red gingham-upholstered armchairs, which were arranged around a low table. In one corner was a washbasin and a table on which sat a kettle, mugs and a couple of storage jars.

  Satisfied that she had seen all she needed to, Thea withdrew, closing the door behind her, and then hauled herself and her belongings up the final staircase to the top floor, where she found her rooms at the end of the corridor, past a door marked with the names Fenella and Camilla. She wouldn’t have been surprised to have also seen an Arabella, Henrietta or Clarissa affixed to the doors on the lower floors, such was the type of girl who was to attend Oxleigh College. She stopped herself. Her own name – Theodora – was hardly very different.

  As she wheeled her suitcase into the room, she took an inventory of her surroundings. There was a single bed, made up as the girls’ had been with a ticking duvet and a navy tartan blanket at the end – thank goodness they hadn’t gone for pink – as well as an armchair placed next to the single dormer window, and a large dresser. On the dresser sat the same pebble-shaped ornament she had seen in the other rooms. Curious, she picked it up, noticing a string of blinking lights around the circumference and the word ‘Ekko’ printed along the side. It seemed to be one of those smart devices, the ones Thea was convinced listened in to your conversations, fed information back to God-only-knew-who. She put it down, supposing she could always remove the batteries.