Promise to Obey

by Whitelaw, Stella

  Upton Hall was impressive, standing within the lea of a low pastured hill, sheltered on two sides from the worst of the wind. It was a two-storeyed stone building with leaded windows, with a tall tower at one end with wide curved bay windows, crenulated like a mock castle. The front door was of heavy oak, flanked by two columns and a porch of slate. Virginia creeper was turning to russet on the walls, warming the austere lines of the house.

  ‘It’s … it’s very grand,’ said Jessica, eventually, unable to find the right words. She had a hundred sudden impressions, crowding in. ‘How old is it?’

  ‘It’s a Victorian folly, built onto a medieval farmhouse and stables, we think. The farmhouse is at the back, part of it now the new kitchen, a utility room and garages. It’s rambling inside. You’ll get lost.’

  ‘I’m lost already,’ said Jessica.

  Upton Hall was awesome, so much larger than anything she had ever seen before. But its grandeur had a certain gentleness, a timeless warmth.

  The unhappiness in her voice was not lost on Lucas. He bent forward, his fiery, silver grey eyes for once tinged with concern. ‘Cheer up, Miss Harlow. You’ll love it once you get used to it. Upton Hall will grow on you.’

  Jessica did not believe him. Nothing was going to sway her or make the next three months any easier. She would have to grit her teeth and get on with it. The handsome Lucas Coleman could be as pleasant and welcoming as he could manage, it would not make any difference. She hated the countryside, she hated trees and especially she hated wet trees, dripping everywhere.

  ‘Does it ever stop raining?’

  ‘Occasionally. We put out the flags and eat in the garden.’

  ‘Even in winter?’

  ‘Especially in the winter.’

  Now he was laughing at her and that made the arrival even worse. The sooner she escaped to whatever damp bedroom was to be hers, the better. She would lock the door, become distant and withdrawn and go into a Jane Austen decline.

  Lucas stopped the car in the curved drive and climbed out. He went round and opened the car door. Jessica was struggling to undo the safety belt.

  ‘Let me do that for you,’ he said, bending over her. For a second his unruly dark hair brushed her face and the shock was electric. The freshness of soap and water with his own manly scent was overwhelming, scant inches away. For a second Jessica could not breathe. It was an endless moment.

  ‘There. It’s an awkward one, too far back. Damned designers.’

  He straightened up and held out his arm to assist her. The passenger seat of the Porsche was so low down, again Jessica was struggling. She had to use his arm as a lever, to get herself out of the seat. She was angry for being made to look such a fool when she was normally so calm and efficient. It washed over her in a turbulent wave. She brushed back wet hair from her face.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, trying to regain her composure. ‘Damned stupid seat,’ she went on. ‘Built for a midget.’

  ‘And you are about five foot seven. I do agree. I have the same problem.’

  Now that Lucas was standing beside her, she realized that he was over six feet. He would have to fold himself up to get inside the car. He was already getting her case out of the boot and carrying it towards the front door.

  He turned round, seeing her hesitation. It was a long, challenging look.

  ‘Are you coming, or have you changed your mind already?’

  Jessica did not know what to say. He was giving her a chance to back out. Say yes, and in twenty minutes she could be sitting on a wet platform, waiting for a train back to London, if there were any trains back to London at this time.

  ‘I’m coming.’

  It didn’t sound like her at all. Some other person was speaking. Some strange woman that she didn’t know. The real Jessica Harlow had gone into hibernation.

  The hall floor was tiled with black and white squares. A curving staircase led to the upper regions. Busts of Greek philosophers stood on marble pillars and portraits of ancestors in oil glared down from the walls.

  Someone had put bursts of wild flowers on side tables and their scent was overwhelming. The huge vases looked antique and valuable.

  ‘Mrs Harris, the housekeeper,’ said Lucas, putting down her case and bag. ‘She has a mania for picking flowers but no sense on how to arrange them. It requires a special skill. Perhaps you can do flowers. Let me show you round.’

  He opened a door to the left. It was a long, gracious room in ivory and pale blue with a grand piano, armchairs and more portraits. ‘The sitting room,’ he announced. ‘My mother uses it when she has bridge parties.’

  Jessica could not imagine anyone sitting there and feeling comfortable. It was stiff and unused. A room that was kept for best and best never happened.

  Lucas turned right off the hall. ‘The library. No overdue fines.’

  The room was wall to wall leather-bound books, ninety-nine per cent unread. But Jessica spotted a small clutch of modern novels on a side table. It also had a computer at a desk overlooking the drive. The several armchairs were deep and inviting, well used. There was a small wine cooler in a corner.

  ‘Can you use a computer?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not from outer space,’ she answered, biting off each word.

  ‘You may use this one. Remind me to give you the password.’

  Lucas nodded, then opened sliding doors in a wall between the bookcases. ‘This leads into the dining room. So if we hold a party, we can use both rooms. Unfortunately, we rarely hold parties. Such a pity. This house was made for parties.’

  The dining room was beautiful with eau de nil walls, toning carpet and curtains. More portraits on the walls. A long polished walnut table that could seat at least twelve people. Jessica hoped she would not have to eat here.

  ‘How do you talk to each other?’ she asked. ‘With walkie-talkies?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘We don’t sit marooned at either end. We sit together, here at the top. It’s really pleasant. Nearer the kitchen, so the food is always hot.’

  He took her up a few steps into a strangely bleak area, whitewashed walls and low ceiling. There was nothing in it, apart from a stone inglenook fireplace. The floor was made up of huge slabs of uneven slate. Their size was amazing.

  ‘We think this is the oldest part of the house, perhaps even before the farmhouse. Maybe it’s all that is left of some medieval hall. This middle post has been dated back to 1412. All the rest has gone.’

  The post was thick and blackened, gnarled and sturdy enough to hold up a roof. Lucas stood with his arms laced easily round the post in an embrace, something he had done since a child. He was looking at the post fondly.

  ‘How do they know how old it is?’ Jessica asked.

  ‘They took a core sample,’ he said. ‘It’s the tiniest plug of wood. They can tell the date by the year rings. It’s very clever and very accurate.’

  ‘No graffiti?’

  ‘Not on our rings.’

  ‘I’m relieved.’

  They went back into the hall and began climbing. The stairs divided halfway and Lucas took her first to the left. ‘The kid’s bedrooms are in this wing. They have a bedroom each, a family bathroom, and their nanny’s room is next door.’

  ‘Do I have the nanny’s room, then?’ Jessica felt this was to be her place in their life. She was the nanny, single bed, no radiator, no fire, cramped and soulless..

  ‘No way, Miss Harlow. Follow me.’ He led her across the wide landing. Jessica reckoned they must be nearing the tower. ‘My mother has the front bedroom in the tower. It’s a beautiful room with big windows that look out onto the garden, the best in the house. You are in the guest room, next to hers. It’s called the Primrose Room. I think you’ll like it.’ He threw open the door.

  It was as big as her entire flat in London with pale yellow walls and cream paintwork; buttermilk damask curtains with matching cover on the double bed. A sofa covered in saffron velvet toned with the carpet; a desk by the window,
and an upright chair with upholstered seat in the same velvet. The room was warm and radiated light. ‘En suite through there,’ Lucas added, pointing to a far door.

  Jessica went over to the window. The view was of rolling hills and dappled fields, the hedges and crops of trees like a painting. Nothing moved. It was so still, emptiness and clarity stole the scene. It had even stopped raining. So unlike the rooftop view from her North London flat of ugly buildings, refuse bins and scaffolding, parked lorries and neon street lights.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said with genuine warmth. ‘I love the room.’

  Lucas did a mock sigh of relief. ‘Glad to have got something right at last.’

  ‘So where’s your room?’

  Jessica had not meant to ask but it came without thinking. She did not want to bump into him in the night. Coming home late from a party.

  ‘I have a makeshift sort of room, somewhere to bunk down, over the garage stables. I’m not here much. You won’t bump into me in the night,’ he added, reading her thoughts. ‘You may want to tidy up before meeting my mother. She’s very particular. I’ll bring up your case.’

  The buttercup tiled bathroom was as pretty as the bedroom. Jessica had another sigh of relief. She was going to be so comfortable here. Some of her misgivings faded, her spirit recovering. But she still tested the lock on the door.

  She was dishevelled by the wind and rain and all her subtle make-up had disappeared. She set to and repaired the damage so that Lady Grace would get a good impression. Her high-heeled shoes were muddied and she changed into a pair of flat black suede slip-ons. Her wet jacket was hung behind the bathroom door to dry.

  She tucked her white shirt into the plain navy skirt, added a red patterned silk scarf to her throat and she was ready to face the dragon.

  ‘So you are the nurse who is supposed to look after me and make sure I do all the right things,’ said Lady Grace with a decided lack of grace. ‘You’re a bit too young and skinny for my idea of a nurse. Are you properly trained? Supposing I fell?’

  ‘I’m stronger than you think,’ said Jessica.

  ‘You don’t look strong enough to lift a bedpan.’

  ‘I should hope you are bathroom trained.’

  ‘I’m convalescing after a serious operation, I’ll have you know. I need a great deal of care and attention.’

  ‘Hip and knee replacements are routine these days and highly successful,’ said Jessica. ‘You’ll be as right as rain in no time, and free of pain.’

  Lady Grace snorted. ‘I’m certainly not free of pain yet. I need regular medication.’

  ‘I can do regular medication,’ said Jessica calmly.

  ‘Any idiot can pop a couple of capsules and fill a glass with water. I don’t need your help.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. I shall be free then to make sure you eat the right foods and take the right amount of exercise. Exercise is the key. It will all help to make your recovery quick and painless.’

  ‘I can do all of that by myself, thank you, Nurse, Matron, whatever you are,’ said Lady Grace. ‘Well, if you have got to stay, I suppose I’ll have to get used to it. What am I supposed to call you?’

  ‘Jessica will do fine,’ said Jessica.

  ‘I don’t like fancy names. I shall call you Jess.’

  Jessica fumed. She hated her name being shortened. It made her sound as if she was a dog. A shaggy dog at that.

  Lady Grace was indeed tetchy and short tempered. She was sitting in an armchair by the big bay window in her bedroom, dressed in a fawn skirt and blue twin set, a double string of pearls at her neck. Her fine grey hair was drawn back into a French pleat and pinned with combs. She had a certain pallor after her operation and the lines on her face were not all bad temper and impatience.

  ‘Shakespeare didn’t think Jessica was a fancy name,’ said Jessica. ‘He used it in one of his plays, The Merchant of Venice. Jessica was the daughter of Shylock, in love with Lorenzo.’

  ‘Makes no difference. I’ll still call you Jess, Shakespeare or not. Never could stand all that rubbish. Shakespeare indeed.’

  Jessica let it pass. There were more important things to discuss. She had a feeling that Lady Grace was not moving about much or doing any exercises.

  ‘How are you getting on with the exercises they gave you at the hospital?’ she asked. ‘Have you got the printed sheet?’

  ‘They are too painful so I’m not doing them,’ said Lady Grace. ‘Getting from my bed to this chair is all I can do at present.’ She nodded towards the window. ‘I like the view. It’s perfect, don’t you agree?’

  Jessica moved towards the bay window. She could appreciate the glorious countryside now, hill upon hill of the South Downs, once deeply forested, now for grazing sheep and growing corn. The view from this window was of the gardens which she had not noticed, arriving in the rain in Lucas’s low-slung car. The rain had flattened some of the flowers, the heavy heads hanging with abandon to the elements. But the droplets were glistening in the late sun and the garden looked magical.

  ‘It is indeed a beautiful garden, a beautiful view,’ said Jessica. ‘You’ll be able to walk round it very soon. Once we get you downstairs.’

  ‘I can’t go downstairs!’ Lady Grace was aghast. ‘I can’t do stairs. Far too painful. I can barely reach this chair.’

  ‘The more exercise you do, the less painful it will be,’ said Jessica patiently. ‘The long term success of this operation depends on the patient strengthening the leg muscles that hold up the hip. So, regular exercise.’

  ‘I’m not just the patient,’ said Lady Grace indignantly. ‘I’m Lady Grace Coleman, not a nobody. I know what I can do and what I can’t do.’

  Jessica held back a sharp retort. She paced the bedroom, judging its size. It was a big room, decorated in a style of thirty years ago, heavy walnut furniture with dark rose flowered curtains and toning carpet. Silver-backed brushes lay on the dressing table with an old-fashioned glass powder bowl and puff. A single tube of Max Factor dark red lipstick and bottle of clear nail varnish stood beside a large bottle of Elizabeth Arden eau de cologne.

  ‘You have a beautiful room, too,’ said Jessica. ‘But it will become your prison if you don’t get some exercise. I suggest you walk from one side of the room to the other once every hour, holding onto something. Then tomorrow you can walk to the landing and back and perhaps try one or two steps of the stairs.’

  ‘The stairs? Are you trying to kill me, young woman? I can’t do the stairs. My son, Lucas, will have to have one of those newfangled stair lifts put in.’

  ‘On the contrary, I’m going to get you downstairs and into the garden. You won’t need a stair lift, I promise you. It would spoil that lovely staircase. You need lots of encouragement and a positive attitude.’

  Lady Grace swung round in her chair and the sudden movement was painful. She gasped, her fury overriding the pain.

  ‘I won’t be spoken to like this. You can leave my house immediately. Lucas can get another nanny for the children.’ She sat back, her face reddening, her hands clutched together.

  Jessica searched the bedside table for prescription painkillers. She couldn’t find them. But Lady Grace’s leather handbag was on the floor by the bed. She opened it and a packet of painkillers, with her name from the hospital dispensary, was inside. She fetched a glass of water from the adjacent bathroom and took two tablets to Lady Grace.

  ‘Here you are. These will help. You shouldn’t lean forward in a chair or in bed for the first couple of weeks. The hospital told you that, didn’t they? And you need a high-rise toilet seat. I’ll get one for you.’

  ‘You’ve been in my bathroom,’ Lady Grace spluttered.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Jessica. ‘I’m a nurse. I go in bathrooms.’

  ‘Not in mine, you don’t.’

  The air was strained and Lady Grace abruptly fell silent.

  ‘I’ll go and make some tea. I think we could both do with a cup of tea,’ said Jessica. She had to get aw
ay from this exasperating woman.

  ‘Is that hair colour natural?’ was her parting shot.

  ‘It’s certainly not a wig,’ said Jessica.

  Jessica escaped to the peace of the landing, her heart pounding. She had never, in all her days of nursing, had such an impossible twenty minutes with a patient. She could easily grab her coat and her case and walk back to the station. It might take an hour, two hours. But Jessica knew she couldn’t walk out on a difficult patient: Lady Grace needed her or that operation would have been wasted.

  Jessica took several deep breaths to steady herself.

  This prickly old woman needed help. The hip replacement would not be a success if she refused to exercise and she would be back to square one. Back to constant pain and unable to get about at all.

  It was a challenge. Jessica could not resist a challenge.

  Mrs Harris, the housekeeper, was busy in the kitchen supervising the children’s tea. The scene was pleasant and homely. Jessica noted the big Aga range pumping out heat and moved towards it. This was somewhere to get warm.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Harris. I’m Jessica Harlow, nurse of sorts for the next three months, looking after Lady Grace. I think she would appreciate a tray of tea, if you have time. Something to calm her nerves. She is a little frayed by my arrival.’

  ‘Of course, Miss Harlow. I’ll take a tray up to her ladyship immediately. Perhaps you’d like some tea yourself. You could join the children.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I shall do,’ said Jessica gratefully. ‘And no need to call me Miss Harlow, Jessica will do.’

  She sat down at the kitchen table, aware that the two children had been listening to the conversation. They looked at her expectantly. Now she was going to meet them and make friends. She hoped that they were not as prickly as their dragon grandmother.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, turning her attention to the little girl. ‘And who are you?’

  The little girl was squirming in her seat, her eyes bright with excitement. She was about five years old, a little on the plump side, but as pretty as a picture with a riot of dark curls and bewitching lashes that were outrageously long.