by Dominic Luke
‘Is your leg really so bad? Can’t you stand on it at all?’
Richard lowered his voice. ‘Sometimes I try, when Nurse isn’t looking. Sometimes I can stand up for just a second, if I hold onto the bed.’
‘Try now. I will help. You can hold on to me instead of the bed.’
But Nurse as always seemed to have a sixth sense and came striding into the room at just the wrong moment. ‘Now that’s enough. Master Richard is tired. He needs his rest.’
‘But I don’t like resting, Nurse. It is resting that makes me tired in the first place.’
‘What sort of talk is that?’ Nurse plumped his pillows, felt his forehead, manhandled him like a rag doll. ‘All this to-do is making you peaky. Miss Dorothea must leave you in peace.’
As she was ushered from the room, Dorothea heard him call anxiously after her, ‘You will come again, I suppose?’
‘Of course I will come. As often as they’ll let me.’
But Nurse said, ‘I’ll have the last word on that score,’ and she shut the door in Dorothea’s face.
‘And where have you been, my girl?’ said Nanny as Dorothea returned to the day room.
‘I was talking to Richard. Nurse sent me away.’
‘Humph! Well! Isn’t that Nurse all over!’ Nanny glowered, sitting in her chair by the fire. ‘Such an uppity creature. My word, isn’t she! All out for herself, too. I know her game. There’ll be rich pickings, she’s thinking, when Master Richard comes into his own. That’s what she’s after, mark my words! Artful madam!’
‘W—what do you mean, Nanny? What will Richard come into?’
‘Never you mind, my girl. It’s none of your business. I’ll have no more of your questions. You can save your breath to cool your porridge. Now, you just sit quiet like a good girl and don’t go waking Baby whilst I pop and have word with Cook. I haven’t told her yet what that woman said to me this morning.’
Dorothea sat meekly at the big table, anxious not to get in Nanny’s bad books. But once Nanny had gone Nora winked and said cheerily, ‘Take no notice, miss. She’s like a bear with a sore head today. She’s had words with Mrs Bourne again.’
It was scant comfort, however, to be reminded of the bickering and squabbling which seemed to be the stock in trade here. Nanny never had a good word to say about anyone except her ally Cook. But what was it, exactly, that she had got against Nurse? What sort of rich pickings could Nurse ever hope to gain from so thin, puny and pasty-faced a boy as Richard? It was yet another mystery. At times, she felt as if she was being kept in the dark about everything.
Nora went off to ‘do’ Nanny’s room, leaving Dorothea alone in the day room, the fire crackling, Polly biting the bars of her cage. How dreary it was! Dorothea yawned, tracing the grooves in the table, found herself wishing that Roderick was here, even though she’d been only too glad to see the back of him at the end of the Easter holidays.
He’d arrived from school to express surprise at finding her in the nursery. ‘I thought you’d have gone back where you came from by now.’ He had gone on to tell her loftily that he had no time for her – no time for mere girls – even if she was his cousin – which, he’d added, looking down his nose at her, he very much doubted. Dorothea had done her best to keep the peace by staying out of his way but every time she’d turned round, it seemed, he had been there – for all the world as if he was following her.
‘What are you doing now, Dotty Dot-dot? What game are you playing?’
‘I’m not playing any game, I’m just minding my own business like Nanny said I should. Please won’t you leave me alone? And don’t call me Dot. Only Papa calls me Dot.’
‘Then what am I to call you? Cuckoo in the nest? Answer me! Answer me at once! If you don’t, I shall pull your hair!’
He had pulled so hard it had made her cry out.
‘What’s all this? What’s this hullaballoo?’ Nanny had suddenly loomed over them, had swatted Dorothea aside with one clout, had grabbed Roderick by the ear. ‘Master Roderick! If you won’t behave yourself then you must be taught a lesson!’
She had given Roderick such a leathering it had made Dorothea’s eyes water. The fact that Roderick gritted his teeth and didn’t utter a sound had only served to spur Nanny on.
‘You were very brave!’ Dorothea had whispered afterwards when Nanny was safely out of the way and Roderick was lying under the table on his belly with his head in his hands. Mickey had liked to be called brave. It had made him puff out his chest.
‘I don’t care about being brave,’ Roderick had said in a voice which made Dorothea wonder if he’d been crying. ‘But she shan’t catch me again. I shan’t let her. You’ll see.’
Now Roderick had gone. He was back at school. And Dorothea’s heart sank as she sat at the big table and thought about tomorrow and the arrival of the monster. After tomorrow, long, dreary days would seem like paradise. Things were about to take a turn for the worst, she had no doubt.
‘Oh, but Dorossea, zis is very bad! Did your previous governess teach you nothing?’
Dorothea’s blood ran cold. Was this the moment when the monster struck?
They were sitting at the big table, books spread out in front of them. The lesson was called arithmetic. It was impossibly complicated. Dorothea would not have understood it even if her head had not been spinning with fear. What made it worse was that the governess did not look like a monster. She was tall, thin, quiet, self-contained. She came from France and her name was Mademoiselle Lacroix. Without Nanny’s warnings, Dorothea might easily have been taken in. As it was, she’d been on her guard for over a week since the Mam’zelle’s arrival, waiting for the moment when the monster would show her true colours. That moment had perhaps arrived at last.
‘Dorossea, I ask you a question.’
Dorothea shook, her teeth chattered. ‘I’ve n—n—never had a governess.’
‘Then school. Have you not been to school?’
‘I went to the board school b-b-but only the b-boys did arithmetic.’
‘And the girls?’
‘S—sewing.’
The monster smiled. ‘Sewing is a noble art. But we need do our sums too.’
The smile, the gentle voice – such deception! Any moment now the governess would pounce.
Day after day of waiting for the worst had taken its toll. Dorothea could stand it no longer. ‘I can’t do sums! I don’t want to do sums!’ She flung the book away from her. ‘I don’t understand, I don’t understand!’
She stopped, appalled, her chest heaving. What had she done?
Mlle Lacroix leaned forward. Dorothea cowered.
‘If you do not understand,’ the governess said in her strange sing-song way of speaking, ‘then we will start again from the beginning. But first—’ She reached out. Dorothea shied away, hunched up in her chair, but there was no escape. The governess caught hold of her hand across the table. ‘But first, Dorossea, tell me, why are you always so desolate? What can be so dreadful that you never smile?’
Dorothea looked at the hand holding hers, the long pale fingers, the soft skin. Was such a hand really capable of the cruelties that Nanny had described?
The fingers stroked. The voice soothed. ‘Dorossea? Will you not tell me?’
What did it matter, Dorothea thought, what did anything matter anymore? She might as well speak. It wasn’t as if she had any choice. The monster had her trapped.
But once she started to talk, it all came out in a rush, everything: how much she missed her papa, how she was angry with him, too, for leaving her (oh, the shame of feeling like that, the shame!), how the nursery was a prison and the days dragged on and on and nothing ever happened and she felt trapped and stifled and lost and hopeless. The monster listened, did not interrupt, did not become angry or impatient – did not, in fact, behave much like a monster at all. Her expression softened, her eyes became moist, and all the time her fingers went on stroking, stroking, stroking.
‘Oh, ma petite, what a
sad story you tell me!’ she said when Dorothea finally fell silent. ‘You love your poppa very much, I think.’
‘There is no one else. I don’t have anyone.’
‘Ah, but zis is not true, Dorossea. Do you not have your aunt and your uncle? Is not Nora always kind to you? Is there not Richard, too?’ (She pronounced his name strangely: Rishar) ‘And there is someone else, someone you have forgotten, someone who watches over all of us.’
‘I d-don’t understand.’
‘God, ma petite. God watches over us. We are all in His hands.’
Dorothea was bewildered. She had been expecting a beating, to have her head held under water until she nearly drowned. Instead – was it possible? – the governess was offering words of comfort. And now, to complicate matters further, there was talk of God. Dorothea did not know much about God. She remembered a man once coming to Stepnall Street to tell them they should go to church, it was their duty. Mrs Browning had given his short shrift. ‘Go to church? I’ve never heard such rubbish! Do you think we’ve got time to waste, praying on our knees? Church is not for the likes of us! We’ve a living to earn! Now be off with you!’
What was the truth of the matter? Did God really have everyone in his hands, as Mlle Lacroix said? Whatever the case, even God’s hands could not be as soft and comforting as those of the governess. Dorothea was beginning to doubt Nanny’s words. There must be some mistake. Not all governesses were monsters, they couldn’t be.
‘Now,’ the governess said with a gentle smile. ‘We shall try the sums again, yes?’
She wanted to tell Richard the extraordinary news – that not all governesses were monsters – but Nurse turned her away, said that Richard was too poorly for visitors, she must come back another day. Was Nurse being entirely honest, Dorothea wondered, or was she using her authority to keep them apart? There was nobody she could appeal to. Nobody was interested in Richard. He was, as Henry had said, often overlooked.
Lost in her thoughts as she wandered slowly back along the corridor, a sudden noise brought her back to herself. Her heart was in her mouth as she looked round in fear, half expecting to see Mrs Bourne looming up—but it was only one of the housemaids on the stairs with a duster.
‘Oh my days, Miss Dorothea! You did give me a turn! I thought it was Bossy Bourne, checking up on me!’
The maid’s name was Bessie Downs, a friendly girl if something of a chatterbox. Nora, however, called her slovenly and a slouch and said you couldn’t believe half of what she said.
‘I’m keeping out of everyone’s way, miss.’ Bessie Downs flicked her duster around in a desultory manner as she sidled up to the landing. ‘They’re all as miserable as sin today, I can’t tell you. Cook’s got a face on her that would curdle milk and as for Bossy Bourne—But when is she any different? Such a slave-driver and always finding fault! Do you know, miss, I’ve never met such a quarrelsome crew as this lot in all my born days. But they do say that it’s the mistress that sets the tone of a place, so what chance do we have with Old Sourpuss?’
Bessie Downs paused, looking at Dorothea expectantly whilst tucking hair under her cap on one side as it fell out on the other.
‘Old Sourpuss? Do you mean Aunt Eloise? Why do you call her that?’
Bessie Downs seemed pleased by the question, lowered herself down to sit on the top step, patted the place next to her for Dorothea to sit too. ‘I call her Old Sourpuss because she’s as sour as old milk. I reckon her face would crack in half if she ever tried to smile. But then again, what has she got to smile about? They do say—’ Bessie leaned close, lowering her voice. ‘They do say as she only married the master because no one else would have her. Her family wanted better for her than a factory man but beggars can’t be choosers. Twenty-seven she was, when she got wed, if you can believe it! Near enough an old maid! If I get to such an age without a ring on me finger, I’ll slit my own throat, I swear!’
Dorothea shivered at the gruesome turn of phrase. Bessie Downs was what Mrs Browning would have called a saucy piece, but there was something about her that held you enthralled. She ventured to say things that no one else Dorothea had met in the house would dare to.
‘Not that I’ll have any trouble finding a husband,’ Bessie Downs continued, tucking her hair in again, ‘not with my looks. Nor will you, miss, when the time comes, with your curls. But if you ask me—’ She lowered her voice again. ‘If you ask me, it’s the house that Old Sourpuss pines for more than she’s ever pined for any man. It eats her away that it’ll never be hers, for it’s the only thing she has ever cared about!’
‘What do you mean, Bessie? I thought this was Uncle Albert’s house?’
‘Bless you, no! Mr Brannan has no connection here! He comes from up Coventry way. It’s Old Sourpuss who was born here and she’s lived here near all her life. But she’ll never own the place because it belongs to Master Richard!’
‘Richard!’ Dorothea gaped at Bessie in astonishment. She remembered what Nora had said, that you couldn’t believe half of what Bessie Downs said. This without doubt must be the tallest of Bessie’s tall tales. ‘Richard! But how, why?’
‘Surely you knew that, miss? Well I never, so you didn’t! But it’s true. True as I’m sitting here. Master Richard is the real master – or will be once he’s twenty-one. Funny, ain’t it, to think of a wizened little cripple like him owning a big place like this! But they do say that—’
Bessie stopped short as they heard footsteps behind them. They jumped to their feet in alarm.
‘So this is where you’ve got to, miss. I’ve been looking all over!’
It was Nora, only Nora. Dorothea breathed a sigh of relief, although she wished Nora hadn’t appeared at precisely that moment. She had a hundred and one questions buzzing inside her head which only someone like Bessie Downs would answer. Nora, however, took Dorothea’s hand firmly.
‘Come along, miss. The mam’zelle says it’s time for your walk. You must put on your coat and shoes.’ Glancing over her shoulder as they walked away, Nora added tartly, ‘I’d watch what I was saying, if I was you, Bessie Downs.’
Bessie laughed, flicking her duster, her hair hanging loose on both sides. ‘You’re such an old fuddy-duddy, Nora Turner. You want to let your hair down once in a while.’
Nora pursed her lips as she opened the green baize door. ‘She’s no more sense than she was born with, that one. She’ll be for it, no mistake, if Mrs Bourne catches her idling and scandal-mongering.’
‘But Nora, Bessie said—’
‘What? What did she say, miss? I’m surprised at you, I must say, listening to the likes of her. But there, you’re only young and you don’t know no better. It’s Bessie Downs who’s at fault. She’ll come to a sticky end one of these days, mark my words! But never mind all that. We must hurry. The mam’zelle is waiting!’
Fresh air, said Mlle Lacroix, was efficacious (a French word, perhaps?). A daily walk in the gardens (weather permitting) was part of Dorothea’s new routine. But today her head was in too much of a muddle to enjoy it. She was going over and over what Bessie Downs had said. Did the house really belong to Richard? It was so big and solid and deep-rooted that it seemed impertinent to think of anyone owning it. It would be the other way round, if anything – the house would own you. Was that how Aunt Eloise felt about the place?
Leaving the governess sitting with a book under the pergola, Dorothea wandered off with her secret thoughts. She had felt from the first that the house was somehow alive. It might permit you to lodge within for a day or a year or a lifetime but when you’d gone, the house would carry on. It would carry on forever.
Looking up from the cinder path on which she was walking, Dorothea saw ahead of her the old gardener Becket clipping a privet hedge. Becket was none other than the crusty man she had met on the morning of her failed escape. She had met him often since. He had worked at Clifton for years, which he was quick to tell you. ‘I was just a nipper when I started. It was Mr Jephcott as took me on. He was h
ead gardener in them days. It must be fifty year back if it’s a day. Since then, I’ve worked for four different masters and seen head gardeners come and go. Now I’m head gardener myself. Leastways, that’s how I see it, for there ain’t no one but me.’
Dorothea skipped along the path. If anyone would know about the house, then Becket would. He could be crotchety at times but he didn’t mind answering questions.
Becket stopped his clipping and tipped his cap back, listening to her eager questions. Well, he said when she’d finished, Bessie Downs was nothing but a flibbertigibbet, but in this case she was quite right – the house was Richard’s. Not just the house, either, but the grounds too, and lots of land around – what Becket called the estate. It would all be Richard’s when he came of age.
‘I don’t understand, Becket. How did Richard come to own everything?’
‘Well, miss, now let’s see. Where shall I begin?’ He laid his shears aside, took off his cap, scratched his head, making his fluffy white hair stand up in tufts. Dorothea knew it was no good trying to hurry him. Becket did everything in his own good time. ‘When I started here as a nipper, Sir Edward was guv’nor, the last of the Massinghams, them what had owned Clifton Park from time out of mind. Titled folk, they were. Baronets. But Sir Edward had no son so the estate passed to his nephew – the estate, but not the title. Mr Harry Rycroft, this nephew was named. Title or no, he was a gentleman proper and he loved the gardens here. Ah, but they was kept spic and span in his day! There was a whole troop of us back then, head gardener, under gardeners, no end of boys – everything was done as it should be.’
Hopping with impatience – what had all this got to do with Richard? – Dorothea nonetheless knew better than to interrupt. To interrupt was to invite even more humming and hawing.
Becket paused, giving her a sharp look as if he knew very well what she was thinking, and then he pursed his lips, staring into the distance as if he was trying to see back to days gone by.
