by Dominic Luke
‘Now Mr Rycroft, he was guv’nor here for forty year and more. Two kiddies he had, a boy and a girl. Now the girl growed up to be Mistress Brannan – your aunt, that is to say. But the boy was Master Fred – Mr Frederick Rycroft, to be precise. He was the one who became guv’nor when Mr Rycroft passed on. He inherited the estate, as they say.’
Dorothea couldn’t let this pass. ‘Why did the estate go to him? Why didn’t it go to Aunt Eloise? Why couldn’t she be guv’nor?’
‘Because Master Fred was the elder. Besides, it’s sons what inherit, not daughters.’
‘But that’s not fair!’
‘Fair or no, it’s the way things are.’
‘And do girls get nothing?’
‘Girls get to rule the roost. You ask Mrs Becket if you don’t believe me.’
‘But what has all this got to do with Richard?’
‘Ah, well, I was coming to that, wasn’t I, if you’d just hold your horses.’ He gave her another hard stare from under his bushy brows. ‘Master Fred’s wife was Lady Emerald, Lady Emerald Huntley – an earl’s daughter, so they said. But that’s something else you’ll have to ask Mrs Becket about. She’s the one what knows about earls and dukes and all manner of royalty.’
‘But—’ Dorothea stopped herself just in time, and Becket nodded solemnly, as if he approved of her self-restraint.
‘This Lady Emerald’ – he sniffed as he said the name, as if he didn’t think much of her – ‘was a girl who liked to rule the roost in every way. Very distinguished, as I never doubted, but there was no sense there, if you take my meaning. She never fitted in here. Not like you, miss, you’ve taken to it like a duck to water. But then again, Lady Emerald was never happy anywhere, if you ask me. Couldn’t settle. Always gadding about. Spent a lot of time in foreign parts, her and Master Fred, after they was married. And time was marching on, and there was no sign of a kiddie and folks were beginning to think there never would be. And then, out of the blue, they came back one day from abroad (or thereabouts) and Lady Emerald was in a delicate condition at long last. My word, but wasn’t there a fuss and a palaver when that little lad was born!’
‘What little lad?’
‘Why, the one you’ve been harping on about, of course, that poorly mite up at the house.’
‘You mean Richard?’ Dorothea’s head was spinning as she tried to untangle the web of names. ‘So Master Fred is Aunt Eloise’s brother, and he is Richard’s papa as well?’
‘Master Fred ain’t anything anymore. He’s been dead these five years. And that’s how the poorly mite came to inherit the estate. He inherited from his father, the way Master Fred inherited from old Mr Rycroft.’
‘Poor Richard! But how did his papa come to die?’
‘Ah, well, now you’re asking. Some folk say one thing, some say another. It’s not my place to judge. But it was his wife as went first – her that had never been ill in her life afore. Something she picked up abroad, like as not. And Master Fred, he loved her even if no one else didn’t, and nobody nor nothing could console him once she’d gone. If ever a fellow died of a broken heart, then it was Master Fred. It were a great pity to my way of thinking because, while he’d been something of a rapscallion in his younger days, he growed out of it later. He growed some sense. He had all the makings of a half decent guv’nor. But that’s as maybe. Twas not to be. He passed on not three year after his old dad, and that sickly lad you’re so fussed about was left all alone in the world. But there it is. Some misfortunes can’t be mended. You just have to make the best on it, be you rich or be you poor. Not that it was any hardship for Mistress Brannan to come back to Clifton. She never took to life in Coventry, by all accounts.’
‘Why did she go to Coventry and why did she come back?’
‘She went when she was married and she came back because she was needed. A young lad like the one up at the house needs guardians. Mistress Brannan is his guardian, Master Brannan too. But that’s quite enough talk for now, miss. I must get on. If I stand here chopsing all day, nothing will ever get done.’
He picked up his shears and set about the hedge again, clippings piling around his feet. Dorothea hardly noticed. She’d been given plenty to think about. Poor Richard! Her own misfortunes paled next to his: the terrible illness which had left him with a withered leg, the deaths of both his parents, and now the house – a heavy burden for such frail shoulders!
Mlle Lacroix appeared on the cinder path and took her hand. As they walked back towards the house, she said, ‘You have been talking to Monsieur Becket. A very clever man, I think.’
‘But how can he be clever, mam’zelle? He can’t even read!’
‘Being able to read does not in itself make one clever, Dorossea. Books open one door to knowledge, but there are other doors too. Often experience is the best teacher of all. And no one in the world knows everything. Even a professor of the Sorbonne might have something to learn from an English girl in a country garden!’ And she laughed, a light trilling sound which invited you to join in even when you weren’t exactly sure what was so funny.
In his room later, Richard answered Dorothea’s eager questions somewhat irritably. ‘Of course the house is mine. Everything that was Father’s comes to me. I thought you knew. Everyone knows.’
‘And your papa and mama? What were they like?’ She wondered why she had never asked before. She had known they were dead, but that was all. When she thought of how often she had spoken of her own papa, she was filled now with remorse.
Richard could tell her little. His father had never sat still, had never stopped fidgeting. It had made you tired just to look at him. As for his mother, she had worn jewels and long white gloves, and she had always been going out or going away. She had never looked you in the eye when she spoke to you.
Richard squirmed beneath the bed clothes, pulled a face. ‘I don’t want to talk about her. I don’t want to talk about Father, either. I don’t like to remember.’ He looked at Dorothea with a sullen expression. ‘I expected you to come earlier. I was waiting for you. I’ve been waiting all afternoon.’
‘I had to take my walk, and then I met Becket and—’
‘I suppose you like Becket better than me. I suppose you like everyone better than me. You don’t care about me at all. Well, soon I shall be dead and then you’ll be sorry!’
‘What a horrible thing to say!’
‘It’s the truth. I am ill, getting iller all the time.’
‘Such fibs! You aren’t ill at all! There’s your leg, of course, and I’m sorry about that, but it can’t be helped so there’s no point in crying over spilt milk!’ The words were out before she could stop them. It didn’t sound like her at all. It was more like Mrs Browning, hard as nails. If only Richard hadn’t made her so angry, saying that she didn’t care! It wrung her heart, looking at him now, sunk in his pillows, so flimsy, as if a puff of wind would blow him away. It wrenched at her heart, angry with him though she was.
‘You hate me!’ he gasped. ‘Everyone hates me, Aunt Eloise most of all. She despises me because I’m a cripple!’
‘That’s not true, I don’t hate you, nobody hates you, and you’re not a cripple, not really!’ If only he could get up once in a while, get away from this mournful room with its half-closed curtains and bare walls! If only he could go into the gardens. It would make all the difference, she was sure of it, just as it had made all the difference to her.
The sound of their raised voices brought Nurse into the room, demanding to know what all the noise was. Richard was delicate; such excitement was not good for him. But when Dorothea ventured to suggest that Richard might not be so delicate if he was allowed out now and again, Nurse stamped on the idea at once. No, no, no. It was out of the question! Fresh air would have the most terrible consequences! Richard would deteriorate, would get pneumonia, would die. Did Dorothea want that on her conscience? Look at the trouble she’d caused already (Richard had started coughing). Wasn’t that enough mischief for one day, wi
thout all this talk of outside?
It was no wonder Richard was so obsessed by death when the word was so often on Nurse’s lips, but Dorothea didn’t dare say as much, and she was rather frightened by the fit of coughing which was wracking Richard’s thin frame.
Nurse thumped Richard on the back – none too gently, it seemed to Dorothea. ‘Haven’t I enough to do, without all your bright ideas? I really don’t need the bother of it! I’m not here as some sort of skivvy, I’m a professional, I am! Now run along, miss, and leave me in peace, before I lose my patience!’
Dorothea hesitated in the doorway. But Richard looked so thin and scraggy, coughing and retching and being thrown around by Nurse as if he was nothing, that she couldn’t bear to watch. She turned and fled.
She had never quarrelled with Richard before. She didn’t like it. Some people you quarrelled with and it didn’t matter, it was forgotten in an instant. You could say anything to Mickey, for example, and he never took it to heart. Richard was different. He didn’t have a hide as thick as an elephant’s. But was he really quite as delicate as Nurse made out? There was only one person who would know.
As Dorothea had expected, the doctor was called after Richard’s coughing fit. Taking her life in her hands, she slipped out into the corridor and waylaid him as he was leaving. Was it really out of the question, she asked in a breathless rush, for Richard to go outside? Would he really get pneumonia and die? Only Nurse had said—
Dr Camborne interrupted. ‘What’s this? What has Nurse been saying? Oh, she has, has she! Well, well, so she’s the expert now, I suppose? I can tell you, young lady, that in my qualified opinion a bit of fresh air would do the boy no harm at all. Indeed, it may – may I say – do him some good. But he must only go out when the weather is warm and only for a short time. Never mind what Nurse says, this is what I say, and I’m the doctor. I am putting you in charge, young lady. You must see to it that my instructions are followed to the letter. I am sure I can rely on a clever little girl like you!’
He smiled at her – a smile she did not particularly care for (Nurse did not like the doctor’s smile either, but she made it rather more obvious). But it didn’t matter about the smile. What mattered was Richard and making things better for him. Nurse would never dare to go against the doctor’s orders.
But later, Nanny came bustling into the day room in high dudgeon. ‘Well! Aren’t you a busy-body, sticking your nose in where it’s not wanted, talking to Dr Camborne and I don’t know what else! Nurse is most put out, let me tell you! Said I should keep more of an eye on you. Humph! As if I need advice from her about how to do my job! But it would never have come about if you didn’t meddle in things that don’t concern you! I’ve a good mind to box your ears, my girl! You need to be taught a lesson!’
Dorothea flinched as Nanny bore down on her; but at that moment there was a discreet little cough from the governess who was sitting by the window reading, seemingly oblivious.
Nanny glanced at the governess then slowly lowered her hand. ‘Well,’ she said, backing away, ‘that’s what you deserve, a good hiding. But as I’m such a tender-hearted creature, I shall let you off just this once. Just this once, mind. And now, let’s have all this mess cleared off the table, all these books and whatnot. Unsightly, I call it. It’ll do you no good, either, too much reading.’ She cocked an eye at the governess. ‘It ruins your eyesight. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. But really, what stuffy old books they are! And this one, I can’t understand a word of it. It’s all in foreign. It’s not right. Not right at all. I can’t abide foreigners – and I don’t care who knows it!’
A letter arrived out of the blue. Dorothea had never received a letter in her life. To receive one now from Roderick of all people was baffling.
A chap must compose letters here on a Sunday, he wrote, so I thought I may as well write to you as anyone.
Was this the same Roderick who’d wanted nothing to do with her at Easter? He had, to be fair to him, made one overture back then, asking if she’d like to go looking for birds’ eggs with him. Dorothea had not been at all sure that she wanted to steal eggs from the nests of poor unsuspecting birds but she had shown willing by agreeing to the plan. However, when she had said that she had to visit Richard first, Roderick had curled his lip.
‘Richard! What do you want with a duffer like Richard? He’s such a wet blanket!’
‘No he isn’t! He’s—’
‘I don’t care what he is. I don’t care about him at all.’
‘Why must you be so horrible? I shall be glad when you have gone back to school!’
‘That’s a fine thing to tell a chap, I must say! How would you like it if you had to go to school?’
‘I should like it very much!’
‘That’s what you think! You’d soon change your mind if you knew what it was like – if you had to get up at six o’clock every morning and bathe in freezing cold water and then spend the whole day construing Latin with hardly a bite to eat. School is beastly, a beastly hole. But never mind. I shan’t bother with you again. I shall never ask you to do anything. I had thought you might like to climb a tree or two, or ride my pony, or swim in the canal, but if you’d rather talk to Richard…!’
He’d stomped off with his nose in the air, only to reappear in the doorway a moment later.
‘By the way, you needn’t tell Mother I swim in the canal. She’d only make a fuss.’
Then he’d taken himself off again.
And now this, a letter, the last thing she’d expected. She was not sure what to think. It was easier to put the letter aside and leave it until later. Indeed, she had no time to consider anything just then, for there were more important things to think about. Not only was Richard going outside for the first time today, but – almost as exciting – Uncle Albert was bringing some bicycles from his factory in Coventry, the factory where he went every day to take charge of things. Today he was coming home early, especially.
Dorothea put the letter in a drawer and ran to watch Richard being carried downstairs by the footman John (his real name was Tomlin, but Nora said the footman was always called John at Clifton). Settled in his bulky bath chair, Richard looked small and frail, blinking in the daylight like a hatchling in a nest. But it wasn’t long before he was laughing out loud as he watched Dorothea and the governess trying to master the art of riding their bicycles – for Mlle Lacroix had been given a bicycle too, despite her protestations.
‘Oh, Monsieur, I do not want a bicycle, do not make me! I shall fall off and bump my ’ead! They are ’orrid things, these bicycles, with their hard seats and bumpy wheels. And those unspeakable horrors – mon Dieu! How is it you call them? Penny-farthings?’
Uncle Albert had laughed. ‘Things have moved on rather, since the days of the penny-farthing, mam’zelle. Modern machines are built for comfort. They have indirect gearing, pneumatic tyres, all the latest developments. You’ll see!’
They certainly looked the part, brand new and shiny in pale blue and deep red with the letters B.B.C. stamped on them for the Brannan Bicycle Company. Dorothea could never have imagined such affluence in the dour precincts of Stepnall Street, owning a magnificent machine like this! But owning it was one thing, staying on was quite another – even with Uncle Albert acting as instructor. It was quite a performance, Dorothea admitted, as she and the governess wobbled round on the gravel in front of the house, losing their balance and falling off and despairing of ever getting the knack. But it didn’t matter how silly they looked, because it made her heart swell to see Richard laughing as he sat in his bath chair in the shade of the cedar tree, the footman in attendance (Tomlin was unable to keep a straight face either). Nor were these the only spectators. Becket with his wheelbarrow was watching from the doorway into the gardens and Bessie Downs was peeping out of an upstairs window when she should have been seeing to the bedrooms.
In the end, Dorothea managed to cycle right round the cedar tree without putting her foot down once. She had never f
elt such a sense of achievement. But when she came to put her bicycle away in an empty loose box round in the yard, she saw Roderick’s machine in the gloom waiting for him, and she remembered the letter and felt a twinge of guilt. Was school really as terrible as he made out? Poor Roderick! And there she’d been, laughing and joking all afternoon as she hadn’t a care in the world!
She made up her mind then and there to ask Mlle Lacroix’s help in composing a reply straight after tea.
‘Another letter, miss!’ said Nora as she brought in the breakfast tray and placed it on the table. ‘They’re coming regular as clockwork!’
No one was more surprised about this than Dorothea. Even if letter-writing was obligatory at school, why should Roderick chose to write to her? Dorothea felt that her replies were rather devoid of interest, just a catalogue of daily life at Clifton. Roderick did not seem to mind. His letters, in any case, kept coming.
It was the letters which brought Aunt Eloise to the nursery. She walked in unannounced like a visitation from another world and addressed Dorothea frostily. It was her understanding, she said, that Dorothea had received some letters from her son. As it appeared that Roderick would rather correspond with her than with his own mother, might she be permitted to look the letters over? She seemed to take it for granted that the answer would be yes. In fact, she got no answer at all. Dorothea was frozen in terror, couldn’t move or speak. It was Nora who went running and came back with the bundle of envelopes from Dorothea’s room.
Aunt Eloise took up the letters one-by-one, holding them in her long, exquisite fingers, her piercing blue eyes raking over them. Still frozen in position, standing like a statue in the middle of the day room, Dorothea heard voices echoing in her head: Mrs Brannan wants you in an orphanage … your aunt is very cross, very cross indeed … Old Sourpuss, that’s what I call her, she’s as sour as old milk … it’s the house she pines for; it eats her away that she’ll never own it…. Aunt Eloise despises me because I’m a cripple….
