The Last Dance

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘Until tomorrow, Miss Myles . . .’ At Stella’s enquiring stare she corrected herself. ‘Until tomorrow, Stella. If you need anything —’

  ‘I know . . . the back stairs to the parlour.’

  ‘Indeed. I hope you sleep soundly.’

  After the housekeeper had left, Stella took a slow tour of her room that felt almost as large as all bedrooms combined from her home in London. She opened one of the windows to let in some air and was delighted to see that her room overlooked the moors which stretched out behind the house for as far as she could see. It appeared windswept and so thoroughly lonely that she fancied it could almost be virgin grass that no human footstep had fallen upon. As she toyed with this thought, she caught the flash of a figure cresting one of the hillocks so briefly it was almost as if he was from her imagination because he was gone again so quickly. She squinted, straining to see if he might appear again – it was definitely a man – but after a full minute of near enough holding her breath, no person broke cover. There was something comforting in the realisation that those hillsides were not as deserted as she’d first thought and while today was perhaps not the best time, she planned to take long, head-clearing strolls across those grasses as often as she could.

  Stella stretched the unpacking to take fifteen minutes, carefully hanging up the garments she’d brought. The rest would arrive in a day or two, she was sure. Two trunks of items were being picked up from her house – mainly books. The three she’d carried with her she now put on a shelf over her desk. A photograph of Carys and Rory she placed on the bedside table with her small alarm clock that had been her mother’s; she had bought it new a few years back because she liked the enamelled green exterior. It was a Waterbury Thrift, made in America and sold through the department store. Stella had got it on a special staff discount for her mother. She wound it up carefully, making sure her watch and the clock matched times, for she was sure Mrs Boyd brooked no delays for parlour meals.

  Her mother’s clock told her it was past four. Despite a yawn she decided she should clamber into some sturdy shoes and go for that walk. ‘Blow out some cobwebs,’ she muttered.

  Stella left her room, closing the door but not locking it, although it did have a key; she remembered that a tray was going to be left for her. As she entered the stairwell of the back passage she noticed the door that accessed the attic rooms. She listened against it. No sound. And for no reason she could explain, Stella twisted the door handle and discovered it was secured, as Mrs Boyd had warned. She presumed Ainsworth reached his private room, as Mrs Boyd had referred to it, via the main area of the house. She shrugged. It felt secretive. Stella told herself it was none of her business and she should focus on the next four weeks and getting back to seeing her family at the end of it. She soon found the small corridor at the bottom of the stairs that would take her either into the boot room or into the parlour.

  She decided to face the staff tomorrow morning rather than now and as cowardly as it felt, she tiptoed into where she found John Potter pulling off his wellington boots and hanging up his waterproof coat.

  ‘Hello again,’ he said. ‘Settling in?’

  ‘Trying to. I thought I should get my bearings and take a walk.’

  ‘Don’t go too far. There’s some rain coming. I’d stick to the flat if I were you.’

  ‘Really, rain?’

  He tapped his nose. ‘Have you got a pair of gumboots?’

  ‘Not with me,’ she admitted.

  He looked around and selected a small pair. ‘These should fit. Hardly fashionable but you’re in Kent now, Stella. You don’t want to get dirt all over your nice shoes.’ She looked down at her brogues. Her father had polished them; it was one of the last jobs he’d done before he’d swallowed the pills. Her parents had both left the house so neat and tidy, every possible chore done, including polishing every pair of shoes for their children.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ she answered, taking a breath to keep that sudden wash of emotion from spilling.

  ‘Get yourself into these. I’ll pick you up a pair in Tunbridge Wells tomorrow. What size are you?’

  ‘These are perfect.’

  ‘Those belong to Hilly – she’s our housemaid. I’ll get you a size five, then. You might as well take this waxed coat as well. The one you’re wearing won’t be any use if you get caught in a downpour but this hood will save you. It’s Hilly’s too.’

  ‘You’re very kind. Hilly won’t mind?’

  ‘Not at all. Got to make you feel welcome, don’t we? Can’t be easy.’ He looked at her in a way that made Stella suddenly aware that Mrs Ainsworth was not the only person who knew of the tragedy in her family.

  She left, trying not to give the impression of fleeing. Stella took Potter’s advice, however, and didn’t go far, never even making it up onto the hills behind the house as she’d intended. Instead she stuck to the driveway that led her to a path cutting away and skirting the property through fields. She clambered over a stile and admired the rich soil of Kent before fringing some pasture where contented cows watched her carefully with large liquid eyes as they chewed. The lowering sun turned the late afternoon decidedly cold and she was glad of the gumboots that were now quite grubby from her efforts.

  She toyed with the idea of climbing up the hill to get a look at the house and her windows but when the first teardrop of rain splashed on her arm she changed her mind and pulled up the hood of the wax jacket. John Potter certainly knew his Kent climate. Even so, she was surprised to see the low grey clouds that had gathered like silent sentinels overhead and it felt like they were now driving her back from the moors and inside.

  Stella wondered about the man she’d seen and where he may have been headed, especially if he was striding over the forty acres of Harp’s End land. By the time she was at the back door again and stamping off the mud she’d gathered, rinsing Hilly’s boots at the tap nearby, she’d forgotten about him. Stella glanced at her watch, amazed how time had slipped by her. It was almost six and her belly was telling her she hadn’t eaten anything other than sweets since her breakfast this morning in London.

  Home felt so distant now. She hurriedly pulled off the damp jacket and hung it back up, easing off the boots as quietly as she could and then picking up her own shoes and overcoat from where she’d left them. Stella avoided meeting any of the staff by skipping back up the stairs. She could hear their voices, though, as they gathered for their evening meal but then even that sound disappeared as she ascended quickly to her floor.

  Once again she paused at the locked door to the attic rooms; she didn’t need to listen at the door because this time Stella was sure she could distantly hear someone humming to himself.

  7

  Grace’s small chubby fingers were struggling to navigate a reverse octave scale from C down to middle C on the piano.

  ‘I just can’t make this finger,’ she bemoaned, waggling her middle finger at Stella, ‘cross over my thumb.’

  Stella was seated next to her. ‘Yes, I agree, it would be so much easier if we all had eight fingers,’ she said in a dry tone. Grace giggled and it was a lovely sound that reminded her of her young ones at home.

  ‘You look sad, Stella.’ Grace frowned in the open way of a child. ‘Are you?’

  She found her charge’s lisp so delightful she gave the girl a hug. ‘No, not at all; you just remind me of my baby sister. She’s beautiful too and laughs just like you.’

  ‘You think I’m beautiful?’

  ‘Of course you are.’

  ‘Mummy and Georgie say I’m fat and that I’ll never be able to enjoy the Season if I keep eating. I like food though, Stella. I’m always hungry.’

  Stella took Grace’s hands and covered them with her own. ‘Grace, I’ve been given your holiday schedule and anyone would be hungry with what is planned for you. You’ve got ballet, horse riding, lacrosse, tennis, ballroom dance, deportment classes, piano lessons, French lessons . . . gosh, I felt famished
just reading it.’

  Grace laughed delightedly.

  ‘You’re young and healthy and I promise you, you are going to be a dazzling young woman in ten years.’

  Grace smiled shyly. ‘Daddy says I am a princess and that a prince will come along one day to marry me.’

  She hugged the little girl who she was now certain made do without a lot of hugs. ‘Your father is a wise man. I think that’s exactly what’s going to happen. You won’t need to curtsey at the Debutantes’ Ball in London because you’ll be too busy with the queue of handsome men who desperately want to hear you play the piano, or ride alongside them or dance with them. As for these octaves, I can assure you that it was practice and a lot of growing up that allowed me to stretch between these two Cs. Look!’

  Gracie gasped. She counted. ‘. . . nine . . . ten.’

  They both laughed at her wonder that Stella could span her long fingers between so many keys.

  ‘As to the scale, Gracie, it’s a matter of dexterity. Your fingers have to keep practising. It’s a strange new sensation for them. Look, can you do this?’ Stella did the cross-my-fingers action.

  ‘Oh, yes. We do that all the time in school when we’re playing.’

  ‘Vainites!’ Stella exclaimed delightedly as a childhood memory of how to call a truce or back out of a contest bubbled up.

  ‘Yes,’ Gracie agreed. ‘I try not to call vainites.’

  ‘Because you’re brave and that’s a special quality to have,’ Stella said, hoping the greater truth of what she was saying might somehow resonate in the young mind of her pupil whom she was sure was passively bullied by both her sister and mother. Perhaps her father was her reliable hero, although it seemed he was rarely around.

  As if Gracie could read her thoughts, she smiled. ‘Daddy says I’m brave too.’

  ‘Does he? Dads are very special people,’ she said, feeling another memory pushing through. She pushed it back and returned to their original topic. ‘So I think if we practise some scales each day through the holidays, you will notice a big difference.’

  Without being asked Gracie began again with the piano keys, Stella nodding slowly beside her as the girl negotiated each note. At the note F, when Gracie needed to cross over her thumb and hit note E with her middle finger, Stella began to whisper ‘vainites’. She saw her student grin and over the course of a dozen attempts she finally began to make the crossover. When Gracie achieved a clean run of eight notes, they both leaped up and clapped.

  Mrs Boyd arrived to dampen the celebration. She blinked to see Stella arm in arm with Gracie, waltzing around the piano room, giggling.

  ‘Er, Miss Myles, forgive me intruding.’

  ‘You’re not,’ she said, calming her breathing and cutting Gracie a wide-eyed smirk.

  Grace performed a fast pirouette, spinning on one foot. ‘I did the scale, Mrs Boyd. My fingers crossed over.’

  The housekeeper stared, unmoved. ‘I see. Well done, Miss Gracie. But I shall have to ask you to keep the noise of your celebrations down.’

  ‘Oh,’ Stella said, feeling instantly awkward. ‘Are we disturbing you?’

  ‘Not me, Miss Myles. Mr Ainsworth is in the solar. He has very good hearing plus these old places have ways of carrying their secrets to other floors.’ She gestured at the fireplace, clearly expecting Stella to understand. ‘I’d rather not wait for him to complain.’

  ‘Daddy’s home?’ Gracie exclaimed.

  ‘Yesterday, early evening, your father arrived back unexpect-edly.’

  As Gracie rushed to gather up her music book, Mrs Boyd held a hand out.

  ‘Er, I don’t think he wishes to be disturbed.’ She threw Stella an earnest look.

  ‘Grace, if your father’s working, how about you see him this afternoon?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him for days and days.’

  Mrs Boyd’s urging look had deepened.

  ‘I thought you might like a game outside after working so hard this morning,’ Stella offered.

  The girl turned to her, looking torn.

  Stella pressed that advantage. ‘I was thinking about hopscotch. Can’t imagine you can beat me. My sister Carys can’t.’

  ‘I’ll bet I can,’ Gracie countered, the defiance of challenge sparkling in her dark eyes.

  ‘All right. If you can beat me, you can choose what we do tomorrow morning for our lesson.’

  ‘Not French?’

  ‘Some French, but your choice otherwise.’

  ‘Then I choose a walk on the hills behind the house. I’m never allowed to go alone.’

  ‘Nor will you be, Miss Grace,’ Mrs Boyd interjected, unable to help herself.

  ‘Mrs Boyd is quite right,’ Stella said.

  Gracie looked baffled. ‘Well, I want to walk up there like my father does. You’ll have to take me.’

  ‘That’s a deal, then,’ Stella said, offering to shake hands on it, but her young companion made a cross over her heart instead.

  ‘No, you have to swear it properly.’

  ‘I swear. Cross my heart,’ Stella promised, making the identical sign over her chest. ‘Come on, let’s grab our coats and we’ll play some hopscotch.’ She cast a glance towards the housekeeper whose gratitude was etched on her expression.

  ‘How was your meal last night, Miss Myles?’

  ‘Lovely, thank you. The flask of cocoa was a delicious treat.’

  Mrs Boyd smiled. ‘I’m glad. Lunch at half-past twelve, Miss Gracie?’

  ‘I want to share mine with Stella, please.’

  ‘Very good,’ Mrs Boyd said, closing the door, but not before Stella had caught the look of surprise.

  Gracie led her to one of the many courtyards, this time into a walled garden whose perfumed flowers had scented the air well ahead of their arrival. She was delighted to note it also offered the long pathway Grace had promised.

  ‘Is this what you mean?’ her companion asked.

  ‘Perfect,’ Stella replied, brandishing the chalk. ‘All right, I’ll draw it up. You find us two stones of about this size,’ she said, putting thumb and forefinger together in a small circle.

  She busied herself drawing up the hopscotch boxes and listened to Gracie’s enthusiastic chatter.

  ‘This is Daddy’s and my favourite garden. He made it for me.’

  Stella straightened. ‘Really? It’s so beautiful, Gracie. What are those? Their perfume is heavenly.’ She pointed at a row of multi-headed white flowers.

  ‘I can’t pronounce it. Daddy says he thinks it was named after Georgie.’

  Stella looked back at the youngster quizzically. Grace kept chatting. ‘There is a person with that name in an old story. It begins with N, I think. Narsis . . . or something.’

  ‘Narcissus?’ Stella offered, dampening her instant desire to chuckle. ‘One of the Greek myths.’

  ‘That’s it!’ Grace replied, delightedly holding up some pebbles. ‘Are these what you want?’

  Stella nodded, smiling to herself. So Mr Ainsworth thinks his eldest daughter is self-absorbed! In fact, that was quite a modest way to describe a narcissist, she decided, as Gracie arrived to drop a stone in her palm.

  ‘What’s my flower, Stella?’ she said.

  ‘You? Hmm. I think you would be a daffodil. Look at them,’ she said, nodding towards the colourful drift in one corner of the garden. ‘They’re so cheerful and happy. They’re like sunshine.’

  ‘I’m like that?’

  ‘You certainly are.’

  ‘Then I wish there was a story about me and daffodils.’

  ‘Oh, but there’s a marvellous poem.’

  ‘Will you tell me it?’

  Stella grinned. ‘I’ll teach you it.’ She opened her hand. ‘That’s cunning, Gracie. Let me see yours,’ she said, regarding the roundish pebble rolling in her palm.

  Her companion opened her hand and at least looked sheepish about the flatter stone it contained. They both knew Grace’s stone would land and likely stay put, while Stella’s would m
ost probably roll. ‘You’re going to do very well in life, Gracie, and you are giving yourself every good chance to beat me. But I’m good, I warn you.’

  Grace flung herself at Stella for an unexpected and affectionate hug. Stella looked up as she twirled the girl around and could swear she saw someone staring at them from one of the top floor windows. The net curtain twitched back though so fast she wasn’t sure if the person was male or female.

  ‘Have you played this before?’

  ‘At school, only once.’

  ‘All right, I’ll go first. So, you throw your stone gently to land on the first square.’ Stella rolled her pebble. ‘And then you jump over that square to land both feet into squares two and three.’

  ‘I remember this,’ Grace said, sounding delighted. ‘Let me try.’

  ‘All right, but you have to do a pirouette on square ten. We might as well practise your ballet while we’re about it.’

  Gracie bent with laughter.

  ‘I’m not joking,’ Stella warned, grinning roguishly.

  ‘And you have to teach me the poem.’

  ‘Off you go, then.’

  Gracie began her turn and Stella began to recite. ‘I wandered lonely as a cloud, That floats on high o’er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host of golden daffodils.’

  Gracie was pirouetting and even Stella began to laugh aloud now.

  ‘Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine, And twinkle on the milky way, they stretched in never-ending line, Along the margin of the bay.’

  Grace held up her collected stone. ‘Did it!’

  ‘Well done, you.’

  ‘Will you teach me how to say that? It sounded so pretty.’

  And so a happy hour slipped by with Grace leaping and pirouetting and Stella encouraging her, praising her, teaching her the poem until Grace was no longer concentrating on where her feet needed to be but was easily reciting the first verse as she hopped along. Stella looked impressed.