He made a fist and pressed it silently but firmly on the mantelpiece to show his quiet disgust. ‘Her mother protects her, unfortunately. Georgina has been allowed to ride roughshod over people all of her life. She has been indulged so thoroughly that I fear there is no way back for her other than the harsh way with some sort of violent awakening. Boarding school, for instance. I’ve discussed a finishing school in Switzerland in the hope that her departure will remove the tension from the household that Georgina can provoke with a snap of her fingers. You witnessed her fine skills tonight.’
‘Maybe that’s a sound idea. I hear those schools can be firm with their charges.’
He nodded. ‘They get away with very little under the keen eyes of the mistresses, most of them older spinsters with an axe to grind about temperament and behaviour . . . and hemlines of the young women of today.’
‘Too much ankle?’ Stella grinned.
Rafe pursed his lips in a comical pantomime of a high-born lady of the Victorian age.
Stella chuckled as quietly as she could. ‘Oh gosh, you’d make a great Lady Bracknell.’
‘What do you mean? I already have,’ he said, affecting an injured tone. ‘I was Lady Augusta Bracknell in the school’s production of The Importance of Being Earnest. Not a single poor review, either; an agent actually asked afterwards if I would like represen-tation.’
‘Oh, yes . . . you’d make a fine actor,’ she offered dryly. Again she saw the boyish Rafe break through from the amusement and sparkle that erupted in his eyes at the memory. ‘How old were you?’
‘Twelve. Seriously, I think I was only given the role because my voice broke early.’
Stella laughed. ‘I’m trying to imagine you mincing about on stage in a silk crinoline.’
‘My father was horrified at my bustle but I swear they could hear my mother’s laughter all the way to the green room. Oh, how I loved her laugh . . .’ He looked instantly melancholy, his gaze focused on more than two decades back.
Stella realised they’d got far off the point. ‘Anyway, your girls are so different.’ She shook her head. ‘But if it’s any comfort, I imagine that life will help her grow up, when Georgina starts to live beyond the umbrella of her mother’s protection.’
He gave a soft snort as he returned to the present. ‘You’re so careful with your words, Stella.’
‘I can hardly afford not to be so.’
‘And yet I gather from Grace that you’ve been challenging Georgina?’
She nodded. ‘I intend to, every day, but in private. I think the error was mine tonight in speaking out in front of her parents. The problem is I’m too honest.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘No,’ he assured, his tone filled with irony.
She grinned. ‘My directness can get me into hot water sometimes but I’m not very good at hinting. I’d rather just be plain.’
‘You’re anything but plain, Stella,’ he mused and the softness in the way he looked at her was unnerving.
Stella hurried on because the mood of the conversation was now feeling similar to the mood of the taxi. ‘I don’t think you should talk like that.’
‘Like what?’ he said, stepping close enough that she could smell the woody, spicy scent of his shaving soap.
‘You should not be so familiar.’
‘I am merely stating a fact that no one can deny. You are beautiful, Stella, and you achieve that without an ounce of affectation . . . you dress modestly, you wear none of the ghastly cosmetic palaver that other women plaster on and yet your skin glows and your lips are —’
‘Stop! Please, this is not appropriate.’
‘I appreciate beauty in art, in nature, in women. I am merely saying you are not plain.’
‘And you’ve made your point. You made it without tripping, fumbling, stammering or even wearing glasses. As I say, you confound me.’
‘Good. I should hate to be predictable.’
Stella forced herself to breathe evenly as Rafe felt to her as though he was filling the room with his presence and she was beginning to suffocate from the bright awareness of her attraction to him.
‘And I was simply trying to impress that Georgina was not just appallingly rude today but she has managed to make me feel like some sort of interloper accepting wages and board when I can’t perform my job. I get the impression that Mrs Ainsworth finds the debating interminably draining and I suspect it is easier to give in to Georgina’s demands than to fight her.’
‘Quite.’
‘Anyway, I suspect I shall feel like Lady Bracknell by the end of this contract, for all the lecturing I’m sure I shall be giving Georgina. It would be far easier if one of her parents could speak with her so that I can stop being the wicked witch in her life.’
‘You want me to have that discussion with Georgina,’ he said, his tone flat.
‘Well, clearly your wife will not.’
‘I doubt I am the right person.’
‘You’re the perfect person.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you’re her father!’
It struck Stella that her words shredded his controlled façade and for an instant she was able to look behind the suave demeanour to where the real man hid. In that heartbeat she glimpsed anger and loneliness.
‘I’m not —’ he began.
But whatever he was about to growl back at her was swallowed as the door opened and Beatrice re-entered, talking over her shoulder.
‘. . . remove hers, Mrs Boyd.’ She looked back into the room. ‘Georgina isn’t coming down. She’s going to eat in her room. Heavens, it feels maudlin in here. What have you two been up to?’
Stella noticed that Rafe had collected his raw emotions together; his expression had rearranged itself to its former affable and open calm that looked eager to please. His glasses were even being carefully returned, as was his slight stammer – all achieved within the few sentences his wife had muttered.
‘Er, I was telling Mr Ainsworth that I was suffering a pang of homesickness today.’
‘Really? That’s rather bleak, given you’ve barely arrived,’ his wife said, coming to stand by the fire. She linked her arm in his as if to say she’d forgiven him his clumsiness and Stella had to admit they made a gloriously handsome couple.
‘Darling, I’m so sorry about earlier, are you feeling much better?’ he soothed, tapping her hand.
‘I am feeling dry, Dougie. Are you going to fix me that drink?’
‘Yes, of course,’ he said, ‘But I’d advise you all to stand clear of this,’ he joked, reaching for the syphon.
The chameleon that she now knew him to be was back in its polite husband skin and yet she’d seen him ‘naked’ just moments earlier, and the passion in his enraged look at her words was unmistakable but also irresistible. She could feel that passion still; it was like an invisible finger reaching in to place itself on her heart as if choosing her.
‘I don’t think we need to keep referring to the suicides in Stella’s past,’ Beatrice said so casually that Stella shuddered and yet she sensed Beatrice’s intrigue; there had been no need to mention her parents.
‘It wasn’t Mr Ainsworth’s fault,’ Stella said. ‘I brought up the homesickness because I was explaining that I think I have a bit of headache tonight.’
‘Dear me, that’s no good,’ Beatrice said as if she’d just told Mrs Boyd to throw an extra log on the fire.
‘Yes, and I was asking him if you’d all excuse me tonight. The pain has become more determined.’
‘Oh, pity,’ Beatrice said in a tone devoid of all empathy. ‘Another evening, perhaps?’
‘Thank you for understanding,’ Stella said, standing. She refused him eye contact but could feel a wave of his disappointment and regret lapping at the edge of her senses. ‘Thank you for inviting me, Mrs Ainsworth.’
‘Goodnight, Stella,’ Beatrice said, turning to take the glass that her husband had brought to her. ‘Doug, darling, you’d better tell Mrs Boyd that it’s another
two places to be removed as I suspect Grace will now lose all interest in dinner with us. You seem to be the new object of desire in our daughter’s life, Stella.’
Stella had no idea how to respond to such a statement. ‘I’ll see Grace after her riding lesson and after Georgina’s lesson. I hope that’s suitable?’
‘I shall see that Georgina attends all of her lessons from now on or she’ll answer to me,’ Rafe said, his normally mild tone suddenly mousey.
Even Beatrice chuckled. ‘You, darling?’
Stella was so fascinated by the way she could now see Rafe shifting between personalities that her gaze lingered on him.
Beatrice cleared her throat. ‘Stella?’
‘Er, sorry, I was just thinking I could probably work out a proper timetable tonight.’
‘But you have a headache,’ Rafe said.
She recovered quickly as his glare urged. ‘Yes, I’m hoping it won’t hang around for too long.’
‘I could have Hilly bring up some aspirin,’ Beatrice offered.
‘I have some with me, Mrs Ainsworth. I shall be fine. Thank you again.’
‘As you wish,’ Beatrice said, clearly bored with the topic. She sat down and reached for her husband’s hand. ‘Looks like it’s a romantic dinner for two.’
Rafe cut his wife a half-hearted smile. ‘I’ll go and let Mrs Boyd know. Here, let me walk you out, Stella.’
Outside the door he sighed. ‘You won’t be able to avoid all of us all of the time,’ he murmured.
‘Not all. Just you. Good night, Mr Ainsworth.’
10
Stella arrived with an armful of books onto the landing and followed the explicit directions that had been delivered with her breakfast tray. She found the room called the nursery on the floor beneath hers at twenty minutes to nine precisely and Mrs Boyd was waiting for her.
‘Ah, Miss Myles, good morning. Thank you for your punct-uality.’
‘I appreciate your meeting me.’
Mrs Boyd was holding a ring of keys. She began to select one. ‘How was breakfast?’
‘Thank you for sending up a tray. It was perfect, although I did say that I’m happy to take my breakfast with the staff.’
‘Not necessary. You have duties here in the main part of the house with changeable schedules and we wouldn’t want to disrupt your flexibility,’ she said in a meaningless excuse that made it clear Stella was not so welcome below stairs.
Stella was surprised how much it hurt but remembered her manners and moved to small talk. ‘It’s certainly quiet here.’
‘Indeed, here is near silent,’ Mrs Boyd said, holding up a key triumphantly. ‘This one hasn’t been used in a while. Yes, only Miss Grace is on this side.’ She nodded towards a door at the end of the corridor where they stood. ‘She’s gone for a riding lesson this morning. Miss Georgina and her parents have their rooms on this level in the east wing.’ Stella’s heart sank a little deeper for her youngest charge, who appeared to be both physically and emotionally cut off from her family. ‘You’ll have no need to go to the east wing.’
Was that a warning?
Mrs Boyd finally jiggled the lock into submission and they heard it shift.
‘Here we are, the nursery,’ she said in triumph, pushing open the door, like stage curtains.
Stella was expecting something prissy, with frills and bows – certainly white with soft pastel touches. She was surprised to be led into a room that was painted a rich sage green with all the woodwork picked out in a soft parchment colour. High shelves were lined with what appeared to be an eclectic collection of memorabilia, from leather footballs to hockey sticks to jars of marbles. Books that couldn’t find a place in the huge bookcase that claimed one entire wall gathered dust in colourful towers nearby. Sketches and watercolours of varying adeptness and of everything from birds and lizards to landscapes hung on the remaining walls in a motley of unmatched frames. Huge, colourful moths or iridescent beetles were framed beneath glass and there were bell jars of preserved creatures she wasn’t even sure about . . . they all appeared vaguely reptilian. School ties, caps and scarves twisted around odd hooks as though they’d been flung from the door and had found a comfortable home by chance, to remain for decades. A marvellous series of colourful kites hung on the walls as well as grainy school photographs and smiling family groups and of clearly much-beloved dogs who claimed their own silver frame. It was too much to take in at once. Brightness flooded in from the tall, oblong windows that had soft white voile curtains to diffuse the sharpness of morning to a deliciously mellow light that added to the tender ambience of the room. She spun around, realising that she was the one giving gentle gasps of delight.
‘Forgive me. It’s a lovely space,’ she murmured, turning back to the housekeeper. ‘I didn’t expect it to be so charming when you called it the nursery.’
‘It’s Mr Ainsworth’s name for it. I’ve never known it referred to as anything else.’
Stella was moving towards the windows.
The housekeeper straightened a heavy shell acting as a paperweight on the large banker’s desk in the middle of the room. ‘We put this desk in here so that you and Miss Georgina could study facing each other rather than side by side. There’s paper, ink, pencils, rubbers, blotting paper, sharpeners . . .’ She stopped opening drawers and reeling off the obvious. ‘Yes, I think all the Ainsworth children down the years spent their infancy in this room. Mr Ainsworth has forbidden us to move any of the memorabilia – dusting it all is fraught because he’s so precious about the items here – and yet he insisted this was the room to be used by you for study. I can’t imagine why, with all this clutter.’
Stella frowned, wondering if yet another invisible, silent message was being communicated.
‘So Mr Ainsworth spent his early childhood days in here too.’
‘Oh, yes, indeed,’ Mrs Boyd sniffed. ‘I might just open a window.’ She struggled with a window as she had with the door’s lock. It was as though the room didn’t wish to permit the present into its chamber of secrets and memories. Mrs Boyd, however, gave a hefty shove with her shoulder, and with a firm grunt the window finally surrendered, sighing open as though expelling the breath in the room it had held tightly for decades.
‘There we are. That’s much better. Now you and Miss Georgina can’t fall asleep.’
‘No threat of that, I’m afraid, on French verbs.’
‘Well, I shall leave you to it. Apparently we’re to send up some hot cocoa for Miss Georgina. Would you like a small pot too?’
‘Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary, Mrs Boyd. Georgina will have only recently finished breakfast, surely? I think she can forgo her cocoa for an hour or two so we remain undisturbed.’
‘Um, she has specifically ordered it. And —’
‘Well, I’m her tutor and her senior, so forgive me but I’d rather you didn’t send up anything as I suspect it will only be disruptive to Georgina’s concentration. She is more than welcome to have cocoa served directly afterwards at eleven sharp when the tutorial ends.’ Stella smiled firmly as Mrs Boyd blinked in consternation. She put her books onto the desk and began sorting through them in the hope it gave just the right polite air of dismissal. ‘Thank you again. This is a perfectly conducive space for Georgina to knuckle down to the study her parents expect.’ She lifted her gaze and fixed Mrs Boyd, surely an accomplice of the two Ainsworth women, to show she was not to be undermined.
‘As you wish, Miss Myles.’
‘Thank you.’ She followed the housekeeper to the door, smiling indulgently as she closed it on the woman. Is every day going to be a battle of wills? she wondered.
Her mind flipped to Georgina and the trial ahead of her today with this hostile teenager. She thought about how her father had reacted yesterday to the suggestion that he speak with his daughter about her lack of respect. Stella hadn’t understood his unfinished response that was nevertheless delivered with repressed anger.
‘She’s not —’ he’d beg
un.
Not what? Stella had wondered. Not worth it? Not happy? Not going to listen to me? Stella shuddered inwardly, imagining how uncomfortable her household would have been if she had ever dared to mock or bait her father in that manner.
She glanced at her watch. Six minutes to go. Georgina had better not be late . . .
Stella began a slow tour of the room, gazing at the old photos, charmed by the obvious snapshots of Rafe as a boy, which all depicted him either in what looked to be a desert or running seemingly wild on the wilderness of what was presumably the Weald. The pictures of him surrounded by sand dunes were intriguing, especially those with his face half covered by linens in the Bedouin style. There was another lad of similar age, she guessed, but smaller in stature, who was also in a lot of the Arabian-looking photos. Apart from sharing dark hair, they didn’t look at all alike but clearly they were close. Cousins, maybe? She squinted, he looked European; eastern Mediterranean, perhaps?
Meanwhile Rafe looked tanned and relaxed in the images on foreign soil; his crinkled eyes suggested he was always smiling, completely at ease in his surrounds, whether he was perched on a camel or peeping out from a makeshift tent that was more of an awning to Stella’s mind. She wished she could see the colours of the desert . . . Stella imagined the deep gold of the sands and the richness of the camel rugs and carpets within the tent she could just see. What was he doing in the desert as a child? Where was this?
She spied a family photo in what looked to be a large white villa, except they were in some sort of enclosed courtyard. Date palms bent from pots, a fountain nearby spouted water with crystalline droplets sparkling as they caught the sunlight, and in the background, a man in all white wearing a fez blurred behind the family as he crossed the lens, unaware that he’d entered the photograph. Rafe in shorts and crisp white shirt was presumably leaning against his mother, a dark beauty, his elbow crooked on her shoulder while her arm draped affectionately across his bare legs. Her other hand was moving towards her mouth as though trying to cover her own amusement. Stella’s gaze shifted to the little girl who was likely his sister, sitting on her father’s lap; she was caught in a moment of explosive laughter and looking at Rafe as though he’d just said something witty. The father wore a genial expression, indulging his happy family. Stella smiled helplessly. It was a moment of pure joy and she felt a burst of envy; she understood that feeling but didn’t have it captured on film as Rafe had. She would have to rely on her memory.
The Last Dance Page 14
