The Last Dance

by Fiona McIntosh

  Stella frowned, feeling lost.

  ‘Anyway, apparently he now has an even more urgent need of your cataloguing services for this special new job he has for Kew Gardens. So, you’re to accompany us, I’m to instruct. Open a window, Stella. If Dougie smells tobacco in Grace’s room, he’ll bleat at me.’

  Stella obliged. ‘What about my family?’ she asked over her shoulder.

  ‘What about it? You intended to be away from them for a month, anyway. You may be a week or two late returning. I’m sure you can explain. There’ll be extra wages, of course.’

  Beatrice was consistent with her careless attitude and Stella couldn’t bother finding the energy to show her offence.

  Beatrice gave a melodramatic sigh. ‘This is so typical of my husband. He hasn’t even given me a date.’

  ‘It’s all rather sudden, isn’t it?’ She prolonged the enquiry in case Rafe had told his wife more.

  ‘Inconvenient, but that’s Doug,’ Beatrice said, unhelpfully. Apparently his wife knew less than she. Beatrice glanced at her watch and on cue Mrs Boyd arrived with her set of keys. ‘Ah, Boyd, you’ll show Stella up to Mr Ainsworth’s studio, please.’

  ‘Is it right that I’m to give Miss Myles this key?’ Mrs Boyd said, sounding incredulous.

  ‘It’s what my husband instructed.’

  ‘Mrs Ainsworth, I —’

  ‘Not now, Boyd. I gave him my word.’

  Mrs Boyd’s lips tightened as though she had just smelled something especially unpleasant. ‘Follow me, Miss Myles.’

  Wordlessly, Stella left the room, following the housekeeper. Mrs Boyd’s disgust trailed alongside Stella like a passenger on her shoulder as they climbed the stairs to the next level and finally to the locked door outside her room.

  ‘I don’t know what this is all about, Miss Myles, really I don’t.’

  ‘And I am just following instructions like everyone else,’ Stella admitted in a neutral tone.

  The door was unlocked briskly, the key wrenched off the large ring. ‘And so I’m supposed to give you this.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Should you lose it —’

  ‘I won’t. Thank you, Mrs Boyd.’

  ‘I’ll just come up and —’

  ‘That will not be necessary,’ she replied, knowing Rafe would not want Boyd of all people even glancing around his personal space. ‘You can leave me to my work now.’

  The housekeeper’s face couldn’t have pinched itself more sourly even if she’d just sucked hard on a lemon. ‘See you for luncheon, then.’

  Stella didn’t respond and made a point of locking the door noisily behind her. She allowed herself a small grin as she twisted the key in the lock and listened at the door as the woman stomped away down the stairs.

  Stella slipped the key into her pocket and exhaled, only now realising there was another, still more private flight of stairs ahead that felt as though she’d entered a secret cocoon. Her heartbeat had escalated to a persistent percussion she could feel; it was pounding as though sitting high in her throat. It felt like she was under attack from all quarters. What was happening? A few days ago she thought her world could never feel under more pressure as a grieving daughter whose major concern was the responsibility of putting a roof over their heads and food on the table for her young siblings. That suddenly felt wrongly pushed beneath a heavier – no, crushing – responsibility of not only adultery but what seemed to point to state secrets. Even thinking that made her catch her breath. Was Rafe a spy? A government man leading a double . . . perhaps triple life? He had guided her to his lair and whether she was deliberately part of his intrigue, there was no doubting she was now not only helplessly part of his web in what she’d overheard on the telephone but it appeared that he was intently bringing her into his secretive world by allowing her here, into his sanctum.

  Fear fluttered through her like a disturbed butterfly as she grasped that she was being helplessly drawn into a world of secrets and espionage. Life was moving quickly and she felt as though she was caught in a hurricane. She climbed the small flight of private stairs that led her up to the attic with a sense of awe; now the fear of only moments ago was being shouldered aside by helpless intrigue as much as desire. She could smell Rafe here. Traces of lavender from his expensive pomade scented the slighty musty, woody atmosphere of this loft room that was alive with the dust motes she’d stirred with her arrival, which now danced in the muted morning light that seeped through the dormer windows. And as she crested the final stair she was struck by how simple and yet elegant this huge room was that must have spanned two or three chambers below.

  Even though he wished no one to share his private place, it nevertheless was painted a soft and welcoming chalky white and like his favourite room downstairs it was crammed with oddities. However, whereas the nursery held his and the family’s memorabilia of childhood, this space was all about Rafe’s personal items. Here she took in a signed cricket bat, a battered old pith helmet, various photographs, sketches, piles and more dusty piles of books, but it was to his desk that she was drawn, where Stella was sure in this intensely private place she would unlock the secret that was Rafe.

  She had already decided in the last few moments to let go of the rising hysteria and to trust him. What else could she do? She was now his accomplice, mistress, soulmate . . .

  It was waiting for her as though he knew what she would be thinking. A thick, oblong envelope of heavy stationery with his family crest was leaning against a sculpture of a camel, carved out of a wood with bright whorls and bands of light and dark timber. She couldn’t imagine which wood it was but the camel’s expression was so lifelike she felt like stroking the statue’s bent head.

  Carelessly scrawled in black ink across the envelope was her single name. She half expected it not to be sealed but then she knew how carefully he protected his true self. She pulled at the flap and the seal gave up its hold with a tight snap and Stella touched the glue where Rafe’s tongue had presumably moistened it. She was annoyed by her vulnerability at the thrill of pleasure that passed through her like a shiver. And her heartbeat seemed to falter at the sight of his handwriting, which curiously appeared on the front of the letter before she could unfold it. She’d anticipated it would be flamboyant but it was neatly penned and spaced in a measured way that made reading the words easy. The only nod to his stylish alter ego, or rather the real Mr Ainsworth, were the tiny hooks and curlicues on the ends of certain letters that seemed to make the overall effect of the handwriting feel artistic rather than workmanlike. Do not read this in the house. Be patient. Read it in Brighton.

  ‘Brighton?’ she murmured and as she did so there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Miss Myles?’

  ‘Er, yes? Who is it?’

  ‘It’s Hilly, Miss Myles. Mrs Ainsworth needs you.’

  She closed her eyes with frustration and then quickly opened the letter a fraction.

  My dearest Stella, it began and she took a slow, deep breath at how affectionate those three words felt as she read them.

  I’ll be gone by the time you’re reading this. I’ll bet the mean-spirited Mrs Boyd’s expression must have all but collapsed in on itself at the notion of handing you the only other key to the attic room. How do you like my secret space? Not nearly as exciting or intriguing as everyone imagines, I’m sure.

  ‘Miss Myles?’ Another more urgent knock filtered upstairs.

  ‘I’m coming,’ she called down, filled with annoyance. She refolded the letter, slipped it back into its crisp envelope and then hid it in a deep pocket of her cardigan. She looked around longingly, wanting to sit here through the day, touch his belongings, get to know the work she was meant to be doing. Instead she stomped back down the stairs and pulled open the door. Hilly flinched on the other side.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘So am I. Mr Ainsworth wants me to do some tasks for him,’ she lied with little effort, driven by the burn to read his words. ‘What is the probl
em?’

  The girl shrugged. ‘I was asked to fetch you.’

  ‘Is it Grace?’ she asked, alarmed.

  Hilly frowned. ‘I don’t think so.’

  Her shoulders relaxed. ‘Well, I have to collect something from my room first. Give me a moment.’ Hilly didn’t object and Stella didn’t give her time to. She opened and shut her door, slipping inside to hide the envelope in her pillowcase. Quickly, she changed her cardigan to something lighter simply to prove that she had done something on the other side of the door that she now opened and locked shut with a key. As they walked, she attached Rafe’s study key to her door key and dropped it into a pocket. She felt the keys chinking together comfortably and the world, just in that moment, felt right . . . as though their lips were touching.

  She was led straight back to Grace’s room, hoping Hilly’s assessment was still correct that the little girl hadn’t taken a turn for the worse.

  She hurried in. ‘Is everything all right, Mrs Ainsworth?’

  ‘Ah, Stella, sorry to interrupt you,’ Beatrice said, standing from her child’s bed and waving a wearied hand to anyone in close proximity. ‘I am headed up to London because I do have to make sure about wardrobe needs; no man understands, least of all my man.’ Stella frowned, unable to detect any matter of great urgency. Beatrice continued talking. ‘However, I failed to mention that Doug has suggested we advance you some money so you can get yourself some outfits.’

  She had been dragged downstairs for this? ‘But I don’t need any new outfits, Mrs Ainsworth.’

  ‘You most certainly do. You can’t possibly take a voyage to the tropics and not have linens and cottons. So far I’ve noted only woollens and sensible winter clothes. It just won’t do. Anyway, take your pick: London, Brighton or Eastbourne are your best options. I suggest you take a train in today, stay over if you wish. We shall pay for your accommodation. Let Mrs Boyd know your requirements.’

  Stella stared back, baffled, and her glance moved to Grace, who was mumbling yet seemingly asleep. She hoped they had permission from the doctor to whisk her off abroad.

  ‘Anyway, hurry up and make your decision about where you’re headed. I shall no doubt see you on the docks at Tilbury.’

  It occurred to her that if she sent a telegram ahead, Aunt Dilys might be able to bring the children down to London overnight. ‘Do you think if I chose London I might have a chance to see my family?’

  ‘I doubt it, Stella, so now do buck up, please. I’m sure we can arrange for you to call to wish them farewell.’

  Stella shook her head mutely to answer that there was no phone at her aunt’s place.

  ‘Oh, well, it’s only a few weeks, for heaven’s sake!’ She sounded so heartless that Stella didn’t bother responding. ‘Right, I have to go,’ she continued, barely looking again at her child although she was certainly doing her best to say the right things. ‘Can you sit with Grace, Stella, until Miss Hailsham arrives, please? She seems to be stirring every now and then to mutter but almost immediately drifting off again. I don’t know what’s best for her. The doctor did say rest so I’m letting nature decide. I suspect she’ll wake properly soon but I have to go.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘She’s due any minute and Mrs Boyd has her duties.’ Beatrice reached for a cape dangling over a chair.

  ‘Yes, of course, I’ll stay with Grace,’ Stella replied, her tone dull. ‘You carry on – I know you have a lot to organise.’

  Beatrice glided out of the room, wearing a short soot-black woollen cape to match her dress giving her the appearance of a bat leaving. Stella sat forlornly on the bed and gazed at Grace. If she looked past the sweet chubbiness, she could see Rafe’s expression etched in the child’s expression in repose. Calm and strong, just a hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth as though harbouring a secret, but there was nothing sly about it – not like Georgina.

  What had Georgina meant earlier? The horror of that conversation returned like a stab of pain. She touched Grace, stroking her hair before holding her hand. The girl stirred, eyelids blinking, open halfway.

  ‘Stella?’ she lisped.

  She was relieved that Grace recognised her immediately. ‘Yes, darling girl. How do you feel?’

  ‘Achey.’

  ‘I know. Do you want anything? A drink?’

  The child nodded. ‘Lucozade? Daddy says it’s good for you.’

  ‘It’s good for fever when someone doesn’t feel like eating.’ She wished she could afford it for Carys, who couldn’t swallow food when she suffered sore throats with fevers.

  ‘Hmm. I’m hungry too.’

  ‘Water first,’ she said, smiling, and reached for the jug and glass beaker. She knew it would be easy to begrudge Grace her wealth and access to anything she needed, including the sparkling glucose drink that always felt like a treat rather than a health aid, but Grace prompted only pleasure in Stella. ‘How about I get you some Lucozade as a treat and you can have a tiny glass of it each day.’

  Grace nodded and tried to whisper. ‘Mrs Boyd keeps some bottles in the butler’s pantry. I’ve seen them.’

  Stella grinned. Grace was ever observant. ‘Is it your head that hurts?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘Happy to talk, though?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No French or any lessons for a while,’ Stella said, waggling a finger. ‘What do you remember about what happened?’

  Grace considered this. ‘I remember being in the car with you and Daddy.’

  ‘That’s excellent,’ Stella said, her fear escalating. ‘I wouldn’t have thought you could remember much at all.’

  The girl nodded, full of innocence. ‘I have a really good memory. That’s why Daddy likes me to help him memorise stuff.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Grace replied, yawning. ‘He practises his memory with me.’

  ‘Do you mean recall?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She yawned again.

  ‘You must rest.’

  ‘He needed me to remember stuff to do with maps. Numbers. We used to make up little songs and he’d get me to sing them around him to help him practise.’ She yawned so widely this time she closed her eyes.

  Stella frowned, baffled. Beatrice had alluded to this habit too, equally confused, while Rafe had not offered a word of insight but had seemed deeply irritated by the mention. Stella leaned down and laid a soft kiss on the child’s head and let go of the thought, even though the conversation he shared with Basil Peach once again erupted in her mind.

  ‘Why are you “the other woman”?’ Grace murmured in a drowsy voice. She opened her eyes again and stared at Stella.

  Stella could barely breathe.

  ‘Other woman?’ she repeated, her voice breaking on the question, pulse instantly racing as though a starter’s gun had just gone off in her mind.

  Grace nodded. She turned onto her back so she could look at Stella squarely. ‘You said you didn’t want to be the other woman to Daddy and he said you already were.’

  ‘Er, I’m trying to recall now. Gosh, you have a fine memory. Um . . . what were we talking about? It was all such a blur. We were both so worried about you.’ She knew she was gabbling but Grace waited patiently.

  ‘You said you felt guilty. What did that mean?’

  Stella’s thoughts fled to control the damage. ‘Er, that’s right . . . I think I was feeling terrible that your Mummy wasn’t in the car with your father, and I was talking to you, Grace,’ she said. ‘I was trying to soothe you, not let you feel badly about Mummy not being with you.’

  Grace considered this for a few moments. ‘I heard you say that you didn’t want to stop holding —’

  ‘Oh my word! You poor child. I didn’t say that to your father, Grace,’ she said, her chortle sounding strained. ‘Good gracious, no, I was talking to you, precious girl.’

  She held her breath, watched the child’s forehead crease. ‘Wasn’t I lying in Daddy’s lap in the car?’

  Ste
lla nodded, giving her best artless smile and hating herself to be ensnared in this lie to someone she loved. ‘You were, but I was holding your hand the whole way.’

  Grace grinned. ‘Thank you, Stella. Daddy told me when he sat next to me last night that you took control and bossed everyone around like a sergeant major . . . even Mrs Boyd had to pay attention to your command.’ She giggled, no doubt enjoying the image of that in her mind. ‘I wish I’d been awake to see that.’

  Again, Stella sighed inwardly with relief that she’d deflected the enquiry. ‘If I hadn’t been so worried I would have enjoyed it more,’ she confided. ‘You should have seen Mrs Boyd, one minute holding up your legs, the next yelling at poor Hilly about smelling salts, then marching down the stairs making sure we didn’t drop you. Now I think about it, it is quite funny but not at the time.’

  ‘You’ll never be scared of her again, Stella,’ Grace murmured, looking like she was struggling to stifle another yawn. ‘I think I’m asleep,’ Grace continued in a thick voice. ‘I’ll tell Georgie tomorrow.’

  At the mention of the sister, Stella’s relief dissipated like a curlicue of smoke scattering in a breeze. ‘Georgie?’

  Grace nodded, eyes closing before turning on her side into a sleeping position. ‘When Georgina asked me what you both talked about in the car, I told her but when I asked what you might mean she said she didn’t know. But Georgie is always fibbing. Now I can tell her I do know.’

  Claws of terror, with fingers of jagged icicles, raked in her fears again, gathering them to settle in the pit of her belly like a wintry pool of anxiety. So that’s what Georgie had been probing at . . .

  Just making you aware, Stella, that I know something. Don’t get too comfortable. He can’t protect you.

  Stella took a slow, silent breath that seemed to come up from her toes. She watched the rhythmic movement of Grace’s chest and the slack expression. The little girl was fully asleep. She moved back a stray lock of dark hair from the child’s closed eyes and held no grudge towards the innocent Grace. But it was obvious that her conniving sister was likely right this moment considering and plotting how best to use this information to her best advantage.