The Lost Sapphire

by Belinda Murrell

Sally nodded vigorously. ‘Oh yes. The kiddies were so excited about the apple cake an’ the meat pie. They scoffed the lot in no time at all.’

  Violet could imagine the merry scene. She glanced wistfully at her image in the mirror. ‘One day I’d like to come and visit your ma, and all your brothers and sisters. It would be lovely to meet them.’

  Sally looked a little embarrassed. ‘Oh no, miss. You wouldn’t like to come to my place. It’s not right for the likes of you. It’s too noisy an’ crowded.’

  ‘It sounds charming.’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  There was silence as Sally pulled long, sweeping strokes through Violet’s wet hair with a silver-backed brush. When it was dry, Violet’s hair was thick and curly, hanging to her waist. Her father used to say that both his girls were true Scottish lassies with their rich auburn tresses with hints of gold through it. Violet flicked a hank of hair behind her ear in irritation.

  ‘What else is news in the kitchen?’ she asked, changing the subject. ‘Has Monsieur Dufour been throwing any pots this morning?’

  Sally shook her head as she continued to work the brush through the knots. ‘Only a little one, an’ it was empty.’

  Violet laughed. The French chef was very temperamental and seemed to think that it was part of his job description to hurl pots and pans around the kitchen when his fellow workers annoyed him with their stupidity. When they were younger, Violet and Imogen had loved to venture into the kitchen to beg titbits from the kitchen maids, but when Monsieur Dufour had taken charge of the kitchen last year, he had swiftly declared that his domain was definitely out of bounds for the misses of the house.

  ‘The new chauffeur started today, miss,’ said Sally after a moment’s thought.

  ‘Oh, I’ll miss Ellis,’ Violet said. ‘And the horses.’

  Mr Ellis had worked for the Hamilton family for decades, first as a carriage driver and then as chauffeur, though his first love had always been the horses. He had driven Violet to school each day and ferried Imogen around to her social engagements.

  Violet smiled as she remembered the furious scolding Ellis had given her when she was twelve. One of the grooms had left the buggy, hitched to a pair of horses, tied up outside the carriage house. When she spied them, Violet had decided to take the buggy for a joy ride. She had urged the horses into a canter and had taken the corner too fast. The left-side horse shied and the buggy overturned, throwing Violet into the hydrangea bushes.

  Ellis had come chasing after her, calmed the horses, then checked that she was not too badly hurt. Violet had been scratched and bruised, but that was nothing compared to the tongue lashing she received for endangering his precious horses. Ellis then told her that the consequences would be dire if she ever did anything so foolish again, but he never told her father about the accident, and that week he taught Violet how to drive the buggy properly. That was the beginning of a firm friendship between the two.

  ‘It broke Mr Ellis’s heart when your father sold all the horses, an’ he said it’s better to go now while he can still find another place,’ explained Sally. ‘He’s gone to a big house in Toorak that still keep horses and carriages.’

  ‘Dad decided the horses weren’t being used enough and he finds the motor car more convenient for longer trips,’ said Violet. ‘But I loved riding Sultan and driving the buggy. It’s not the same being driven everywhere.’

  Violet suspected that the real reason her father had decided he no longer needed horses was so he could sell the paddock. The neighbouring houses were creeping closer every year as parts of the estate had been sold off.

  ‘The new chauffeur’s a foreigner,’ Sally continued, wrinkling her nose. ‘A Russian. Maybe he’s one of those Bolshies.’

  Violet smiled at the thought of her father having a comunist revolutionary driving his beloved automobile. That was totally incongruous.

  ‘I don’t think Father would employ a Bolshevik,’ said Violet. ‘The Bolshevik threat to the world order is one of his favourite topics at dinner parties.’

  Sally nodded. ‘They say the Russians are starvin’. Those Bolshies are a murderous lot, killin’ their emperor an’ his poor family.’

  Tsar Nicholas II of Russia, his wife Tsarina Alexandra and their five children had been executed in 1918 by Bolshevik soldiers during the Russian Civil War.

  ‘It was very sad,’ Violet agreed, ‘but I don’t think our chauffeur will be murderous.’

  ‘He’s young an’ charmin’. An’ a bit of a looker, if you like foreign types.’

  There was something about Sally’s repressed air of excitement that piqued Violet’s curiosity.

  ‘Oh? And does this chauffeur have a name?’ Violet asked.

  Sally concentrated as she untangled a knot. ‘Nikolai,’ she said. ‘Nikolai Khakovsky.’ Sally stumbled a little over the unfamiliar surname.

  Violet smiled at Sally in the mirror. ‘I look forward to meeting him.’

  Sally finished the braid and pinned back the loose wisps of hair. ‘Best head down for breakfast, miss,’ she said. ‘The bell rang quite a few minutes ago.’

  Violet nodded. It was time to face her family.

  Breakfast was laid out downstairs, in the morning room, on the small round table near the French doors that opened to the terrace. A vase of blue hydrangeas, sweet-scented freesias and white roses nodded in the centre. Golden toast stood upright in its silver toast rack beside the silver domed butter dish and crystal dishes of citrus marmalade and berry jam. Boiled eggs were nestled in delicate silver egg cups at each place.

  Mr Hamilton was already seated, dressed in a grey three-piece suit, reading his newspaper. The remains of his breakfast lay on the plate in front of him. To Violet’s surprise, Imogen was also there, eating half a grapefruit. She raised her eyebrows at her sister.

  ‘Good morning, Violet,’ her father said, not looking up. ‘You’re late.’

  Saunders, the butler, pulled Violet’s chair back for her then stepped over near the sideboard, his face impassive. He was dressed in his black livery of tailcoat, tie, vest and trousers with a white wing-collar shirt. Romeo was lying beside the French doors. He thumped his tail on the floor as Violet walked towards the table.

  ‘Good morning, Dad,’ replied Violet, slipping into her chair and placing her napkin in her lap. ‘It’s the most glorious morning.’ She pushed her damp braid over her shoulder.

  Imogen shook her head and gently waggled her finger. She had noticed the damp hair and assumed it meant an illicit swim in the river. Violet screwed up her nose in defiance and stuck out her tongue.

  The silver teapot, jug and sugar bowl were placed beside Imogen. She poured tea and milk into a rosebud teacup and passed it to Violet.

  ‘Thanks,’ Violet replied as she helped herself to toast and a curl of butter. She chipped at her boiled egg with a silver teaspoon.

  Her father huffed and shook his paper, still reading. ‘Steel stocks are down again.’

  On the sideboard stood various dishes of stewed fruit and silver salvers of bacon, mushrooms and sausages. The footman, Harry, brought fresh hot toast and tea from the kitchen.

  ‘More strikes,’ her father commented. ‘Utterly ridiculous nonsense. Don’t these workers realise that the trade unions are being stirred up by communist agitators? They should throw the lot of them into prison. That would solve the problem.’

  Violet rolled her eyes at Imogen, who patted her lips in a fake yawn. Their father’s breakfast conversation was drearily familiar.

  ‘Why are you up so early today?’ Violet asked her sister. ‘You’re hardly ever up before noon these days. Too many late nights out at dinners and balls.’

  ‘No time for sleep when there’s fun to be had,’ Imogen replied with a grin before turning to her father, her blue eyes wide with innocence. ‘Daddy, could I please have the car today? We’ve a meeting of the ball fundraising committee this morning at Audrey’s, then a gang of us are playing tennis there this afternoon. That is, if you don�
��t need it?’

  Her father looked up. His face softened as he looked at his elder daughter. She was undeniably pretty, with her red hair pinned up in a low bun and her ivory skin. Imogen was dressed in the height of fashion in a loose-fitting pale-blue dress, which emphasised the colour of her eyes.

  He thought for a moment then nodded. ‘The new chauffeur can drive you there, after he takes Violet to school,’ he decided. ‘The car can come back for me mid-morning and take me to the factory. I have a meeting with my foreman, but that can wait.’

  Imogen looked delighted. ‘Thank you, Daddy.’

  Violet felt annoyed. How did her sister get her way so often, when her father hardly seemed to acknowledge Violet’s own existence? Imogen was Dad’s favourite, no doubt about it. Violet flicked her damp plait over her shoulder again, willing her father to ask why her hair was wet. He didn’t notice, turning back to his newspaper instead.

  Violet put her spoon down – she didn’t feel hungry anymore – and gazed out the French doors onto the terrace. The grey cat, Juliet, sat on the flagging, delicately licking her paw.

  ‘Excuse me, Miss Violet,’ said Saunders. ‘The chauffeur has brought the car around.’

  4

  The New Chauffeur

  ‘Don’t forget to wait for me,’ Imogen reminded Violet as she headed down the hall towards the front door, which Saunders was holding open. ‘I won’t be long. Could you bring my bags down for me, Harry?’

  The ruby-coloured glass in the fanlight and sidelights above and beside the door glowed in the early morning sunshine.

  ‘Goodbye, Saunders,’ Violet said as she popped her white straw hat on and pulled up her gloves.

  ‘Have a pleasant day, Miss Violet,’ the butler replied.

  The buttercup yellow Daimler was parked at the bottom of the terrace steps, and a tall young man was standing to attention beside it – the new chauffeur. Sally’s right, thought Violet. He is handsome … in a stiff, military sort of way.

  He looked about eighteen and wore the usual grey chauffeur’s uniform of baggy breeches and double-breasted jacket with tan driving gloves and knee-high black boots. A black peaked cap sat neatly over his carefully slicked back dark hair. As Violet approached, he saluted and opened the rear car door.

  ‘Good morning,’ Violet said. ‘You must be Nikolai.’

  ‘Yes, miss,’ he said. ‘Nikolai Petrovich Khakovsky.’

  His English seemed very good, with a slight Russian accent mostly revealed by his long vowels and rolling r’s. Violet smiled at his serious face and the formality with which he delivered his three names. It made her want to tease him.

  ‘Welcome to Riversleigh, Nikolai Petrovich Khakovsky,’ she said in her best hostess voice. ‘I hope you are happy here with us.’

  ‘Thank you, miss,’ he replied.

  Nikolai glanced at her briefly then stared off into the distance. In that moment, Violet was struck by his startling golden brown eyes the colour of toffee, fringed with thick black lashes. Exotic, Byzantine eyes.

  ‘My sister, Imogen, will be here eventually,’ Violet explained. ‘She is always running late.’

  He nodded. ‘Yes, miss. I don’t mind waiting.’

  Violet felt a surge of curiosity about this young man. His manner was quiet and reserved, as befitted a servant, yet there was something about his stance that didn’t fit with the servants she had known. His bearing was tall and proud, yet he was too young to have been a soldier during the war. I don’t mind waiting. Violet had never thought to wonder if a servant minded waiting for her or anyone in her family. That was what servants did.

  She realised that she was staring, and that was behaviour definitely not befitting a well brought up young lady. She hurriedly glanced away.

  Violet slid onto the back seat of the Daimler, breathing in the scent of leather polish and beeswax. Imogen, of course, took ages to come down. When she eventually descended, she was wearing a wide-brimmed, dark-blue hat to match her tailored overcoat. Harry followed behind, carrying a carpet bag and a tennis racket, which he stowed in the front seat.

  ‘I hope it’s not too hot for tennis this afternoon,’ said Imogen to Violet as she settled into the seat beside her sister. Nikolai closed the door. ‘Audrey’s asked quite a crowd.’

  Imogen pulled a gold compact case out of her handbag and began to powder her nose with a puff, then smudged her lips with lipstick into a crimson bow as she peered into the compact mirror. Imogen didn’t usually wear make-up at home in front of her father – he definitely did not approve of young ladies painting their faces. Since the war, he hardly noticed anything, but Imogen always thought it was better to be cautious.

  Imogen chatted about her plans for the day, while Nikolai drove carefully round the carriage circle, past the cascading three-tiered marble fountain and down the long gravel driveway to the heavy wrought-iron double gates. Joseph, the gardener, stood by the open gate, ready to lock it behind them. The whole garden was surrounded by a high stone wall, except for the riverfront, giving the estate total privacy.

  Violet only half-listened to Imogen’s chatter. She was thinking about the day ahead – school lessons, gossiping with her friends about their weekends and then ballroom dancing class in the afternoon. Ten minutes later, as they drove up towards the bluestone towers of Rothbury Ladies’ College, Violet realised that something was different. Standing outside the school was the headmistress, Miss Parker, wearing her long old-fashioned clothes and pince-nez spectacles.

  A line of automobiles and horse-drawn buggies crawled along the street towards the school gates. But instead of dropping the students off there, they paused for a minute, speaking with the headmistress, before driving off again.

  ‘I wonder what’s happening?’ asked Violet, peering out the side window. ‘No-one’s going in.’

  ‘Maybe old Parker’s gone on strike,’ Imogen joked. ‘Now, wouldn’t that be glorious?’

  ‘Unthinkable,’ Violet declared. ‘Miss Parker could be dying of pneumonia, and she’d still be out the front there, welcoming the girls each day.’

  Imogen had attended the small Rothbury Ladies’ College until a year ago, so she was quite familiar with the formidable headmistress, with her strict discipline, focus on academic study and genteel manners. Violet was always getting into trouble for running between classes or jumping the flower beds, instead of walking sedately with a straight spine and her straw hat perched at the correct angle.

  ‘Thank goodness I’m free of there,’ said Imogen. ‘I’m half-convinced that old Parker will chide me now for wearing my skirt this short or daring to wear lipstick.’

  ‘Utterly disgraceful,’ Violet agreed cheerily. ‘I’m sure she’ll order you to detention at once, although I seem to remember you were always the perfect Hamilton sister! The one who studied hard and always managed to get straight A’s. I don’t think you ever had a detention in your life.’

  ‘That’s because I actually did what I was supposed to do, instead of staring dreamily out the window like someone else we know,’ Imogen retorted.

  Violet took that as a cue to stare dreamily out the window of the Daimler, at the manicured gardens of Rothbury Ladies’ College. The Daimler crawled forward another few metres.

  ‘Do you remember the time I hid Gertie and Myrtle in my pocket?’ asked Violet. Gertie and Myrtle had been pet mice that Violet often carried around with her. ‘And then somehow they escaped when I wasn’t paying attention and ran round and around the classroom? Mademoiselle Moreau jumped up on the chair and screamed as though she was being stuck with hot pins, until Miss Parker came in and stared at us all with that terrifying glare of hers.’

  Imogen raised her eyebrows. ‘How could I forget? The whole school was talking about it! I think that was the prank that made Mademoiselle Moreau decide to go back to Paris.’

  ‘Yes, and the prank that made Miss Parker suggest to Dad that perhaps I would be happier at a different school,’ added Violet. ‘Luckily Dad had made a la
rge donation to the building fund the year before, so Miss Parker agreed I should have a second chance.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s what Miss Parker is doing now,’ Imogen joked. ‘Expelling all the girls who have run out of second chances.’

  Violet chose to ignore this jibe. The car rolled forward another few metres, but when Nikolai parked the car outside the school gates, Miss Parker merely stepped forward to speak to them.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Hamilton and Violet,’ Miss Parker said through the open window, looking unusually harried. ‘My apologies – I did try to telephone all the students this morning but could not contact everyone in time. I am sorry to inform you that we have to close Rothbury for the summer.’

  Violet glanced at Imogen in disbelief.

  ‘Why, Miss Parker?’ Imogen asked. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’

  Miss Parker frowned. ‘Unfortunately we’ve had an outbreak of scarlet fever amongst the boarders over the weekend,’ she explained. ‘The doctor has placed them all in quarantine, and the school will be closed from now until the summer break. All the boarders must stay inside, and no day girls are allowed in.’

  Violet felt her stomach twist with worry. Scarlet fever was a disease that was often fatal – sometimes families could lose several siblings in a severe epidemic.

  ‘Are the girls all right?’ asked Violet, thinking of her best friends in the boarding house – Cecily, Hen and Bea.

  ‘The doctor says that none of them are gravely ill,’ Miss Parker assured her. ‘But all the boarders will be in quarantine for at least four weeks, then they will be sent home in early December. In any case, Rothbury will be closed from now until February.’

  ‘So no exams?’ asked Violet, barely containing her delight. What a heavenly thought – no school for three whole months!

  ‘And no school concert, dances or picnics,’ Imogen reminded her.

  ‘Is there anything we can do for the girls?’ asked Violet. ‘Can we send some food baskets or sweets?’

  Miss Parker shook her head. ‘No. They are all too ill for that, but perhaps you could write to them.’