Perceptions
A Sense of Belonging
Wendy Soliman
Perceptions Series 1 Book 1
A SENSE OF BELONGING
Copyright © Wendy Soliman 2018
Edited by Perry Iles
Cover design by Jane Dixon-Smith
This e-Book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations contained are from the author’s imagination and are not a resemblance of actual living or dead persons, business, or events. Any similarities are coincidental.
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The Author – Wendy Soliman
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Chapter One
Wiltshire, England: Spring 1880
With a billow of steam, the Great Western train pulled into the platform at Kemble Halt. Flora Latimer gathered up her belongings, boarded a second-class compartment and settled into a window seat. Doors slammed, the guard waved his flag, a whistle blew and the locomotive shuddered away from the station, wheezing like a dragon with consumption. The repetitive chugga-chugga of wheels on track caused the enormity of her rebellion to strike home in a manner that her father’s rantings and threats had failed to accomplish. She had never felt more alone, more uncertain about her future, and just for a moment she was tempted to pull the emergency cord and explain that she’d made a terrible mistake. She took a deep breath, aware that there could be no turning back. She was doing the right thing.
Probably.
A woman entered the compartment and nodded at Flora, who returned the gesture and directed her attention to the view. A man sat opposite, his face half concealed behind the Daily Telegraph. He peered around the edges of his self-imposed insulation far too often, his gaze lingering upon Flora in a manner that she pretended not to notice. She stared through the window as the train carried her away from Kemble, the station at which she had been deposited on the first leg of her journey from Salisbury, the cathedral town that had been her home for all her twenty years.
Until now.
Her new travelling clothes, a rare expression of generosity deemed essential by her mother, who set great stock in first impressions, failed to give Flora any confidence. Her father’s insistence that the eldest daughter of the Canon Chancellor of Salisbury Cathedral not travel in attire that might reflect badly upon his ambitions more easily explained the loosening of parental purse strings on such an unworthy cause. Papa would not permit anything, especially an undeserving daughter, to hamper his career prospects by parading herself in public inappropriately attired.
Disowned, disgraced, disobedient she might be, but the world would never know it from her clothing, which relied heavily upon horizontal trimming and material too thick for the sunny spring weather. It gave an upholstered look to the tight bodice and equally tight matching jacket, making her feel like a turkey trussed for the oven. Mama had overridden Flora’s objections and settled upon burgundy checks, insisting that the design struck just the right note—a combination of sobriety, respectability and subservience—never mind that it clashed with her hair. God forbid that Flora should forget her place!
Appearances, first or otherwise, were clearly misleading, Flora decided, the suggestion of a smile touching her lips at the thought. She had yet to experience a moment’s subservience in her entire life—a situation that lay at the heart of her difficulties—but this was not the time to ponder upon her many shortcomings. With her hair severely braided into a neat coil, not a single copper wisp daring to escape from beneath her plain and not very flattering hat, she looked…unremarkable. Ordinary.
Dull, dull, dull!
Flora dismissed thoughts of the attire she already despised, reminding herself that she would soon be in paid employment—albeit for a four-week trial period. A glorified servant, as her father took every opportunity to remind her, and one who would come running home begging forgiveness within a fortnight. Flora knew the position she had accepted would not be an easy one, but anything was better than the only alternative available to her. She would make a success of it if it was the last thing she ever did. And once she’d achieved that ambition, burgundy checks and all the unpleasant connotations they carried with them would become a distant memory.
Cheered by the prospect, she fixed her attention upon the passing scenery, waving to a line of grubby, barefoot children who stood perilously close to the edge of the track, watching the train lumber past through incurious eyes.
The distance between all that was familiar to her in Salisbury and everything that was not in Swindon was only about forty miles but might as well have been four hundred. It was the furthest that Flora had travelled in her entire life and she found everything she saw interesting, which helped settle her nerves. No one could tell her what to think, what to eat, whom to speak to, what to wear…not anymore. That knowledge was cathartic. She let out a low sigh, causing a rustle of the newspaper as the man opposite took the opportunity for another glance at her.
Before Flora felt ready to embrace her new life the train slowed on its approach into Swindon. She busied herself gathering up her possessions and thanked the man opposite when he set down his newspaper and reached up to retrieve her small bag from the overhead rack. The rest of her belongings had been sent on ahead, her room at the rectory back in Salisbury probably already requisitioned by one of her four younger sisters, who were heartily welcome to it.
The man lowered the window strap as the train pulled into the station, opened the door and stepped out. He took Flora’s bag from her hand and insisted upon helping step from the carriage. She thanked him, then took advantage of his momentary distraction when good manners obliged him to extend a similar courtesy to the other lady who’d travelled in their compartment. She picked up her bag and swept from the platform before he could detain her—something she sensed he was intent upon doing.
She handed her ticket to the collector at the gate.
‘One way, miss,’ he said, glancing at it. ‘Someone meeting you?’
‘Yes, someone from Beranger Court.’
‘Ah, that’ll be Will over yonder with the dog cart.’ He pointed to the conveyance in question, a study cob standing placidly between the shafts. ‘You’ll be the new companion, I dare say.’ He treated Flora to an assessing look and gave a dubious shake of his head. ‘Good luck,’ he added, sounding as though he thought she would need it.
Will, whose garb implied that he was a farmhand, sauntered over in response to the ticket-collector’s wave.
‘Miss Latimer?’
‘Yes. I am Flora Latimer.’
Will took her bag and tossed it into the dog cart. Without another word he hauled himself up onto the box seat and reached a hand down to help her up. The moment she settled, he slapped the reins against the cob’s rump and it moved forward at a lumbering gait. Will said nothing at all and seemed entirely uncurious about Flora. Not usually one to allow silences to unsettle her, on this occasion she felt compelled to break it.
‘Have you worked at Beranger Court for long?’ she asked.
‘Since I was a boy.’
He didn’t look mu
ch older than a boy now, so that didn’t tell her a great deal.
‘You’re the new companion,’ he said, sniffing and then removing one hand from the reins to wipe his sleeve across his nose. Flora looked away. She could have hoped for a more fulsome welcome.
‘Yes, I am.’
‘You’re younger than the last.’
‘When did she leave?’
‘What one? There’s been three already this year.’
‘Oh.’ Flora tried not to feel discouraged. It was still only May. Why had her three predecessors given up such a prime situation—companion to the Dowager Countess of Swindon, the current earl’s grandmother, no less—after such short periods in the position?
‘You ain’t met her ladyship then?’
‘Well no. I was recommended for the position and a lady from a London agency came to Salisbury to interview me.’
Will gave a knowing nod. ‘Ah, that’d be it.’
‘Is her ladyship a difficult person?’
Will chuckled. ‘You’ll find out for yourself soon enough. You’re younger than all them others. Much younger,’ he added, glancing at her in a speculative manner. ‘Don’t let her bully you and you’ll be all right.’ He allowed a significant pause. ‘Prob’ly.’
Flora didn’t mention that it was her father’s influence as a respected member of a cathedral diocese that had procured the interview, or that the lady who had conducted it expressed grave reservations about her suitability, given her age. But Flora’s background and education were without blemish, which seemed to overcome those reservations. Perhaps she should have asked more questions about the duties she would be obliged to carry out—or the nature of the dowager countess’s malady, for that matter.
Too late for questions now. Her desperation to escape the cloying restrictions of her ecclesiastical upbringing had made her determined not to talk herself out of the running. She had simply assumed that there was bound to be considerable interest in such a desirable situation, so she had been both elated and surprised when it was offered to her. Perhaps now she understood why. Presumably the other candidates had asked pertinent questions and had discovered that the countess was an old harridan and an impossible task master. They declined to consider the position, leaving Flora as Hobson’s choice.
Flora’s spirits plummeted. This was not the auspicious start she had hoped for. Her mother’s warnings rang in her ears. She was always to be bright, obliging, respectful, engaging and, something else…oh yes, devout. That would be it. One must always be devout. Flora failed to understand how she was supposed to appear bright, especially not in the dowdy clothes she possessed, but no doubt Mama had not meant to use the word in the sense of colour. She had noticed, with wry amusement, that the first letter from each of these qualities made up the word “bored”. If that was an omen she would soon know. That was one of the benefits of her gift…or curse…call it what you will. If she had made a massive mistake she would be aware of it the moment she set foot inside Beranger Court. She would sense it, but consoled herself with the reminder that it would have to be very dour indeed to be worse than the confines of the Canon Chancellor’s residence in Salisbury, where spurious laughter and the reading of anything that did not lean towards the religious was frowned upon.
‘Tell me about the family,’ she said.
Will shrugged. ‘The earl’s parents were killed when the ship they was on sank half way between England and America. About five years ago, that was.’ Will gave a derisive sniff. ‘That’s what comes of going to them forrin places. So there’s just the old lady and her grandchildren. Six of them, if you please! The earl, his three brothers and two sisters.’
‘Are any of them married?’ Flora knew next to nothing about the family, having been offered the position only a week previously. Worried that someone else, someone better qualified, would be found and take it if she didn’t snap it up, she’d had no time to do any research.
‘No, but there’s talk that the earl’s about to take the plunge. Not before time, too. He’s eight-and-twenty.’
‘How old are the girls?’
‘Eighteen and seventeen.’
‘Their grandmother will see them through their seasons, then?’
Will barked on a laugh. ‘That’ll be right. She ain’t been near a ballroom for years. They reckon that’s why the earl is marrying, so his wife can take care of the sisters.’
‘Does he have an intended in mind?’
‘Dunno.’ Will elevated his shoulders until they almost touched his protruding ears. ‘There’s speculation about a Miss Carlton. They don’t tell me such things. Anyway, the earl is off somewhere with his brothers. Talk is they’re collecting the youngest, Mr Samuel, from Oxford and coming back this weekend. There’s to be a party soon, I think. Lots of people. A big do, bigger than most. There’s talk of an announcement.’
‘I see.’
And Flora did. The dowager countess was either an invalid or not quite right in the head, leaving the earl to bear sole responsibility for his siblings’ welfare. The prospect cheered her. Flora liked crazy people. It was an accusation that had been levelled at her more than once when she defied her strict father and refused point blank to marry his curate, Mr Bolton, who was considered a prime catch. Flora thought that made him sound like a flounder flapping about on the end of a line. An apt description, she thought uncharitably, given his dead fish eyes and fat lips that he insisted upon smacking together whenever he delivered one of his tedious homilies.
Papa did not see things that way. Flora, not the most devout of daughters despite her religious upbringing—or perhaps because of it—should be grateful that Mr Bolton was willing to overlook her rebellious nature and offer her the respectability of his name. Flora declined—equally respectfully, pleased with herself when she refrained from shuddering at the prospect.
Papa, unaccustomed to being gainsaid, had been beside himself with fury. He probably thought that her rebellious nature reflected badly upon his chances of being selected for the deanship. A daughter not known for her piety, now twenty years of age, unable to attract a suitable husband. She smiled as she imagined the collective shock of Salisbury’s clerics if her refusal to accept Mr Bolton became public knowledge. As a man in a position of authority, Papa had earned his share of enemies. The Anglican church was a hotbed of gossip in which nothing remained confidential for long. The enemies in question would make it their business to ensure that word of Flora’s disobedience spread rapidly through the ecclesiastical grapevine.
It transpired that there was no place beneath Papa’s roof for undutiful daughters, so dowagers with bats in the belfry it would have to be. Her paternal grandmother had been considered a senile embarrassment, but Flora had both adored and understood her. She’d been the greatest possible fun, the wisest person Flora had ever met, never afraid to speak her mind. Flora knew that she had inherited her gift from Granny. A gift that was never discussed in her father’s house—as far as her narrow-minded father was concerned, it didn’t exist—but explained why Granny was kept well away from the church’s hierarchy. She couldn’t be trusted not to tell the bishop precisely what she thought of his God.
‘Where are we?’ Flora asked. The cob moved at a…well, a cob’s lumbering pace, but even so, they appeared to have been in the conveyance for an age. ‘When shall we reach Beranger Court?’
‘Soon enough.’ Will pointed to the left. ‘That’s the Wiltshire and Berkshire canal over yonder.’
Flora turned her head and noticed a ribbon of water sparkling in the afternoon sunshine, a towpath to one side of it occupied by plodding horses guiding colourfully-painted barges through a narrow section of the canal.
‘Oh! It’s used for transporting goods, I would imagine.’
‘Aye, but the trains have taken a lot of the old trade. They’re faster and more reliable. Still an’ all, we’ve got a big reservoir about a mile that way.’ Will pointed the same grubby finger in the appropriate direction. ‘It keeps water in
the canal and makes for a good place to swim on hot days.’
‘I shall certainly explore as soon as my duties permit me the time.’
‘Here’s the estate.’
Flora felt a little daunted by the grandeur of the gatehouse. It was only a gatehouse, she reminded herself, but it prepared her for the far more imposing house that would surely soon be revealed. A liveried gate porter subjected her to an exacting examination, then tipped his hat and the dog cart made its way slowly up a long driveway. The paddocks on either side of the drive were occupied with sheep who would thrive on the mineral-rich grass from the chalky soil, she assumed. Rolling hills spread into the distance, occasionally interspersed with wooded areas—peaceful, pastoral, serene. She saw a row of cottages, presumably inhabited by the earl’s tenants, and working farms. Everything seemed orderly, and she received no warning sense to the contrary, which in itself was encouraging.
The house came into view and Flora gasped, intimidated by its size and stateliness. A series of gabled roofs crowned with pediments guarded the mullioned windows that spanned three sides of a picturesque but solid old stone manor. Steps led to the entrance portico flanked by wide columns and long windows gave out directly to a terrace and from there to a large lake, currently showing to its best advantage with water lilies and hyacinths in flower and a range of aquatic fowl gliding across it in stately splendour.
‘It’s magnificent,’ Flora said in an awed tone, turning her head in all directions, anxious not to miss anything. ‘It will take me a month to find my way round.’
Will laughed. ‘You’ll get used to it quick enough.’ She sensed that he wanted to say she might not be here for long enough for it to become familiar to her. He drove the cart directly to the front door, where a uniformed footman watched their approach.
‘You must be the new companion,’ he said, helping her down.
He took her bag from the cart and led the way up the steps, straight into a magnificent grand hall that would no doubt double as a ballroom on formal occasions. Flora tried and failed to imagine herself being whirled around it in a circle, held tight in strong and confident arms. She was pleased not to have been made to use the servants’ entrance, but since she had been told that one of her duties would be to dine with the family, presumably to keep her charge in order, it seemed she was being treated as an equal. She thanked Will as a formidable woman garbed in black with a bunch of keys rattling at her waist materialised out of nowhere. The housekeeper, Flora assumed, wishing she didn’t look quite so severe. A friendly face would go a long way towards settling her nerves.
A Sense of Belonging (Perceptions Book 1) Page 1
