by Taylor, Lulu
He was quite still, happy at last to surrender to her, comforted by her warm arms wrapped around him. She buried her face in his hair and hugged him tight, not sure whether she was going to cry, laugh or scream.
‘Mummy’s here,’ she murmured instead, her hands shaking. ‘You’re all right, my darling. Mummy’s here.’
Chapter Two
Present day
Delilah sneezed, once, twice, three times in quick succession. The dust up here in the attics had formed layers of grey wool as thick as a carpet, and she had disturbed so much that the air had turned smoky with it. It swirled about, tickling her nostrils and coating her throat. The light from the bare bulb illuminated the clouds of motes, along with all the trunks, boxes, rolled carpets, old pictures, broken furniture and mountains of general bric-a-brac that filled the attics, a series of four on this side of the house, stretching the length of the east wing.
‘Go up if you like,’ John had said when she’d asked. ‘God knows what you’ll find. Mess around as much as you want to.’
It was the only place in the house that she was allowed free rein. When she’d come to live at Fort Stirling six months ago, she’d imagined that she would begin to feel that it belonged to her and that she could control and perhaps even reshape it, just as she had other places where she’d lived. She’d had a childlike excitement in exploring the house, and longed to set her imagination loose on the rooms and restore and refresh them. Everything was new and full of charm then, and she had fallen in love with the lichen-speckled stone pineapples on the terrace balustrade as much as the Louis Quinze chairs, gilded and spindly, in the drawing room. Every window, every corridor had enchanted her, and she’d felt that she had found her perfect setting, a magical place where life would be endlessly beautiful and interesting. But gradually, like seeing the set of a play close up, she’d realised that it wasn’t quite as magnificent as it seemed. The rickety furniture on gilt legs looked splendid but the springs beneath were dropping, the silk damask covering was stained and frayed, and there was black caked into the golden carving.
Now she was beginning to understand that newcomers were not permitted to change anything in the house. Instead she had the sense that the house would possess her rather than the other way around; it would tame her and turn her into one of its own, another in a long line of inhabitants, the vanished people who’d walked the same corridors, sat on the same chairs and slept in the same beds. The thought gave her an unpleasant chill.
Up here in the attics, though, where others rarely came, she could do what she liked. Perhaps here she might feel more like the house’s owner, rather than its inmate.
Delilah began to look through some of the boxes that surrounded her, finding a morass of odds and ends: a collection of broken picture frames, some discarded lamp stands without plugs, bulbs or shades, puzzling little plastic and wire whatnots that must have been part of something once. She stepped over a stack of chairs, lifted a pile of heavy folded velvet curtains and felt a flash of triumph. Now, this was more like it. A large steamer trunk, black and edged in studded leather, with a flat lid that locked with two big brass catches. On the top in scratched gold lettering were the words: The Viscountess Northmoor, Fort Stirling, Dorset. Labels, long faded and turned crisp, were stuck on the lid but it was impossible to make them out now. She drew in her breath with pleasurable anticipation. This was the kind of treasure she was looking for. She rubbed away a layer of dust from the top. Her hands, she noticed, were filthy and her nails rimmed with black. Her palms felt caked and dry, and she rubbed them across her jeans to get the worst of the dirt off before she opened the trunk. She snapped the catches down, hoping that the central round lock had not been fastened for there was no sign of a key and she had a feeling she would never find it. But it opened easily enough and she pushed the lid back until it was supported by its leather hinges. Immediately underneath was a layer of shallow drawers, filled with colourful scraps. There were ties, both knitted and silk, bowties, handkerchiefs, a cummerbund, scarves, belts and fans. Pairs of long opera gloves were folded into clear plastic bags and she could see pearl buttons, kid, silk and velvet.
‘Bingo,’ she whispered. ‘Bingo.’
This was what she had been hoping to discover. Costumes. After all, she had found a setting, a stage furnished with Chippendale and ormolu, Meissen vases and Sèvres china, gilt candelabra and inlaid cabinetry, marble statuary and vast gold-framed oils, black-and-white marble and ancient polished floorboards. She ate dinner in a perfectly round room decorated with wallpaper printed in a factory that had been destroyed during the French Revolution, and after dinner she sat back on a soft sagging sofa before an Adam fireplace, John’s spaniel snoozing at her feet, and read books from the library that no one had touched for a century or longer. But occasionally the art director in her felt there was something missing. Where were the clothes? She wondered what had happened to the silk gowns, the lace and velvet worn by the women in the portraits around the house. Passed on until they fell to pieces, she supposed. It was understandable that the Regency muslins and Tudor bodices hadn’t survived, but in the photographs from the last century were opulent furs, smart frocks, evening dresses, large-shouldered tweed coats, chunky black heels, snake-skin handbags and hats of all varieties. A snap of John’s great-grandmother showed her in a drop-waist dress with a pleated skirt, a long cardigan, a rose corsage pinned to a string of pearls that dangled past her waist, and a tight-fitting cloche hat over her fashionably shingled hair. Vintage twenties clothes.
She felt a hunger for them, her fingertips tingling with a desire to stroke the fabrics and furs she could see everywhere but not touch.
‘They’re bound to be about. We never throw anything away,’ John had told her idly one day, ‘and there’s been a distinct lack of daughters in my family.’
The comment had taken root in her mind. The clothes must be here somewhere, packed away or left in a forgotten wardrobe to rot gently on their hangers. She longed to find them. She couldn’t help imagining how she would style some skinny, high-cheekboned models and where she would place them in the house to the best effect. She wondered if she could stage a play or an opera in the garden, and use the real clothes as her costumes.
Calm down, she told herself firmly. You’re racing ahead of yourself. Besides, John would never allow it.
Once he’d seemed to like her ideas for enlivening the place, and opening it up. But she was realising now that he’d never taken any of them seriously.
She pulled out the drawers and put them on the floor. Now she could see what lay within: piles of clothes neatly folded. She began to look through them reverently. They’d been put away with care – she didn’t want to disturb them unnecessarily. The colours and fabrics were not twenties or thirties, but sixties and seventies: yellows, purples and greens; short-sleeved knits, A-line skirts, paisley and zigzags and bold prints. They must have belonged to John’s mother – she was surely the only woman living here then. Delilah’s mouth watered. She had hoped for something older, but this was just the start. She would enjoy these too. Perhaps she’d find some treasures, some designer originals. At the bottom she saw some weighty looking dark cloth, folded so that she could not see what it was. She pulled it up and out of the trunk, trying not to disrupt the layers above it, and then she could see it was a coat in heavy black wool, double-breasted with large black buttons and, by the looks of it, short. It would sit just above the knee, she reckoned. The reason it seemed so bulky was that inside was a matching dress, also black but edged with white around the scooped neckline. It was beautifully made, with perfect seams and a silk lining. The label was not one she recognised but the quality was evident.
Gorgeous, thought Delilah. So elegant.
She shook the garments out and sniffed. They smelled of time and dust, of wool left to age in the dark. It was one of her favourite scents. As a girl, she’d thrilled to that slightly bitter aroma in the old dress shop where the eccentrically dressed owner
, a woman with wild grey hair, sat sewing silently as Delilah burrowed into the heaps of abandoned coats or the racks of evening frocks. She examined the dress and coat, and wondered if they had indeed belonged to John’s mother, whose face she only knew from the water-colour portrait in the drawing room and the few photographs scattered about the house in silver frames. The photographs showed a young woman, impossibly slender, in the fashions of the late sixties and early seventies, with backcombed dark hair and large eyes emphasised by a swoop of black eyeliner and false lashes. Delilah smoothed her hand over the fabric, remembering the strikingly pretty face, its pale skin and elfin features dominated by those huge eyes. She’d been struck by the look of vulnerability in them, and the slight awkwardness in the way the woman faced the camera. How strange to be touching something that John’s mother wore all those years ago. How could she have known that one day her son’s wife would stroke this dress and think about her?
I wonder what happened to her, Delilah thought. She knew that John’s mother had died when he was a boy, but he’d never told her more than that. Sometimes, when she looked at the photograph that showed John as a small child and his mother in a coat and big sunglasses clasping his hand tightly, she felt the urge to know what the woman was thinking as she gazed impassively into the camera, shielded by her glasses. But there was no way of knowing now.
The coat and dress were on the small side, as vintage garments often were, but Delilah had a feeling that they might fit her. On impulse, she jumped up, kicked off her Converse and quickly shed her jumper and jeans, then unzipped the dress’s under-arm fastening and, pushing her arms into the cool silk interior, began to snake her way into it.
She feared breaking the seams but she managed to wiggle herself until her head and arms were free and she could slide the dress down over her hips. When she’d pulled the zip up, the dress was snug but it did fit, just. She wished she could see it but there was no mirror up in the attic. As she’d suspected, the dress fell just to the knee and she imagined what kind of shoes might be worn with it. Kitten-heeled winkle-pickers, perhaps. No, that didn’t feel right. This dress came from an era of square heels and toes, stacked heels . . . Boots, perhaps? Long black boots that hugged the calves and came up the knee. Laced. Maybe . . . Delilah picked up the coat and felt the weight. Good quality. She slid her arms into it. The sleeves were tight but otherwise it fitted well, falling to the exact length of the dress. Lovely . . . It was old but it still felt stylish, almost fresh. She spun round. Perhaps she could wear this to something, a lunch or a trip to town.
She put her hands into the pockets and at once felt something under the fingers of her right hand. She grasped it and pulled it out. It was the remains of a flower, something that once had been pale – white or pink – though it was now crisp and brown. As she touched it, it crumbled under her fingers, the green-grey stalk falling apart, dropping to the ground and disappearing between a gap in the boards.
As she stared at the dusty remnants, a chill coursed through her body and a strong sense of sadness washed over her. She brushed the flower from her hands as fast as she could, gripped suddenly by a black sensation that seemed to engulf her. She wanted to get the clothes off as fast she could. The idea of wearing them to anything at all seemed absurd. They were freighted with something unpleasant, chilling, something that wanted to drag her down into a dark and fearful place. She struggled out of the coat, letting it drop to the floor despite the thick dust there, and then wrestled for a few moments to get the dress up and over her head, hearing her breath coming in short, almost panicked bursts as she grew increasingly desperate to be free of it. Then it slid up and off, releasing her.
She stared at the abandoned garments, astonished at the depth of feeling that had just possessed her. Shivering in the cool attic air, she realised she was wearing just her underwear. The clothes lay in a black puddle on the floor, the arms of the coat splayed out as though silently requesting an embrace.
‘Delilah!’ The voice from the bottom of the attic staircase pierced the air.
She jumped violently, then shivered. John. It was all right. ‘Up here!’ she called back, her voice surprisingly normal.
‘Lunch is ready.’
‘I’ll be right there!’ She shivered again, and reached for her clothes. When she was dressed, she picked up the coat and dress, folded them hastily and put them back into the trunk. She slotted the drawers back into place and closed the lid.
I’ll come and look at the other things later, she promised herself, though she felt uncertain if she would want to come back alone. Shaking off the last remnant of the nasty black feeling, she headed for the stairs and the normality of lunch with John in the round dining room.
Chapter Three
1965
Alexandra moved through the noisy crowded room like someone who’d walked unexpectedly into a gathering of strangers and was bewildered by what was going on and why all these people were here. She caught a glimpse of herself in a gilt-framed mirror over the fireplace and saw a white face and large, startled-looking blue eyes. She was perfectly turned out, as she was supposed to be, her dark hair smooth and shiny, her face made up, her gown a chiffon confection of the palest blue. But she looked lost.
I’m meant to be enjoying myself, she thought, but it feels like all this is happening to someone else. Do I dare slip away, go upstairs and be alone for a while? Would anyone miss me?
The idea was tempting, but her father would be furious if he realised she was gone and she couldn’t risk spoiling the unusually sunny mood he’d been in lately. She was basking in his unaccustomed approval and the last thing she wanted was to lose it again. She looked over at Laurence, who was sipping champagne and laughing loudly at someone’s joke. Would he notice if she quietly disappeared?
Just then a white-gloved hand landed on her arm, startling her. She looked at it and then up at the owner. It was Mrs Freeman, smiling at her, her teeth brownish yellow behind her thick post-box-red lipstick. She always looked rather masculine, her heavy dark brows and large square chin at odds with her feminine dress and sparkling jewels.
‘I haven’t offered my congratulations,’ Mrs Freeman said. ‘Although am I supposed to congratulate the bride-to-be? I believe it’s the man who is congratulated, and the lady is commended on her choice. In which case, well done, my dear. You’ve chosen well.’
Alexandra smiled weakly. ‘Thank you.’
‘The ring – may I see it? Oh, what a beauty. A fine stone considering it’s so small. Family jewel, is it? These charming little pieces often are.’
Alexandra nodded. The two old diamonds in their golden claws glittered ferociously in the light from the chandelier. Between them, the antique ruby looked deep and still as a pool of claret. It still felt odd and heavy on her finger.
‘And the wedding?’ asked Mrs Freeman. ‘When is it to be?’
‘June,’ said Alexandra, feeling as though she were talking in a dream. Would June ever come? She half hoped not. It was only three months away but it seemed impossibly distant. Perhaps something would happen before then to transform her life and take away the strange, unimaginable future she had agreed to. When she tried to conjure images of what her wedding day might be like, she found she could picture only a misty scene, with people flickering in and out of focus. Laurence was in it, but he kept his back, strong and square in a morning coat, turned on her and when she tried to make him face her, he became a blank.
‘Wonderful.’ Mrs Freeman smiled again, clasping Alexandra’s hands between her own for a moment, the heavy cotton gloves making it feel as though her hands were swaddled in bandages. ‘You’ve blossomed, my dear. It must be happiness. You were such a mousy little thing and now look at you. A touch of lipstick and powder, a decent dress, and you’ve turned out rather pretty.’ She released Alexandra’s hands. ‘And have the Stirlings come to celebrate with us?’ Mrs Freeman looked about, her heavy eyebrows raised as she scanned the room.
Alexandra felt herself c
olouring. ‘No . . . no. My father . . . No,’ she finished lamely. Once the Stirlings had been friends of theirs; Nicky Stirling and his cousins had been her childhood playmates, but now she was forbidden to see them and they had been shut out of her father’s life. The fact of their absence was glaring.
‘Oh, yes, of course,’ said Mrs Freeman, who seemed to remember the need for discretion and added awkwardly, ‘Well, never mind. I mustn’t keep you from your fiancé. He’s very handsome, isn’t he?’
They both looked to where Laurence was standing in a small circle of men, smiling broadly, laughing and talking. He did look handsome at that particular moment: his blond hair was cut short in the severe military style and it suited his rather small head and features, and his blue eyes were bright with animation. His obvious good humour made him look personable.
‘Yes,’ she replied mechanically. ‘I’m very lucky.’
‘Go on then, dear,’ urged Mrs Freeman. ‘We want to see you together, you know.’
Alexandra obeyed, making her way through the throng, nodding at friends and acquaintances. There was her father, in deep conversation with Laurence’s father. She wondered if he was talking about her, and tried to imagine him saying how proud he was of her, but even now that he seemed happy with her at last, she couldn’t make it ring true. He’d always been a distant father but after her mother died and it was just the two of them, he had become colder and more remote than ever. She’d been unable to do anything right; even her presence seemed to irritate him. All her life she’d been trying to please him but he’d never seemed satisfied, until now.
The tantalising prize of winning his approval had been dangled in front of her the day he had called her into his study to tell her that he had as good as arranged a husband for her.
