The Amber Keeper

by Freda Lightfoot

  When no response came, Abbie smiled. ‘Mum always wondered why you chose her, a skinny five-year-old prone to sulks and tantrums. She put the decision down to your kind and generous heart, which must be right.’

  ‘Why would I not choose her, when she looked so sweet?’ There was the softness of love in her tone, which proved the truth of this belief. ‘So tell me about your day on Coniston Water with the children. Did you take them for a sail?’

  The subject, as ever, was closed.

  Stifling a sigh, Abbie went on to describe the Swallows and Amazons games they’d played on the boat, and visiting Wild Cat Island. ‘It’s a book that I loved as a child. Do you remember how Mum used to let us dress up as pirates and camp out by the lake overnight? Robert always wanted to be Captain Flint, of course, but Mum loved to play that role herself. She was such fun back then.’

  Millie smiled. ‘And you were Titty, the one who found the sea chest.’

  ‘Oh, my goodness, yes, the missing treasure that Mum would hide some place, and I’d think myself so clever if I succeeded, always anxious to beat Robert to it.’

  As they chuckled over shared memories, she decided to try a different tack. ‘Mum told me you were once in service as a nursemaid in some grand house or other. Is that really true, Gran, and if so, where was it?’

  Millie turned to smile at her, grey eyes twinkling with a mischievous delight. ‘It was here.’

  Abbie let out a startled gasp. ‘Here? You don’t mean this house, Carreck Place?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Goodness, are you saying that you were once actually employed here? But that’s incredible! How could you start off as a nursemaid and end up as mistress? Lady of the manor, no less.’

  Millie chuckled. ‘Life is full of twists and turns with many surprises along the way. Although I’ve never actually thought of myself as lady of the manor, or mistress of Carreck Place, since strictly speaking it was never mine. Nor ever Kate’s, for that matter.’

  ‘So it was my grandfather’s, was it?’ Abbie was almost crowing with delight, itching to hear more of this fascinating revelation.

  ‘That’s not quite what I meant. The fact of the matter is, my darling, the property does not belong to our family at all. Never has, not now, not ever. We only have the right to live here.’

  Abbie stared at her grandmother in a state of stunned disbelief. ‘Are you saying that one day we may have to leave Carreck Place?’ Abbie’s heart almost stopped beating at the thought. It was a horrifying prospect, one she would never have contemplated happening, not in a thousand years.

  Millie met her granddaughter’s gaze unflinching. ‘That is exactly what I’m saying, yes.’

  ‘I don’t understand. I always believed that Carreck Place had been in our family for generations.’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Oh, but I love this house with a passion.’

  Millie squeezed her hand, sympathetic as always to her granddaughter’s feelings. ‘I know, darling, me too, but there it is.’

  ‘And Robert fully expects to inherit.’

  ‘He may well do so, if that is what Kate decided, although it is by no means certain. Having said that, I very much doubt the family will ever be asked to leave, even though your mother is no longer with us, since there’s no one to . . .’ She paused, frowning thoughtfully as if reflecting upon the possibility. ‘No one left who’s likely to claim it. I hope,’ she concluded. ‘I confess I would like to see out my remaining years here, if it is possible to do so. But that all rather depends on what your mother left in her will.’

  ‘She didn’t confide in you, then?’

  Millie shook her head, smiling sadly. ‘Never.’

  Abbie had a sudden vision of her father quickly stowing away papers in a drawer, his prickly response to her brother’s probing questions, and his concern over finance and whether or not he would need to sell the shop. ‘Are you suggesting there might be some sort of problem? Dad does seem to be worrying quite a bit about money, seems to think we’re in danger of losing our home through lack of funds. But why? Are we going bankrupt or something? Is it something to do with Mum’s will? What’s going on, and why won’t he tell us?’

  Millie sighed. ‘As I say, I was not privy to my daughter’s financial situation, but Kate was only too aware that she did not own Carreck Place, that she held only a lifetime lease on the property. However, I dare say this might have come as something of a surprise to Tom.’

  Abbie felt as if her head was spinning as she struggled to come to terms with what her grandmother was telling her. ‘You mean Mum kept this fact a secret from Dad for all these years? Why on earth would she do such a thing?’ Keeping secrets was beginning to look like a family trait.

  Millie frowned, looking oddly pensive. ‘To explain would have opened up a veritable Pandora’s box. One we preferred to keep firmly closed.’

  ‘I have to say, Gran, now might be a good time to open it, otherwise there could be mayhem.’ Abbie patiently waited while Millie considered the matter, her thoughts in turmoil. ‘So who does own this house, if not us?’ she gently enquired.

  ‘Carreck Place was originally part of the estate of Lord Rumsley, who employed me as nursemaid to his children. I was very happy here, but then my life changed forever in the autumn of 1911 when I first met Olga Belinsky.’

  ‘Olga Belinsky? Who on earth was she?’

  ‘A Russian countess.’

  ‘Goodness, that must have been amazing. I never realised you’d had such an important job, but then I know nothing about your time in Russia. So what was it like working for the aristocracy during the revolution?’

  ‘Some things are best forgotten.’

  Her grandfather, Anton Nabokov, who sadly had died when Abbie was around eleven or twelve, had been the same. For all he’d been Russian born and bred, only once did she hear him mention the Fatherland, as he called it, and then only to say how thankful he was they had got away when they did.

  She could well understand her grandparents’ relief at escaping the horrors of the revolution, which must have been utterly terrifying. Yet Abbie was increasingly convinced there was more to her grandmother’s silence than revulsion over the assassination of the Romanovs, and possibly many of their aristocratic friends.

  But this was the first piece of information her grandmother had volunteered in years. ‘Tell me about this Countess. What was she like?’

  ‘She was a manipulative madam, entirely selfish, wanting everything for herself, and completely profligate, with not the first idea of the value of money. Our relationship was fraught with problems from the start ‒ challenging but interesting, you might say.’ She gave a harsh little laugh at the recollection. ‘Her callous disregard for others should have warned me to stay well clear of her. Unfortunately I was young and somewhat headstrong at the time, if a little naïve and easily flattered.’

  ‘Gran, please, I want to know all about her. Where and when did you meet? Please start from the very beginning.’

  ‘Then we’ll need a fresh pot of coffee. It’s a long story.’

  FIVE

  1911

  It all began on one of those perfect sunny days in early September, the glorious russet, amber and gold of the Lakeland woodlands reflected in the still waters of the lake. Sheep dozed in the soft shadows and the only sounds to be heard were the cooing of wood pigeons, the lap and splash of water and the happy gurgles of childish laughter. A bright yellow sun warmed the lake and the children hadn’t been able to resist putting on their bathing suits for a swim while the adults dozed in their deck chairs, or sipped Pimms as they quietly chatted.

  Inside the house was a very different story, Carreck Place a veritable maelstrom of activity. I hadn’t seen it so busy since the party to celebrate King George V’s coronation in June. Maids bustled back and forth, any undercurrent of panic and con
cern they might be suffering quelled by long experience as they efficiently went about their many tasks. Lord and Lady Rumsley’s special guests, their aristocratic Russian cousins, Count Vasiliy Belinsky and his wife Countess Olga, had been staying for some weeks, and the climax of their visit was to be a grand dinner and ball held that evening.

  The kitchens had been out of bounds for days. I always felt a great pity for the scullery maids, poor little devils, their hands red raw from scouring saucepans and scrubbing dishes all day long. I’d done my share of such chores, having started my career as a scullery maid at fourteen, then moved on to kitchen and parlour maid before deciding that I hated housework. It had seemed natural for me to go into service, as my French mother was a lady’s maid and my father a gardener for Lord Lonsdale. When the opportunity came to take this job, I grabbed at the chance, as I adore children. I also lived in hope that such a position would allow me to travel with the family, which had ever been a dream of mine.

  The footmen had spent hours polishing the family silver, now set out on a pristine white damask tablecloth together with a centrepiece of yellow roses from the garden. The long dining table was laid following the carefully arranged seating plan devised by her ladyship, ably assisted by the housekeeper. Precedence was of paramount importance, particularly since Count Belinsky was connected to Russian royalty, being a distant cousin of the Tsar. But then who should sit next to whom was always a veritable minefield. House parties of this nature were notorious for illicit affairs, which must naturally be kept discreet. Whenever there was any doubt, Jepson the butler would decide, as he knew better than most who were lovers or social adversaries, and in either case needed to be kept well apart.

  The efficiency of the entire operation was due primarily to the butler’s skills; he looked almost regal himself in his best black tail coat with gold buttons, starched white shirt, collar and cravat. Even the menservants were resplendent in their finest livery, and, as I’d passed through the servants’ hall earlier that afternoon, I couldn’t help but giggle at how ridiculous they looked in their brown breeches and yellow and white striped waistcoats, like creatures from another age.

  ‘Is it me you think so funny?’ Liam, one of the footmen had asked, catching me around the waist to pull me into his arms.

  I didn’t struggle to free myself or protest too much, as I rather liked Liam. He was a fine, handsome young Irishman, and his attentions to me, a naïve young girl of almost nineteen, were really most flattering. ‘You look as if you should be in the village pantomime,’ I teased.

  ‘Aw, and there’s me thinking I was the bees’ knees in this get-up. Don’t I at least deserve a kiss for looking so smart?’

  I pecked a quick kiss on to his cheek, except that he moved at the last moment so that it landed full upon his mouth by mistake.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ The butler’s commanding voice rocked Liam back on his heels, and sent me fleeing from the room, only too happy to escape.

  Fortunately, none of these frantic preparations were any of my concern. My task as nursemaid was simply to look after the children: Miss Phyllis and Master Robin, plus the two Russian offspring who were currently occupying the nursery during their stay.

  Serge, aged eight, seemed to have a great deal to say for himself. ‘My full name is Serge Vasilovich Belinsky,’ he’d proudly announced when first he was brought to the schoolroom to meet me. ‘My second name comes from my father, a tradition you don’t have in England, I believe.’ Spoken with some contempt for our failure in this respect. A fine nobleman in the making, I thought.

  His younger sister Irina, aged six, was a sensitive child who cried a great deal. She gave me a shy little smile then hastily began to tidy her hair as she noticed her mother frowning at her.

  I loved my job and delighted in supervising the children on that sunny afternoon, first with a game of hide and seek, then serving them a picnic of egg and cress sandwiches, sponge fingers and home-made lemonade. The two boys tried their hand at fishing, without much success, and the little girls enjoyed paddling, and giggled a great deal, instant friends with only a year between them.

  ‘Keep to the edges, Miss Phyllis. The lake quickly becomes quite deep further in,’ I called, ever aware of my responsibility, and she was but five years old. When a cool wind sprang up I decided to take them indoors for their afternoon nap. I, at least, was ready for a rest.

  ‘Come along, children. Let me dry you off, then we’ll go indoors for some hot chocolate and a siesta.’ This brought forth a series of groans, and, laughing, I picked little Miss Phyllis up out of the water to carry her wriggling like a giggly worm, if worms ever do giggle, back to the rug, where I began to rub her down with a towel.

  ‘Mamochka, I want to learn to sail,’ Serge called to his mother. In the centre of the lake cruised a small boat in which Countess Olga was reclining in the sun, her footman rowing slowly back and forth so as not to disturb her rest too much.

  ‘Perhaps tomorrow, Master Serge,’ I called to him. ‘It’s growing quite chilly now. Time for you to get dry and have something warm to drink.’

  Lazily turning her head, the Countess smiled at her son. ‘Swim out to me if you wish, my darling,’ she called. ‘I am here for you, as always.’

  ‘I want to come too,’ shouted Irina, and before I could stop them both children had flung themselves into the water, each desperate to out-swim the other and be first to reach the boat and their darling mother.

  I was on my feet in a second, watching anxiously, itching to call out that it was too far for them to swim, too deep in that part of the lake, but how could I when the Countess had already defied me? They were, after all, her children.

  Serge reached the boat easily to grasp the side, ready to haul himself aboard. His mother clapped her hands in delight, and there was a wide grin of triumph on his young face. I almost sighed with relief until I suddenly noticed that he was holding something under the water, a great splashing and bubbling going on all around. He glanced down at whatever it was, and laughed out loud. Shock hit me like a hammer blow to the chest when I realised that it was his little sister, Irina.

  ‘Master Serge, what are you doing? Let her go this minute!’

  Leaving little Phyllis on the rug, I raced down the grassy bank and plunged into the water, still fully clothed in my nursemaid’s uniform. Fortunately I’d been taught to swim by my own father. No child, he’d said, should live in the Lake District and not be able to swim. I reached the boat in seconds to snatch the girl up in my arms. For one terrible moment I thought I was too late as her tiny face appeared ashen, with no sign of life. Then she took a great gasp of air before bursting into tears.

  ‘Didn’t you see that he was holding her under the water?’ I shouted at the Countess, without a thought to good manners or my lowly status. ‘Your daughter could have drowned.’

  She gazed at me wide-eyed for a moment, and then laughed. ‘Nonsense! Irina should have had more sense than to try and swim so far. My darling son was rescuing her. She’s a silly little girl, always fussing, and foolishly jealous of her brother.’

  I stared at the Countess in open-mouthed astonishment, my feet furiously paddling in an effort to stay afloat as I clutched the child tightly in my arms. How could this woman be so blind as to not see the truth of the incident? I’d noticed before how the Countess always gave preference to her son, but what kind of mother cared so little for her daughter that she would make no effort to save her from obvious drowning?

  But what could I say? I was a young girl, a mere servant, and she a fine aristocratic lady, married to my master’s cousin. I knew full well that any accusation I made against the Countess, or her precious son, would only result in my being given notice for rudeness to an honoured guest, not to mention overstepping my position.

  ‘My little hero,’ she was saying, hugging and kissing the boy as she helped him into the boat beside her.


  I became aware of Irina’s skinny arms clinging tightly about my neck, her small body shivering against mine. My own feet were likewise beginning to feel the numbing effects of the cold water, my long skirt tangling about my legs. It was never safe to linger in the lake for more than a few moments so, turning about, I swam for the shore, the child tucked safely under one arm.

  That was my first confrontation with Countess Olga, but it would not be the last.

  Later that evening, while the assistant nursemaid served the children their suppers, I stole a moment to have a word with Liam, quickly telling him of what had occurred.

  ‘The bitch,’ he said, in his blunt Irish way. ‘Does the woman have no feelings, save for herself?’

  ‘It would seem not,’ I agreed.

  We were tucked behind an outhouse in a shadowy corner of the kitchen yard, and Liam wasted no time in taking advantage of the growing darkness to steal a few kisses. Not that I objected too much, as the very touch of his lips set ripples of excitement soaring through my veins. I was, as I say, young and impressionable.

  ‘I can’t linger, I’m afraid,’ he apologised between kisses. ‘Or Mr Jepson will have my guts for garters. Can I mebbe see you later?’

  Timing for these functions was of the essence. It was essential that everyone be seated ten minutes or so before the main guests of honour arrived, particularly if, as in this case, they were connected with royalty. Mr Jepson naturally did his utmost to ensure the meal was not kept waiting too long, or there would be even greater panic and mayhem in the kitchen if trays were brought up too soon and food left to go cold in the serving room. None of this effort was fully appreciated by either Lord and Lady Rumsley or their guests, but rather taken for granted.

  I knew that Liam, along with all the other footmen, including many extras hired especially for the occasion, would be rushed off their feet throughout the evening. He would not only be serving dinner but later providing snacks and drinks, constantly supplying new packs of cards for the gamblers, calling for carriages, and fetching jugs of hot water or night caps for those who were staying overnight, entirely at the beck and call of the hundred or more guests.