Til Morning Comes

by Lisa Ann Harper

  “Oh yes,” she breathed.

  “You see it too?”

  “Indeed my Lady. It’s perfect.”

  Nigella tilted her straw hat. “Then I shall set up my easel here.”

  She found the shade of a tall Elm and turned to take in the proportions of the view. Mallory opened out the low canvas stool and set up the tripod, tightening the screws on the legs. Nigella opened the paints’ box to arrange her brushes then realised she needed the tea-box for water.

  “I’ll fetch it right away my Lady.”

  “Thank you, Mason.”

  Getting even hotter on the return journey, Mallory removed her jacket and slung it over her shoulder. The meadow was still lush for the time of year, sprinkled with dandelions. By the time she reached the car her toecaps were powdered with butter-yellow pollen. She rolled up her sleeves and exchanged the jacket and cap for the tea-box. Although she had not been gone long Nigella had the whole scene sketched out, just an indication of placements.

  Mallory set the box down on a flat stretch, off to one side and opened it up. It was handsomely appointed. Although leather on the outside, inside the lining was polished silver. One side folded out to form a tray on which to lay the combined silver kettle and teapot, its handle insulated by intricately braided leather thonging. Unhooking the clips of the other silver lid, she discovered a small paraffin stove to heat the water. Even a silver matchbox cover was included to protect the lighter spills. Again she noticed these were Bryant and May’s and thought this company must have an influential market share. No Red Heads to halve their profits.

  Two compartments were located at the back, one above the other. The bottom held the cups, the top was divided into two chambers: right hand to hold a silver canister for loose tea, the left a canister for water and slipped behind this, a heatproof felt. These guys think of everything, she marvelled. Clipped to the back panel was a silver rack to hold silver tea spoons. So cool! There was all you could possibly need. She took a cup and filled it with water. Nigella accepted it and began her basic washes.

  Mallory had not expected water-colour painting, but then remembered it was a popular pastime for young ladies of the period. It seemed the Lady Nigella had considerable experience, her grasp of form, light and shade was accomplished. With confidence, she worked quickly with her washes, blending the paints to create that veiled obscurity, so beloved of Edwardian colourists. A change of water was needed.

  “Since we have all the fixings for tea, shall I make some my Lady?”

  “Would you like to have one?”

  “I think it would be welcome on such a hot day. And a little re-hydration is always to the good, don’t you think?”

  Nigella was thrown off balance and frowning exclaimed. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.” The words issued from her lips in a low rush as her bewilderment filled the air. With eyes still lowered she complained: “You keep talking in riddles.” He had made her feel juvenile again and the disadvantage was unsettling.

  “No my Lady, I’m sorry. Sometimes I speak before my brain is in gear. I didn’t mean anything. Don’t misunderstand me, it’s my fault.” Why did she have to keep doing this? She was not a brick, but around Nigella she seemed more like three. She took time to scan her thoughts to find the right words.

  “Please … let me make us tea. This is such a lovely afternoon. We don’t want it to spoil.”

  Nigella looked back to the turquoise eyes, earnest and alert and saw genuine regret. No, he had not meant to put her down. She was being a goose again and her impatience disappeared as quickly as it had flared.

  “You’re right. I didn’t mean to be so critical either. Tea will be nice.”

  It was diverting making the tea. There had been another teatime; a pretend one. She had laid out her miniature set perfectly and Gavin had come and drunk tea with his baby sister. Oh Gavin, her eyes welled up. Jagged pieces of her former life had the power to assail her so unexpectedly, but by the time everything was ready, the painting was done and her grief in that faint-hearted moment had passed. She blinked her stinging eyes and had her composure back in place.

  Nigella left the stool and sitting in the shade, removed her hat to feel the cool air on her hot brow. Emily had swept her hair up into a complicated braid, but a few coils had escaped above her small ears. Mallory could not help but watch captivated, as shafts of dazzling sunlight shivered their way between the branches, to burnish the freed strands and pick out brown highlights from the black. Once again, she would like to imprison this image so that time could not fade it from her memory. Oh, for a mobile phone.

  They sat side by side on the dry leaves the tree trunk for support, regarding the picture on the easel curing in the sun. It was a silken, flowing landscape capturing the peace of a quaint English village in an idyllic country setting. Mallory found it engaging and poignant. The thought of the horrors of death and destruction that lay in wait for these unsuspecting people came to her, in trenchant contrast to the innocence of the scene. She was enormously affected; the carnage would be so awful.

  “Awesome! You’ve created a beautiful memory of this day Nigella … I mean … my Lady,” she amended hastily, her previous thoughts betraying her emotions. “Oh sorry … sorry, there I go saying the wrong thing.” Her head swam with negatives. With these people she needed to know her proper station; this was too important to mess up. She could not afford to give offence, especially to this girl already too easily upset. She did so not want that. With head in hands she tried to cover the confusion raging inside her. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me,” she added gruffly.

  “It’s all right. We were being like friends weren’t we?” She reached out to take away the hands. The touch was soft, so attentive. Mallory felt in that moment how desolate was her lot. It was not good to know the future. To think, more would die in the Spanish ‘Flu epidemic than in the Great War! How mournful she could become if she did not stay positive and committed to this new present. If she were not careful, the circumstances of this burden she carried would be her undoing, but not in front of the girl. Abruptly she got up and walked away.

  Nigella took sips of tea and watched feeling intense regret that she had been so uncivil, too often only thinking of herself. But she did think about Mason. She could find him in her thoughts when she was finally alone in her room, other distractions removed and her mind free to roam where it pleased. She looked at his broad back and realised he was no longer in uniform. She studied his physique, could see the muscles rippling in his forearms as he clenched and unclenched his fists. It reminded her of the day she had looked down to see him holding Burrow’s reins. Heat washed through her at this memory and she had to look away. Then she was aware of him sitting down and flushed deep inside, feeling the warmth of his body next to hers, stirring her senses. She would keep her eyes on the distant horizon.

  The voice that spoke was thick, a little hesitant. She looked back and saw small globes of perspiration beading his temple, gleaming in a spotlight. The delivery was slow, as though he were trying to decide from several options the best way to proceed.

  “My Lady I never wish to cause you distress please let me explain.” She felt her heart pounding; a rush in her ears. For some reason it was pivotal to make this girl understand. There must be no wrong headedness between them. “I am new to this situation … position. You might say: I’m learning on the job. I do make mistakes, I know, but I will do my utmost to be of the best service to you.” The almond eyes turned to her and Nigella felt moved by the intensity she saw reflected in their blue depths, almost the colour of the sea in a fading afternoon light. She could see he suffered, the way his eyes were haunted by a deep distress, brooding in some far off place. There were secrets here she would never be able to penetrate, but perhaps she could reach across the gulf between them by sharing some of her own?

  “I will be as candid with you Mason.” She wanted to open up to this exceptional man, but instead looked at her cup. Mal
lory, observing the direction of her gaze noticed it was empty and offered a refill. She accepted.

  “I admit I have been impatient and demanding. I too, would like to explain.” Would her courage fail her, trying to express something she hardly understood herself – to a stranger? But somehow not being of her world, he might be able to provide a balanced view. “I have been experiencing some strange feelings lately.”

  Mallory returned to her place and watched the girl struggle with her thoughts.

  “Before … I mean when I was younger, my world was perfect. Mama and Papa loved me: Nanny and Grandma Patchford, Ramona, Ambrose. Everybody made me feel special. Of course, I’m older now and know that being the centre of the universe can’t last forever …” She stopped and smiled to herself at this, then took up her train of thought: “… but now there’s a mystifying atmosphere in the house.”

  “Mystifying?” Mallory sat forward, crossing her legs.

  “Well, I sense people watching me, not just looking as I go by. I’m used to that. No, it’s different. Sometimes I feel the servants have been talking about me, but they fall silent when I come within earshot.” She stopped again and took time to drink her tea. Mallory did not prompt or interrupt, content to let this girl find her words in her own time.

  “You know Mason, Mama gave a big dinner party last weekend and for the first time I was allowed to be present. Only until after desert had been served,” she amended honestly. “Oh, I was so excited and felt so grown up.” She paused the tea forgotten, lost in some dark, forlorn place. Judging from her expression perhaps tormented by hidden insecurities. She veiled her eyes as she looked down then continued: “After that evening Mama changed. It’s made me very unhappy. I don’t understand and whichever way I look, I cannot fathom the cause. Papa has been so impatient, too. He belittled me in front of everyone. I felt so demeaned.” Tears hovered precariously on the tips of her luxurious lashes, sparkling like diamonds. In the silence that followed Mallory was touched by a sense of helplessness. What could she say? She expelled a dejected sigh, marked with a commiseration she was unable to express.

  “I’m very sorry things are not going well for you.” The silence lengthened; she made a special effort to expand her thoughts. “This could be cold comfort …” she began tentatively, “… but I can say from experience that circumstances never stay the same.” What else? “Something could yet happen to bring clarity to the situation … or even make peace between you.” She searched the girl’s face and realised she had not fully appreciated before what an intense shade of turquoise, lay in the centres of her remarkable pupils. Now she believed she had caused a slight softening of the features. A burden shared perhaps?

  “You may be right Mason. Anyway, it will do no good for me to indulge in self-pity.” She smiled tremulously into his understanding eyes, those eyes with the power to melt her. His words had been bracing, she would make an effort to get out of this brown study.

  “Tell me Mason, what did you do for a pastime when you were my age?”

  Ah this is better. “Well, I didn’t paint. To be honest I have no artistic bent, but I do appreciate other people’s work.” She smiled and offered diffidently: “I really like yours.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m an ‘outdoors’ person, a bit of an adrenalin junkie I guess.”

  Nigella searched his face for understanding then decided not to become querulous again. Was she learning self-control; patience even?

  “For a while I belonged to a rowing team. Our club would gather at the boat house at Aeroglen on the Barron River every Sunday morning, six a.m. come rain or shine. We were a team of eight with a Cox.” Her recall became more vivid. “I loved it when the rhythm took over, the oars dipping and flashing in the morning sun.” She laughed with her memories: “We could just fly through that water. We’d go upstream as far as the Mason Bridge, nothing to do with my family, then take a break and row back.”

  She continued to regale her eager listener with amusing anecdotes, observing her rapt profile until both were cleansed of their earlier melancholies. For some unknown reason this time, these were memories she gladly inhabited. No pain, only happiness at being able to share them with her companion.

  “What fun it must be to have such freedom!” Nigella’s virescent eyes sparkled with diamantine lights. How she would like to be pulling on the oars on a soft and dewy, golden morning.

  “I wasn’t always outside though. I could just as well be a computer nerd.”

  Nigella gave a probing look, but before she would get herself into a perplexed state, he clarified: “There are just some games we play over there, but you don’t have them here. I also like reading. Do you?” This should be safer.

  “Oh yes. One of my favourite stories was Barrie’s Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens, but now I think it is Jack London’s White Fang. Do you know it, the one about the beautiful wolf?”

  “Not that one, but I have read J. M.’s Peter Pan and Wendy.”

  “Oh, you must be mistaken. He hasn’t written a story of that name.” She looked across, surprised.

  Bloody hell, done it again! She wracked her brains to recall the timing. That book would not be written for a few years yet. It would be following the success of Peter Pan. He would not write the sequel until two years after that. Drongo!

  “Of course, it must have been Peter Pan, my mistake.” Try something else. Stick to the Edwardian period. She tried to focus her mind. “I liked Oscar Wilde’s, The Ballard of Reading Gaol. Have you read anything of his?” Oh no! He would be Victorian. Shoot!

  “No … I have heard of him, of course, but Mama won’t let me read anything he’s written.” She thought again: “Last year Anne of Green Gables came out. That was lots of fun. I liked learning about Canada.”

  “Oh yes, set in Newfoundland. I don’t know that one very well.” Mallory searched her brain. “Conan Doyle’s, The Hound of the Baskervilles was a great read.”

  Nigella clapped her hands in enthusiasm. “Oh, I want to read that one, but I’m not allowed to yet. Mama says I have to wait ’til I’m older.” Her full red lips protruded in a pout as she drew her black brows together in a severe frown. All that was needed, Mallory thought, was a stamp of the foot; a girl who liked to have her own way.

  Well, we all want that, but we don’t usually show it so obviously. “What are you reading now?”

  A bright smile lit her face once more. “The Elusive Pimpernel by Baroness Orczy, you know, set in the French reign of terror.”

  “Oh yes. I’ve read all eight of hers.”

  She looked quizzical. “Is there more than the one play and three books?”

  “Oh, perhaps not.” Move on Mal. What about music. “I bet you play the piano?” she challenged.

  “Not me. Ramona’s the pianist. Ambrose tried at one time. And me too, but we’re sticky fingered. She has the lightest touch. It’s wonderful to listen to her.” She paused momentarily then thought to add: “I can sing a bit … got to be able to do my party piece,” and chuckled. “I do a wobbly rendition of: It Was a Lover and His Lass.” One Mallory knew and she sang:

  “In springtime, in springtime,

  The only pretty ring time,

  When birds do sing, hey ding-a-ding-a-ding …”

  Then Nigella joined in and harmonised:

  “Hey ding-a-ding-a-ding,

  Sweet lovers love the spring.”

  They fell about laughing, holding their sides. Mallory was untroubled, enjoying the moment, the day and the girl. Oh, she was such a charmer. Her guileless enthusiasms were infectious and her candid honesty endearing. But enough of this, the shadows were lengthening and a halo of orange and red was surrounding the disappearing sun.

  “Time to pack up, my Lady.”

  On the drive home, her art work guardedly held across her lap, Nigella felt more carefree than she had in a long while. When things were going well between them, and by that she meant when she was not being juvenile, she could thin
k of no other person she would rather be with than this foreign young man. He seemed to possess all the qualities she needed to make her feel complete. Added to that was the simple fact that he was just so, so – handsome. Those eyes! And she had thought Lionel Shoebridge, ‘the end’. This afternoon was reminding her of the time they rode through Druids Meadows. It would be nice to do that again.

  Too soon she was being deposited at the front steps and Baldwin was taking charge. “Thank you, Mason.”

  Mallory knew they were her usual words, but was there a special feeling behind them? She smiled back. It had been a great day and for a while she had felt perfectly content.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Mallory was eating lunch the next day, slices of leftover roast beef with home-made, horse radish chutney, between thick slabs of crusty bread, when suddenly there was a noisy disturbance. Baldwin was summoning the footmen and maids to attend his Lordship and Lady Patchford. The Honourable Ambrose was remaining at the Ettington estate for a few more days. What a surprise! They had not been expected back ’til late afternoon. Just the same, like all the others, she would have to drop everything. Making her way to the porte-cochere to receive the Tourer, she wondered what had gone amiss to cause this change of plan.

  “We need to discuss this further in private Madam. Come to my suite when you are refreshed.” Lord Patchford was uncurling himself from the driver’s seat, his motoring costume today consisting of a three piece, tweed suit and a long skirted, light brown checked ‘dust coat’, revealing a yellow silk lining as it fell open. He was pulling off his gloves with short, sharp jerks, the ear flaps of his driving cap wagging in time. His words, directed to his wife were cold and would brook no argument. They were delivered to Lady Patchford’s stiffly receding back as she swept up the steps past the footmen, dealing with the luggage. Baldwin waited for her at the top, holding open the heavy door. Her Ladyship looked magnificent he thought, feeling proud to be in her employ. She wore a three-quarter length, tailored coat, cut away round to the back. It too was brown, but a deeper colour than her husband’s outfit, embroidered with a cream braid along the seams. The sleeves ended in wide cuffs above her hands, which were encased in soft chamios gloves. Her coat too was open, revealing a close fitting, high waisted, brown velvet Gilet cuirasse, just long enough to cover the bosom. This jacket bodice was fastened in the latest cross-over style with jet buttons on the diagonal. Above this, her neck was encircled with a lace collar, the ruches supporting her Ladyship’s aristocratic chin, from which an elegant cravat fell in soft folds.