Paying Guests

by Claire Rayner

  ‘But that could be so – so laborious and so public!’ Tilly had almost cried out, only remembering just in time to keep her voice down so that the games players around her in the drawing room would not hear. ‘And would probably take so long that by the time it was settled all my guests would have melted away and I should be hard put to re-establish a reputation it has taken me so many years to build –’

  ‘I do not think so,’ Silas said stoutly. ‘I shall be your eyes and ears, my dear Tilly, and will ensure that whatever happens in that house you shall know of it. Forewarned, remember, is forearmed – yes, forearmed.’ He had looked as pleased with himself as if he had said something of great originality and for a moment Tilly was irritated by the hint of pomposity but then had to agree that he was right. She had been warned and that was better than having something happen to her out of nowhere, as might have been the case had Eliza not seen Dorcas from the dining-room window.

  Now sitting staring sightlessly out of that same dining-room window at the pouring rain – for it was as grey and disagreeable a December day as it could possibly be – she once more tried to push her anxieties to the back of her mind. There was much to be done; Christmas was barely a fortnight away and though Eliza was well in hand with her puddings and her cakes and various pickles and other seasonal delights, Tilly herself had to see to it that her geese were chosen from the flock in the yard behind Mr Spurgeon’s shop, that the baron of beef she had ordered was being properly hung and that the hams that were being pickled in their tubs of brine in the back scullery were coming along properly. There was also the matter of the spruce tree she was to decorate in the manner that Prince Albert had introduced for the royal family at Windsor, which she had thought would amuse her guests if she used it as an exemplar. She really had too much to do, she thought, rattling her cup back into its saucer, to waste time worrying about Dorcas.

  She got to her feet and went over to the sideboard to check that the chafing dishes were all as hot as they should be and that the food beneath the covers was properly presented, and moved along the row, lifting one heavy silver dome after another. Grilled bacon, well crimped; sausages from Mr Spurgeon, plump and glistening with their own fat; kidneys neatly arranged with slices of baked tomato between them; and shirred eggs with mushrooms. Silas would like that, she thought as she replaced the dome quietly and turned to go, and then noticed that the lowest drawer of the sideboard was partly open. She tried to close it, only to find it resisted her push and she pulled it wider to find what had obstructed it. And there, at the back, she found a soft roll of leather that had curled open and tucked itself into the drawer’s runners, and drew it out.

  She took it to the table and sat down, and slowly unrolled the bundle. She knew what it was of course; she had obtained the services of the saddler in Brompton Road, near Charlie’s shop, to make it for her when the contents had been so wonderfully restored to her over a dozen years ago, after she had been sure she had lost them for ever.

  Her mother’s wedding spoons. Beautiful, silver, the bowls covered with the most delicately executed enamel in jewel colours, deepest amethyst and delicate rose, throbbing crimson and burnt orange, irridescent green and burning blue.

  She sat with the unrolled bundle before her, looking down on the spoons and remembering. So many years of sadness before the happy ones that had been her lot this past dozen years. Turmoil, fear and loneliness had been succeeded by prosperity and tranquillity. Two distinct segments of her life had been punctuated by those spoons.

  That is a silly thought, she scolded herself; of course the spoons had nothing to do with the improvement in her life. It had been sheer chance that she had lost them to Dorcas and equally so that they had come back when they did, and equally a matter of chance that her attention had been drawn to them this morning. But she could not convince herself that there was not some omen meant in finding the spoons as she had. They lived in that drawer and she did not fetch them out from one year to the next; it was enough to know they were there. Yet this morning, when she had been so worried, there they were to reassure her; her spirits lifted absurdly and she wrapped up the spoons again and restored them to their hiding place at the back of the drawer, closed it tidily and went cheerfully down to the kitchen to speak to Eliza.

  She was making porridge, very carefully adding quantities of cream and brown sugar to it, and the kitchen steamed agreeably with the nutty scent of it, mixed with coffee and the grilling of herrings. Mr Grayling, thought Tilly. He must have asked Eliza especially to provide them this morning, for he was dearly partial to a herring, and she, dear creature, never forgot anything. Where would I be without her? And Tilly smiled widely at her across the kitchen.

  ‘You’re looking better this morning, Mum,’ Eliza said approvingly as she heaved the great iron pot on to the table and began to ladle its contents into a chafing dish ready to go up to the dining room. Behind her the herrings sizzled contentedly before the fire and the kettle steamed ready to make the second pot of coffee that would be needed to replace the one that Rosie was waiting to take up to the dining room together with the porridge. Lucy was busy, too, making toast, and the whole kitchen had an air of quiet purposefulness that was very comforting. Tilly breathed it in deeply, feeling better by the moment. She had been worrying for no purpose. There was nothing Dorcas could possibly do to upset the happy rhythm of Quentin’s. It was as secure as it possibly could be.

  ‘I am indeed feeling well,’ she said, and sniffed appreciatively. ‘I thought I was not hungry and wanted only tea, but you know, I think perhaps I shall return to the dining room and take breakfast with the guests. That porridge looks very good –’

  ‘It is, Mum,’ Eliza said and held out her ladle so that Tilly could taste it and she did, relishing the sweet nutty flavour and the richness of the cream which had given it a much more agreeable tawny colour than its usual grey.

  ‘Mmm,’ Tilly said. ‘I shall indeed have a plateful upstairs, Eliza. I wanted to tell you –’ She hesitated and glanced at Rosie and Lucy. ‘That matter we discussed last night – I have considered it further and I am convinced we have no need for anxiety.’

  Eliza cocked a sharp eye at her. ‘Is that so, Mum? Well, I’m glad to hear you think so. Me, I’m not so certain –’

  ‘Well, I have thought a great deal, and there are reasons why I will not worry further,’ Tilly said firmly. ‘I shall speak to you later this morning. I must see Spurgeon about the geese and, of course, the beef. Is there anything else I must talk to him about?’

  ‘Yes, please, Mum,’ Eliza said. ‘I want to make a liver paste in the French manner and I need extra goose liver for that. If he can contrive to find some – for not every cook wants ‘em, more fool they – I’ll be greatly obliged, tell him.’

  ‘I will,’ Tilly promised, and went back upstairs to eat porridge with her guests who were now arriving, hungry for their breakfast.

  The first post had already been delivered and Tilly glanced at the pile of envelopes beside her plate and was disappointed not to see Duff’s familiar handwriting and then chided herself. Absurd! He had written to her only yesterday – there could not be another from him yet. And she thought of the letter she had sent to Sophie and wondered how long it would take her to respond. Quickly, she hoped. As long as it was the right response, of course.

  The table talk was surprisingly sprightly. On most mornings people ate quietly or read a newspaper as they did so, but this morning they all seemed in a festive sort of mood, perhaps because of the approach of Christmas, and chattered busily. The only silent one was Silas and he waited till most of the others had drifted away about the day’s business before he spoke quietly to Tilly.

  ‘I have been thinking of our conversation last night,’ he said. ‘Trying to think of how I might reassure you that –’

  She smiled brilliantly. ‘Oh, I know now that I was worried for no reason,’ she said. ‘Or for very little. In the clear light of day, I feel much more calm about it
all, and beg your pardon for so tediously occupying your mind with a minor matter.’

  ‘It was neither tedious nor minor. No conversation with you could ever be so described,’ he said and grinned as she blushed and glanced at Mr Gee, who was seated at the far end of the table absorbed in the Morning Post while he ate the last of a great deal of toast and boiled ham.

  ‘Hush,’ she said. ‘You must not –’

  ‘Why not?’ He was looking a little wicked, and leaned back in his chair and glanced at her from beneath his lashes with mock delicacy. ‘I would have thought that good close friends such as we are should be able to speak to each other in any way we wish. Are we not intimate friends now, Tilly?’

  She bent her head, again very aware of the physical effect he had on her. ‘Well, yes, but –’

  ‘No buts.’ He was serious now. ‘No buts at all – ah!’ He looked up in satisfaction as Mr Gee got to his feet and made his way to the dining-room door, the Morning Post held neatly under his arm. ‘On your way then, Oswald?’

  ‘Yes. I must be at court in –’ Mr Gee looked at his watch and tutted importantly – in just an hour, you know. Must be about my business! Good morning to you, Mrs Quentin! Geddes!’ And he went in a bustle, leaving them alone. Rosie had not come up to clear yet.

  ‘I must make the most of my opportunities,’ Silas said rapidly. ‘I know this is neither the most romantic time nor place, but you give me little opportunity to be alone with you in such circumstances, so I must make the best of what there is. So, here amongst the wreckage of our excellent breakfast, dear Tilly, will you be my wife? There, I’ve asked you. I never thought I would ask any woman that, so greatly valuing my freedom as I do – not wanting even the trouble of owning my own house, let alone a wife, but you, Tilly, are enough to make any man forget his resolutions.’

  She gaped at him, so taken aback that she was breathless. Of all the things she had not expected to happen this morning, this had to be the most remarkable. That he might declare himself one day was a possibility that had, of course, occurred to her and she had tried to think about what her response might be; but this had caught her so much by surprise that she could not think at all.

  ‘Why, Silas –’ was all she managed and then had to shake her head. ‘I hardly know what to –’

  Behind her the door opened again and Rosie came in, bearing her tray.

  ‘May I clear, Mum?’ she said, hovering at the door. Without stopping to think, Tilly, ever the careful housekeeper and well aware of the importance of getting out of the servants’ way so that the work of the day could be properly executed, got to her feet at once.

  ‘Of course,’ she said almost automatically and then stared at Silas, who was looking startled and not a little annoyed. She bit her lip. It must have seemed to him a dreadful snub not to have sent Rosie away for a while, and she said quickly, ‘Come to my morning room, please, Silas –’ and hurried away, without waiting to see whether he would follow.

  Happily, he did and came to sit beside her on her small sofa and took both her hands in his and smiled.

  ‘Well? Now you have ensured that your housekeeping duties have been given due precedence,’ he said, ‘am I to have my answer? Or will you play the shy miss and insist upon making me wait?’

  She swallowed. ‘My dear Silas, I am not a shy miss, nor would I wish to ape one, but this is – I am so surprised that I must of course have time to think. And I am not precisely alone in this matter, am I? I mean, if I am to wed again I must – my son – he is part of –’

  ‘Now, Tilly, hear me!’ Silas said with a sharp change in his manner. He had become masterful and not at all the easy unruffled man of thought and letters he usually was. ‘Your son is a grown man, or as near as makes no matter. You worry too much about him. Indeed, you have let him rule your life to a degree that cannot be healthy for either of you –’

  Her brows snapped together. ‘What do you mean?’

  He spoke more gently now. ‘I mean only, dear Tilly, that he must live his life and you must live yours. Of course you will always be as close as mother and son should be, and he will, I know, love you dearly always. But he will wed one day – and you must remember he seems to have made his choice on that score – and to have you left behind alone and lonely may make him most unhappy. If you wish him to be happy you will seek happiness for yourself, for the two go together. You don’t need to ask his consent to make me his stepfather. You must decide it for yourself and then simply tell him of your decision. You must see that, Tilly, I am sure, if you think about it.’ He softened then and smiled happily. ‘And anyway, are not Duff and I very good friends? I cannot imagine he will have any objection to me as a stepfather. He knows I have his good interest at heart, in his own right. If he knows that I am tied to him by marriage to his beloved Mamma, why, I am sure he will be glad of it. He has no father or brothers, after all.’

  She was unable to think clearly at all, and turned her head away. ‘I must think,’ she said a little stiffly. ‘Please to give me some time.’

  ‘Of course.’ He was all gentleness now. ‘I have been most hasty in speaking as and when I did, but as I say, chance is all. Be kind to me and to yourself, dearest Tilly. Choose well.’

  And he bent and kissed her hands one after the other, and then leaned forward and kissed one cheek as well and got to his feet and went, leaving her more breathless than usual by his attentions.

  She sat for some time staring at the wall, trying to think, and could not get her mind into any sort of order, and needing some sort of physical action, jumped up only to tumble her letters, which she had carried with her from the dining room, all over the floor. She crouched and picked them up and then noticed that one of them was unfranked. It had not been brought in the post at all, but delivered by hand, for it bore on the envelope only her name, and she turned it in her hands, distracted completely now from Silas and his proposal.

  It must be from Dorcas, she thought fearfully, sitting back on her heels, and looked again at the handwriting, but it was hard to tell. The letters were all in capitals, and it seemed had been written with some difficulty and Tilly, remembering Dorcas’s cut and reddened fingers, could imagine how painful it might be for her to use those hands to write and was more certain than ever. She bit her lip to control the sudden surge of anxiety that filled her, and slit it open.

  ‘Dear Tilly,’ the short letter read. ‘I am to go away to recover my health. I shall be back in the New Year at some time, possibly not until February or later. Meanwhile, the house will remain empty and no steps taken.’ There was no subscription other than her name, scrawled in large letters, like those on the envelope: Dorcas Leander Oliver.

  How odd, she thought staring down at it. Why should she have kept her mother’s name in that manner? How very odd.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  TILLY’S GREATEST PROBLEM, she decided a few days later, was that she could not sort out the confusion of problems she had to face.

  First of all, there was the matter of Silas’s proposal. One part of her wanted very much to accept him. That she needed and would greatly enjoy the intimacy of marriage even after so many years of solitude was clear to her now. She had even started to dream about episodes with Silas that made her blush to remember them in the morning. But she could not wholeheartedly go to him and give him the answer he wanted.

  The trouble was, she told herself, not only his criticism of her close attachment to and concern for Duff, justified as it was, in part; it was more because of the way he had spoken when he had proposed. She could hear it still echoing in her head: ‘I never thought I would ask any woman that, so greatly valuing my freedom as I do, not wanting even the trouble of owning my own house, let alone a wife.’

  If she had learned anything about her years as the proprietor of a busy guest house it had been that people do not change. They may put on shows of some forms of behaviour in order to impress new acquaintances, but when they were comfortable where they were, they
soon reverted to being themselves. The Graylings, for example, had put on a great performance of being elegant people, well connected and of excellent ton when they had first come to her house with a view to taking rooms, but since they had settled in had shown themselves clearly for what they were, ordinary people from a trade background and none the worse for that. There had been many others over the years who had taught Tilly the same lesson. And, she had to ask herself, was Silas now reverting to the person he really was? He made a parade of his free thinking, of his attachment to ideas of equality and the rights of the individual, but he had not spoken so when he had proposed: ‘the trouble of owning my own house, let alone a wife’.

  Had he meant that he regarded a wife as a possession? Tilly had had enough of that when she had been married to Frank Quentin, just as she had had enough of being her father’s possession before that. For more than twelve years she had owed allegiance to no one but her son and herself, and any others she chose of her own free will. Did she want to give up that freedom simply for the sake of passion and the admitted comfort of having a husband to share her burdens? She rather thought she did not.

  But that was the least of her problems, she decided. Silas had agreed, the day after he had proposed, when she had not been able to prevent him asking for an answer, that he would wait until she was quite certain she was ready to marry. He seemed to accept her doubts to an extent and said very cheerfully that he was glad they could at least regard themselves as engaged to be married and was quite happy to leave matters at that for the present; there was plenty of time yet to tie the knot. And he also agreed, though less willingly, to keep their decision a secret from everyone else in the house.

  ‘I could not bear the chatter and the way the Misses K and F would go on and on – and Mrs Grayling – and the men would torment you, I’ve no doubt –’ she had said and he had made a little grimace and acquiesced. So, for the time being, all was well. She had not fully made up her mind, even though Silas thought she had, and she had time to think. So that was one problem she could set to one side.