The Lost Ones

by Anita Frank

  My stomach plummeted. ‘When?’

  ‘Just before you came back.’

  We stood silent, the air heavy with the solemnity of this awful revelation. ‘Why didn’t she tell me?’ I asked at last.

  ‘You were – you were so unwell. It was early on … She didn’t want to burden you – after all, nothing could be done.’

  I brought my hand to my mouth. Dear, darling Madeleine! When I had arrived back, eviscerated by Gerald’s loss, Madeleine had flown to my side like the golden angel she was – compassionate, non-judgemental. She became my rock, my constant, unflinching companion. She had stoically weathered my rages and vicious words, stroked my head as I broke down and sobbed, and read quietly beside my bed as I lay motionless with grief. At a time when I had little inclination to carry on, she never gave up on me; even as others began to lose their patience, she alone defended me. And yet through it all she must have been nursing a terrible anguish. She had prioritised my recovery over her own devastating loss.

  ‘Oh, Hector, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘These things happen.’ He couldn’t prevent the tell-tale break in his voice. He took a moment. ‘It’s just, now – she’s not herself at all. I think she’s terrified of it happening again. She dealt with it so bravely last time, but she was devastated, Stella, absolutely devastated. To be honest, I think looking after you is what got her through. It was a welcome distraction from her own pain.’

  His words stung me. He flushed, realising how they could be misconstrued. To cover his embarrassment he fussed about, setting his cap straight on his head, before thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets and rocking on his heels, waiting for the clouded moment to pass.

  ‘Madeleine never wanted to go to Greyswick.’ He broke the silence, an apologetic glint in his dark eyes. ‘I had to plead with her to go. Now she’s there, I think she has little else to do but obsess on the worst. She keeps asking to come back to town, but I would never forgive myself if she got caught up in a raid. She’s safe at Greyswick, but I think she would benefit enormously from some company.’

  ‘She has your mother.’ The words slipped out before I could stop them. Hector picked up on my sardonic tone and winced.

  ‘As you are well aware, my mother is not the easiest woman to get on with.’

  I had only met Lady Brightwell once, at the wedding, and once was quite enough. She was a dour, self-important woman who revelled in the glory of her husband’s honorary knighthood. I could see that she would not make an empathetic companion.

  ‘Look, I would just be ever so grateful if you could go and keep her company for a while, take her mind off things. What do you think?’

  ‘Hector, nothing would give me greater pleasure than spending time with Madeleine, especially after what you’ve just told me.’ His motorcar drew along the drive behind us.

  ‘Please don’t say anything about me asking you to go and stay. I don’t think she’d appreciate my interference.’

  ‘It’ll be our secret. I’ll telephone her this afternoon and chide her for not inviting me to visit. After all, I’ve never seen your country seat.’

  He smiled. ‘I think you’ll like it, it’s a wonderful spot.’

  We reached the car. His driver leapt from the front and opened the rear door.

  ‘Oh, one more thing – Mother is a stickler for protocol and she doesn’t see why a little thing like a war should lead to a fall in standards, so she still runs the house as if nothing has changed. Like you, we’ve lost most of the servants. She has conceded to allowing a maid to serve at dinner, but she still insists on full evening dress and so on. If you were able to bring someone with you, to lighten the load of your visit a bit, that would be tremendous.’

  I laughed. ‘Well, I wouldn’t want to be responsible for upsetting the smooth running of the household.’

  He swept off his cap to kiss my cheek. ‘Thank you, Stella. You will look after her for me, won’t you?’

  ‘After all she’s done for me? It’s the least I can do.’

  I watched the car pull away, sensing this unexpected tête-à-tête had bridged a gap in our relationship and I was surprisingly touched that Hector had taken me into his confidence. Madeleine would not lose this baby, I was determined of that, and I would do everything in my power to help her through the pregnancy. I would be her rock, as she had been mine. The prospect of new life invigorated my soul and my heart lifted at the thought of seeing Madeleine again.

  As I walked back towards the house I looked up to see Annie watching me from a first-floor window. For an uncomfortable moment I remained trapped in her steady gaze, until she slowly turned away, vanishing from view. My blossoming happiness was marred by a disconcerting thought. Try as I might, I could see no alternative.

  There was only one expendable servant at Haverton Hall.

  Annie Burrows would be coming with me.

  Chapter Five

  A few days later, I stood on the platform of a small country station, waiting with ill-masked impatience for Annie Burrows to emerge from the swirling steam with a porter and our luggage in tow.

  As the train heaved away, a uniformed chauffeur appeared, and having ascertained my identity, he guided our caravan out to the cobbled front, where a gleaming Rolls Royce awaited us.

  It was, the chauffeur informed us, but a short drive to Greyswick. The car purred down narrow country lanes, the high hedges banked with a thick lace ruff of cow parsley, until soon we reached the village of Wick – a sweet little place, boasting an assortment of stone cottages, bronzed with age and weighed down with thatched roofs. There was a blacksmith by the village pond, and beyond stood a square turreted church encircled by a low stone wall, a neat Queen Anne rectory beside it.

  We soon glided from the village, the road plunging through a wood before breaking out into open farmland, the cultivated fields either side of us sprouting with green barley shoots, while a ridge of hills shouldered the horizon. Finally, two grey-brick lodges appeared set either side of a great archway, its wrought iron gates already opened for our arrival. A thrill of anticipation stirred in my belly as we skimmed up a long driveway lined with beech trees, last year’s prickly cases still scattered about the bases of their slender trunks.

  The parkland about us was pleasant enough, with a few clusters of ancient oaks and a magnificent cedar whose low-slung branches hovered just above the ground. Unlike our park, it was devoid of livestock, but then Brightwell had made his fortune from mining not farming. As the avenue of trees gave way to iron railings, I caught my first glimpse of a large grey edifice in the distance. Gradually its intriguing outline began to take shape until, at last, the driveway billowed out into a gravelled carriage sweep and Greyswick loomed above us.

  My first impressions were not favourable. It had been set square on to the drive, designed to impress and perhaps even overawe those who approached, though it was blatantly apparent the house would have enjoyed a far better aspect had it been positioned more with aesthetics, rather than vanity, in mind.

  The chauffeur opened my door and I shuffled out, taking a good look at the monstrosity before me. The house was an incoherent fusion of architectural styles. The gabling appeared faux-Jacobean, but the enclosed porch would have suited a Victorian church, while the mullioned windows, Gothic by design, clashed horribly with the ill-advised clock tower, which was itself reminiscent of a Venetian palazzo. The extensive roof line had been trimmed with an open balustrade, underneath which, I was rather startled to observe, leered a menagerie of gruesome gargoyles. The whole extraordinary effect was, I thought, appalling.

  I had just concluded my rather devastating assessment when the front door was yanked open, and my name came squealing through the air. Madeleine charged down the steps in a most undignified manner and threw herself into my awaiting arms, knocking my hat quite askew.

  We clung to each other, giggling like school girls. I relished being with my younger sister again – she was my superior in every way. Whereas I wa
s argumentative, quick-tempered and cutting, she was charm and grace and kindness personified. She was also beautiful in that classic Grecian goddess way. Her golden tresses could be effortlessly curled and arranged, while my coarse brown muss had to be teased and heated and twisted to destruction – only to resemble an ill-formed bird’s nest when done. And yet, despite her obvious advantages, I had never been jealous of her – I simply adored her. Undoubtedly, the fire had drawn us closer together. We came to depend on one another as never before, comforting each other as we mourned our sister. The tragedy made us appreciate from an early age that the sibling bond was a precious one, to be nurtured and cherished at every opportunity. We had never taken each other for granted from that moment on.

  As I broke away, a cold vein of concern tempered my happiness. Studying her properly I was shocked to see the transformation in her. Always the personification of an English rose, the face before me now was deathly pale. Madeleine’s skin was drawn tight over her high cheekbones; her eyes were sunken and shrouded with grey. She hardly resembled a young woman in the bloom of pregnancy, though the swelling about her girth reassured me all was still well.

  ‘My dear,’ I collected myself at last, ‘you look so pale.’

  A hint of colour crept across her hollowed cheeks. ‘I have not been sleeping so well of late,’ she admitted, ‘but I am quite well.’ She squeezed my hand. ‘Oh, Stella, I am so glad you have come.’ She made no attempt to hide the relief in her voice, but neither did she attempt to explain it. ‘Now come in, you must be exhausted!’

  Arm in arm we mounted the steps to the front door.

  ‘I am so pleased to have you here,’ she said again, drawing me still tighter to her side.

  ‘I thought you might be finding life in the country strange after London.’

  Her steps faltered. ‘Yes … yes … it is a little strange here.’

  We crossed an unlit vestibule, before passing through stately double doors into a grand hall. It was an impressive room, with dark wood panelling and a chequerboard floor of marble tiles, its ceiling intricately decorated with plaster mouldings. To my left and right broad archways supported by alabaster pillars acted as gateways to dark corridors beyond, while before me, spilling out across the floor, were the sweeping steps of a heavy oak staircase, its massive timbers carved with fruits and flowers. It wrapped itself around the back wall, gently ascending to the floor above, crossing below a magnificent stained-glass window that stretched upwards out of sight. This patchwork of glass was the only avenue for natural light to enter the hall, and the sun’s penetrating rays cast a myriad of coloured shards upon the polished flight of stairs but failed to dispel the gloom that pooled at the edges of the room.

  ‘Goodness,’ I murmured, gazing about me.

  Before Madeleine could comment we were startled by rustling from within the umbra. A woman materialised from the shadows, the full skirts of her stark black dress swishing as she drew near. I was struck by her unusual stature and sturdy build – and by the set of keys strung upon a gaoler’s ring which hung from the belt about her thick waist.

  Madeleine stepped closer to me.

  ‘Mrs Henge.’ There was an uncharacteristic tremor in her voice. ‘This is my sister, Miss Marcham. Mrs Henge is the housekeeper here, Stella.’

  ‘Welcome to Greyswick, Miss Marcham. I hope you will enjoy your stay.’

  It was a low-pitched voice, staid and unobtrusive. Yet there was a perfunctory iciness to her demeanour that I found rather unnerving.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Henge. I’m sure I shall.’

  ‘If there is anything you need, please do not hesitate to ask.’ She marshalled her features into a contrived look of apology. ‘We are, of course, short staffed, but I will endeavour to make sure that you have everything you need in as timely a fashion as possible.’ There was something in her tone that conveyed the impression I was a personal inconvenience. I found myself prickling with indignation.

  ‘I have brought my own maid with me, Mrs Henge. I trust, therefore, that my presence here will not prove too burdensome.’

  She must have detected the underlying resentment in my clipped voice, for she responded with a subtle hike in one of her steely grey brows.

  ‘Not at all, Miss Marcham.’ Her eyes flickered over my shoulder and narrowed. ‘Do I take it that this is your maid, miss?’

  My heart sank with misgiving as I turned to follow her supercilious gaze. Annie Burrows stood silhouetted in the doorway behind us, staring at the imposing staircase rising majestically before her.

  Chapter Six

  ‘Maids don’t usually enter by the front door, Annie,’ I said, exasperated by her faux pas.

  I was struck by how pale she looked, and hoped she wasn’t ailing. She would become a burden if she fell ill, but I knew how easy it was to succumb to a chill in these cavernous houses. There was indeed a rather nippy draught blowing down the staircase. It had filtered through the fine weave of my blouse and my skin was bristling against it. For all its splendour, I suspected the intricate framework of the stained-glass window did little to keep invasive breezes at bay.

  Stifling my irritation, I turned to the housekeeper. ‘Please understand, Mrs Henge, Annie has never been away before. It seems she’s rather overwhelmed.’

  ‘Good staff these days are proving difficult to find, Miss Marcham,’ Mrs Henge observed, before issuing Annie brusque instructions to go below stairs via the green baize door located in the far corner of the hall.

  The maid dipped a curtsy. I saw her sneak a further glance at the staircase as she scuttled away.

  ‘I’ll make sure the girl settles in, miss – without delay,’ the housekeeper assured me in a rather forbidding manner.

  ‘Mrs Henge, might we have some tea brought to the drawing room?’ Madeleine asked, bringing a welcome conclusion to the awkward episode.

  ‘Of course, Mrs Brightwell. I shall have Maisie bring it directly.’ With a curt dip of her head, the housekeeper melded back into the shadows. We heard the baize door close behind her.

  ‘Did you have to bring that girl here?’

  Madeleine’s quiet question took me by surprise.

  ‘Annie is one of the few servants we have left,’ I laughed. To my consternation, she looked away, biting her lip. ‘There was no one else, Madeleine. God knows she would not be my first choice, but all the others have gone.’

  She mustered a smile. ‘No matter … it’s just …’ She shook her head, mocking her own foolishness. ‘It really doesn’t matter, I’m being silly. She’s such a bit peculiar, that’s all.’

  ‘Your Mrs Henge seems like an old stalwart – I’m sure she’ll brook no nonsense. You watch, she’ll keep Annie in line.’

  She forced a laugh. ‘Mrs Henge has been with the family for so long she’s practically part of the furniture.’

  ‘I didn’t even see her standing in the shadows there when we came in. She gave me quite a fright.’

  ‘There are lots of shadows in Greyswick. Mrs Henge seems to occupy most of them.’

  To my relief, she shrugged off her odd humour and returned to sorts, taking my hand to lead me under the left arch into the panelled corridor beyond. Doors were set opposite each other along its length, and at the end was a single sash window. There was something bleak and institutional about the design of the house and its failure to incorporate much natural light. I found the enclosed corridor dismal and claustrophobic, and I felt I was navigating the bowels of the building, not the communication passage to its principal rooms.

  But it was the tasteless opulence of the salon Madeleine ushered me into that shocked me the most. My jaw gaped in horrified wonder at the gaudy wallpaper and the vast, overstated swags of material draped around the French windows lining the outside wall. Gilt-legged sofas flanked the monstrous marble fireplace, while Chinoiserie cabinets stood like exotic guards either side of the doorway, with even more oriental pieces gamely distributed about the room. It was a far cry from the tired but gentle
splendour that reigned at home. At least, I found myself ruefully appreciating, it was light.

  ‘Goodness,’ I muttered.

  ‘Oh, I know, it’s hideously crass, isn’t it? It’s all right, Lady Brightwell and Miss Scott are out visiting. We are free to say what we want.’ Madeleine dropped down onto one of the uninviting sofas, indicating for me to join her. ‘Hector’s parents were rather nouveaux – the house was just another attempt to assert their acquired wealth and position.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Does that make me sound horribly stuck-up?’

  ‘Not at all.’ I stared up at the varnished oil painting that hung above the fireplace. ‘Is this Sir Arthur Brightwell himself?’ Hector’s father had died in a motor accident just before the war, so I had never met him. I studied the portrait with open curiosity.

  ‘It is indeed. It’s the only one of him left on display – Lady Brightwell ordered all the others to be taken down when he died. She said she couldn’t stand him staring down at her, watching her every move. Hector insisted this one remain. It is only fitting, after all.’

  The image portrayed was that of a self-assured middle-aged man, dressed in a red hunting coat, buckskin breeches and gleaming riding boots, his knighthood medal proudly displayed on his chest. In his heavy features I could detect traces of Hector, but his eyes, in the portrait at least, lacked the warmth that was always evident in his son’s. His fingers gripped the handle of a pickaxe, the scooped metal head resting on the ground by his feet along with a few lumps of gleaming coal, the black gold from which he had derived his fortune. I took another step forward and peered into the background. Brightwell stood on the crest of a hill, and in the valley below him I could see Greyswick, or that is, I could see part of it. In the detail, the house beyond the clock tower was overlaid by a crisscross of scaffolding, and an army of workers the size of tiny ants could be seen labouring around it. I expressed my surprise.

  ‘Greyswick wasn’t actually finished when the portrait was done,’ Madeleine explained. ‘Obviously the artist has taken some licence with the landscape, but I believe the representation of the house at that time to be accurate. It was his wedding present to Lady Brightwell, but it wasn’t completed until a year or so after Hector was born. No expense spared, and little taste engaged. But don’t you dare tell her I said that,’ Madeleine concluded.