The Lost Ones

by Anita Frank

  It was a stunning portrait, skilfully done, and though the years may have aged her, it was instantly recognisable as a young Lady Brightwell.

  She was standing in profile at a large fireplace, the fingertips of her right hand just visible as they rested on the broad marble mantel. There was a gilt-framed mirror hanging above it, and though the suggestion was a desire to see her reflection had brought her to that spot, her face was angled away from the glass – Lady Brightwell herself was looking directly at the artist. She was dressed in an exquisite red evening gown, the sharp lines of her shoulder blades just visible above the buttoned back that clung to her torso, pulling into a minuscule waist before rucking up in elaborate folds over a bustle and tumbling in waves to pool on the floor. Her chestnut brown hair, threaded with strands of gold, had been gathered up with diamond-headed pins until it overflowed, covering her neck with a cascade of curls. But it was the expression on the stunning young face that struck me the most.

  This was no whimsical pose. There was no coquettish regard for the painter, as he painstakingly preserved her for posterity. The expression on her face was arrogantly self-assured. This was a young woman confident of her looks, from the fine line of her nose, to her arched brows and sculpted cheekbones, a young woman who knew her mouth was the perfect shape even if her lips were a little too thin. She was aware her beauty was arresting, and her eyes shone with an unveiled challenge to the artist, daring him to record her otherwise.

  ‘She is a very beautiful woman, is she not, Miss Marcham?’

  I whirled around at the intrusion. Miss Scott was standing at the open door. I hadn’t heard her enter and fumbled my apologies. She smiled as she drew near.

  ‘Please don’t apologise. She is very distracting.’

  ‘It’s a wonderful portrait.’

  ‘She was just eighteen when that was done. Oh! She made me do her hair four times before she was satisfied with it. She was quite determined to look perfect.’ She drank in the picture, her face rapt, as if relishing it for the first time. ‘And she did look perfect,’ she finished, her voice soft.

  ‘You’ve been with her for a very long time then, Miss Scott?’

  ‘Since she was seventeen, and I was not much older myself. She was headstrong and determined even then, and a much-toasted debutante. I’ve witnessed rooms fall silent by the mere act of her walking into them.’

  I looked again at the portrait and had no doubt that the companion’s recollections were accurate.

  ‘She is quite a forceful character,’ I said without thinking. I saw a flicker of discomfort on the older woman’s face.

  ‘You mustn’t judge her too harshly, Miss Marcham. What you see above you is a carefully choreographed image. What lies beneath the surface is often too profound to be caught in oils and brush strokes. The events of a lifetime have moulded her into the woman she is today.’

  The admonishment was gentle but left me feeling gauche. The affection Miss Scott felt for her employer was clearly deep-seated and genuine, however difficult that might be for me to understand – and she clearly had the patience of a saint to suffer the woman’s foibles.

  We both turned when we heard a slight cough behind us. Mrs Henge stood framed by the doorway.

  ‘Forgive me for interrupting. I just wanted to check this morning’s tea things had been cleared.’ I was surprised to detect an uncharacteristically soft timbre to the housekeeper’s voice as she addressed us, Miss Scott her primary focus. One glance revealed the china was still very much in evidence – abandoned on a squat table. Mrs Henge’s lips pursed in displeasure and I pitied poor Maisie, who I suspected had overlooked the task amongst a multitude of other chores.

  ‘Oh dear, it’s a bit of a mess, isn’t it?’ Miss Scott declared without recrimination, as Mrs Henge advanced on the china. I explained then that I had come looking for a pen nib. ‘Oh, you’ll find one in the bureau, Lady Brightwell always keeps several spares, let me find one for you.’

  ‘This is such a pretty room,’ I declared, as she bustled over to the desk and pulled open an inner drawer. ‘It has such a different feel to the rest of the house.’

  ‘Well, it was the only room she was given free rein in … Ah!’ She triumphantly brandished a new nib. ‘Will this do?’

  ‘Perfectly, thank you.’

  Handing me the nib, she delved into a large bag resting in the corner and withdrew a ball of wool, which was clearly what had brought her to the morning room. I cast a final appreciative glance at the painting.

  ‘Was it for a special occasion?’

  Miss Scott smiled. ‘Her eighteenth birthday – it was the last portrait done before her engagement.’

  ‘And you came with her here to Greyswick on her marriage?’ I asked.

  ‘I did indeed, and I have been by her side ever since. Only once have I been away from her in all that time – and only then because there was no other way around it.’ Her voice had grown wistful. From the corner of my eye I noticed Mrs Henge glance up, just before she lifted the laden tray.

  Miss Scott and I fell in step to leave. Mrs Henge stood aside to let us pass.

  ‘Well, I can see you have quite a bond,’ I observed, slowing my pace to allow Miss Scott first access to the doorway.

  ‘Oh yes,’ the companion assured me, clutching her wool to her stomach as she left the room. ‘I could never leave her.’

  As I reached the doorway I glanced back to acknowledge the housekeeper. Mrs Henge made no attempt to return my smile, indeed she appeared distracted and unaware of my existence.

  It was only much later that I succeeded in defining her expression. I realised the look she had borne was one strangely akin to pain.

  Chapter Ten

  Over the next few days my sister and I were constant companions. Madeleine grew increasingly at ease, and at times, as we walked arm in arm through the gardens observing the blossoming spring, she appeared completely carefree, her hand resting contentedly on her growing belly.

  As a household we all began to muddle along quite nicely: I became inured to Lady Brightwell’s grizzling; Miss Scott started another matinee coat; Mrs Henge continued to efficiently haunt the corridors; and Maisie lent a breath of fresh air to each day. I came to look forward to her impish smile and revised my earlier judgement of her, recognising her now to be a sweet, spirited girl.

  The only fly in the ointment was the continuing odd behaviour of my own maid. For some unfathomable reason, Annie Burrows had become fascinated with the nursery staircase, indeed, it seemed to exert some irresistible draw upon her. On numerous occasions I found her loitering at its foot, peering at the landing above, and once I even caught her halfway up, whispering into thin air, evoking uncomfortable memories of her father on the night of the fire.

  As a child, I had made the conscious decision never to share what I had witnessed with anyone – not even Madeleine. I had been terrified of inadvertently causing further pain and my suspicions were only supposition after all, suppositions which in time – with maturity and logic – I came to dismiss completely. The re-emergence of such recollections now was as unsettling as it was unwanted. I did my best not to dwell on them.

  One afternoon Madeleine and I had happily ensconced ourselves in the orangery. The light outside was that heavy gold hue that often presages a storm. We were quite comfortable on our wicker chairs amongst the aspidistras, looking forward to the cloudburst that was sure to come, anticipating the satisfying thunder of rain on the glass panels above us.

  We were both engaged in embroidery, though the pastime was Madeleine’s forte not mine. I fumbled hopelessly with the needle and thread as I tried to create the image of a swan, but I failed to count the squares correctly and ended up having to unpick it all. I counted to ten under my breath in a bid to calm myself and rethreaded my needle.

  ‘Bother!’ Madeleine had been digging around in her embroidery case. ‘I must have left that lovely skein of blue we bought in town the other day in my room. I want it for the
sky.’

  Seeing an opportunity to escape my torturous needlework, I set down my things and insisted on retrieving it for her. I waved away her protests and promised I would be back directly. Madeleine laughed at my enthusiasm for the errand before merrily stitching on, humming an Irish air as I made my getaway.

  As I proceeded to her room I was struck by how different the house felt when the ominous weight of night was not upon it: the corridors innocuous, the shadows cast by daylight somehow shallower and less daunting. It was much pleasanter altogether, and I made the journey to her room far more valiantly than I would have done on my own at night.

  She had assured me the thread was on top of her dresser, but when I arrived, there was no sign of it. I looked to see if she had left it elsewhere, and immediately saw the music box sitting on her tallboy. My fingers lingered over the black lacquered wood, beautifully inlaid with mother of pearl. I lifted the lid, and tinny strains of ‘Für Elise’ filled the room. There was a tiny metal pin that turned slowly round as the music played, but the dainty ballerina who had once spun so elegantly upon it now lay motionless against the plush lining of the box, the gauze of her pink tutu crumpled beneath her. I remembered the day Lydia’s clumsy fingers had snapped the ballerina from her stand and how her tears of regret had failed to earn the forgiveness of her incensed elder sister. And I remembered too how on the day Lydia died, I had found Madeleine cradling the box, the broken ballerina in her hand. ‘Why did I shout at her so, Stella?’ she had sobbed. ‘It’s just a silly trinket. It didn’t really matter! It didn’t matter at all …’

  I closed the lid of the box, and returned to the present, and that troublesome missing thread.

  Thinking she may have slipped it into her bedside cabinet, I crossed the room and pulled open the drawer. There, tumbled together in a mêlée of limbs and rifles, were at least a dozen lead soldiers.

  Coming so soon after my mournful memory, the discovery upset me more than I could say. Children’s treasured possessions: things not be shared lightly. I curled my fingers around a rifleman. He was down on one knee, his rifle thrust before him, the bayonet sharp. I turned it over and smoothed my thumb across the scratched lines I knew I would find on the painted base – LB. My fingers flared open and he clattered down onto the bodies of his comrades. Why did Madeleine have a drawer full of soldiers next to her bed? Had she indeed found them, as I had found mine? Or had she gathered them for some purpose known only to herself?

  As theories careered through my mind, I abandoned my search for the thread. I rested my forehead on the door as I pulled it shut. The cool wood against my warm skin was as comforting as a damp cloth to a fevered brow. I took a steadying breath.

  I would have to discuss the soldiers with Madeleine, whether she wanted to or not. As I turned away from her door I caught sight of Lucien’s portrait and for some reason I stopped. It drew me like a moth to a flame – I longed to study it one more time. My feet seemed to possess a life of their own as I took step after step until Lucien loomed above me. I drew close to the canvas. I could see the cracking in the oil paint on his rosy cheeks, the white fleck in his blue eyes, the curl of the spaniel’s fur, the metallic sheen of the hoop and the silver buckle on the side of his shoe. My eyes searched every inch of the painting until I found what I was looking for, tucked into the bottom corner, almost concealed by the overlying shadow of paint: the army of lead soldiers.

  I recoiled, bumping against the handrail. I couldn’t explain my strange reaction to the sight of the toy figures. It was only natural that a little boy would want to be painted with his prized posessions, but what was Madeleine doing with them? Before I could begin to draw any conclusions, a girl’s whisper stilled me. My head snapped towards the landing that stretched above me. I noticed the first door was ajar.

  Gripping the banister, my gaze unwavering, I took a step up. The polished tread betrayed me with a creak but the whispers, little more than persistent breezes, continued. My chest grew tight as I mounted another step and then another, until at last I reached the landing. I stood before the first door and listened to the whispers, so soft I couldn’t catch the words – but I knew the voice.

  I pushed the door wide.

  ‘What are you doing in here, Annie? Who are you talking to?’

  ‘I … no one, miss.’

  ‘I clearly heard you, Annie.’

  ‘Just myself then, miss,’ she replied, her expression shuttered.

  Unable to contradict her, I turned my attention instead to my unfamiliar surroundings. I was in an eaves room of reasonable size, though it felt smaller due to the intruding angle of the ceiling, from which a single dormer window projected. Judging from its furnishings it had once been the school room – two hinged desks with attached plank seats stood side by side facing the teacher’s table, the wall behind which was adorned with a large, coloured map of the world. Above the small fireplace hung a framed, embroidered sampler stitched with a religious quote from the parable of the talents – it induced the reader not to squander their God-given gifts.

  I surveyed my surroundings avidly, as if I had stumbled upon a secret treasure trove. I disturbed a lamina of dust as I ran my fingers over the cloth-covered story books lined up on the shelf and I couldn’t resist peeking beneath the desk lids, curious to discover any hidden artefacts.

  ‘The school room …’ I murmured to myself.

  ‘The nursery is next door, miss,’ Annie said, her tone beguiling. ‘Would you like to see it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I murmured. ‘Yes, I would.’

  She led me back to the landing. I fancied she threw me a sly glance as she pushed open the second door and stepped aside. I detected a faint yet discernible odour, an unpleasant fusion of mothballs and damp, but it was otherwise a plain, inoffensive room, similar in size to the school room, with the same sloping roofs. Dust motes floated in the shaft of sunlight streaming through the dormer window, but the sun’s rays brought no warmth. Pushed up against the wall behind the door was a full-sized metal bedstead, a green ribbed coverlet tucked in around the hump of a pillow and fastened tight under the mattress. At the foot of the bed the chimney breast jutted out into the room, with a simple fireplace as before, though above this one hung a faded sampler declaring ‘We Are All God’s Children’. On the opposite wall was a child’s iron bedframe made up as the adult one, and next to that was an empty wooden cradle.

  It may have been my imagination, but I couldn’t help feeling an oppressive aura about the room that went beyond the fustiness of the air and the pervading chill that sent goose-pimples down my arms. It felt somehow inhospitable, and I understood now Madeleine’s reluctance to use the room for her own baby. Indeed, I felt greatly relieved her child would be housed elsewhere.

  The light streaming through the window vanished as scudding clouds covered the sun, casting a grey pallor over the room. There was a soft clatter. A small marble rolled across the floorboards towards us, skipping over the edges of each adjoining board. Its blue centre, the shape of a cat’s eye, spun hypnotically within the green glass ball. I was transfixed by its progress until it finally came to a stop by the tip of Annie’s shoe.

  ‘I must have knocked it down,’ she said. ‘Have you seen enough, miss?’

  I nodded and allowed her to usher me from the room. She pulled the door shut behind her. I hesitated at the top of the stairs. I was filled with an irrational yet overwhelming sense of fear.

  ‘They’re so terribly steep,’ I muttered.

  ‘It’s a long way down, isn’t it, miss?’ Annie was so close behind me I could feel her breath on my cheek. Discomfort shunted me forward.

  My fingers tightly gripped the cold curve of the banister. Steadily I made my way, the air growing warmer with each descending step. I experienced a peculiar sense of relief when I set both feet on the carpet at the bottom.

  Later, when I had finally managed to dispense with my lingering unease, I thought back on the marble. Curiously, it had not appeared to be rolling a
way from Annie.

  I could have sworn it was rolling straight for her.

  Chapter Eleven

  I made no mention to Madeleine of my exploration of the nursery floor, nor did I broach the accidental discovery of the toy soldiers in her drawer. This last bit of intelligence festered within me for the rest of the day and long into the evening. I found my nerves brittle, my manner off-hand, and my thoughts conflicted. By dinner time, a tight knot had developed in my stomach and I barely touched a thing. Instead, I snatched glances at Madeleine, wondering what secrets lay concealed behind her innocent expression.

  I was relieved when she finally declared she was ready for bed. She looked to me, as ever, to escort her through the treacherous darkness to the safety of her room. She had of course noticed that I was not myself, but I allayed her concerns by attributing my low-spirits to a nagging headache.

  I could not sleep. I was deeply troubled by the tangle of soldiers and what could be inferred from their mysterious presence in Madeleine’s drawer. The peculiar atmosphere of the landing rooms also played on my mind, and though the house was at peace under the cover of night, I found myself straining to catch every whisper of draught, every tell-tale creak. Each time I closed my eyes I saw images of Annie Burrows and spinning marbles, Lydia and Lucien, Madeleine and her miniature lead army, all set against a terrifying backdrop of searing flames and choking smoke. Sleep was an impossibility. I longed with every particle of my being for Gerald’s steadying presence.