The Lost Ones

by Anita Frank

  I must have eventually succumbed to exhaustion for I woke in a befuddled daze, daylight straining at the curtains. The fire’s gentle crackle revealed Annie had already been in, but I had clearly slept right through her visit, dead to the world. I turned over and groggily looked at my watch – I was thoroughly aghast to see that it had already turned eight.

  Madeleine had warned me the evening before that I would be expected to join the house party for church. Lady Brightwell, it seemed, was as stringent as my parents in that regard: guests and servants alike were expected to attend the Sunday morning service. I was already running late as I reached for the bell-pull.

  I found myself keeping a close eye on Annie as she laid out my clothes, tidied away my things and gathered items for the wash. I don’t know whether she was aware of my constant surveillance, but sometimes I thought I saw her use the mirror to spy on me. We moved cautiously about the room, like two circling pugilists, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

  I was last down, of course. Madeleine looked up in obvious relief as I began my descent to the hall, where Lady Brightwell and Miss Scott were already waiting, ready to depart, armed with umbrellas.

  ‘You join us at last.’ Lady Brightwell made no attempt to hide her disapproval at my tardy arrival. ‘We had almost given up on you.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t sleep well last night, the unfortunate consequence being I overslept this morning.’ Annie appeared with my coat, hat and a furled umbrella.

  ‘Was it the headache?’ Madeleine enquired as I fumbled with my buttons. ‘You poor thing.’

  ‘Well, we must be off. I have never been late for a service in thirty years, I have no intention of starting now,’ Lady Brightwell declared, leading us out to the car.

  ‘She has never been late because the vicar has never dared start without her,’ Madeleine muttered as we fell in behind.

  As the Rolls rumbled over the cattle grid we passed Annie, running to catch the rest of the servants, who were taking a shortcut across the park to the village. I settled back in my seat and felt for my locket, hidden below my clothing. I fished it out, so it lay against the black weave of my coat.

  Miss Scott leant forward. ‘Your locket is very pretty, Miss Marcham, it has caught my eye now on several occasions.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I smiled. ‘Gerald gave it to me.’ The detail was instinctive, but my smile wavered as I delivered it.

  ‘It must be very precious to you then.’

  ‘Yes, yes, it is. Most precious.’

  I touched the gold oval, relishing its solidity, as my memory took me back to a perfect late summer’s day, August 1914. It had been a small gathering, just a few friends and neighbours, tables set out on the lawns. We women had declared there was to be no talk of war, but the subject proved irresistible to the men. They had huddled together, voices muted, their faces grave.

  Gerald had broken off from them as the afternoon grew languid. I was sitting on a blanket, gossiping with Madeleine, when his shadow fell across my face.

  ‘Walk with me?’ He held out his hand in invitation.

  I laughed as he hauled me to my feet. He drew my arm through his and we ambled towards the lake. My dress was white and light, floating about my ankles with every step. Gerald was dressed in cream trousers and a cream blazer trimmed with navy, his shirt collar open at the throat. It was, everyone had agreed, far too hot for neckties.

  It was fresher by the lake, a slight breeze rippling the sparkling surface. Our steps sounded hollow as we walked the length of the wooden jetty. When we reached the end it felt as if we were standing in the middle of the lake itself – the shore, the others, far behind us. A moorhen glided out from the bank, periodically dipping his red beak into the water. I leant on Gerald, light-headed under the oppressive sun. My scalp itched with the heat, and I could feel a trickle of sweat running down my nape.

  ‘I’ve signed up.’

  I knew the announcement was coming, of course. They all were – the eager young men, keen for adventure. There had been a desperate rush, all fearful they might miss it – their one opportunity for a jolly good fight, a rather marvellous war. I didn’t react. I just stared out over the lake. I didn’t even have any words in my head – I had to think what to say. In the end, all I came up with was a paltry ‘Oh’.

  We stood in silence, watching the moorhen change direction.

  ‘I wanted to speak to you, before I went.’

  I hardly dared to breathe.

  ‘Stella – I was wondering whether, when I get back, if – well – oh dash it! Marry me, Stella.’ There was a desperate urgency to his final words. My heart exploded, my smile so instantly broad I thought it would tear my cheeks apart.

  ‘Of course, I will!’ It was a whisper, a laugh, a joyous exclamation and the radiance that broke out on his face mirrored my own.

  ‘I’m sorry, I had intended to go down on one knee and everything!’

  ‘You would have ruined your cream trousers!’ I teased as he clutched my hands.

  He adopted a look of mock seriousness. ‘I do have something for you.’ I couldn’t stop smiling, my giggles rising like bubbles in a champagne glass. ‘Close your eyes and hold out your hand.’

  Biting my lip, I did as he ordered, proffering an open palm. I instantly realised that the velvet box placed on it was considerably larger than anticipated and my eyes flew open. My eyebrows twitched with confusion. Gerald watched me steadily as I lifted back the lid. Nestled against the satin lining was a beautifully scrolled gold locket. I felt the smile falter on my lips.

  ‘I think a ring is more traditional in these circumstances,’ I concluded lightly.

  ‘Yes, yes, it is, but …’

  He turned away from me, taking a couple of steps closer to the edge of the jetty. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets. I fought to subdue the ominous feeling that was threatening to dampen my happiness. When eventually he turned back to me the youthful joy had dissipated from his handsome features to be replaced by grave contemplation. The afternoon grew chilly.

  ‘I’m going to war, Stella.’

  ‘I know …’ The weight of the announcement came to bear. I swallowed back a rising sense of panic. ‘But it won’t be for long. Everyone says it’ll be over by Christmas.’

  ‘Yes well, that’s the thing about war. It has a way of being rather … unpredictable.’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t matter how long it lasts …’ I took a tentative step towards him, the jewellery box in my hand. ‘I will always love you, Gerald – you being away won’t change that.’

  ‘But it might change me.’ He saw my look of shock and corrected himself quickly. ‘Not my feelings for you, Stella, nothing will ever change the way I feel about you, but I don’t know what’s going to happen. I might be horribly injured, I might not even make it back at all—’

  ‘Don’t say that!’

  He bridged the distance between us in one easy stride, gripping my arms to prevent me turning away.

  ‘Darling Stella …’ I refused to look at him. I couldn’t understand why he was being so cruel, ruining this wonderful moment with talk of devastation and death. ‘Stella.’ I relented and sullenly met his gaze. ‘I cannot tie you to me, not like this. Not knowing what I might be inflicting upon you at the end of this war. But there is nothing I want more in the world than to marry you, to have you as my wife and spend the rest of my days with you. I love you, Stella.’

  I swallowed back the sob that threatened to undo me. I forced myself to be brave.

  ‘So, what is this, then?’ I asked, holding out the locket box.

  He smiled, reassured by my attempted return to form. His finger tapped the end of my nose. ‘You’re being slightly petulant.’ He lifted out the locket and stepped behind me, dangling it before my chest. His fingers rested against the back of my neck as he struggled with the clasp. ‘This is a symbol of my intent, Stella Marcham.’ I gasped as his lips pressed against the sensitive skin just below my h
airline. Firm hands on my shoulders turned me round. He pulled me close until our bodies touched, his face just inches from mine. ‘I intend to come back to you, I intend to marry you, I intend to spend the rest of my life with you.’ He came even closer. ‘I intend to make you a very happy woman.’

  He kissed me then. I melted into his touch. My fingers threaded into the hair at the back of his head, drawing him ever closer to me. When we broke apart, I smiled with deliciously swollen lips.

  ‘I like your intent,’ I whispered. ‘I accept your intent – and I’ll match your intent, every step of the way.’

  Chapter Twelve

  The car pulled up before the church just as the troop of servants appeared from a pathway down the side of the graveyard. There were a few spots of rain in the wind as we got out, and I took the umbrella for good measure. The memory of Gerald’s proposal had left me feeling melancholic and for once, I welcomed the opportunity for quiet reflection that the church service offered. Annie Burrows appeared last from the pathway, following a plump woman who was carefully tucking two posies of wild flowers into a bag looped over her forearm. Her eyes narrowed as she caught me watching her.

  Following Lady Brightwell to the front door of the church was rather like following Moses across the Red Sea. The crowd of villagers who had congregated outside parted, their heads dipped deferentially as we passed through their midst. I think Madeleine found the whole experience rather embarrassing, shyly meeting people’s eyes and murmuring ‘Good morning’ as she followed in her mother-in-law’s wake.

  Lady Brightwell, though, displayed little short of divine authority. She glided through the aisle and up the nave, Miss Scott darting forward to hold open the swing door of the Brightwell boxed pew, positioned at the front. Miss Scott herself only sat when she was quite satisfied she had met her employer’s every need and comfort.

  I followed Madeleine into the pew behind. I sighed as I sat down, tucking my umbrella into the corner out of the way. Madeleine unhooked the embroidered hassock and set it on the cold flags, dropping down to offer a prayer. I had no interest in engaging with the God who had abandoned me, so I remained in my seat, worshipping my memories of Gerald rather than a deity I could not see.

  It was an unexceptional service. The vicar was ancient and stumbled over his words, his eyes straining to read the sermon, the glasses balanced on his stubby nose clearly unfit for purpose. The organist too was either decrepit or inept, labouring every note until even ‘What A Friend We Have In Jesus’ was reduced to a dirge. I leapt to my feet for the parting blessing, eager to escape.

  Lady Brightwell stopped outside the porch to engage the vicar in a long discussion about the state of the hassocks. Miss Scott, clutching her handbag, leant in to me as the departing congregation shuffled around us.

  ‘I miss the bells,’ she said as Madeleine joined us. ‘I was just saying, it’s not the same without the bells, is it, my dear?’

  Pealing church bells were a distant memory. Sundays had been silent for three long years, and would be, I feared, for longer yet. I left Madeleine to console her mother-in-law’s companion and drifted away to scan the faded inscriptions on the headstones haphazardly placed about the graveyard.

  I hadn’t gone far when I noticed a soldier. He had his back to me, standing stiff and straight before a humble-looking grave, his head bowed. My heart ached; there was something very poignant about the simple sight – a fighting man grieving the lost. Sensing my presence, he began to look my way. I put my head down and walked on, shivering in the cool breeze that whipped up a clutch of dead leaves, buffeting them along the path before me.

  A large chest tomb caught my eye and I wandered over to it. The flat tablet of stone that sealed the top rested on ornate pillars, one at each corner. An exquisitely carved stone angel, her head bowed in prayer, her wings closed behind her, knelt at one end, the folds of her robe pooling around her, her arms crossed over her chest. I stopped to read the inscription cut deep into the stone side, and learnt I was standing at the final resting place of none other than Sir Arthur Brightwell himself. The grass about the sarcophagus was unkempt, the edges of the stone lid were beginning to flake, and there was no indication that anyone had been near it for some time.

  Moving on, I noticed a few feet away a more traditional headstone, its arced top ornately carved with cherubs and flowers. My pulse stuttered as I read the simple inscription:

  IN LOVING MEMORY

  LUCIEN ARTHUR BRIGHTWELL

  AGED 5 YEARS AND 10 MONTHS

  A wilting posy of simple wild flowers lay at the foot of the headstone. I crouched down to touch the faded offering. How curious the boy should be remembered and yet the father should not.

  I became aware of someone hovering behind me, and I glanced over my shoulder to see the woman Annie had followed, waiting patiently for me to move on.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I said, rising.

  ‘Oh no, miss, that’s quite all right. I’m just not used to seeing anyone else here, that’s all.’

  I noticed that she was clutching one of the bunches of flowers I had seen her with earlier, the top of the other just visible over the rim of her bag.

  ‘You left the flowers?’

  Her round cheeks diffused with pink. ‘Oh, they’re nothing much, miss, just a few pretty wild flowers I pick on the way here each week.’

  ‘Oh no, I think they’re lovely.’ I stepped away from the grave. ‘What a very sweet thing to do.’

  She brushed off my praise, covering her embarrassment by busying herself replacing the old posy with the new. I looked away, affording her some privacy, as she quickly closed her eyes and silently muttered some brief words, before drawing her finger in the figure of a cross over her buxom breast. I smiled warmly as she stepped back.

  ‘We shouldn’t forget the dead, miss, especially when there’s no one else who cares to remember them.’

  ‘You’re employed at Greyswick? I saw you arrive with the other servants. I’m Stella Marcham.’

  ‘Of course you are, miss. Oh I’ve seen you but no, you won’t have seen me. I’m Cook. I did have a name once, but Cook is all I’m known as these days.’ She took the demotion from an individual to an unnamed servant with surprising good humour, as if she had always expected little from life and it hadn’t disappointed her.

  ‘Oh! Cook! Your apple sponge is divine.’

  She chuckled modestly, but I could see she appreciated the compliment.

  ‘You knew Lucien then?’

  ‘Oh yes, miss – sweetest boy ever, well, next to Master Hector, of course. Years ago now, mind, I was a mere slip of a thing when the accident happened.’

  ‘Accident?’ The word felt clumsy on my tongue. ‘I thought he died of influenza.’

  ‘Well, he was recovering from the Russian ’flu, miss, to be sure, but it was the fall that killed him.’

  ‘What fall?’ Strands of unease were winding together to form a solid ball in the pit of my stomach. Why had Madeleine not been more explicit? She had made no mention of a fall, attributing the boy’s death to illness alone. The sun disappeared behind bruised clouds. The air was getting damper and the atmosphere increasingly foreboding.

  ‘He fell down the stairs, miss. They think he must have been faint from the ’flu and lost his balance at the top of the nursery staircase.’

  I reeled in shock, reaching out to catch hold of the boy’s headstone to steady myself. I recalled the fear I had experienced at the top of that very staircase and the threatening glint of the steps as they stretched perilously before me.

  ‘Are you quite all right, miss? Do you need to sit down?’

  ‘No, I’ll be absolutely fine. The poor boy – I had no idea.’

  ‘Oh, it was a terrible tragedy, miss, shocked us all to the core. His poor nanny was quite beside herself, she’d only left him for a minute.’

  I thought of Madeleine’s reluctance to stray beyond the nursery staircase, her insistence she would not be using the rooms for he
r own child and her apparent fear when I had mounted the steps myself. I began to understand her concerns. Misfortune stalked the halls of Greyswick – it had stolen a child. It was little wonder Madeleine found herself so fearful, given her baby would soon be born within its walls. She was no doubt terrified of misfortune’s greed, and the oil painting of Lucien Brightwell served as a daily reminder of the last time that hunger was sated. It was a dire warning of how vulnerable her fledgling happiness was. I was struck by a ghastly thought: could someone be using Lucien’s lead soldiers to cruelly reinforce this insecurity?

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right, Miss Marcham?’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Cook, I don’t know what came over me. I was running late this morning, I didn’t have time for breakfast.’

  This information appeared to reassure her. She nodded wisely. ‘That’ll be it, we all need some sustenance after the night’s fast. I’ll make sure that girl of yours brings you a tray of something good and sweet as soon as you get back, miss. A little sugar and a nice cup of tea will soon perk you up.’

  ‘That sounds wonderful, thank you.’

  ‘Now, if you’re quite sure you’re well, I’ve got another posy to deliver before I can head back.’

  ‘Oh please, don’t let me detain you.’

  She moved away, threading a clearly familiar path through the headstones until she reached one overshadowed by a holly tree. It was the same one I had seen the soldier at earlier, though he was now nowhere to be seen. I watched as she exchanged posies, the new for the old, then I hurried back towards the church door.

  Lady Brightwell was already leading the return to the car, Miss Scott beside her, while Madeleine trailed behind. I dashed to join her.

  ‘Oh, there you are—’

  ‘Did you know? That Lucien had fallen to his death down those stairs?’

  ‘Lucien? Oh, gracious, Stella, now? Really?’