The Lost Ones

by Anita Frank

  ‘You did know then, that it wasn’t the ’flu at all,’ I persisted. With a huff she briskly carried on down the path, and I had to quick-step to catch up with her. She caught the dogged look on my face and frowned but knew it would be pointless to try and fob me off. She let out an exasperated sigh.

  ‘He had been ill with the Russian influenza, the whole household got it,’ she explained impatiently as we approached the gate. ‘But it was the fall that killed him. His nanny wasn’t watching him, and they think he must have left his bed to find her and just …’ She lowered her voice, drawing me closer. ‘That’s why Miss Scott ended up looking after Hector. Lucien’s nanny was immediately dismissed for neglect and Lady Brightwell wouldn’t trust anyone else to care for him.’

  She exclaimed as a spot of rain landed on her cheek. It was quickly followed by another, then more in rapid succession. Madeleine readied her umbrella. She paused when she saw I was failing to follow suit.

  ‘Where’s your umbrella? You haven’t left it inside, have you?’

  Cursing, I realised I had done just that. Promising to catch her up, I ran back through the rain. The studded oak door creaked as I rattled the latch and pushed it open. The church stood empty, and my footsteps echoed on the flagstones as I hastened up the nave to the boxed pew. My brolly was where I had left it, tucked into the corner. Tutting at my carelessness, I retrieved it and made my way out.

  The last of the congregation had dispersed from the churchyard. I stood in the porch, dismayed at the sheets of rain now falling, hoping that Lady Brightwell would be gracious enough to hold the car for me. I shook out my umbrella and was just in the process of putting it up when I spotted a solitary black-clad figure approaching the tomb of Sir Arthur Brightwell. There was something in their furtive movement that piqued my interest. I lowered the brolly and tucked myself against the inside edge of the porch, peering round the blackened stone through the gauze of rain.

  The woman was holding aloft an umbrella to protect herself from the downpour. I did not need to see her face – the solid black clothing, the stature and broad shoulders gave Mrs Henge away immediately. She took a step closer to the sarcophagus, the rain streaming over the curve of her brolly. She stood for an age, staring at the damp-darkened stone. I found this quiet display of homage by a long-serving servant strangely touching and I was about to leave her to it when she tipped up her chin and brought it down abruptly. I gasped, recoiling into the protection of the porch, stunned with disbelief.

  Even from this distance, the globule of spit flying from her mouth was shockingly clear to see.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Later that afternoon, Madeleine became extremely upset. We had all gathered in the drawing room after lunch. The rain persisted in its steady downpour, draining the day of light, forcing us to utilise the oil lamps to take the edge off the depressing weather-induced gloom. The fire spat and crackled as we engaged in our individual pursuits: I was reading, Miss Scott was clacking her restless needles, Lady Brightwell was snoozing, and Madeleine was finishing off her embroidery panel.

  The clock had just struck two when Lady Brightwell roused herself.

  ‘Madeleine, have you finished with my copy of The Lady?’

  ‘Oh yes, of course.’ Madeleine set down her embroidery. ‘I’m so sorry, I meant to return it. It’s in my room – let me fetch it for you now.’

  She hurried out.

  The wind picked up and changed direction. Rain struck the windows like handfuls of pebbles, distracting me from the pages of my book. I rather liked the comfort of being all tucked up by the fire when it was so horrid outside.

  The door opened and Madeleine walked back into the room. She came to an abrupt standstill. I looked round and immediately saw she was as white as a sheet, tears layering her blue eyes, her mouth tight with self-control. She was clutching a picture frame.

  ‘Madeleine – are you all right?’

  Miss Scott and Lady Brightwell both looked up on hearing the concern in my voice.

  ‘Look.’ Emotion cracked the single word as in a flash she held up the large frame to face us. It was a photograph of Hector, a studio-taken head shot of him looking proudly at the camera, dashing in his officer’s uniform. I had seen it before – it hung on the wall above the tallboy in her room. It was her favourite photograph.

  The glass of the picture frame had been smashed, but it wasn’t chaotically fractured as one might have expected. It appeared as though something had been drilled into the very centre of the pane. The cracking fanned out in concentric circles, like a perfectly formed spider’s web, dissecting the handsome features of the sepia image below.

  ‘Oh no!’ Miss Scott cried out. ‘You’ve broken it! What a terrible shame. It’s such a nice frame and I adore that photo of Hector. Why, I have a smaller version of very same one by my bed.’

  Madeleine was clearly struggling to maintain control. ‘I didn’t break it.’ There was uncharacteristic venom in her denial that took me by surprise.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Miss Scott sympathised, seemingly oblivious to the simmering anger.

  ‘Has one of the maids broken it while cleaning?’ I suggested, setting down my book.

  ‘How can they have?’ Her head snapped towards me and I drew back, seeing the vehemence behind her tear-blurred eyes. ‘It hangs on the wall above my tallboy, Stella! How could anyone knock it down from there?’

  ‘One of the girls probably caught it with a feather duster,’ Lady Brightwell interjected.

  I saw the loaded look she exchanged with an uneasy Miss Scott; there was an undercurrent to it that I didn’t understand – all I could see was Madeleine’s profound distress. It was of course upsetting that the picture had been broken, but it was easily rectified. I couldn’t understand why she was so angry, when by nature she was such a placid, forgiving soul.

  She took a step further into the room, thrusting the frame at her mother-in-law, her hands shaking. ‘Look at that damage! Even if it had been knocked from the wall, it would have just shattered, the way glass does. This isn’t a simple fracture – look at it! This glass has been deliberately broken.’

  Lady Brightwell huffed and refused to engage. Once again it was left to Miss Scott to placate her.

  ‘Oh, my dear, I’m sure it was a simple accident. To say it was deliberate … why, that is quite an accusation to make. Why would anyone do something to upset you?’

  ‘Someone has deliberately been trying to upset me since the day I arrived.’

  It was most unfortunate that Maisie chose this inopportune moment to enter with a fresh tray of tea things. The poor girl detected the hostile atmosphere as soon as she pushed the door open with her hip. She stood, wide-eyed, holding the tray before her like a sacrificial offering.

  ‘Mrs Henge said you’d probably be wanting a fresh pot of tea by now,’ she stuttered, darting glances between us all and finding sparse welcome in our grim expressions.

  ‘Indeed. Your appearance is most fortuitous, Maisie, as our last remaining housemaid.’ Lady Brightwell’s beady eyes glinted dangerously in Madeleine’s direction. ‘Set the tray here, girl.’

  Maisie hurried forward, the china chinking a mismatched tune. She did as she was bid and began to unload the tray, exchanging the cold pot and empty milk jug. She stood once the task was done, looking apprehensive.

  ‘Now, Maisie, do tell me …’ Lady Brightwell’s long fingers folded around the arm of her chair, the stones of her rings dwarfing her age-withered hands. Her gaze flickered over Madeleine, her eyes narrowing, like a cat preparing to toy with a mouse. ‘Have you been in Mrs Brightwell’s room today?’

  The question hung in the air. Maisie looked confused, then wary, suspecting a trap.

  ‘Yes, my lady. I went in to light the fire first thing and help her dress. I haven’t been in since, though.’

  ‘Are you sure? If you are honest no one will be cross with you.’

  ‘I am being honest,’ the young maid said, indignant at the suggesti
on she might be otherwise. ‘I was only in Mrs Brightwell’s room this morning and once she was dressed I left. I haven’t been back since.’

  ‘It’s not Maisie.’ Madeleine’s statement was barely audible. ‘We both know it’s not Maisie,’ she said again, bolder this time.

  Lady Brightwell paid her no heed; her fingers flexed, like a cat extending its claws. ‘To the best of your knowledge, has anyone else been in Mrs Brightwell’s room today, Maisie?’

  The girl smirked. ‘Well, forgive me, my lady, but it’s not like Cook leaves the kitchen and there’s only me and Mrs Henge that see to the house these days,’ she looked at me, ‘save for your girl Annie, miss, who’s been helping out. But I don’t believe she’s been up to Mrs Brightwell’s room today either – she’s had no cause to.’ I felt a stir of unease at the mention of Annie’s name. ‘Perhaps Mrs Henge had reason to go in.’

  ‘I see.’ Lady Brightwell devoured the girl’s answer, smacking her lips with satisfaction. ‘So, neither you nor Annie have been up to Mrs Brightwell’s room?’

  Madeleine hugged the broken frame to her chest. She looked utterly miserable. ‘Please stop …’ she murmured, but Lady Brightwell carried on regardless.

  ‘You know, Maisie, honesty is always rewarded. If an accident has occurred with one of Mrs Brightwell’s possessions – perpetrated by you or another – as long as a confession is made, there would be no punishment.’

  ‘There’s been no accident, my lady.’ Maisie looked thoroughly confused now. ‘I’m very sorry, my lady, but really I don’t know what you’re talking about, begging your pardon.’

  ‘Thank you, Maisie. You may go.’ The bemused girl bobbed a curtsy and began to withdraw. ‘But Maisie, you did say Mrs Henge might have had reason to enter Mrs Brightwell’s room?’ Lady Brightwell called out.

  At this, Madeleine’s head shot up. ‘Oh no please! There’s no need—’

  ‘Do you know where Mrs Henge is, Maisie?’

  ‘Well, yes, my lady, Mrs Henge was just in the hall a few minutes ago. I saw her when I was on my way here.’

  ‘Please send her in.’ Lady Brightwell sat back in her chair.

  ‘Oh, please don’t ask Mrs Henge, there really is no need, I’m sure she wouldn’t have had anything to do with it …’ Madeleine begged, like a condemned prisoner pleading for mercy.

  My stomach churned. I decided to stop this ridiculous charade that seemed to me little more than a cruel exercise in humiliation, but as I tried to object Lady Brightwell held up her hand.

  ‘Madeleine has once again made some very serious accusations and they must be investigated.’

  The door opened and Mrs Henge, a new player in the drama, walked in to take her place centre stage, expressionless, self-contained and confident.

  ‘You called for me, my lady?’

  ‘Mrs Henge, Mrs Brightwell has just gone to her room and found the glass in the framed photograph of her husband quite smashed. She believes it to be the result of intentional vandalism.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Lady Brightwell, but I assure you, the picture could not have been broken by anyone today. No one has been in the room, save Maisie when she was called to attend Mrs Brightwell this morning.’ The housekeeper now turned to face my sister. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Brightwell, you must be mistaken.’ Madeleine flinched as if she had been struck. Even though I longed to go to my sister’s aid, I remained seated, transfixed by the extraordinary scene playing before me. Mrs Henge held out her hand. ‘If you would care to give me the frame, ma’am, I will ensure that it is mended or replaced, whichever you prefer.’

  ‘No.’ Madeleine clutched the precious photograph closer to her chest. I was horrified to see a single tear trickle over her pale cheek. ‘No. I will see to it, thank you.’

  Mrs Henge raised her eyebrows before turning back to her employer. ‘Is there anything else, my lady?’

  ‘No, Mrs Henge. I think the matter has been satisfactorily concluded. You may go.’

  Lady Brightwell let the ominous silence breathe through the room after the door closed on the housekeeper. She tapped impatiently on the arm of her chair.

  ‘You really must accept, Madeleine, that there is no one in this house conspiring against you. Such unpleasant fancies are unhealthy figments of your imagination.’

  Madeleine raised her head, her mouth trembling, fresh tears marring her cheeks. She tilted up her chin in defiance. ‘Well, all I know is I certainly didn’t break it, which begs the question – who did?’

  And before anyone could answer, she fled the room.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I was already on my feet and halfway across the room as the door slammed behind her.

  ‘Please sit down for a moment, Miss Marcham,’ Lady Brightwell said.

  ‘I will not sit down. I am going after my sister.’

  ‘Sit down, would you?’ she repeated wearily. ‘Going after Madeleine will not achieve anything.’

  ‘She’s upset!’

  ‘And your sympathy won’t change that.’

  ‘Why did you do that? That was a horrid thing to do.’ `

  ‘I really do wish you would sit down, Miss Marcham. This seems to me the perfect opportunity for us to speak.’ She refused to be infected by my temper, but her equanimity was no cure for my anger.

  ‘It was despicable of you to humiliate Madeleine like that.’

  Her patience snapped. ‘Miss Marcham, I assure you that was absolutely necessary. God knows we have tried every other tactic with your sister over the past few weeks. We have exhausted all niceties and attempts at rationale – it seems ridicule is the only method we have left to rebut her absurd claims.’

  Her words set off an alarm bell in my mind. A persistent inner voice suggested that I should listen to what she had to say. This arousal of my curiosity began to undermine my defiance.

  ‘Please, Miss Marcham.’ Miss Scott now lent her kindly voice to the appeal. ‘Won’t you sit with us? We have been looking for an opportunity to speak to you.’

  She removed her spectacles. It was strange to see her without them. The glasses were so old-fashioned they aged her, blunted her somehow, but without them, I could better see the beautifully preserved planes of her face, the high cheekbones and dainty nose. I found myself weakening under her gentle persuasion.

  ‘Why do you want to speak to me?’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, girl, I cannot conduct this conversation with you towering over me.’ Lady Brightwell’s jewelled hand smacked the arm of the sofa. ‘Sit!’ she commanded, gesturing to the empty seat opposite. With an exasperated sigh I finally relented.

  ‘Tell me, Miss Marcham, how have you found your sister since your arrival?’

  The formality of her address seemed officious, intimidating even, and I began to suspect I had been unwittingly lured into the witness box.

  ‘I find her very well.’

  ‘Really, Miss Marcham?’ The questioning note in Lady Brightwell’s voice conveyed her incredulity. A log slipped in the fire, spitting out a cascade of sparks. One landed on the very edge of the grate and I quickly suppressed it under the toe of my shoe, grateful for its fleeting distraction – an opportunity to formulate my thoughts.

  ‘She is … she is perhaps not quite herself … a little anxious, I would say.’ My cheeks flushed under Lady Brightwell’s perceptive scrutiny. I felt like Judas on the brink of a betrayal I would come to regret.

  ‘Anxious,’ Lady Brightwell echoed. ‘Yes. May I be completely frank with you, Miss Marcham? I have myself become very concerned about Madeleine. I am sorry you had to witness that drama, but it is only the latest in what has been a rather long and increasingly tiresome series of events. You see, the picture, it is not the first incident since Madeleine’s arrival.’ She paused, and my apprehension increased. ‘She has made several accusations against the household staff. She has become increasingly …’ She looked to Miss Scott for inspiration.

  ‘Belligerent,’ the companion concluded. ‘Sh
e is convinced someone is acting maliciously against her – which simply isn’t true, I assure you.’

  ‘Madeleine has been to stay with us before and we’ve never had an issue. Until now.’

  ‘Lady Brightwell, forgive me if you find me blunt, but I hardly think humiliation will help the situation. If anything, you have only succeeded in making her feel more isolated and self-conscious, when by rights she should be the mistress of this house.’

  ‘You are blunt.’ Spots of colour appeared high on her cheeks. To my surprise, she sighed heavily. ‘Perhaps you are right. Perhaps I was wrong to do that. But you must understand, Miss Marcham, it has become extremely difficult to maintain the equilibrium of this house with your sister making unpleasant accusations.’

  We sat silently as the rain splattered against the windows, the wind building again outside. Lady Brightwell seemed lost in troubled thoughts.

  ‘I do empathise with Madeleine.’ She surrendered the words with some reluctance. ‘I appreciate she is going through an extremely testing time, and I have no doubt she would rather be with my son in London, but unfortunately, needs must.’

  Miss Scott smiled gently. ‘We do so want her to be happy here, my dear. As you rightly suggest, Greyswick is her home too.’

  ‘She can be mistress of this house, Miss Marcham,’ Lady Brightwell adopted a more strident tone now, ‘but it is no small undertaking, and forgive me for saying this, but she has not yet proven herself up to the task.’

  ‘Perhaps she hasn’t had the opportunity,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Perhaps now isn’t the right time,’ Miss Scott sweetly countered. ‘She has so many changes to contend with at the moment, it must be so daunting for her.’

  Lady Brightwell nodded sagely. ‘Indeed. I believe all of this trouble with Madeleine stems from her being in her delicate state. I appreciate she has a great many anxieties – a baby on the way, Hector in London, fears over the safe-keeping of them both …’ We locked eyes as I realised Hector had confided in her about Madeleine’s miscarriage. ‘We are living in very difficult times, Miss Marcham – daily life is challenging for us all, but we must rise to that challenge and meet it head on. We must all be strong – I’m sure you can appreciate that. Madeleine must learn to be robust.’ The last word escaped her like air hissing from a punctured tyre.