by Anita Frank
‘Let’s try and meet in France …’ I pleaded. ‘We can get leave …’
‘It’s against the rules, old girl,’ he said softly.
‘I don’t care about the rules,’ I declared with uncharacteristic defiance.
I jumped as the train whistle screamed, eliciting a sudden surge of activity as the last remaining soldiers shouldered their way on board, for fear of missing the boat.
‘I have to go,’ Gerald said, gripping my arms. ‘But know this, Stella Marcham, I love you with every fibre of my body.’
Before I could answer the whistle sounded again, and swiftly kissing me, Gerald grabbed his case and leapt on board. The door clunked shut.
He pushed down the window and leant out. I hurried forward to take his hand.
‘I’ll write,’ I promised, ‘and I’ll let you know when I’m back at the hospital.’
‘Safe journey, my love,’ he said, bringing my fingers to his lips.
The guard blew his whistle and dropped his flag. Slowly the train started to move. Maintaining a stubborn hold of Gerald’s hand, I began to trot along the platform, keeping pace.
‘Try and come and see me at the hospital,’ I cried, swallowing back my tears. ‘Try and get leave, even if it’s just a day or two …’ The train was picking up speed. ‘Please try!’ I begged.
Our hands fell apart, but I continued to run alongside.
‘I’ll try!’ he called out above the chuntering wheels. ‘I’ll try!’
And then he vanished into a billowing cloud of steam as the train roared out of the station. I ran on for a few steps then came to a stuttering halt, my legs so like jelly I thought for a moment they might not hold me. My shoulders sagged, unable to resist the crushing misery weighing upon me. And then I remembered the book, still clasped in my hand, and I scrambled to the opening leaf. I devoured the precious sentiment captured in his wonderful words and I sobbed as if my heart would break.
It didn’t break then, of course, though it would, later, when Gerald fulfilled my parting request in the worst possible way.
I was now reading that book for the third time. I knew the story off by heart, but that was neither here nor there. The book itself was another link to Gerald, and when I cradled it in my hands, I was holding something he had touched, and that was all that mattered. I had only read the inscription once. Those words would unhinge me if I allowed myself to see them. So, I did not. Instead, I treasured their memory in my wounded heart.
To my annoyance, subdued voices filtering through the gap in the doorway interrupted my recollections. As it seemed Madeleine was now unlikely to call for my help, I decided I might as well close my door and secure my peace and quiet. Setting the book down on the counterpane, I got up and padded across the room in my stockinged feet. As I drew nearer the doorway, I recognised the voices and my steps became stealthier.
‘She’s got you running up and down these stairs like a skivvy. You’ll wear yourself out answering her beck and call.’
‘Oh, Constance,’ Miss Scott protested. ‘She’s not well.’
Mrs Henge made no attempt to conceal her derision. ‘It’s nothing more than a sniffle. She takes advantage of you.’
‘I am here to see to her needs. Constance … what of this talk of Lucien?’
‘Hysterical nonsense, just as that Mr Sheers said.’
‘What if it isn’t?’
‘Ruth,’ Mrs Henge chided. There was a rustle of skirts. The edge of the door dug into my cheek. ‘Pay no heed to it. Those girls are too highly strung.’
‘But Hector—’
‘The mind can play funny tricks, especially when encouraged to do so.’
‘But—’
‘That’s enough, Ruth.’ After a pause she sighed. ‘Ruth …’ It was such a gentle rendition of the companion’s name. ‘You must not dwell on it.’
I heard them part and waited until all was quiet before easing the door to, taking every care not to give myself away.
Chapter Thirty-One
Hector and Madeleine left early the next morning. It was a sombre leave-taking. Lady Brightwell, pale as a sheet and suffering, left her sick bed to see them off, kept upright by the inflexible steel core I was certain had replaced her soul. Miss Scott helped her descend the carved staircase, step by painful step. She steadied herself on the circular oak table, tilting her leathery cheek for Madeleine to kiss, like a queen demanding homage. She showed more tenderness towards Hector, patting his arm, her features softening with maternal fondness and more than a hint of pride. Miss Scott wrapped Madeleine in a warm embrace, entreating her to take good care of herself, and she was just as affectionate with her former charge, brushing invisible specks from the shoulder of his uniform before throwing her arms around him, imploring him to stay safe. No mention was made of the other Brightwell boy, still lingering in the corridors around us.
Mr Sheers also came to bid them farewell. He assured Madeleine he would strive to gather sufficient evidence to reassure her, before turning to shake hands with Hector. The two men huddled for a few minutes with much head-nodding and murmured agreement, before Sheers retreated to the study once again.
I followed Hector and Madeleine out to the car. Madeleine and I stood opposite each other, strangely bashful, the fur of her stole rippling in the soft breeze, tickling her jaw. The brim of her hat was ridiculously wide, and we laughed as I was forced to contort my way underneath it to deliver my farewell kiss. Her fingertips dug into my back as she embraced me.
‘I’ve changed my mind – you shouldn’t stay. Please come back with me.’
‘You know I have to stay.’
‘You don’t have to, Stella. I’m frightened …’
I reached out and cupped her cheek in my palm, my heart blossoming. ‘Don’t be frightened, I’m not.’ It was a transparent lie, one unable to withstand close examination. ‘I couldn’t have survived the loss of Gerald without your love – so let me do this for you.’
With a cry she flung her arms around me. Hector cleared his throat and reminded her they needed to hurry. She broke free, nodding, not trusting herself to speak as she gave me a final haunting look before ducking into the car. I flinched as Hector slammed the door shut.
‘Be careful, Stella,’ he said, his voice low. ‘I trust Sheers is right, but …’ He lightly touched my arm as his lips brushed my cheek.
I stepped back and hugged myself to protect against the persistent breeze. The car engine stuttered into life and I waved as it receded down the driveway, a slight ache in my heart as I saw Madeleine’s face peering through the narrow rear window, her gloved hand pressed to the glass. When I could see her no more, I turned and mounted the stone steps back into the house.
Lady Brightwell was sitting on one of the hall chairs, attended by an agitated Miss Scott who was encouraging her to drink from the glass of water she was offering. The dowager looked awful and I felt a tug of concern as I enquired whether there was anything I could do.
‘Oh, it was too much for her, coming down to see them off,’ Miss Scott cried. ‘I knew it would be. You are unwell, my lady, and you should have stayed in bed.’ Lady Brightwell had taken faint once we ‘youngsters’ had gone outside. ‘She fell into quite a swoon, it was all I could do to stop her from falling,’ Miss Scott exclaimed, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. ‘I must summon the doctor, this just will not do.’
‘You will do no such thing. A most unnecessary course of action,’ Lady Brightwell wheezed, her protest precipitating a coughing fit.
Miss Scott insisted she return to her bed, and at last she met no opposition. I stepped forward to lend a hand, but I was swatted away. As Hector’s mother rose unsteadily to her feet, her clawed fingers clamping Miss Scott’s arm, she paused.
‘So now it is only you and Mr Sheers who remain, Miss Marcham. I hope neither of you will find it necessary to do so for long.’
‘I appreciate it’s an inconvenience to you.’ It was remarkable that ill as she was she
could still be effortlessly caustic. ‘I’m sure we all want this riddle of Greyswick to be solved as soon as possible.’
‘It is a riddle of your own making, Miss Marcham. I very much hope common sense will prevail, so that the house may return to normal. It is about time.’
I watched them struggle up the mountainous staircase, simmering at the woman’s audacity. Part of me wished I had gone with Madeleine, but instead I was trapped here and in danger of being stifled by the poisonous atmosphere that filtered through this house, suspended in the air like mustard gas.
I had to escape, if only for a short time. Snatching up my cardigan, I hurried through the glass doors of the orangery, out into the garden.
As I trotted down the steps of the terrace I noticed the comforting weight of a cigarette packet in my low-slung pocket. I turned my back to the stiffening breeze as I cupped the flaring match to light one. I drew in deeply, tossing back my head, savouring the sensation. Looking up, I saw the blank windows of Greyswick watching me with disapproval and its overpowering presence annoyed me. I decided the kitchen garden would afford me some privacy – somewhere peaceful to kick my heels while I summoned the stamina to return inside.
I ducked under its bricked archway and the breeze dropped away, kept at bay by the high walls. Only a fraction of the beds had been tended and within them, new life was unfolding over the cultivated ground, while the rest had become throttled with weeds. On the far wall, espaliered fruit trees sported delicate blooms of pale pink and white, and in one corner sunlight glinted off the panes of a large glass house.
Movement in the archway opposite caught my eye. Annie Burrows was talking to the same soldier I had seen before. I was surprised to find her fraternising with a young man and as if sensing my disapproval, she looked my way. The distance between us was too great for me to be able to discern her features, but she smartly stepped away from him. He disappeared through the doorway without acknowledging my presence.
I felt like a killjoy for having ended their tête-à-tête and I turned to leave, but I heard her soft tread behind me, and she called out to catch my attention.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to spy.’ I angled my head to the side to blow out my smoke, holding the cigarette down by my thigh, the tip smouldering red. She looked at me quizzically. ‘Your soldier,’ I said.
‘Oh.’
‘On leave, is he?’ I asked, tapping off the ash.
‘I suppose …’
‘Just be careful, Annie, soldiers have a habit of breaking your heart.’ I felt a rush of embarrassment at giving unsolicited advice. ‘Does he have a name?’
‘Billy, miss. His name is Billy. He used to work here, before.’
‘Did he now?’ I raised an eyebrow as I brought the cigarette back to my lips.
She hesitated, and I wondered what lay at the root of her instinctive reticence, but whatever it was, in the next moment she had overcome it.
‘He says we should talk to Cook, miss.’
It was the flare of excitement in her violet eyes that piqued my interest and evoked a twist of anticipation deep in my belly. Taking a final drag, I tossed my cigarette into the flowerbed and gestured for her to lead the way.
It would appear our search for the truth was about to begin.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Annie led me into the below-stairs domain via the back door. This was very much the dingy tradesman’s entrance. It was dank and musty, and the walls that tunnelled before me were blighted by green-speckled patches that oozed upwards from the skirting.
She led me up the passageway, past recessed doorways set under arched lintels – boot room, dairy, larder, scullery, still room – there seemed no end of them. I glimpsed through one open door and saw a small brick-lined room with a tiny window set high towards the ceiling to catch the meagre light. It reminded me of a prison cell and all at once I felt claustrophobic, conscious of the weight of this great house bearing down upon us, crushing us to its will.
Soon the stone steps leading to the green baize door rose before us and I took some comfort from being able to orientate myself. Feeling more at ease, I followed Annie into the vast kitchen. Natural light flooded in from the row of broad windows that formed the outer wall, their arched tops almost brushing the ceiling.
Cook was working at the long pine table in the centre of the room, a mobcap hiding her hair, though a few grey curls, moist with sweat, clung to her gleaming forehead. She wore a white pinafore, drab with age, over a simple blue check dress, its cord double-wrapped around her thick waist. Her sleeves were rolled back above her elbows and her meaty fingers were at this moment kneading a large lump of dough.
‘Miss Marcham! I’m so sorry, I wasn’t expecting guests.’
She drew her forearm across her brow and wiped it on the side of her skirt as I asked whether we might take a moment of her time. She invited us to ‘take a pew’ and declared herself happy to help if she could. Chair legs scraped on the flagstone floor as Annie and I settled ourselves down opposite her.
‘We’ve been advised to speak to you by someone who thought you might be able to help us.’
‘Oh yes,’ she said with a good-natured smile. ‘Who might that be?’
It was Annie who answered her, before the boy’s name even formed on my lips. Cook’s head snapped up. She skewered the girl with a penetrating stare, the smile slipping from her lips – I could almost see the goodwill leaching out of her. She snorted and shook her head before focusing once again on the dough which she appeared to work with renewed vigour. I was rather disheartened by her reaction. It seemed clear to me there was no love lost between the cook and the soldier, and I wondered whether we were running a fool’s errand. Annie, however, appeared unfazed by the older woman’s reaction, and looking up from under her thick red lashes she spoke again.
‘He also said you make the best apple pie in the whole of England – but if you added just a touch more cinnamon, then it would be the best in the whole wide world.’
The vigorous activity stopped. Cook leant into the dough, resting her weight on the table. Her features softened as her lips spread into her ruddy cheeks. She fixed her keen eye on Annie. ‘Did he now?’ She laughed in spite of herself and shook her head. ‘Well then …’
She scooped up the dough and dumped it into the large ceramic bowl on the table, then draped a clean tea towel over the top. She paused to take in Annie one more time, before crossing to the sink.
‘Well, I suppose if Billy sent you to me …’ she called out as she lathered her hands on a block of cracked green soap. She rinsed them, shaking them free of water before reaching for the towel hanging off the rail on the range that dominated the far wall. ‘… I’d better see what I can do for you.’ With her fingers crisp, she neatly folded and replaced the towel. She rested her bottom against the range, folding her broad arms across her chest. ‘I think I can guess what it is you want.’
She chuckled at my look of surprise. ‘Oh, Miss Marcham, you don’t live in a house like this and not know everything that’s going on. Certainly not when you’ve got a loose-lipped little mischief like Maisie running around sucking up gossip like a sponge,’ she grumbled. ‘You think this house is haunted.’ She bent forward. ‘You want to know if I’ve got any ghost stories.’
I laughed, somewhat taken aback. ‘Well, have you?’
Cook’s demeanour changed, jest giving way to something more unsettling. I could see her hesitation and I invited her to sit with us, if only for a short while. With an air of uncertainty, she drew out a chair opposite, her broad thighs spilling over its hard edges as she sat down. She rested her forearms on the table, her large knuckles interlocked. I asked whether she had experienced anything strange in the house.
‘You know, I thought I was being daft,’ she said at last. ‘It was only the once – it was late at night and I was dog tired. You know how it is, your mind plays tricks …’
After much prompting she shared her story, the words catching at times lik
e fish bones in her throat. She had stayed up to finish some pastries. Everyone else had long been in bed, but in the stillness, she thought she heard soft running footsteps – so light she convinced herself she had imagined them, but even so, she still looked up expectantly at the doorway, wondering who might be burning the midnight oil with her – but no one appeared. It crossed her mind that someone was playing ‘silly buggers’ as she put it, so she brushed off her floured hands and went to look in the passage, but only the lamp by the stairs was lit, the rest was in darkness and she couldn’t see a thing.
‘So, I came back here to the table and I swear … I swear I heard a laugh – no,’ she corrected herself, ‘not a laugh – a giggle. It shook me, it did.’
She fell silent, and when I gently prodded her to explain further, she unclasped her hands, pressing them palm down on the table top.
‘Because had I not known better, I would have sworn it sounded just like Master Lucien.’ She banished the memory with a shake of her head, smiling at her own foolishness. ‘Daft, isn’t it, the tricks the mind plays on us at night?’
She dabbed at the beads of sweat clinging to her upper lip. ‘Nanny would bring him down here, you see, if she knew I was baking that day – buns or biscuits – so he could have one while they were still warm, as a treat. He would know as soon as he reached the baize door what was what and he would run down those stairs, giggling his head off, eager to get in here and snaffle one.’
‘What were you cooking that night?’ I asked with a smile. I liked her. She was the type of woman who wore her heart on her sleeve, and it was a good one, pure and kind.
‘Apple pastries, his favourite!’ She laughed, but her burst of humour died abruptly. ‘Here, you’re never saying …’ Her cheeks blanched. ‘Well, it’s all a bit rum if you ask me,’ she muttered.
‘How long have you been at Greyswick, Cook?’
She seemed to welcome the opportunity to veer away from the previous topic and some of her characteristic cheeriness returned as she began to regale us with the history of her employment. Like Mrs Henge, she had served Sir Arthur in London when he was plain Mr Brightwell, and throughout his first marriage. She spoke of the original Mrs Brightwell in glowing terms, expressing genuine sadness at her early demise. I asked her then about Lucien, and she grew wistful.
