The Echo of Twilight

by Judith Kinghorn

  I rose to my feet. “You’ve been very kind, but I mustn’t delay you . . . I’m fine now, Mr. Stedman. Really, I am.”

  As I stared ahead to the bank on the opposite side of the river, I felt a finger run down the thin cotton sleeve of my blouse. A touch so light, so lingering, so powerful, it took me back to something in my childhood: There . . . there, now.

  When I at last turned my head, I saw him leap up the grassy bank and then pause to look back at me.

  I waited a while before I returned to the house. Ottoline was nowhere to be found, and neither was anyone else. The place was deserted, abandoned, as though those who had been there—and only minutes before—had been summoned to the hills, perhaps to look upon that landscape once more, in peace.

  I returned outside with my mending and my book. I fiddled with buttons and needles and threads, but my thoughts were awry; flitting back and forth from Stanley’s cold missive to Ralph Stedman’s warm touch, and then to Ottoline and again to her lover, Ralph Stedman; to the prospect of war and the possibility of a lifetime ahead of me in service. It would be my birthday in a few days’ time. I would be twenty-four years old.

  When Mr. Watts appeared from the side of the house, I quickly got on with my sewing. He strolled over, remarking as he approached on the fine morning, and then sat down next to me on the bench. I would have liked to ask him about his Ethel and Derek, the significance of the sixteenth, but instead I inquired on the whereabouts of the family and our guests. He informed me that while the young men had taken to the hills on foot, His Lordship, Mrs. Parker and others had gone out on horseback. He made no mention of Ottoline, and I chose not to inquire on her whereabouts, but I did wonder if she had gone with Ralph Stedman and the boys.

  Mr. Watts went on. “His Lordship is always very generous with his time, an excellent host, but I can tell he’s finding it difficult . . . having to entertain and amuse so many guests under the present circumstances.” He paused and shook his head, “Yes, very difficult.”

  Clearly, Mr. Watts knew nothing of His Lordship’s true character, or of his tawdry extramarital affairs and current mistress. But it wasn’t my place to enlighten him. Let him live in ignorance, I thought. In my opinion, Mrs. Parker was nothing in comparison to Ottoline. And I had by that time seen enough to know that the woman was adept in the art of simpering. I’d watched her in the hallway the previous day, before she and His Lordship set off on a walk. I’d pretended to be looking for Ottoline’s favorite tam-o’-shanter. And oh how that woman pandered to him! Hector this, Hector that. Giggling like a young girl whenever he so much as attempted to be funny. Pathetic, I thought. Why couldn’t he see through it? After all, he was reputed to be an intelligent man.

  I said, “I think we’re all finding it a little difficult, Mr. Watts.”

  Mr. Watts leaned forward and peered at the book lying next to me. “Taking the opportunity to catch up on some reading, I see.” He stretched his legs out in front of him, placed his hands under his belly and squinted up at the sun. “I’m a Dickens man myself.”

  I said nothing. I wasn’t in the mood to talk about books.

  “Mrs. Lister tells me congratulations are in order . . . You’re engaged to be married?”

  So much for Mrs. Lister saying nothing. I said, “I was, sort of, but not now.”

  “Oh dear. I am sorry to hear that.”

  “There’s no reason to be. It’s for the best.”

  “Indeed. Marriage, family, personal commitments are always difficult when one is dedicated to a career in service.” He turned to me. “I can tell you that Her Ladyship is very pleased with you thus far. Yes, very pleased. I think you have a fine career ahead of you, Gibson.”

  I nodded. “Actually, I prefer to be called Pearl, Mr. Watts—if you don’t mind. It’s what Her Ladyship and the rest of the family and everyone else here call me, so you may as well, too.”

  He bent down, picked a few blades of grass from the toes of his polished black shoes. “It’s a little irregular, you know . . . in your position.”

  I couldn’t help myself. I said, “But isn’t everything a little irregular, Mr. Watts? Isn’t today, here and now, a little irregular?”

  He rose to his feet. “Well, there’s work to be done—for some of us. I’ll leave you in peace with your Mrs. Gaskell.”

  Everyone returned by lunchtime, but the only sounds emanating from the dining room were the somber murmurings of wary voices. His Lordship took luncheon on a tray in his study, and later, doors clanked shut and the house fell into silence once again.

  Monday was always washday in every big house, though for me as lady’s maid it went on all week. The washhouse, or laundry—where the copper bath was situated, along with the soda crystals, yellow soap, chalk for grease and oil stains and a small brown bottle of alcohol for grass—was where I spent a lot of my time. Ottoline said she couldn’t possibly trust anyone else with her silks and chiffons, and of course her stockings and undergarments were very much my concern.

  That afternoon, when I went to the kitchen to boil the kettle for Ottoline’s laundry, Mr. Watts was sitting at the long pine table, bent over the newspaper, his head in his hands. He didn’t look up at me, didn’t speak. And minutes later, when I went outside to fill a pail from the pump in the yard, where a few of the girls stood about smoking, none of them spoke to me. But inside, as I filled the copper bath in the small washroom, I heard their conversation resume through the open window.

  I recognized Mollie’s voice immediately when she said, “I don’t give a monkey what anyone says, particularly not old Watty. I’m getting the train in the morning and that’s that.”

  “That’ll be the end of your career in service, young lady,” said another voice—one I couldn’t place, but doing a rather fine impersonation of Mr. Watts.

  I laid out items of clothing on the long wooden bench, applied the stick of chalk to a grease stain on a blouse.

  “Listen, if all the men bugger off over there, there’ll be plenty of jobs to be had—and not just in service. Sod this being in service lark.”

  I placed Ottoline’s underwear and stockings into the warm soapy water, dribbled alcohol from the small brown bottle onto the hem of a cream skirt stained green from the grass. And then I stood staring at it.

  I hadn’t thought of the potential impact war might have on us servants, on our jobs; I hadn’t thought about all the men in service who might sign up—hundreds, thousands, perhaps, up and down the country. Who would replace them? And who would replace us if we female servants were to give up our positions, too? How would these places manage? I glanced about the little room, the starched shirts hanging from the airer, the piles of folded white linen and napkins waiting to be pressed. I tried to imagine Ottoline, her silk sleeves rolled up as she worked the mangle. It would have been almost laughable if it hadn’t been so frightening.

  Then a voice beyond the window said, “There’s no place like home . . . and home’s where we should all be at a time like this.”

  But I had no home to go to, no mother or family, or any man to run to. And as I stood in that small warm room in an ancient building in Scotland, it came to me with new and absolute clarity: I was entirely alone in the world.

  “What about her . . . madam?”

  “Her Ladyship?”

  “No! Her . . . Miss La-Di-Dah.”

  They all laughed. And I knew they were laughing at me.

  “Tried to pretend she was engaged. Told Lister this morning and then told Watts something else.”

  “Typical!”

  “Stuck-up bitch.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Why not?”

  “We don’t know her . . . She might be all right for all we know. She’s got quite a kind sort of face, really. And Mrs. Lister says she has no family.”

  “Everyone has family. Someone at least.”


  “Mollie’s just jealous. Because she’s pretty.”

  “Pretty stuck-up. Pretty if you like big puppy dog eyes.”

  “Give over. You’re jealous.”

  “Listen, I’ve told you, I’m gone from here the morrow, and I don’t give a hoot about any of them, including that one.”

  Those were Mollie’s last words.

  The next voice belonged to Mr. Watts: “Righty-oh, girls. Come along now. No rest for the wicked and all that. Just because the house is quiet doesn’t mean there’s no work to be done. The devil makes work for idle hands.”

  I knew both of those. They were two of Kitty’s favorites.

  Shortly before six, before I attended to Ottoline, I took down her new cape that had arrived from Selfridges with that afternoon’s post. The boys for some reason were all on the stairs, sitting about smoking, their rhetoric newly defiant, their spirits bold. And though our ultimatum did not expire until much later that evening, Germany—it seemed—was already the enemy.

  “There’s no question in it, old boy. We have to,” Hugo was saying. “Every man must do his bit in this ghastly business. And the only way is to be fast and swift . . . Get it over with quickly,” he added, punching a fist into his palm.

  “What do you say, Pearl?” said Billy, looking up at me as I weaved my way between them. “Should we go? Should we all go and fight . . . ? Should we kill them?”

  And I’m not sure why I did it, but I placed the cape under my arm and raised my fists up in the air.

  They all laughed, apart from Billy, who turned away from me. And as I hung Ottoline’s cape on a hook in the lobby, I caught him staring back at me, and with such fear and confusion in his eyes that I wanted to run to him, wrap my arms around him. I wanted to say, No. No, you don’t need to go, Billy. Not you. Never you.

  But I didn’t. Instead, I walked down the passageway and went out to the yard. But outside, too, the air was full of bluster. A cooler wind swept down the hillside, bullying the heather and shivering trees. Newly arrogant and whistling. I circled the yard a few times—staring upward, challenging something; then, with my back against the wall, I closed my eyes and began a prayer.

  “Feeling any better?”

  Ralph Stedman. He had a gun in his hand, a couple of dead rabbits slung over his shoulder.

  “Did you kill them?”

  “I did. But I’m a good shot. They knew nothing,” he said, raising his hand to the bloodied fur.

  I reached into my pocket: “I have your handkerchief.”

  He smiled. “Please, keep it. I don’t wish for your tears, but I rather like the notion of them on my handkerchief.”

  Was he flirting with me? Yes, most definitely. And so I offered no smile in return, and holding on to the linen inside my pocket, I said, “Oh, I must have left it down by the river.”

  “Shame.”

  “I’ll replace it.”

  “There’s really no need.”

  “Oh, but there is.”

  “You were sad this morning, and now you seem . . . a little angry. But perhaps that’s progress. I hope so.”

  I shook my head. “I’m not angry.”

  But I was angry. I was angry with Stanley, angry with old men in London making decisions about boys, and angry with him, Ralph Stedman, for focusing on me in that way, for toying with me and making me feel in that instant as though my well-being mattered to him.

  I’m not a fool. I know all about men like you.

  He stepped nearer. I pushed back against the wall, spread my palms over the mossy stone. He said, “I’m not like the rest of them, you know. I’m on your side.”

  “I don’t need you to be on my side, Mr. Stedman.”

  “The name’s Ralph.”

  How is it that some people shine? How is it their mere presence brings warmth and comfort? Even with the bloodied animals draped over his shoulder—animals he admitted to killing—the aura around him, an aura slowly enveloping me, was soft and kind, as benign and gentle as Kitty. And I had to remind myself that this man was not to be trusted; I had to remind myself that this man was just another player. But, oh, I could understand why Ottoline needed him. I could understand why ladies from London to Paris and Biarritz fell for his charm. And it would have been as easy as falling off a log for me to fall as well.

  But I wouldn’t and couldn’t. And I didn’t. I got a grip. I said, “Mr. Stedman, while I appreciate your concern, I really don’t think it would be fitting for me to be calling you by your Christian name. Furthermore,” I said, grasping a word I thought suitably dignified and businesslike, but with no idea what I might add to it, and then, stepping away from the wall, finishing, “the horrendous situation is the only reason I was sad this morning. The news, Mr. Stedman . . . That was and is my only concern.”

  He nodded. “Of course. It’s all of our concern.”

  “Indeed.”

  “But I don’t believe you.”

  I affected a shrug. And knowing I had to extract myself, knowing I couldn’t possibly allow myself another single minute of him, I turned and walked away.

  But I heard him call after me: “And I know I’m right.”

  That evening, after supper, I did what everyone else had disappeared off to do: I wrote letters. I wrote one to Stanley, telling him—among other lies—that I’d already found another fish, and freshwater, not saltwater, this time. I wrote one to Mrs. B. And I even began one to Kitty. Then I tore them all up. Who was I kidding? I had no one to write to.

  We knew early the next morning: Our ultimatum had expired and war had been declared. The fighting had already begun, Mr. Watts said at breakfast. He explained to us that Lord Hector would be returning to London, and that most of our guests would likely leave, too. And it all seemed to be unfolding fast, too fast, and for some reason I thought of Stanley, and of people in London and across the border in England, because Scotland was still a foreign country to me, and our distance from the capital served to distance me from it. Then we all bowed our heads and said more special prayers, and Amen became Our Men.

  Later, when I went to Ottoline with her breakfast, there was no sign of her. I found her, eventually, in the small study—dressed and sitting at a desk, writing.

  “Is there anything you need, my lady? Can I get you some tea?” I asked.

  “No, thank you, Pearl.”

  “I’m very sorry . . . about the news, I mean.”

  She turned to me. Her eyes were shrunken and she twisted a handkerchief in her hands. She said, “The world is gone mad and I don’t know what to do with myself, Pearl. I’ve been awake most of the night. I keep thinking about the boys . . . those beautiful boys sleeping on my linen, in my beds . . . dreaming.” She looked up at me. “I don’t want them to wake up to this war.”

  “The fighting’s a long way from here, my lady, and it might all be resolved quicker than we think. I’m sure the boys won’t be needed.”

  She stared at something beyond my shoulder, and with her eyes half closed and in little more than a whisper, she said, “No, they’ll go. They’ll all go because they believe it’s their duty. Because old men will tell them it’s an honor to serve one’s country, to fight for it, die for it . . . A noble sacrifice.” She fixed her eyes on me: “I’m quite sure you’ve heard them. They’re all gung ho, all fired up.”

  I nodded. I knew. I thought of Billy, the fear in his eyes. His brother’s determination.

  “I won’t be able to stop Hugo. It’s what he was born for, like his father . . . But I think I can stop Billy.” She straightened herself. “I’ve already written to Mr. Asquith. Yes. I’ve told him he can have one of my sons, but not both. Not both. In fact, I’ve suggested he enforce a rule . . . a rule of one son per family.”

  “That’s a very good idea, my lady.”

  “It must start here,” she said. “I’ll allow H
ugo to go—because I have no choice. And, if I have to send him, I shall send him with my love and my prayers, and even my blessing. But I can’t let Billy go. I simply can’t allow it. And so we must put those foolish notions out of his head.” She paused, and there was a flicker of a smile. “You know what he’s like . . . so idealistic, romantic . . . and so very easily influenced. We shall have to be vigilant, Pearl. We shall have to keep an eye on him.”

  “I’ll do whatever I can, my lady,” I said, remembering my raised fists and Billy’s look of terror.

  All day people departed: Lord Hector—accompanied by Charles and Hugo—for London, along with Virginia Parker, her husband and maid; and other houseguests for various counties in England. Later that afternoon, after beds had been stripped, fireplaces cleaned, names removed from brass plates on doors, Mr. Watts inspected and locked the bedrooms. Mollie and two other maids, given what they were due, left for the station, along with a groom and an under-gardener.

  I stayed close to Billy. I watched him, checked his whereabouts by the hour, and that evening, when he came into his mother’s dressing room and said he was going to a special service at a church in the nearby village, I immediately glanced to Ottoline and said, “Oh, perhaps I should go, too?”

  “Yes! Yes, of course,” she said. “You must go . . . Sadly, I can’t.” She turned to her son. “I’ve invited a few of our neighbors to dinner—and though our numbers are somewhat depleted, I didn’t think to cancel.”

  So I accompanied Billy to the service. We went on foot.

  He said, “Isn’t it strange to think we’re at war?”

  It was. That deliciously soft evening, our footsteps and the distant bleating of sheep spoke only of peace. I said, “It might all be over quickly, Billy.”

  “Hmm, Hugo says only if we take swift action, only if we show our strength and commitment. He says that’s why everyone needs to sign up.”

  “But not you, Billy. The army doesn’t need schoolboys.”