A Second Chance

by Shayne Parkinson

  When Nellie returned, the mourning dress impeccably brushed, Amy asked the maid to take her to Sarah. She followed Nellie down the stairs, along a passage, and into a room slightly larger than Amy’s bedroom. It was a pleasant, sunny room, with pretty lace curtains filtering the light and soft-looking sofas, but the room’s greatest importance in Amy’s eyes was that it held Sarah.

  Sarah took Amy’s hand and drew her down to sit beside her on one of the sofas. ‘A tray of tea in here, please, Nellie. And tell Mrs Jenson we’ll have luncheon in half an hour.’

  ‘What a pretty parlour,’ Amy said, looking around the room from her new vantage point.

  ‘Yes, it’s a pleasant room, though it’s usually called the morning room.’ Sarah studied Amy’s face with evident satisfaction. ‘Oh, yes, you look better now—and that dress is more cheerful.’ She brushed a fold of the pink-striped woollen gown, and her fingers went unerringly to a worn area near one seam. ‘Though it’s a little… plain,’ she said, frowning. ‘Did you wear this one on the farm while I was there?’

  ‘Most days, I think.’ Amy moved her fingers surreptitiously, trying to hide an even more worn patch on the other side of the dress.

  ‘Really? It didn’t catch my attention down there.’

  Amy could guess why easily enough. On the farm, in the plainness of the cottage, the worn, simple dress could hardly have stood out the way it must in this elegant house.

  Sarah studied the dress a moment longer. She gave a small, thoughtful nod, then seemed to put Amy’s dress out of her mind. There were distractions enough from so dull a subject, in the enjoyment of each other’s company.

  After what Sarah called a simple lunch, soup followed by fish, with an apple sponge to finish, taken in the dining room, she took Amy on a tour of the ground floor rooms. ‘Though I won’t bother showing you the kitchen or the scullery,’ Sarah said. ‘You’ve seen enough of kitchens in your life. And I prefer to leave Mrs Jenson in peace, to get on with what she does so well.’

  As well as the morning and dining rooms, there was what Sarah called a drawing room, more grandly decorated than the others. The most elaborate porcelain was kept here, and the plaster ceiling was more ornate than elsewhere in the house, while the wallpaper had its embossed pattern picked out in gold. The chairs and sofas were upholstered in deep red velvet, the same colour as the room’s heavy drapes.

  What arrested Amy’s attention the moment she entered the drawing room was the large portrait above the marble mantelpiece. She could see that the painting had been done several years before, but the subject was immediately recognisable as Sarah. She wore a blue silk gown and held a posy of white roses. There were matching rosebuds in her hair, part of which was pinned up while the rest fell in waves over her shoulders. Her mouth was curved in a soft smile, though the artist had captured the disconcertingly direct gaze that Sarah’s eyes so often held.

  ‘Rather too flattering, isn’t it?’ Sarah said, seeing where Amy’s interest was centred.

  ‘No, not a bit—it’s beautiful. How old were you?’

  ‘Sixteen. That was my first long dress.’ Sarah gazed pensively at the painting. ‘Mother had always said they’d have my portrait painted when I was eighteen, but when I was coming up to sixteen Father announced he wanted it done for my birthday. By then we all knew that Father mightn’t be with us if we waited till I was eighteen. And he wasn’t,’ she added quietly.

  Staring up at the portrait was making Amy’s neck ache. She lowered her gaze to the mantelpiece, and her attention was caught by a photograph in a silver frame. A grey-haired woman in a dark dress held a baby of about six months old on her lap; instead of facing the camera, the woman’s whole attention was on the child. She held the baby’s tiny hand in her own and gazed at the little face, her eyes deep pools of love.

  ‘Mother and I,’ Sarah murmured from close behind Amy. Her hand rested lightly on Amy’s shoulder. ‘She told me she’d always been grateful to you. I’d like to think she’d be happy that I’ve found you.’

  The final room on this floor, apart from the servants’ domain, was Sarah’s study. This was decorated more soberly than the other rooms, though with no less elegance. The chairs were of dark brown leather, with the one behind the large, walnut desk being particularly imposing. Wood panelling came halfway up the walls, with a dark red wallpaper above it, but there was little enough of panelling or paper visible. The walls were lined along most of their length with tall bookcases crammed with leather-bound volumes.

  ‘Books,’ Amy said faintly, clutching at the back of a chair for support. ‘Look at all your books!’

  Sarah gazed around the room with a satisfied smile. ‘Yes, I’ve quite a good collection. Though I must warn you that some of them are exceedingly dull legal texts and the like. And I didn’t share Father’s interest in military history, so some of his books tend never to leave their shelves.’ She ran her fingers lightly over the spines of the books nearest her. ‘But most of them are extremely precious to me. I hope you’ll enjoy them as much as I do. Treat them as your own, Amy.’ Her smile broadened, and she gave Amy a mischievous look. ‘Perhaps I should make you stay with me until you’ve gone through the entire collection. That would be one way of keeping you here.’

  ‘I don’t think I could read all these if I lived to be ninety,’ Amy said, still awed. ‘I’d like to try, though.’ She reached out a hand towards the nearest shelf, then let it drop. ‘However will I know where to start?’

  ‘There’s an order to how they’re set out. Novels are on these shelves, poetry’s there, and plays on the top—there’s a stool, so even you should be able to reach them. The rest are generally by subject. I’ll guide you through it, don’t worry. I often just browse them at random till something catches my eye, I suggest you try that approach, too.’

  ‘I’ll have a go,’ Amy said, eyes darting around the shelves as she took in Sarah’s explanation.

  ‘Perhaps I’ll choose you one to start with. But let’s leave it for the moment—I want to plan the next few days with you.’

  They sat down near a low table that Amy had not noticed before. It held a collection of lead soldiers arranged in a complex formation. Sarah followed her gaze; she leaned over to pick up one of the soldiers and passed it to Amy.

  ‘An English officer from the battle of Waterloo, I believe. Maurice apparently used to sit at this table when he was small, playing with the soldiers while Father was working. That was before I was born, of course. My turn came later.’ Sarah smiled, her eyes staring into the invisible distance. ‘Father had a special chair by this desk, a nice, tall one so that I could sit near him. I used to spend hours here, I think—Mother suffered from migraines occasionally, and I’d always come to Father when she had to take to her bed with them. He’d let me put my dolls on the desk—I had my own corner of it where I’d dress and undress them.’

  ‘He must have been very patient,’ Amy said, moved by the description of the man who had shared his desk with a little girl.

  ‘Yes, he was. I’ve photographs of him, see? That’s Maurice with him in the earlier one.’

  She fetched two photographs from the desk. One was of a man with a boy of around five years old; the other showed the same man, clearly many years later, sitting in an armchair with Sarah standing beside him, her hand on his shoulder. Sarah was wearing the same dress as in her portrait. The man’s hair and moustache were white, but his eyes were surprisingly bright, and, Amy thought, full of gentleness.

  ‘His nature shows in his face, don’t you think?’ said Sarah. ‘Not that I knew it was anything out of the ordinary. I just took it for granted that Father wanted me sitting at his desk. I remember trying to use this once, though.’ She gestured at the low table. ‘Father didn’t scold me, but he had an odd look on his face when I put my doll there. Even at that age I could tell he didn’t want me to disturb the soldiers. They reminded him of Maurice, of course.’

  ‘They’re beautifully made,’ Amy said, noti
ng the delicate paintwork on the toy soldier’s uniform. ‘They look so real. Even the horses look like they might gallop off any time.’ She turned the toy around to admire it from all sides. ‘Mal would’ve loved them, especially the horses.’

  ‘Didn’t he have toy soldiers? I rather thought all boys did.’

  Amy shook her head. ‘No. My boys never had any toys, really. Not proper ones from shops.’

  She handed the soldier to Sarah, who restored it carefully to its place.

  ‘Something of a waste, I suppose you might say,’ Sarah mused, studying the toys. ‘Your Mal who would have loved my soldiers but probably never dreamed such things existed, and me with armies of them that hardly get touched except when the maids dust them. But Father kept them in memory of Maurice, and I keep them in memory of Father. That’s reason enough to treasure them.’

  She turned her attention back to Amy. ‘Well, what shall we do, then? There are things Auckland offers that Ruatane doesn’t.’ She smiled at her own understatement. ‘I want to take you out, to something special. A concert, perhaps. Would you like that?’

  The sudden swell of excitement briefly robbed Amy of breath. ‘Oh, yes!’ she said when she managed to find words. ‘I’d love it.’

  ‘We’ll have our first outing this very week, then—why, we could go out tonight if you wish.’ Sarah’s smile broadened when she saw Amy’s eyes widen. ‘Well, why not? There’s sure to be something on, this is Auckland, after all. Yes, tonight it’s to be.’

  She pulled the cord that summoned the maids. Alice appeared, and was asked to fetch the newspaper, which she returned with moments later. Sarah scanned the paper, then passed it to Amy, pointing to the paragraphs that dealt with entertainments.

  ‘We’ve a choice. Two plays, and a choir. Which would you prefer?’

  ‘Oh, whatever you want, Sarah. I’m sure I’d like anything you picked.’

  ‘No,’ Sarah said firmly. ‘The choice is up to you.’

  Amy did not protest; she already knew that set expression of Sarah’s too well for that. She studied the newspaper carefully, trying to decide which outing Sarah might prefer, though she had known her own preference the moment she saw the titles of the plays.

  ‘Would it be all right if we went to this one?’ she asked, her finger marking her choice. ‘Only if you want to—I’m sure I’d like any of them.’

  ‘What I want is for you to choose whatever you’d like best, and for me to have the pleasure of taking you to it. Yes, I’m sure this will be very pleasant,’ Sarah said, glancing at Amy’s chosen outing. ‘I’ll send out for tickets. What made you pick this one, dearest?’

  ‘It’s Shakespeare,’ Amy said, convinced that that explained all. ‘I’ve wanted to see a Shakespeare play… oh, all my life, I think.’

  ‘Well, tonight you shall have your wish.’ Sarah’s expression turned thoughtful. ‘Ah, what exactly were you thinking of wearing?’ she asked delicately.

  ‘It’ll have to be my black dress, that’s my only good one for outings.’ Seeing Sarah’s dubious expression, Amy added quickly, ‘It’s looking much better than it did this morning, Nellie made a lovely job of brushing it for me. It’s looking quite smart now.’

  ‘But that’s a mourning dress,’ Sarah said, her voice sounding carefully controlled. ‘Quite apart from any other shortcomings it might have.’

  ‘Yes, Sarah,’ Amy said quietly. ‘You know I’m in mourning.’

  ‘In Ruatane you might be. In Auckland there’s no need to pretend.’

  Amy closed her eyes for a moment, not relishing the prospect of arguing with Sarah. ‘It’s not pretending, it’s showing respect. I owe—no, I don’t owe it to Charlie, I want to do it. It just seems the right thing to do.’

  ‘It’s dishonest,’ Sarah said, her face hardening. ‘It’s pretending you’re sorry he’s dead.’

  Amy shook her head. ‘No, it’s not. I don’t go around crying or anything. I just dress respectfully. That’s not so much to ask.’

  ‘But why? He’s dead, and no one’s sorry about that. You of all people—you should be celebrating. After the way he treated you, scarlet satin would be more appropriate than black wool.’ Her eyes flashed as she spoke.

  ‘It was just the way he talked,’ Amy said, taken aback by Sarah’s ferocity. ‘It didn’t mean anything.’

  ‘The way he talked? That would have been enough on its own, wouldn’t it? But what about the rest of it, Amy? What about the beatings?’

  Amy was briefly startled into silence. ‘Who told you that?’ she asked when speech returned.

  ‘Dave told me—well, I dragged it out of him, I should say. It’s like drawing teeth, getting you or Dave to tell me anything about that man. Just the bald statement that his father used to… thump you, I think was the expression he used. Amy, it’s not right for you to wear mourning for a man like that.’

  Amy looked away from Sarah’s dark frown and gazed around the room; at the toy soldiers, and at the desk where a man had made space for a little girl’s dolls. No wonder that Sarah could find no room in her heart to pity Charlie. ‘That was all a long, long time ago, Sarah. I don’t even think about it. It does no good, dragging up those old things.’

  ‘You can’t just forget something like that,’ Sarah protested. ‘It’s not possible.’

  ‘No, I haven’t forgotten. I just don’t think about it. Charlie was sorry for it in the end,’ she added softly.

  That seemed to bring Sarah up sharply. ‘Was he? It’s difficult to believe of the man.’

  ‘Yes, he was.’ Amy was surprised to find tears pricking at her eyes. ‘He was very sorry. He told me he was, the night he died.’ In his own awkward way he had told her; clumsily, and not making an overt apology of it, but it had been an expression of remorse none the less clear for that.

  ‘And so he jolly well should have been sorry,’ Sarah said, but the force had gone out of her censure. ‘Perhaps he wouldn’t even have wanted you to wear mourning,’ she tried half-heartedly.

  ‘Oh, I think he would have.’ Amy watched Sarah, noting the firm set of her mouth and the slight movement of her fingers on the arm of her chair. That meant Sarah was carefully thinking the matter through, Amy knew; “mustering the facts”, as Sarah put it.

  ‘You don’t wear mourning on the farm,’ Sarah said after a few moments of this reflection. ‘Only when you go out. Why is that?’

  ‘Well, I can’t wear my good black dress for working, and I haven’t got any plain ones warm enough for winter. I made a cotton one, and I wore that the first few months—I suppose I could make one out of wool, but it seems a waste. Mourning’s to show respect, and there’s no one around to see what I wear when I’m on the farm—well, except Dave, and he knows how I feel about respect.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Sarah pounced. ‘And in Auckland there’s no one in the entire city who even knew the wretched man, so no one to notice whether you’re in mourning or not. Except me, and I, too, know only too well how obstinate you are about this respect nonsense. So it’s just like being on the farm, isn’t it? There’s absolutely no need for you to wear mourning. You do see that, don’t you?

  Amy smiled at Sarah’s expression, a mix of settled conviction and anxiousness. Pleasing her seemed more important than a gesture to a dead husband. ‘I expect you’re right, Sarah. It doesn’t really matter what I wear up here, with not knowing anyone. Except for church—I’ll still wear mourning to church. I wouldn’t feel right otherwise.’

  ‘Thank Heaven for that,’ Sarah said with exaggerated relief. ‘You really can be very stubborn. And I’ll let you have your way regarding church.’ She smiled. ‘I do know how to recognise an unwinnable argument.

  ‘But not out to the play,’ she added firmly. ‘Your first outing definitely demands something more cheerful than black wool. So what do you think you’ll wear?’

  Amy’s heart sank; cold reality made a nonsense of the whole discussion. ‘The trouble is, that black dress is the only good one I’ve got.
Well, except my blue silk, but I think that’s a bit old, really.’

  Sarah nodded thoughtfully, and stood up. ‘I think we had better check your wardrobe.’

  Amy followed her up the stairs. Sarah set a pace Amy could not match, and when Amy went into the bedroom she found Sarah standing before the open wardrobe, staring at its scanty contents.

  ‘This is all?’ Sarah asked. ‘This is everything you brought with you?’

  ‘Except for the underwear and things, that’s in one of the drawers. Yes, that’s everything.’

  Sarah shook her head, and turned to Amy. ‘You’ve only brought three dresses,’ she said, speaking slowly and deliberately.

  ‘I know,’ Amy said, feeling that she had unwittingly committed an offence against decency. ‘But I haven’t really got any others—not ones that were good enough to bring, anyway.’

  ‘I see. Yes, I suppose I should have thought of that before. Well, I’d better see this blue silk dress, then. If nothing else, it’s not mourning.’

  Amy lifted the dress out of the wardrobe, handling it with the care she felt the fine fabric deserved. ‘It’s quite old,’ she said, trying to excuse the dress in advance. ‘But it’s not worn out or anything.’ She held it up against herself, flattening the bodice over her chest with one hand while with the other she spread the skirt wide.

  Sarah stared at the dress. ‘Goodness, this must be almost as old as I am.’ She took her chin in her hand, tilted her head to one side and smiled, clearly amused.

  Something in Sarah’s eyes, the odd mixture of affection and amusement, gave Amy a jolt. She found herself unexpectedly and painfully reminded of Jimmy; the way he had gazed in admiration when she had appeared before him in this dress for the first time. His admiration had been unfeigned, certainly; but when she called to mind his face it was the hint of amusement she remembered most clearly. Had she ever been more to him than a pleasant diversion in an otherwise boring summer?

  But Sarah’s amusement was too thoroughly suffused with kindness for her resemblance to her father to give Amy more than a moment’s discomfort. ‘It’s a little bit older than you,’ Amy said, and saw Sarah’s eyebrows lift in surprise. ‘I got it before you were born.’ She stroked the dress reverently. ‘It was my first silk dress—it’s the only dressmaker dress I’ve ever had.’