The Tailor's Girl

by Fiona McIntosh

  Clarrie broke down and it hurt Alex’s heart to see his dear old friend – a person he’d loved since early childhood, someone strong and gruff but always kind – weep on his behalf.

  ‘Don’t, Clarrie. I’m back now. Everything is going to be fine.’

  ‘No, Master Alex. You’re too late.’

  ‘Too late?’ He helped the old man to straighten, forced him to meet his gaze in the twilight. ‘Too late for what?’

  ‘For Lord Wynter, Sir. Your dear father passed away, and was buried yesterday.’

  It was as though Clarrie had picked up a club and whipped it as hard as he could into Alex’s belly. He gasped, as if needing to suddenly suck in a lungful of air. Alex lurched away to lean on one of the tall stone pillars that flanked the grand gates of Larksfell.

  ‘I’m sorry, son.’ Clarrie reached out, limping to him as though he was still uncertain whether or not the man bent and groaning before him was a ghost. ‘He slipped away peacefully. The family was around him. No pain.’

  ‘Why? Was he ill?’

  The man shrugged. ‘I believe he died of a broken heart, Master Lex, but that’s likely not the official reason.’ He cleared his throat. ‘He was proud of his sons going off to war but he never came to terms with losing you at Ypres. He didn’t say much to the family, Sir, but we had our quiet moments walking the property and . . . well, anyway, age finds us all out one way or another. I’ll not be long behind him, I’m sure. And perhaps I don’t want to be, now that Mr Thomas isn’t around. We were boys together, you know . . . good friends, just born on different sides of the bed, if you get my meaning.’

  Alex nodded, straightening but still wearing a haunted expression. ‘My mother?’

  ‘She’s up at the house, grieving with the family.’

  ‘My brothers are safe?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Mr Douglas and Mr Rupert are well. Mr Rupert was injured but he’s fully convalesced now.’

  Relief shot through him, overriding the sadness of his father’s passing. There would be the right time for grieving. All he wanted to do right now was hug the family that had survived the war. ‘Oh, that’s so good to hear,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to bring more shock,’ he said, speaking more to himself than to Clarrie.

  ‘No, Sir. Your return is just what this house needs. Your father has been ailing for years. I’m sure Mr Bramson will fill you in.’ Clarrie seemed to have gathered his wits and his voice sounded gruff again. ‘Shall I let him know you’re here, Sir?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Would you like me to accompany you, Master Alex?’

  He shook his head and squeezed the gatekeeper’s shoulder. ‘No, Clarrie. Just let Mr Bramson know ahead and I’ll walk up slowly.’

  ‘Right you are, Sir.’ He grinned. ‘So good to have you back, Master Alex.’

  ‘Clarrie, one more thing. I’m in no hurry to meet everyone except my mother. Would you indulge me and hold off making the call to Bramson for a couple of hours?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘It’s hard to explain. Tell Bramson to expect me but not immediately. When does everyone turn in?’

  ‘Not for hours normally, Master Lex. But in this week of grieving I gather there have been no communal meals of an evening. Most are living in their rooms out of respect for your mother’s mourning in particular.’

  ‘What time is it, Clarrie?’

  The old man checked his fob watch, holding the lantern over it. ‘It’s nearing eight-thirty, Sir.’

  ‘I’ll wait until ten.’

  _______________

  Alex sat on a favourite old tree stump and thought back over the strange day. He was glad to have this peace in the dark to arrange his thoughts and emotions. His father was gone. Where had he, the eldest son, been while his family gathered around as Wynter Senior took his final breath, believing his son lost in Ypres, buried beneath many feet of mud along with tens of thousands of other innocents?

  There was nothing to be gained thinking like this. No amount of soul searching would bring his beloved father back. The main thing was that he was home now – better to push his energies into rebuilding the family and continuing its fortune-making than focusing on the past.

  Easy to say. It felt impossible at this moment not to tease at whose life he’d been living since the injury. He had begun to think of him as the invisible man that would accompany him into every room he entered. And each time from here on that someone laid eyes on Alexander Wynter, they would also unknowingly gaze at the stranger and ask the inevitable question, ‘Where has he been the last few years?’

  But for now the man whose life he had been leading was mute and couldn’t answer their query. And if there was one thing that Alex Wynter enjoyed unravelling, it was a mystery. He’d irritated his siblings by working out their magic tricks or finding them much too fast during a game of hide-and-seek, or spoiling the conjuror’s show at the circus because he was always watching for the sleight of hand. It was hard to surprise him, too. Girls had been complaining since his teens that they could never give him anything that he didn’t already have. They whined that he never showed delight at their gifts of silk scarves, or tickets to the ballet, or ludicrously expensive bottles of cognac.

  ‘They should just give you a five-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle, Lex,’ his mother had once offered in her traditionally sardonic way. ‘Hours of glee for you.’

  His mother knew him too well, for everything money could buy was attainable for him – she also knew that people rarely impressed him either, especially by what they owned. Alex had to sadly admit to himself now that the array of glittering, gorgeous young things that vied for his attention tended to blend into a single pair of lips and a single slimline body sporting perfectly coiffed hair. Such women bored him because in general they were spoiled, used to having their own way and pouting to get it, remarkably heedless of the needs of people less fortunate.

  ‘When you meet someone who surprises you, Lex, then you’ll fall in love with her.’

  ‘But where is she, Mother?’

  He recalled how his still-beautiful mother had cut him her aqua gaze and shaken her head. ‘Not in the circle you move in, darling.’

  How right she was. He’d gone to war an eligible bachelor, despite one close call with Jemima Bartleby, where he had nearly agreed to settle down with a gorgeous woman who’d give him equally gorgeous children and be the perfect partner in every way except the one way that he needed, which was to be in love with her. He didn’t desire a woman who wanted nothing. He wanted an equal, someone with ambition for herself and dreams of her own, someone with skills to admire and conversation that drifted from the hottest new luncheon spot to be seen in.

  ‘I want that exhilarating feeling of love,’ he’d once said to his mother. ‘I’d jump off the cliff from boredom with Jemima.’

  ‘Oh, darling, that’s cruel. She can’t help that she’s dull. Look at her mother. She’s a mouse. At least Jemima has tried to stand out. She’s very beautiful.’

  ‘Yes, but vacant. I spend days with her, and can’t remember a thing she’s said.’

  ‘Money can’t buy you that perfect chemistry, my darling. At least you’ve shown the courage not to settle for second best. I don’t mind if you cast your wild oats far and wide, Lex, but do not be a man who cheats on his wife once you make your decision. That I will not tolerate. So once you have that heart-stopping moment of falling in love and knowing it’s the right person, chase her, commit to her wholly.’

  She was a formidable woman, Cecily Wynter. And she married a formidable man whom she adored; he envied them their relationship. And now that man was gone. He couldn’t imagine how she was coping and yet he knew she would be the one displaying the composure that would set the tone for the rest of the family. She would be its strength. No one could ever accuse Cecily Wynter, née Gilford, of being anything but poised in every situation.

  He wished he had his watch. Where could it be? Perhaps left beneath that same mud in a field i
n Flanders where he’d left his mind?

  Alex sighed. Whatever the time was, he had put off this moment long enough. He pushed himself off the stump in the main grounds and approached the grand hall, hearing the soft crunch of his shoes on the sweeping gravel drive, on which he remembered spinning the wheels of his Harley-Davidson motorcycle, presented to him by his father on his twenty-first birthday in 1912, and for completing his studies at Oxford.

  A few years later and he’d been twenty-five, a captain leading a unit of men – many younger, most older than he . . . all of them counting on that same bravado, all prepared to follow their good-looking, fearless officer, but he’d learned a horrible lesson by then that no man was invincible, no matter how young or brave . . . or rich.

  In between university and heading off to war he’d emulated his father with a keen nose for enterprise, learning everything he could about the diverse family business. Thomas Wynter had invented himself as a business magnate, taking the family fortune made from wool and textile manufacture and moving into everything from agriculture – ‘People will always need to eat, Lex,’ he remembered his father saying – to shipping, to investing in the railways. It was Lex who had urged his father to put money into what he claimed was the future – motor vehicle production – and into the burgeoning shipbuilding industry.

  Wynter and Co. Ltd had its fingers reaching into most of the profitable growth areas in Britain and abroad, and even the wily old Thomas could see that his eldest son possessed an inherent talent for seeing opportunities and making money. Alex’s youth made him take risks that a more mature man might not.

  ‘Just learn from your poor decisions and capitalise on the good ones,’ Thomas had told Lex.

  Everyone in the family accepted that Lex was the eldest and thus heir to the Wynter throne, and he had earned the right, having displayed all the appropriate talent for business and management, to keep the family empire profitable.

  Alex heard dogs barking and grinned at the familiar sound. Gin and Tonic. They’d be old now. Ginny would have to be nearly fourteen. The dogs would have roused suspicion especially as Clarrie would have alerted Bramson by now. As Alex considered this he saw new lights winking on.

  He let go of thoughts of the family firm, although he did wonder if Douglas still felt overshadowed. ‘It’s hard being the middle brother, darling,’ his mother would explain. ‘Easy being you – the dashing and talented eldest. To Dougie it would seem as though you got everything.’

  ‘But what about Rupert? I don’t see him carrying on.’

  ‘And it’s also very easy being Rupert. He’s third in line, with little expected of him, and, being the baby, he has never had designs on inheriting the throne. Besides, he’s spoiled, adored, has your looks in spades and he’s reckless with himself and money – plus, he’s so easy to love, isn’t he? Women adore him. What more could a rich young man want?’ She’d smiled. Alex loved his mother. She saw her three sons clearly and loved them individually; he didn’t think Dougie, no matter what private demons he wrestled with, could ever accuse their mother of treating him any differently.

  The door opened and Alex was dragged into the present. Silhouetted in the doorway was the familiar shape of Bramson.

  ‘Mr Alex, Sir?’ He’d never heard Bramson sound so tremulous. ‘Is it really you?’ he said softly into the darkness.

  ‘Yes, it’s me, Bramson. I’m back.’

  The tall, lean butler, who had started with the family as a houseboy and grown with it in stature, was immensely liked by every family member. He had been the Wynters’ butler since Alex had been packed off to boarding school aged eight. Now the still spry head of staff skipped down the small flight of stone stairs and uncharacteristically hugged the eldest son.

  ‘Er . . .’ He cleared his throat. ‘Forgive me, Sir. I am overcome to see you alive.’

  ‘Nothing to forgive, Bramson.’

  ‘You’re going to make your mother so happy. Her spirits . . . well, I’m sure you understand. I wish . . .’

  Alex saved him. ‘Does my mother know I’m returned yet?’

  ‘No, Sir. I had to come and check for myself. I couldn’t believe what Clarrie was telling me.’

  He nodded. ‘That was wise of you. Let’s go see her, then, and cheer her.’

  ‘I’m so sorry about Mr Thomas.’ Alex swallowed the pain as Bramson spoke. ‘Mr Wynter was – well, almost a second father to me, and as his former valet . . .’ He didn’t continue the thought. Instead he brightened his voice. ‘Your return is going to help ease the pall that’s shrouding this house.’

  ‘Thank you, Bramson.’ Alex was glad his voice was steady. But although he wanted to say more the words clogged in his throat as he began to imagine a world without the towering strength and knowledge – and that booming laugh – of Thomas Wynter.

  ‘I’ll wake the family, Sir.’

  ‘Er, no . . .’ He grabbed Bramson’s elbow. ‘Best not, old chap.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Bramson, this is all very difficult for me. I regained consciousness this morning after falling over and hitting my head. Apart from the splitting headache it delivered, it also returned my memory. You can’t imagine how odd this all feels. I’ve lost years somewhere, no idea where. I am trying to piece it all together but it’s not coming easily. Not coming at all, in fact.’

  ‘Oh, Master Alex. It never occurred —’

  ‘How could you know? Please don’t feel bad. But to wake every­one and have to field their questions tonight, well . . .’ He blew out a breath he felt he’d been holding in since London. ‘I can wait a few more hours for that. I need to . . . um . . . acclimatise again. They’ll all still be here in the morning.’

  ‘Yes, Sir. Your father’s will is being read tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘I see. What ghastly timing I’m showing.’

  In the darkness, they paused and Alex was sure they were both thinking the same thing about how his return now changed everything that the family thought was likely to occur, particularly for Douglas.

  It was Bramson’s turn to clear his throat. ‘I believe your mother is still awake, Sir; Effie took up a small tray of cocoa and biscuits just half an hour ago.’

  ‘Let me go up. I haven’t forgotten the way.’

  ‘Of course, Sir. Can I get you anything?’

  ‘I’m famished, now you mention it. I can’t remember when I last ate.’

  ‘Leave it to me. Um, your old room will be a bit musty, Sir.’

  Alex paused on the steps and grinned. Dim light leaked out from the reception hall to illuminate the men. ‘I could sleep on the floor, I’m so weary.’ And he saw that Bramson looked hardly a day older than he recalled, save the gentle silvering around his hairline, and in that moment felt reassured.

  It was as though everything familiar was pulling him into a collective embrace – from the soft smile of Larksfell’s butler to the waft of beeswax polish that drifted out through the open doors from its grand reception hall. It reached around him affectionately and clutched Alex to its intangible bosom and told him he was safe now . . . He was home.

  He took a slow, deep breath and entered his house. Only small low-lit wall lamps were on so the reception felt uncharacteristically gloomy, but it was appropriate for the grieving household. The house was also unnervingly silent, save the massive grandfather clock that had been chiming away the hours of the family’s life since before Alex was born. He walked up to it now, running his fingers over the magnificent inlaid pattern, and facts filtered into his mind: rare George III, made by Christopher Goddard of London, in the mid-eighteenth century, with Roman hours and Arabic five minutes. The mechanism was made by clockmaker Jennens & Son, also of London, with nine bells for the quarter hour and a beautifully deep and mellow gong that struck the hour. Alex shook his head. How could he remember all of this detail about a piece of furniture and not know where his life had been spent since the end of the war?

  ‘Master Alex?’

  ‘
The clock prompted happy memories.’

  ‘I can imagine, Sir. I took over your role of winding it when you left. You always took the chore seriously.’

  Alex smiled. ‘I begged Grandfather for years, but he said only when I was tall enough to turn the key without a stepladder to reach the winding mechanism.’ He shrugged.

  ‘You were fifteen, Sir.’

  Alex turned to regard the gently sweeping staircase. ‘I presume my mother has not vacated the Lapsang Souchong rooms?’

  Bramson chuckled quietly at the childhood jest. ‘No, Sir, she has not. The Oriental Rooms are still her private suite.’

  Alex cut him a grin. ‘Wish me luck.’

  ‘You shan’t need it.’

  He nodded, and began climbing the stairs, but then took them two at a time, recalling how he used to race up the flight. On the first landing were his and his parents’ rooms. He glanced to the right, where his suite had been located, looking out over the walled garden of his childhood. Upstairs were his brothers’ rooms and a host of guest rooms. Servants lived above those in the garrets, reached by a second series of stairs that the family never used.

  He glanced to his left, steeling himself to ignore his father’s suite and the haunting aroma of pipe tobacco that clung to this part of the hallway and perhaps always would. He pushed past the memories and walked to the end of the corridor, where an arrangement of funereal lilies stood on a marble plinth before the grand mullioned window. He knew tomorrow morning that window would permit this corridor to be flooded with soft morning light, which had nonetheless faded the exquisite Chinese silk carpet upon which he now stood.

  He took a deep breath and, facing the door of his mother’s suite, knocked gently. From behind it he heard muted voices, recognised his mother’s and felt his heart leap.

  The door was pulled back and there stood Effie, now in her early forties but still cutting a much younger figure, with narrow hips and blonde hair. She did not know him in that instant but he didn’t blame her. The light was low, and like the rest of the family she had long presumed him dead.

  He could see his mother’s straight back. She was seated before her dressing table and it was as if time stood still for Alex for several heartbeats. She had been massaging cream onto her hands as she did each evening before bed and Alex was glad to see that routines were keeping his mother composed. The reflection in the mirror that regarded him across the distance of the room looked sunken and haunted – far too thin and as though the entire grief of the Wynter family had been borne by Cecily. He hoped it was the very low lamplight playing tricks, because his mother looked as though the years of his absence had been cruel.