The Thornthwaite Betrayal

by Gareth P. Jones

  Lorelli opened another drawer and pulled out a notepad and pen. She opened it up and started to write. She wrote:

  The Tsar and the Dressmaker

  By Lorelli Thornthwaite

  Settled Dust

  Hazel always rose early and got straight to work. Nurse Griddle had never been involved with the day-to-day housekeeping, so with Mrs Bagshaw gone it was down to Hazel to keep on top of the dusting and cleaning. She knew Lorelli would be swimming across Avernus Lake so she made her way up to clean her room. Lorelli enjoyed her early-morning swims but Hazel had no interest in stepping into the icy cold water that had claimed her father’s life, especially as his body had never been recovered. With the dusting done, Hazel made her way down the spiral staircase, where she encountered Nurse Griddle on the landing.

  ‘Hazel. What are you doing in Lorelli’s room?’

  ‘Cleaning, ma’am.’

  ‘While she sleeps?’

  ‘She has gone for a swim.’

  ‘She is a reckless girl,’ replied Nurse Griddle. ‘How is your finger?’

  ‘Better, thank you, ma’am,’ said Hazel.

  Nurse Griddle took the duster and polish from Hazel’s hands. ‘Cleaning products will only aggravate it.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Sorry.’

  ‘I am not telling you off. I am showing concern.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Thank you.’ Hazel curtsied.

  ‘I have never been a naturally maternal person. Compassion and affection come easily to Mrs Bagshaw in a way that they simply do not to me.’

  ‘Is that why you gave me away for Mrs Bagshaw to bring up, ma’am?’

  Nurse Griddle acknowledged the impertinence of the question with a brief twitch of the lips. ‘No. Not just like that. Your father died before you were born. When I first saw you, I looked into those hazel eyes of yours and all I could see was him. I could not bear it.’

  ‘You gave me away because I looked like him?’

  Nurse Griddle handed the duster and polish back to her. ‘We cannot change the decisions we made in the past.’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  An uncomfortable silence followed.

  ‘You have plans for the day?’ asked Nurse Griddle.

  ‘I’m going to see my …’ Hazel stopped herself saying the word mum. ‘I’m going to see Mrs Bagshaw.’

  ‘I see. I’m sure she appreciates your visits,’ said Nurse Griddle. ‘Would you like me to look after dinner preparation?’

  ‘If you please, ma’am, Beaufort said he would cook.’

  ‘Beaufort? Oh, the chef. I keep forgetting he is here too. What’s he like, this French cook? I’m yet to meet him.’

  ‘Chef, ma’am. He’s wonderful, ma’am.’

  ‘Wonderful?’

  Hazel shrank under Nurse Griddle’s gaze. ‘I mean only that he is a good chef.’

  ‘The word you used was wonderful.’

  ‘His food tastes …’ Hazel looked at her feet. ‘He is a good chef, ma’am.’

  ‘I’m sure he is, but what is he doing here? Why are either of them here?’

  ‘Mr Marshall is the twins’ uncle.’

  ‘I am aware of that,’ said Nurse Griddle impatiently, ‘but he was their uncle last week and the one before. You see my meaning? Why would he turn up now?’

  ‘I don’t know, ma’am.’

  ‘We need to keep an eye on him. And this wonderful chef of his. Remember, first and foremost it is our duty to protect our young masters. Thornthwaite Manor may be in a state of disrepair at the present moment, but these old bricks, and the land upon which they reside, amount to a vast inheritance.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. I have to go now. I must chop onions for Beaufort.’

  ‘Onions? You should be thinking about what you want to do with your life. Don’t limit yourself as I have done.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. I will think about that after I’ve chopped the onions.’

  ‘You should be more your own person, Hazel. You’re a capable girl. You owe it to yourself to follow your dreams.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Be more independent-minded.’

  ‘I promise I will be. Please may I go now?’

  ‘Yes.’ Nurse Griddle sighed heavily. ‘You may go.’

  Water and Fire

  With all the recent changes, Lorelli found it comforting to cling onto her old habits. Since the truce, trying to kill Ovid was no longer an option so she spent as much time as possible on other pursuits such as horse riding and enjoying dawn swims across Avernus Lake.

  She had put on her swimming costume in the dark, grabbed a dressing gown and made her way down to the far side of the lake. It was bitterly cold as she got in but the sun was up by the time she was climbing out the other side. She felt that warming post-swim glow that made her skin tingle.

  Thornthwaite Manor loomed in front of her. Its distinctive curved southerly towers were silhouetted against the morning sky. With so much in shadow, the only colour was the red tip of the central tower, lit by an early-morning sunbeam. It cast Lorelli’s mind back to the great fire. Sometimes she wondered if it would not have been better if it had torn down the entire building. She looked up at her bedroom and imagined flames. She felt as though black clouds were closing in on the central spire. Her thoughts were so dark, it took her a moment to realise that these things were not in her head. It was real smoke. They were real flames. Her bedroom was on fire.

  Lorelli broke into a run. Blood pounded in her ears as she ran full pelt across the dewy grass. She didn’t notice Tom’s lawnmower until he drew level with her and yelled, ‘Hop on!’

  She jumped on the back of the mower and he put his foot down. ‘I was on my way to feed the horses when I saw it,’ he said.

  As they got closer, they saw that the flames were gone and the smoke was dissipating. Ovid, Hazel and Nurse Griddle had gathered on the steps outside the main entrance.

  Tom stopped the lawnmower in front of the driveway and Lorelli jumped off. ‘Where’s everyone else?’

  ‘Dragos and Harry are up there, trying to contain the fire,’ said Ovid.

  ‘What about Beaufort?’ asked Lorelli.

  Hazel said, ‘He refuses to leave the kitchen because he is making crêpes, miss, and he says he would rather burn to death in the quest for perfection than escape with his life and a disappointing crêpe.’

  ‘Ridiculous,’ exclaimed Nurse Griddle. ‘When I meet this man I will give him a piece of my mind.’

  ‘This reminds me of that time I filled your teddy bear with paraffin,’ said Ovid.

  ‘Teddington never really recovered,’ replied Lorelli.

  Nurse Griddle looked at them sternly. ‘I do hope we are not returning to those days.’

  ‘This had nothing to do with me, if that’s what you mean,’ said Ovid. ‘I was fast asleep.’

  ‘Hazel, you were up there this morning,’ said Nurse Griddle.

  ‘It wasn’t me, ma’am,’ said Hazel.

  ‘I meant, did you see anything that could have caused this?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  Dragos appeared at the door, closely followed by Uncle Harry wearing a pair of sooty pyjamas. Both men held fire extinguishers and smelt strongly of smoke.

  ‘Well, that’s one way to start the day,’ said Uncle Harry.

  ‘It is dangerous way,’ said Dragos. ‘It is lucky I put up fire alarms. Otherwise, this object would have burnt whole place to the ground.’ Dragos held out Lorelli’s glass statue.

  ‘The statue? How?’ she said.

  ‘Refracted sunlight.’ Ovid clicked his fingers.

  ‘Yes,’ said Dragos. ‘It started fire on bed. You are lucky you were not there.’

  ‘It works like a magnifying glass. The sunlight hits Lorelli’s room around quarter to seven at this time of year,’ said Ovid.

  Lorelli turned to face him. ‘You seem to know a lot about this.’

  Ovid shrugged. ‘I tried the same thing once. Don’t you remember? You woke up to f
ind Cowell’s tail on fire?’

  ‘Yes, I still have the claw marks in my neck. The poor thing was terrified,’ said Lorelli.

  ‘It did give a whole new meaning to the phrase “putting the cat out”.’ Ovid snorted with laughter and Lorelli smiled in spite of herself.

  ‘I’m having trouble following you,’ said Uncle Harry. ‘Are you saying this has happened before?’

  ‘They joke,’ said Dragos sternly. ‘They should not joke. Fire is no joking matter.’ Dragos handed the statue to Lorelli. ‘This is dangerous item. Where is it from?’

  ‘It was a present from a friend,’ said Lorelli.

  ‘It is a dangerous present. I would not be calling this person friend,’ stated Dragos.

  ‘Is he always like this?’ said Uncle Harry, winking at the twins. ‘Come on, it was an accident. The twins aren’t worried and it’s hardly going to happen again.’

  ‘This fire and the falling chandelier,’ said Dragos. ‘Too many accidents since you arrived.’

  ‘I would be careful who you accuse of what,’ said Uncle Harry. ‘Now, shall we go and try these crêpes that my chef risked life and limb to make? I’ll be driving to the village after breakfast if either of you would like a lift.’

  Uncle Harry’s Delahaye

  The crêpes were magnificent. After breakfast, Uncle Harry brought his car around the front of the manor. Lorelli had never had any interest in cars but even she could appreciate Uncle Harry’s vehicle. It was ostentatious yet classy. Old-fashioned but in perfect condition. The stripes were showy while the tinted windows made it totally private. Uncle Harry opened the driver’s door and pulled the seat forward so that Ovid could climb into the back. He pushed the seat back and Lorelli got in the front.

  ‘This is a million times better than the old banger Tom drives us around in,’ said Ovid. ‘I like the windows. It makes you feel cut off from everyone else.’

  ‘The idea is to stop curious eyes.’ Uncle Harry started the car. ‘The problem is that when people can’t see something they become even more obsessed with looking. Make it appear like you’ve got something to hide and everyone wants to know your business.’

  ‘Have you got something to hide?’ asked Ovid.

  ‘Oh, lots.’ Uncle Harry indicated left, then pulled out onto the main road towards Little Fledgling. ‘You don’t get to my position without picking up one or two enemies on the way.’

  ‘Nurse Griddle said they call you Heartless Harry,’ said Ovid.

  ‘Some people do. And I doubt the journalist who came up with that stroke of genius earned half the money I donated to charities last year.’

  ‘Why do they call you it?’ said Ovid.

  ‘Because it sells papers. I’m not saying I haven’t been ruthless, but I’ve always had scruples.’

  ‘She said you bought a zoo and then sold off all the animals,’ said Ovid.

  ‘Yes. In fact, that was one of the things that brought me here. It wasn’t just any zoo. It was where your mother and I used to go when we were kids. Going back there brought back all those memories. Zoos are strange places. Martha and I, we loved all those animals, but as an adult it wasn’t the animals I saw. It was the bars. It was the cages. They triggered a series of memories, which led me here, to this splendid cage of yours: Thornthwaite Manor. If anyone understands what it is to be imprisoned, it is you two.’

  ‘Nurse Griddle doesn’t trust you,’ said Ovid.

  ‘She is rightly very protective of you. All your servants are. It’s no wonder. It’s what they are paid to do. I’m family. Talking of which, I wonder if you wouldn’t mind showing me the spot where my sister is buried once you have run your errands. I’d like to pay my respects.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Lorelli.

  ‘Great. So who wants dropping where?’

  ‘The library, please,’ said Lorelli.

  ‘The library?’ Uncle Harry sounded surprised.

  ‘Lorelli helps out there,’ said Ovid. ‘I’m going to the post office.’

  ‘The library and the post office. What thrilling lives you both lead.’

  Lorelli’s Little Secret

  As far as Ovid was concerned, once a week Lorelli helped out at Little Fledgling Library, where she put books back on shelves, organised displays and updated the database. Sometimes she went into great detail about the cataloguing system to avoid him learning the truth that she had persuaded the librarian, Miss Wilde, to help her write her novel. When Lorelli had first suggested it, Miss Wilde had refused. She said writing was impossible to teach, but Lorelli was determined to learn from the author of her favourite novel, The Seven Dances of Franciska Tˇoth, and eventually Miss Wilde gave in.

  Lorelli found Miss Wilde sitting at a table, reading a book, wearing her usual colourful collection of mismatched clothes. Lorelli sat down and took out her notebook.

  Miss Wilde looked up from her book. ‘Lorelli,’ she said vaguely, ‘how are you getting on?’

  ‘Good,’ said Lorelli. ‘I wrote four pages yesterday.’

  ‘That sounds promising.’ Miss Wilde closed her book. ‘Are you still working on the one about the Victorian deep-sea diver?’

  ‘No. I went off that one. This is a new one about a Russian dressmaker.’

  Miss Wilde sighed and removed her glasses. ‘I see.’

  ‘Her dresses are so admired that the Tsar requests she make him a suit.’ Lorelli loved the tingle of excitement she got from telling Miss Wilde about her stories. ‘So the dressmaker makes this suit for the Tsar, although I don’t know which one because I haven’t researched that yet.’

  ‘But you will, of course,’ said Miss Wilde.

  ‘Of course. So she has to go to measure the Tsar and they …’

  ‘Fall in love?’ interrupted Miss Wilde.

  ‘Yes, but there’s more. It turns out he’s dying and he wants the suit because his body will be on display to the public.’

  ‘Charming,’ said Miss Wilde.

  ‘You hate it,’ said Lorelli.

  ‘No. I don’t hate it. It sounds like a good idea. Bleak, but then that is nothing new.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I liked last week’s idea about the deep-sea diver who got the bends on his wedding day and had to decide whether to go or not. I liked the one before that about the magician who was trying to make a potion that could make him forget his dead wife and the one about the scarecrow who fell in love with a crow. I like them all, Lorelli. Your ideas are rich, vivid and exciting.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘But they are not stories. Not yet. They are single-cell organisms. They need to evolve. Instead, every week you come back with a new beginning. There is nothing wrong with starting books, but if you want to be a writer then you must learn to finish them.’

  ‘Yes, but it has to be the right one.’ Lorelli placed her pen on the table, making sure it was perfectly in line with the notepad.

  Miss Wilde reached over the table and knocked the pen so that it was at an angle. ‘Does it?’

  Lorelli straightened the pen. ‘Yes. There’s no point finishing a story you’re not a hundred per cent sure of.’

  ‘I think there is a point for you,’ said Miss Wilde. ‘You are too concerned with perfection. Stories are imperfect things. They let you down. They wriggle away from your control. And sometimes you have to write short, ugly sentences just because sometimes, as a writer, you have to say short, ugly things. Non-poetic things. That is why it’s called prose. My fear with you is that you begin a story and the moment it shows any sign of imperfection you give up and start a new one. If you want to progress you must stop striving for perfection and learn to finish something.’

  ‘So I’ll finish this one. As soon as I’ve researched that period in Russian history …’

  ‘No.’ Miss Wilde snatched Lorelli’s pen and waggled it at her in frustration. ‘No more delays. No more research. No more new ideas. Write your story, Lorelli.’

  Lorelli was taken aback by Miss Wild
e’s stern words.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Miss Wilde handed Lorelli her pen. ‘It’s just I’ve been under a lot of strain recently.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  Miss Wilde held her gaze, momentarily lost for words. ‘I … The library is up for sale.’

  ‘For sale?’

  ‘Yes, there have been cuts. There are always cuts.’

  ‘But they can’t sell the library.’

  ‘Why not? Because people should have a right to access books whether or not they can afford to buy them? Because the benchmark of a civilised society is one that values learning and knowledge above profit? Because if we deny books to those who cannot afford them, we all become poorer?’

  Lorelli felt a pang of guilt. She was anything but poor, and her reasons for objecting were entirely selfish. ‘It’s just … you can’t not have a library,’ she muttered.

  ‘I’m afraid you can.’

  ‘What will you do if it closes?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She stood up and placed her book back on the shelf. ‘Perhaps I will take a leaf out of your book and write.’

  ‘Oh yes. You could write a sequel to Franciska Tˇoth,’ said Lorelli.

  Miss Wilde shook her head. ‘Barely anyone read the first. Why would anyone want a second? But you should not worry about me. You must focus on your own passion. Do not put obstacles in your way. Other people will do enough of that for you. The only way to finish something is to start it.’

  Ovid’s Little Secret

  As far as Lorelli was concerned her brother was going to the post office to pick up a parcel for Nurse Griddle. In truth, he was standing across the road from Hartwell’s Rare Meat Emporium, peering through the grubby bus-stop glass at Millicent Hartwell. She was behind the counter, selling bison burgers, elk steaks, wild boar sausages and whatever else her father had in stock that week.