Rutherford Park (26 page)

By the time she was fourteen, her father’s business was failing, and Esther had been given enough money to buy a uniform and go into service. For a while she had toiled in a large house in Dewsbury,
where the owner was a coal merchant and the house stank of coal dust, but after a year she had found a job as a companion and housekeeper to the widow of a vicar. The elderly lady could afford only one servant, and by luck Esther had sprung into the job. She had been obliged to wear ordinary dress after a while; the lady, having no children, took to her as a surrogate daughter. It was here that the keys of a house had first hung around her waist: the keys to the outside doors and the pantry and the garden gate.

She never went out, except to church. And it was only kneeling in church that she felt anything at all; a thrill something like the excitement of the parachute lady and the sequined angels took hold of her when she sang the hymns. She was raised up in her heart; she came back to earth only when her solidly shod feet hit the pavement outside the church when the service ended.

Esther Jocelyn had come to Rutherford when she was forty years old. She had no family; her parents were long dead, and her single brother gone to Canada. She came to the house when Lord William was still unmarried, but nevertheless middle-aged, and she had made herself instantly indispensable. Lord William, it seemed, reserved his smiles only for her in those days; he appeared to be lonely at Rutherford. She knew that he went to Paris, and the rumor that he had a woman there, but she didn’t believe it. He was too good for that. The house never gave him a moment’s anxiety from the day she had walked in the door; the hiring of servants, the arrangement of dinners and shoots, the necessities of the kitchens—all that she had taken from his hands.

It had been a terrible shock when he had told her that he was to be married.

He had called her into the library as usual one morning after breakfast; she had stood with her pen and paper, ready to note down any engagements or alterations to the menus. There had been a very
successful dinner party two days before, and a dozen houseguests; she had been primed to accept his usual compliments. He had looked up from his desk as she had entered.

“Mrs. Jocelyn,” he had begun. He had waved his hand at a chair. “Won’t you sit down?”

It had shocked her; she never sat. He smiled broadly at her and waited until she was settled. “I suppose you recall our guests,” he had said. “Those who stayed with us just recently.”

“Yes, of course…”

“Miss Bairnswick in particular?”

Miss Bairnswick. The frail beauty whom the maid—so she was told—had had to coax out of her coat as she sat in her bedroom. All eyes, all quivering hands. Bradfield reported that she had said barely a word all during dinner. Esther had admired Lord Cavendish for taking pity on her, alone now in charge of the Blessington mills.

“Yes, indeed,” Esther had replied. “Poor child.”

William Cavendish had raised an eyebrow. He began rearranging the papers on the top of his desk, dropping his eyes. “Quite so—a sorry situation.”

She waited, confused at his evident embarrassment. Had the maids failed in some way? Had the Bairnswick girl complained? Surely not. She looked consumptive; she looked as if she had been kept indoors all her life. Perhaps Lord William felt some kind of responsibility for her, Esther had reasoned to herself; after all, the responsibilities of such an industry as the girl’s father’s were great, and it might be argued that Blessington was almost a neighbor. It had been kind of his lordship to invite trade to the house, but she had no doubt that it would be merely a passing gesture.

“I expect Miss Bairnswick to be coming here again,” William had said, at last meeting her eye. “I expect her to be here rather soon.”

Esther had frowned. That was certainly an inconvenience; she
had planned for a thorough cleaning of the guest rooms. It was November, and she wanted everything to be perfect for Christmas. Besides which, Lord William never had anyone other than gentlemen to stay in the autumn; he was interested in nothing more than the shooting, and forbade wives to accompany their husbands. Rutherford had become known, in its cold and drafty state, as a man’s house.

It was a reputation that Esther Jocelyn had particularly enjoyed. In the dilapidated great hall and in the Tudor rooms upstairs, she was the dominating—and for many months of the year, the only—female presence other than the maids. In her secret heart she was almost Lord William’s wife—or at least his
house
wife. She worshiped him with silent, uncritical devotion; she belonged to him and to Rutherford, and she was convinced that it would never alter; they had a life together.

William was standing up behind his desk; she gazed at him now, perplexed.

“Miss Bairnswick and I are to be married,” he told her. “Next month, in London. I hope we have your congratulations, Esther.”

It was the first time he had used her Christian name. That was all she could think of at first as she had descended the stairs. She had no recollection at all of what her reply had been to him; she had, she hoped, said all that was necessary and polite. But she could not remember doing so. She remembered only the curious and unfamiliar light in William’s eyes, and realized that he was…She had been about to say “happy,” but it was not happiness. It was accomplishment. There was no romance in it, she had concluded; she knew him well enough to realize that. But he was certainly pleased. She had had to stop on the curve of the stairs beyond the green baize door and breathe deeply at the thought that she would have to tolerate the birdlike and beautiful Miss Bairnswick, and no doubt would be expected to teach her the way that Rutherford ran.

She had gone into the kitchen and given Cook the menus for the day, and then she had gone walking through the stillroom and the laundry room and the storerooms. She had not quite registered where she was and what exactly she was doing until she had seen Mr. Bradfield in the butler’s pantry. He had been fastidiously cleaning the silver that he did not trust to the kitchen maid, his back turned to the door, his shoulders hunched in that familiar and unbending way.

“He is getting married,” she had said, in a daze.

Bradfield had turned, looked at her, and briefly nodded. “He’s told you, then.”

“Did you know?”

“I’ve heard from
them
,” he said. “My brother is in service in Blessington.
She
has been talking. He has said nothing to me.”

They nodded conspiratorially at each other; it was
she
from then on. Not Miss Bairnswick, and not, for some time after the marriage, Lady Cavendish, but
she
. It was
she
who had upset the apple cart;
she
who had come in as a stranger.
She
, the little frightened one who had, as it turned out—rather rapidly and to Mrs. Jocelyn’s disappointment—a mind of her own.

And though Esther Jocelyn never spoke a word of it to a living soul, her new mistress was also the
she
who had taken Lord William away from her.

* * *

E
sther Jocelyn sat back on her heels now, her hands still clasped to her chest.

She looked up at the mantelpiece and the two songbirds under their curved glass dome. Two little bluebirds perched on a branch, forever facing each other. It had been a present to her from Lord William on his marriage, and although when he gave it to her he had said that he hoped she would always look favorably on the
image of the two Beckforth bluebirds, and that they would remind her of her master and mistress, she had always favored another identity for the smaller bird of the two. She had imagined that he had given her an image of themselves—he and she—as they used to be: two sitting alongside each other, facing outwards, sealed forever in beautiful companionship.

Esther Jocelyn got slowly to her feet.

She stood for some time gazing around her, first at the birds, and then at the religious texts that she herself had embroidered and that were now framed on the wall. She looked at the picture of Elisha raising the Shunammite’s son, a Bible card illustration that she had bought on her annual holiday. She thought of Lord William on the day he had announced to her his engagement; of the birth of the children; of the quiet and predictable way that Rutherford went on from year to year. She thought of her duty to maintain it. And of how pleasure—the pleasure of painted angels and flying through the clouds—was empty and perishable. Painted angels falling—that was what pleasure was. It was show; it was theater; it was illusory and dangerous. It was her duty to protect this house against temptation; to defend it against the call of the devil. And it was her duty to protect William Cavendish most of all.

Early this morning, she had gone to the library to make sure that everything was in place before Lord William had returned. She had lingered for a while, running her fingers along the spines of the books, taking a handkerchief from her pocket and polishing the desk and chair to a deeper shine. Stepping back out into the great hall just before she knew that the maids would come to sweep out the rooms, she had looked up at the Singer Sargent portrait of Octavia.

It was then that a movement on the gallery above had caught her eye.

In the six a.m. shade of the summer morning, she had seen
Octavia Cavendish walking softly along the upper corridor. She had seen her look back over her shoulder, and heard another door opening; in a moment, John Gould had appeared. He had said something to Octavia; he had caught her by the wrist. And then he had kissed her.

Esther had pressed herself back against the library door.

And she had been thinking all day of her four-year-old self, lying on the rainy grass so many years ago, seeing the sequins falling through the cracks of the wooden cart stage, and realizing that every angel had feet of clay.

* * *

L
ouisa sat on a bench in the shade of a tree near the Long Water in Kensington Gardens. She read the letter from her father once again; it gave her train times to return to Rutherford, and the news that Charlotte was being brought back from Brighton, where she had spent the summer with friends of the Stanningfields. He said that she must come at once, that it was important that the family should be at home. Carefully, she folded the single sheet and replaced it in its envelope, and looked out over the water towards Hyde Park.

She had brought Florence with her today, but had sworn her to secrecy. “I have to meet Maurice Frederick,” she had confessed the night before.

Florence’s eyes had widened. “Is it wise?”

“Please don’t question me,” Louisa had replied. “I should like you to walk with me and then leave me for a quarter of an hour. Surely that isn’t too much to ask?”

Florence had considered her friend. A change had come over Louisa in the last two weeks; she was much less frivolous than usual. Her sunny nature seemed to have been replaced by an excited irritability. She spoke less but objected more. She had not wanted
to join the family on trips, and explained it by feeling ill. And yet Florence was convinced that Louisa had been out on her own despite declaring herself to be sick; the cook had hinted at it several times—that Louisa had not taken luncheon, or not been in the house for tea. Worried, she had taken Louisa’s hand.

“Won’t you tell me what it is?” she had asked. “You may trust me.”

Louisa had bitten her lip. “I can’t say.”

“It’s Mr. Frederick who is making you unhappy; that much is obvious.”

There had been a long silence. “He is going back to France.”

“Oh?”

“He fears there will be a war. He says he must go and see his mother. She is alone.”

“Alone?” Florence had repeated. “Has he no other family?”

“None at all,” Louisa said. She had gripped her friend’s hand tightly. “I must say good-bye, do you see?” she whispered. “Father wants me to go home, and Maurice is leaving. There won’t be another chance. He is going the day after tomorrow.”

Florence had sighed. “I suppose I might walk and look at the new statue in the gardens, the one of Peter Pan.”

Louisa had smiled and kissed her. “Thank you,” she had said.

“But…” Florence had paused. “Do be careful, dear. You will, won’t you?”

“Yes, of course,” Louisa had replied. “Of course.”

* * *

T
here was a little tea stall in the gardens; Louisa could see it quite clearly across the way. Through the trees, she watched Florence walk slowly, stop at the railings by the river, and then glance back. Louisa raised her hand briefly. She saw Florence go to the seats, sit down and order something. She put up her parasol
and angled it in Louisa’s direction, as if to indicate that, while nearby, she would still afford her friend some privacy.

Maurice came precisely at three. The distant clock was just striking. She thought, as he walked up to her, that there seemed to be no anxiety in his face; he was completely in command of himself. She admired him for that. He touched his hat and sat down at her side. They sat together for almost a minute without speaking until he turned to look at her. “I am sorry for this,” he murmured.

“It’s not your fault.”

He shook his head. “Ah, but it is all my fault,” he replied.

“It’s been both of us,” she said. “Isn’t that true?” Despite her determination not to do so, Louisa began to cry. She thought her whole body might break with misery; she couldn’t breathe. Seeing her distress, he quietly took her hand.

“Must you go?” she asked. “Might you come with me to see my parents before you leave?”

“There would be no use in that,” he said. “They would despise me for even knowing you.”

“That’s not true,” she said. “I would make them like you.”

He frowned at her. “Louisa,” he murmured, “I do not know what the future holds. In a few days I think reservists will be called to the army….”

“No,” she said. “Not if you’re in England with me.”

He now gripped her hand in both of his. “Darling, if my country is at war, I must fight. I can’t hide here.”