The House at Tyneford (8 page)

Mrs. Ellsworth turned back to me. “In the morning I’ll show you your duties. Tonight you can ’ave an early night.”

I nodded dumbly, my mouth full of bread and cheese. She pushed a small pile of laundry across the table at me.

“Tomorrow I want to see you wearing these. And we’re goin’ to have to talk about your hair.”

I wiped my hands down my skirt and picked up the clothing: a white cap and apron. The symbols of my new life and I hated them already.

I
went to bed early, in a small room under the eaves. It had sloping ceilings, and I couldn’t stand up in two-thirds of it, so I lay down on the bed (in my cotton pyjamas, finally having the confidence to remove my dress without fear of fleas) and stared at the rough wood beams. They had jagged saw marks all along the sides and had never been sanded—why bother to smooth beams in a maid’s attic? Yet the room was scrupulously clean and newly whitewashed and if there had only been a small fireplace, it might have been cosy. I set the pictures of my family and Vienna on the single chest of drawers. The Belvedere Palace looked rather incongruous in the spartan surroundings. There was no radiator or light switch, and I sprawled by candlelight, feeling like one of Anna’s operatic heroines, save for the fact I was cold, miserable and without an applauding audience. From a tiny window I glimpsed a sliver of slate-grey sea turning to shining black as daylight faded into dusk. There was a knock at the door, and a white envelope slid underneath.

I shot up and, clutching the sheet around me, waddled to the door, but when I opened it no one was there. I stole into the corridor and glanced about. Empty. Shrugging, I padded back into my bedroom and, picking up the letter, closed the door. The envelope was postmarked Vienna and I recognised Margot’s curling handwriting. I ripped it open and began to read.

I snorted. Margot was always so desperate to include me in her music—to her it was like I was blind and she needed to find ways of showing me how to see. I’d given up explaining that I loved listening to music and felt no longing to play. I’d find her the conch, and I’d take it to America, then she’d realise what a ridiculous idea it was. At the word “America” I felt a pain in my chest. It was even farther from me than Vienna, across a wider sea.

I pinched my arm to stop myself from crying. It was Margot’s lack of commas that did it—she sounded breathless, chattering without a pause like she did when she was excited. Sometimes I hated her, but I enjoyed hating her from nearby. From this distance I’d soon forget how much she annoyed me, and I’d miss her so much it would become unbearable. I screwed up my eyes and concentrated on all the things about my sister that tormented me: she filched my books, underlining the passages she liked with purple ink; she strutted around my bedroom in her silky underthings, displaying her superior bust; sometimes when we fought, she pinched the rolls of baby fat around my middle between her fingers; and she always looked better in my clothes than I did. No, none of this made me miss her any less—despising my sister was a luxury belonging to the old life. I looked forward with greedy anticipation to the moment when I could hate her again.

I picked up the white maid’s cap and sauntered over to the small mirror propped on the plain wooden dresser and held it up to my hair. Even Margot couldn’t make this look good, not even if she spent an hour in the bathroom with peach lipstick, powder and the rouge sent from Paris. I dropped it on the floor in disgust, kicking the apron with my bare toe.

Art had lugged up my trunk and bags while I was in the kitchen with Mrs. Ellsworth, and I decided to unpack. I had never unpacked my belongings before; we always had maids of our own to perform such tasks, and after we were forced to dismiss them, Hildegard and the Jewish daily kept our drawers tidy, and our clean linen continued to appear monthly, starched and folded. For the first time since I had departed Vienna, I unlocked the trunk and folded back the lid. Sure enough, the vast volume of Mrs. Beeton’s
Household Management
rested on the top, like a brooding hen. I felt almost glad to see her, as though I had a piece of Hildegard with me. I still had no intention of actually reading it. I shoved the undergarments into various drawers, then pulled out my skirts and dresses, spreading them carefully upon the bed. I had a tiny razor blade among my wash things, and, sitting cross-legged on the blankets, I set about retrieving the valuables from their hiding places, trying not to slice my fingers and bleed over the clean clothes. I felt along the hem of each skirt before hanging it up in the wardrobe, and soon I had a small stash of gold, which I placed inside a stocking and shoved in the back of a drawer. Anna had packed in layers of tissue paper the soft pink evening gown I’d worn that last evening. I didn’t know when she had sneaked it in and, while I realised that I would never have occasion to wear such a dress, I should be glad to see it hanging in my wardrobe, a memento of better times. When I lifted it, I noticed that the hem was rumpled, as though something was concealed within. Taking the razor blade, I unpicked the extra layer of stitching and carefully drew out a snake of white pearls. Anna’s pearls.

I sat on the bed as the evening dulled into darkness, and listened to the breakers on the beach. The string of pearls shimmered in the candlelight and I ran my fingertips along the smooth beads, pale as drops of milk. The stowaway pearls revealed Anna’s doubt that I’d ever see her in New York. I pulled them through my fingers, again and again, unwilling to fasten them around my neck, in case they choked me.

I fell into a fitful sleep, but the sound of the sea kept invading my dreams. I was carried on a ship into a far-off land, but it was not America, and I knew we sailed the wrong way to reach Anna and Julian and Margot. I howled at the captain to turn the boat around, but two muscled crewmen with wolfish faces picked me up by my arms and cast me into the sea. I thrashed and tried to scream, but my lungs filled with burning salt water. I awoke with a cry and found myself soaked with sweat, the bedcovers as wet as if I had drenched them with a bucket of water. My candle had burned out and it was pitch-dark. I took deep breaths, in and out, in and out, until I felt my heartbeat slow to a steady thud, and decided to go to wash my face.

I padded along the corridor in bare feet, feeling my way as if I were playing a lonesome game of blindman’s bluff. I had never been afraid of the dark or nighttime noises, and I willed myself not to be scared now. I had not noticed the bathroom on my way upstairs, and I had been directed to an outside privy when I’d requested the toilet. Several doors led off the corridors, but, not wanting to disturb May or any other maids who might be sleeping, I decided to creep down to the yard and splash my face outside in the cool air. The back stairs lay in total darkness and I groped my way down, keeping one hand on the banister, managing not to stumble on the narrow treads. I emerged in the corridor beside the kitchen and hurried along to the back door. It was unlocked and I stepped straight out into the moonlit yard.

The cobbles were cold beneath my feet and slippery with dew. As I skidded, stubbing my toe on a broken stone, I realised that it might have been sensible to put on my shoes, but then, I only ever thought of sensible things when it was too late. Mr. Bobbin’s brown-and-white-dappled head rested on the stable door; his eyes were closed and he snored softly. I smiled; I’d never heard a horse snore before—only Julian when he’d had too much brandy from the decanter in the dining room after a good dinner.

The night air held a chill and I shivered in my damp pyjamas, but I liked the quiet. There was no one around but me and I experienced a rush of satisfaction. For now I was free from worrying about how to behave, what to say, which words to use, and, if I wanted, I could skip around the silent yard without anyone scolding me for inappropriate displays. I stretched luxuriously, revealing my belly to the night, and gave an unladylike yawn. My hair was sticky with sweat and clung to my face and I decided that I would wash, despite the cold. An old-fashioned water pump with an iron handle stood in the middle of the yard. I’d watched the stable boy use it earlier before scrubbing Mr. Bobbin, and I mimicked his movement, pushing the handle up and down until a steady stream of water sluiced my feet and gushed over the cobbles. Kneeling, I shoved my head under the flow, trying to pump at the same time, and managed to rinse my hair as well as spray myself with freezing water. The cold took my breath away, emptying my mind of all thought save for the sensation of icy liquid washing through my hair and over my cheeks and trickling down my neck. It was not unpleasant, and the rush of water crowded out my tumbling worries. The pump squealed and whined, filling the empty yard with the sound, so that it took me a moment to realise someone was speaking to me.

“Hullo?”

I scrambled to my feet, banging my head against the pump. A pain exploded above my eye and I crouched, rubbing my forehead. The next moment, a man was kneeling beside me, pushing my wet hair out of my face with his fingers.

“Are you bleeding? Or is this water? I can’t see. Come into the light.”

I allowed myself to be led into the corner of the yard, where a yellow oil lamp rested on a mounting block. The man touched my forehead where I’d cracked it against the pump. I was too embarrassed to look into his face, so I stared at my bare, slightly grimy toes.

“No, you’re all right. I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to frighten you like that.”

I looked up and saw in the gloom a man of about forty with dark hair and a slight smile playing around his eyes. Anna would have called him handsome, but I knew that men of forty were far too old to be considered any such thing.

“Christopher Rivers,” he said.

“Elise Landau,” I said, offering him my hand.

He glanced at my proffered hand for a moment, before clasping it warmly between both of his. I reddened, suddenly remembering that I was a maid now and didn’t shake hands with gentlemen. I realised how strange I must appear to him, standing in the middle of his stable yard in the middle of the night in a pair of drenched pyjamas. When he released my hand, I folded my arms tightly across my chest.

“It is very pleasant to be making your acquaintance, Mr. Rivers . . . sir,” I added as an afterthought, recalling that this was the way English maids addressed gentlemen.

“Charming to make yours, Elise,” said Mr. Rivers, doing his best to repress the smile that was spreading from his eyes to his mouth.

I glanced back down at the cobbles. No man other than my father had ever addressed me by my first name before. In Vienna, only fathers, brothers and lovers used a lady’s familiar name. The few men I knew always called me “Fräulein Landau,” or “Fräulein Elise” at the very most, and when this tall man called me by my first name alone it sounded intimate.

“May I suggest that you go back inside? You are rather wet, and I would not like you to catch cold.”

“Yes . . . erm. Mr. . . . erm. Sir.”

“Mr. Rivers is just fine.”

I nodded and, squeezing out the water from my long plait onto the yard, I turned to go inside the house. As I reached the back door, he called out to me.

“Elise?”

I hesitated, my hand on the door handle.

“I think it best that neither of us mentions this meeting to Mrs. Ellsworth. We meet in the morning as strangers.”

“Yes, Mr. Rivers.”

I can’t be certain that the moon was full, but if it wasn’t it ought to have been. Whenever I think back to that night, I see a white lantern of a moon hanging over the stable yard, the wind shivering in the marram grass. As in a dream, I am both the girl in the scene and some other self, watching her. I see Mr. Rivers sliding back the girl’s hair, and I feel the warmth of his fingers on my forehead. I watch that other Elise cross the yard and slip into the dark house.

And then I lay in the dark, staring up at the blackened ceiling beams of my little attic room, twisting my wet plait round my arm, twisting, twisting.