Hidden, p.13
Hidden, page 13
When she tackled him in the privacy and shelter of the old glasshouse, Mr Mitchell took the liberty, as he put it, of expressing his opinion, which was that Captain Carlyle was “not right in the head”. Since Mr Mitchell knew for a fact that the Captain carried his service revolver, no amount of money would persuade him to stay, especially since the master was convinced there were German spies hiding in the shrubbery. He might take a pot shot while Mr Mitchell was going about his horticultural business!
Esme was embarrassed and appalled. She hadn’t known about the revolver. Accepting Mr Mitchell’s resignation, she offered her profound apologies. The elderly man, who had known Esme for more than three decades, softened and said, ‘It’s none of my business, Mrs Carlyle, but you be careful now. I’ve seen cases like this before and you never can tell what ideas a man’s going to get into his head. These poor devils see the enemy everywhere. Danger round every corner! Yesterday Captain Carlyle pulled out his revolver and pointed it at me – and for all I know, it was loaded!’
‘Oh, I’m sure it wasn’t,’ Esme said, though she was sure of no such thing. ‘But you must have felt very alarmed.’
‘Insulted, is what I felt, Mrs Carlyle. To be mistaken for the Boche! At my time of life, after losing one son at Ladysmith and another on the Somme! My loyalty to my country and my long service to your family have never been questioned before.’
‘No, of course not, Mr Mitchell. I think of you almost as part of the family, which is why I’m so very sorry you feel you must leave. But I understand your reasons. I can only apologise. I do believe,’ she said, her eyes filling with tears, ‘that my husband is ill, but try as I might, I cannot persuade him to see Dr Brodie.’
‘Now that’s a great pity, because Brodie was a military man himself. He’d be able to talk to the Captain man to man, so to speak.’
‘Yes, that was my hope.’
‘Well, I’m very sorry to leave you without a replacement, Mrs Carlyle, and I won’t pretend it will be easy to find one, because all the able-bodied men have been conscripted, but at least there’s not much to do at this time of year in the garden. Come the spring though…’ He shook his head as he contemplated his successor’s workload. ‘Maybe the war will be over by then and all the lads will be home, wanting their old jobs back.’
‘Let’s hope so, Mr Mitchell. Thank you for being so understanding.’ Overcome at the thought of losing yet another member of her extended “family”, Esme turned and stepped out of the shelter of the glasshouse, into the damp, chilly air. Shivering, she hurried away, back to the house where she ran upstairs to her bedroom. Once inside she locked the door and gave way to tears of despair.
Esme failed to appear for luncheon, but Guy did not enquire why.
*
Later, Esme washed her face and tidied her hair. Regarding herself in the mirror, she thought it obvious she’d been crying, but Guy rarely looked at her, so she decided to attempt a conversation before Hannah brought tea.
She found him in the library where he spent much of his time, gazing out of the windows over the moat to the wood and fields beyond. He turned and said, ‘Ah, there you are, Esme!’, then resumed his surveillance of the garden.
‘I’m glad the view still affords you so much pleasure, even in winter,’ she said to his back. ‘Some would find it a bleak prospect.’
He still didn’t look at her, but said, ‘You know, I doubt I shall ever become accustomed again to the beauty of the English countryside, not after what I saw in France. Can you imagine it, Esme? Of course you can’t! No living thing for miles around, apart from us and the Boche. And the infernal rats and lice, of course. Even the trees – what was left of them! – were just broken, blasted stumps. Skeletal. Sticking up like giant fingers out of the mud.’ He finally turned to face her but their eyes didn’t meet. ‘You’d see that, you know. Fingers… Chaps’ hands sticking up out of the mud. Sometimes there was a live man on the end of them. That’s how they found me.’ He raised his good hand in the air and wiggled his fingers. ‘A shell buried me alive, but I could feel rain on my fingers and what I took to be rats running over them. So I knew my hand must be protruding from the earth. I kept moving my fingers, hoping a stretcher bearer would notice a disembodied hand waving. Someone did, thank God.’ He turned back to the window. ‘So you see, I never tire of looking at your trees––’
‘Ours, Guy. They’re our trees. This is your home now, as well as mine.’
‘Oh, quite… What was I saying?’
‘How you enjoy looking at the view.’
‘Ah, yes! Indeed, I do. It’s very soothing, even in winter. There’s still a lot of green, isn’t there? The lawns… the conifers… And that beech hedge really brightens the old place up.’ He nodded his approval and continued to gaze out of the window, as if indifferent to Esme’s presence.
‘You’ll love it here in the spring, Guy. First come the snowdrops. There will be clumps of them everywhere. And then the narcissi and the daffodils. I’m always so glad to see them. Then in May the woods will be carpeted with bluebells. There will be so much for us to see and enjoy together.’ She approached him cautiously and laid a hand on his arm.
At her touch, he turned and looked down at her hand, as if surprised. Esme withdrew it and, folding her hands in front of her, said, ‘Could I have a word with you, Guy? Would now be a convenient time?’
‘As convenient as any,’ he said grudgingly. He arranged his stiff and awkward limbs in an armchair, rubbing his wounded leg which always troubled him after he’d been standing for a while. ‘What is it?’
Esme remained standing and hoped this would lend her some authority. ‘It’s a domestic matter,’ she said firmly.
‘The servants?’
‘Yes. Mr Mitchell has given notice and I fear Hannah might.’
‘Indeed? And why is that?’
Esme was dismayed. She’d hoped it wouldn’t be necessary to explain. ‘Hannah says she wants to go home to help out on the family farm. Her mother is ill and her father can’t manage, she says.’ Esme thought it best not to add that Hannah had also said she couldn’t sleep at nights for worrying whether Captain Carlyle would one day attack her with a poker when she was tending the fires.
‘Well, good riddance!’ said Guy. ‘I’ve never known anyone make such a confounded racket. Banging doors, riddling the fire, tipping coals out of the scuttle. And the way that girl clears away the tea things! A cacophony! She’s a source of constant, noisy interruptions, Esme. I’ve had to have words with her on more than one occasion. If I’m to get over this bout of nerves, I need quiet.’ He raised his finger in the air and wagged it. ‘Absolute quiet.’
‘Yes, of course. I understand.’
‘Do you?’ he said, his look accusatory. ‘I doubt that very much. I mean, this business of fires… Are they really necessary?’
She stared at him in astonishment. ‘Why, yes! It’s November. Of course we need fires.’
‘Well, I don’t feel the cold myself, so you needn’t light any on my account. I’d just as soon not have to put up with all the commotion. And if Hannah’s going to give notice, who’s to do it?’
‘I would replace her, of course. If I could find someone suitable,’ Esme added doubtfully. ‘But I’m hoping to persuade Hannah to stay.’
‘Why bother? These girls are more trouble than they’re worth.’
‘I’m not sure I agree, Guy. I should hate to have to carry coals and lay fires. And I’m rather fond of Hannah. Perhaps she is a little clumsy, but she’s a good girl and she’s been employed at the Mote for many years now. With no family left, the familiar faces of our servants mean more to me than perhaps they should.’
Guy made a dismissive noise, then said, irritably, ‘Keep a fire in the studio and your bedroom, if you wish. That won’t trouble me. But I don’t want them in the rooms I use. I don’t like the smoke. It reminds me, you see…’ He hesitated and she noticed a wild look in his dark eyes as they began to shift rapidly back and forth.
‘That’s quite all right, Guy,’ Esme said hastily. ‘There’s no need to explain. The weather is quite mild at the moment.’
‘Exactly so, and coal is expensive now it’s in short supply. We should do our bit for the war effort, Esme.’
‘But when we have visitors––’
‘Well, there’s another thing. Must we have visitors? It’s just more work for Mrs Talbot and if you don’t manage to replace that wretched girl…’ He shrugged. ‘I’d prefer not to receive visitors, if you don’t mind, at least until I’m over this bout of nerves. All the chitter-chatter and clattering of teacups and spoons – it drives a man mad! And the banging of that blessed doorknocker! When your visitor arrived yesterday – one of your models, I suppose?’ Esme nodded, dumb with shock. ‘Well, upon my word, I thought I was being shelled all over again. Gave me a very nasty turn, I don’t mind telling you! But I’ve been wondering, Esme, do you really need all these models coming and going? I’m not happy about it, you know. I’m afraid I must insist on peace and quiet until I’m over this bout of nerves.’ Guy regarded his wife and took her appalled silence for acquiescence. He smiled. ‘So no more visitors, eh? You could paint still life pictures, couldn’t you? Bowls of fruit, flowers in a vase, that sort of thing?’
‘There aren’t many flowers at this time of year.’
‘But you mentioned snowdrops just now.’
Esme bit back a retort and clenched her fists. After a moment, she said with studied calm, ‘I’m known for my portraits, Guy. And they sell very well. So I need models to sit for me.’
‘I’ll sit for you!’ he exclaimed. ‘You said you wanted to paint me, didn’t you? Or what about self-portraits? You’re a good-looking woman, Esme. I’m sure anyone would want to buy a picture of you. It’s just that the place would be so much quieter without all these comings and goings… The endless chatter and the laughter. Oh, my word, yes. People cackling away! It really grates on my nerves, no doubt about it.’
Esme put a hand to her forehead and said, ‘Would you excuse me, Guy? I have a headache and this… this is all such a lot to take in. Could we resume this conversation later?’
‘Of course, my dear. You see? We both need peace and quiet.’
Esme didn’t reply, but turned and walked out of the library, shutting the door behind her with elaborate care. Once out of the room, she ran along the corridor to the study, a room now mostly used by Guy. She picked up the telephone intending to ring Dr Brodie’s surgery, but found the line was dead. In front of her on the blotter lay a pair of sharp scissors, open as if they’d been used, then laid aside. Esme looked down at the trailing telephone cable. It hung free, neatly cut through.
She knew who had done it and why. She also knew what he would say if she mentioned it… The postal service is remarkably efficient, even in wartime, and there are always telegrams for urgent matters. That infernal ringing was playing havoc with my nerves…
She sat down at the desk, her head in her hands, fighting down waves of panic. After a few moments, she sat up and drew a piece of writing paper towards her and scrawled a hasty letter. She put it in an envelope and addressed it to Dr Brodie.
It was four miles to the surgery, but Esme was so frightened and angry, she didn’t care. She would have travelled twice the distance to get away from Guy, even for just an hour.
If Alasdair was not at home, his housekeeper would take the note. If she wasn’t there, Esme would post the envelope through the letterbox. He would read it. He would know. He would come and bang the door knocker until someone let him in and then she would no longer be alone with the madman she had married.
*
Esme led the pony out of the paddock and over to the coach house where she put on his harness and hitched him to the trap. The rain was getting heavier but she decided there was no turning back now – in any sense.
As she headed for the dirt track that led to the road, Esme looked over her shoulder more than once. If Guy was still standing at the window, or if he should step outside for a breath of air… But no one would venture out in weather like this. No one in their right mind.
The pony was frisky and excited. Esme regretted that he didn’t get more exercise, but since her stable boy had enlisted, Mrs Talbot’s young nephew had exercised the pony and Esme rarely put the animal in harness. She knew how to handle the trap, but was by no means confident and the pony sensed it.
Her destination was Brodie’s surgery in Tonbridge. The light was fading now and heavy cloud and driving rain made for poor visibility and difficult driving conditions. Esme had come out in a hurry and chosen an unsuitable coat and hat. What on earth had she been thinking? In truth, she hadn’t been thinking of anything other than escaping the confines of the Mote.
If she held on to her hat, Esme was unable to control the pony. Gathering the reins in one hand, she reached up, extracted her hat pin and, before the wind could blow it away, snatched the hat off her head and wedged it between her knees, stabbing the pin into the crown.
The pony swerved wildly at the sight of a black cow leaning over the hedge and Esme was thrown to one side of the trap. She tugged on the reins and called out, trying to calm the pony with the sound of her voice. He trotted on, more steadily now and Esme had leisure to appreciate how hungry and thirsty she was. She’d eaten nothing since breakfast and knew her current feeling of light-headedness was not entirely due to the miles she was putting between herself and her husband.
She was also cold. Now that her hat no longer protected her, rain trickled down her neck and inside her clothes. Wet strands of hair had come loose from their pins and her shoulders were wet where the rain had soaked through her unsuitable coat. Oh, why hadn’t she worn her riding cape?
She could scarcely see the pony’s hindquarters now as the gusting wind blew hair across her face, obscuring her vision. She let go of the reins with one hand and pushed her hair back from her forehead, noting how chilled her hands felt, but she was more concerned about her letter and whether it would still be dry. She’d concealed it inside her clothing, next to her skin, determined that, if Guy should discover her in the coach house and take it upon himself to interrogate her, he wouldn’t see the letter. But her clothes were now so wet, Esme felt sure the ink must have run, rendering the superscription on the envelope illegible. She hoped the letter itself would still be dry. Even if Alasdair could do nothing to heal Guy, it would be a relief to consult him, to unburden herself to a sympathetic ear, so that at least one other person would know what she had to endure.
When she finally drew up outside the surgery, she wondered what she would do with the pony. She’d forgotten to bring a nosebag and oats to keep him occupied. Alighting from the trap, she hailed a small boy sheltering in a doorway. As he approached, she smiled wearily and said, ‘Would you like to earn a penny? Could you mind my pony while I deliver a letter to Dr Brodie? I shan’t be long.’
The boy eyed the pony warily. ‘What’s his name, miss?’
‘Montmorency, but I always call him Monty. What’s yours?’
‘Arthur, miss. Shall I lead him to the horse trough and let him drink?’
‘That’s a good idea. Thank you, Arthur.’
As he led the pony away, Esme mounted the steps to the surgery, shivering convulsively. She rang the bell and waited, staring fixedly at the brass plate bearing Brodie’s name. There was nothing she could do about her appearance now. Her wet hair trailed over her shoulders and hung down over her face. She realised she must look an alarming sight. Her legs were about to give way beneath her when she heard heavy footsteps, followed by the rattle of the lock as the door opened to reveal Brodie himself. Esme was so surprised to see him open his own door, she forgot the speech she’d prepared for his housekeeper. She stood on the step, dumb and dripping.
Brodie looked down at her, astonished. ‘Esme! Good grief, what has happened? Och, come away in out of the rain! You’ll catch your death,’ he said, stepping back and opening the door wide.
‘I just wanted to deliver… There’s a boy… My pony…’ She pointed, inarticulate with misery.
He put his fingers to his mouth and gave a piercing whistle. Arthur and the pony lifted their heads.
‘Take the pony round the back, there’s a good lad,’ Brodie called. ‘There’ll be threepence for you later.’
The boy grinned, yanked at the pony’s bridle and led him away.
‘Esme, for God’s sake, don’t just stand there – come in!’ He reached out and took her arm, guiding her up the step and over the threshold.
As he closed the door behind her, she stood on the doormat, clutching her ruined hat. ‘I’m very sorry. I was expecting to see your housekeeper.’
‘It’s my day off, so she takes a half day in the afternoon. Is it Captain Carlyle? Is he ill? Are you, Esme? Why ever didn’t you telephone?’
‘He cut–– The telephone’s not working. And–– And I needed to speak to someone. I wrote you a letter. Just a note. I need you to call at the Mote. To see Guy.’ She paused to gather her thoughts, struggling to summarise the deterioration in her husband’s condition. Unequal to the task, she said simply, ‘He’s worse, Alasdair. Much worse.’ The hall appeared to sway and she knew she was about to faint, but Brodie’s arm went round her waist and his other hand supported her arm as he half-led, half-dragged her towards the dimly-lit waiting room. He pushed open the door and set her down on a plain wooden chair, then sat beside her.
‘I apologise for the lack of ceremony, Esme, but I think the only way you’d manage to get up to the parlour is if I carry you. Which I’m perfectly willing to do.’
