The elopement, p.6
The Elopement, page 6
On Friday he bears the news that Mr Lethbridge is recovering and will come on Monday. Today is the last time I shall ever see Bartek. Fate is kind and this morning we are alone. Verity has another engagement and although I ring for a maid, no one comes. I expect they are all busy; if I rang again, someone would come in a trice. But I do not.
This morning he wishes to paint me in the silver dress, seated. He already has plenty of sketches of different backgrounds, so we simply stay in the parlour. ‘So, Mr Bartek,’ I say when he is underway, ‘today is your last visit to Garrowgate Hall. I wish to thank you most sincerely for your courtesy and excellent work on behalf of Mr Lethbridge.’
They are thin words compared with all I feel. Like many proper young ladies, I am conversant with the language of flowers though I believe few love them as I do. Today I’ve arranged carnations from our conservatory in the vase at my side. They say eloquently all that I cannot. The pink carnations mean I will never forget you, the red My heart breaks and the magenta and white striped carnations are a reminder to myself: I cannot be with you. I doubt he will understand any of it, but this is the only language I have.
He pauses, wet paint gathering on his brush and threatening to fall on the page until he carefully lays it aside. I have never noticed the colour of his eyes before, only ever his gilded skin and hair. His eyes are green, the crystal green of lakes in summer. My head swims a little.
He clears his throat and frowns. ‘It was pleasure, Miss Blythe. Such enjoyable week of work for me. That I must hand work to maestro, that is not pleasure. Not to see you again . . . is not pleasure, for me.’
I feel my face flood scarlet but I am glad he said it. ‘Nor for me,’ I whisper, hanging my head and grateful with every fibre of my being that Verity is not here. For then I would not have the opportunity to speak true.
‘Please not to put down your head.’
‘I beg your pardon, I shall ruin your watercolour sketch.’
‘Is not for sketch. It is for to see a lady such as you in distress is most hard for me. To see you anything but proud and happy, this is most hard for me.’
I can’t speak. But I look at him. What can we do? There is no way that Bartek and I could be together and I am not the bold sort to defy expectations. I barely know him. I only know that he brings a joy and an excitement to my days that I hardly know how to live without. All that without ever leaving the confines of Garrowgate Hall.
‘I bring for you something,’ he says, to my surprise. ‘Please.’ He reaches into his artist’s satchel and rummages, drawing out a battered book, much thumbed, with binding that sags. He holds it out to me hesitantly and I take it as though it is a smouldering coal.
‘Scènes de la vie de bohème,’ I read. ‘By Henri Murger.’ I look at him enquiringly.
‘Your French pronounce exquisite.’
I wrinkle my nose. ‘Thank you, but I fear my pronunciation is the only thing about my French that is. I have ladylike contemporary French that allows me to get by as a tourist. I’m not sure it is up to a . . . is this a novel?’
‘Yes, a sort of, though based on life of writer. No expectation for you to read, but help you understand me a little better perhaps. Is old book, forty, fifty years, but perhaps you know the opera?’
‘There is an opera?’
‘La Bohème, of Puccini.’
‘Why, good heavens! I had no idea it was drawn from a book. How ignorant I feel. Have you seen it?’
He shakes his head. ‘No, I cannot pay for opera, but the book has been my friend long time. I loan it to you only for I must have it back.’
‘Well, of course! Thank you, Bartek, I shall be fascinated to read whatever I can understand. Only, how shall I return it to you? I could send it with Mr Lethbridge next week?’
‘No, not him. I would not entrust to him a treasure. That is why next week, for me, very hard.’
I blush again. ‘I have heard . . . I am not looking forward to it, suffice to say. Especially after you have been so very . . . chivalrous.’
‘Be firm with him, Miss Blythe. He is not monster, only he takes chance where he sees.’
‘I see. Thank you.’
‘And book, you could return at studio by post if you wish. But I wonder, would you care for a walk some time with me? Only a walk, I presume nothing. I know . . . how things must be. But I cannot stop thinking how beautiful to be to walk with you. Beautiful to give lifetime of happy memories.’
No point suggesting a chaperone, for a full army would not reconcile my parents to any unnecessary interaction with Bartek. No point in agreeing to a walk that would almost certainly make us wish for more. No point at all. Yet I find myself agreeing. ‘It would need to be . . .’ I look at him with deepest apology, for it is not easy to say to a man that he is not good enough.
‘Secret. I know,’ he says matter-of-factly.
‘I think the best way would be to go very early in the morning. My family rise late. Would that be possible?’
‘For you I rise with sun. You do me greatest happiness, Miss Blythe.’
We agree to meet on a quiet corner of Hampstead Heath a week from the following day. I have never taken such an enormous risk in my life. If I should be seen! We conduct the rest of the session in silence while my mind churns and worries and plans and hopes and chastises. And Bartek cannot stop smiling. His joy is ill-contained and he is even more beautiful like this than when he is professional and decorous. I have done that, I think. And it strikes me, perhaps fatally, that although I have spent my whole life living to please others, I have never before made anyone look so happy.
Ten
Olive
The following Monday I am glad to arrive home from the office. It’s been a productive day, but a long and tiring one, and the weather is improved, but not by much. I’m glad to step inside, take off my wet coat and shake out my hair, which is cold and clings to my neck. Clover comes racing into the hall when she hears me. ‘Mama!’ She hurtles down the vast, mosaicked expanse and throws herself at me. I catch her up and swing her around, pretend-groaning at her weight.
‘My goodness but you’re growing!’ I exclaim. ‘Do you sprout every time I leave the house?’
She laughs, kicking her feet in the air. For all she is getting taller, I can still lift her clean off the ground. Thank goodness. When I adopted her I had first intended to take an older child but that didn’t work out. The first girl, Gert, didn’t want me. It seems she was just too damaged by her life to open herself to the possibility of kindness. Now, though my heart still bleeds for poor Gert, I am glad of it, for every day with Clover is precious and already almost-six feels too old. I want her with me for ever. Her laugh is a gurgle, her long honey-coloured hair spills down her back in curls, caught up in a purple ribbon. Clover is as fair as I am plain. ‘I do!’ she boasts. ‘Every time you go out, I eat some Eat Me bread and I get bigger.’ We have been reading Alice in Wonderland together.
‘Well, that explains the mystery. Where’s Angeline? What have you been doing today?’
Chattering, she tows me into the drawing room where I find both my parents and Clover’s companion Angeline much engrossed in mugs of cocoa. Like all of Mabs’s siblings, she’d been hungry for too long to stay indifferent to food. Now she eats and drinks as if making up for lost time. We had Dr Stickland examine her for a worm but there was none. Now neither Mama nor I nor any of the maids can deny her any snack or treat she wishes for. When she came to us she was a wisp, a little malnourished fairy. Now there is a decided chub to her frame, which I will only worry about if she starts to look unhealthy. Just now her plump little tummy and round, rosy cheeks look so beguiling with her dark, glossy hair, which she always begs to wear in ringlets. She looks just like a doll I had when I was small.
Both my parents are watching her fondly. Considering they were originally against the idea of me adopting a child, they didn’t take long to fall in love with Clover when she arrived, and then with Angeline a few months later. I don’t like to say I told them so – but sometimes I do.
I give Angeline a hug and kiss my parents. My mother wipes the trace of a cocoa kiss from my cheek. ‘How was the day, darling?’ she asks. Both my parents are inordinately proud of my work at the foundation. My mother in particular often weighs in with ideas and counsel.
‘Very good,’ I tell them, sinking gratefully into a comfortable chair at the fireside. Clover clambers onto my lap with a book which she waves hopefully under my nose. ‘In a while, my darling. Let me talk to Grandmama and Grandpapa first. We received a small donation from Adrian Gibbs. Remember him?’
‘Good Lord, yes,’ says Papa. ‘My old banker of many moons ago. How the devil is he?’
‘According to his letter he’s well and retired to Brighton. His daughter told him about the Westallen clan’s latest eccentricities. He asked for his regards to be conveyed to you.’
‘Splendid fellow,’ Papa murmurs. The number of worthy men and women Papa knows is testament to his sterling character and the esteem in which he is generally held. No wonder I am unmarried; no man could ever measure up to my papa.
‘Then that street-thief masquerading as an unfortunate came back again. I don’t know why he bothers. He must know we’ll recognise him.’ Our policy for criminals is to offer them support and education to help with a new start, but not to give foundation funds that could benefit others. He’s not interested in a fresh start but seems to be operating under a conviction that we give away free money to anyone who asks for it. We sent him away yet again.
‘And then Mr Gladstone talked me and Mabs through the month’s accounts. Not the most interesting activity but essential, and, of course, it’s gratifying to see that it’s all working like clockwork and our work looks sustainable.’
Mr Gladstone is the manager of the charity. He saves me from troubling my head with uninspiring things like finance and administration and Mabs is learning all the ropes from him. He is of retirement age and swore he would only stay with us a year, but Mabs and I hope he will stay for ever.
Our maid Anne brings me some hot tea and a scone, which Angeline eyes covetously. ‘I’ll bring you one in a minute, poppet,’ says Anne, putty in her hands. ‘Can I get you anything else, Miss Olive?’
‘No, dear. This is perfection after a long, cold day. Thank you.’ I wrap my hands around my teacup and sigh luxuriously. How I do love home. It is full of the people I love and Mama has made it so beautiful. Everywhere I look there is something lovely – an oil painting, brightly coloured wallpapers, a graceful fall of drape in some lustrous fabric. She has the gift of making interiors fashionable yet timeless, beautiful yet entirely comfortable. There is nowhere in all the world like Polaris House, so-named for the guiding star that brought my sea-captain father safely back to us, again and again.
A knock at the door interrupts our peaceful family reverie. Another of our maids, Jenny, who is also one of Mabs’s sisters, announces Mr Harper.
‘Show him in, Jenny, by all means,’ says Mama. ‘Is that all right, Olive? Will he mind being confronted with the entire family?’
I shrug. ‘I am too tired to move. The cold in that office creeps right into your bones. It gives me an inkling of what it’s like to live somewhere that doesn’t have fires or hot water. Let Mr Harper find us as we are.’
Jenny nods, winks at the girls and returns a moment later with Mr Harper, who maintains his composure when faced with a chorus of greetings. ‘And which of these is your little girl?’ he asks, gamely confronting the children. ‘This is Clover,’ I tell him, hugging the darling on my lap. ‘Please forgive me not getting up, Mr Harper, but I have a warm, heavy impediment. And that is Miss Angeline Daley, Clover’s companion.’
Angeline jumps to her feet and performs a divine little curtsey, pointing her feet with balletic grace. In the slums of Saffron Hill she often went shoeless. Now her black patent pumps are the one possession she would save from a burning building and she misses no opportunity to show them off. ‘Good evening, Mr Harper,’ she declaims. I smile at her. Good girl.
He bows. ‘Good evening, Miss Daley. Oh! Daley? Any connection to . . .?’
‘Her sister.’
‘Ah.’ Again, he is confounded. If I do say so myself, I have a real flair for unconventional living arrangements. In addition to Mabs’s sister Jenny coming to work as a maid here at Polaris House, her brother Jem was placed as an errand boy and general helper with my good friend Julia Morrow, though he is more like an adopted son to her than an employee. If people can be happy living together, and have all their needs met, what does it matter whether or not they are related, whether or not society would have put them together?
My parents make Mr Harper welcome. He takes a seat but declines tea and cake. ‘I’ve come unannounced and I shan’t stay long. I only wanted to tell you about Will Brown’s first day with me. I thought you’d want to know.’
‘You thought aright, Mr Harper. Please tell me everything.’
‘Well, he’s a promising lad. He was cock-a-hoop to be there, you may imagine. I set him to some very simple tasks, ordering paperwork by subject, sealing letters and so on, but as he carried them out, I explained their function, so he might learn. Several people came for meetings, a supplier, the representative of a firm I sell to and a fellow about our new contract . . . I had Will sit in on them all. He listened with a keen attention, Miss Westallen, and asked me a great many questions afterwards. His interest was rewarding, I must admit. Tomorrow I plan to show him the jewellery workshop, then on Wednesday I thought he could go out with my associate Mr Branden when he visits another jewellery firm. He must make himself useful, of course, but he will not get an overview of the business by sitting in my office shuffling paper for a month.’
‘It sounds splendid,’ I tell him. ‘Better than I could have imagined.’
‘Exactly what we hoped when we first began to conceive of the foundation, in fact,’ interjects Mama. ‘It is most kind of you, Mr Harper.’
‘Well,’ he fudges. ‘I don’t know about that. Merely as, er, a trustee, you understand . . . But the thing is . . .’
‘You enjoyed having him,’ observes Papa. Always he is a perceptive reader of men. ‘It does you credit, Mr Harper. Nothing is more rewarding than nurturing the next generation.’ He smiles fondly at his two small girls, who have now crept towards him and are sitting at his feet stuffing their hair ribbons into his socks. He affects not to notice. ‘Will you stay for dinner?’
‘Sadly I am promised to my aunt tonight, but thank you, sir.’ Mr Harper stands and bows.
‘Another time.’ Papa rises and shakes his hand, then pretends great amazement at his beribboned ankles, sending the girls into gales of giggles.
‘Show Mr Harper out, Olive,’ Mama instructs me, with a meaningful look.
I raise my brows haughtily and stand with great state. ‘I was about to, Mama. Mr Harper, thank you for calling and for your report. It’s much appreciated.’
I show him out and he looks around the hall with its brightly coloured geometric tiles and the golden sprays of forsythia that brighten the corners. ‘A welcoming prospect,’ he comments.
‘Well, my family welcomes you whenever you wish to call. Goodnight, Mr Harper.’
‘Miss Westallen . . . we have known each other some months now. Might you consider calling me Lionel?’
‘Well, certainly! So long as you call me Olive.’
‘Olive. I wonder . . . would you care to accompany me to dinner in the West End some Saturday evening? I know a very tasteful little place and I believe it would interest you.’
I pause. If I say yes, will I give him the wrong impression? For that matter, what is the right impression? I do like the idea of dinner in the West End. My life of late has been small children and big ideas; some of the more usual pleasures people enjoy have got rather lost in the middle. A dinner is not a marriage contract. I only worry that he may think we are courting; I would not like to lead him down a garden path. But dinner would give us ample time to talk more frankly.
‘Thank you, Lionel. That sounds most enjoyable.’ He smiles and tips his hat, then disappears into the cold, grizzling night.
Eleven
Pansy
When Pansy awoke the following Thursday, she felt all at sea. If she wasn’t to hurry to Mr Ollander’s and jump in the cart to Elstree, what on earth was she to do? She felt a little worm of unease in her tummy. Her mother had banned her – not for ever, but for some weeks to come. Pansy had her quest – she just didn’t know where to start.
Last Thursday, Eveline had come down in her school dress just as they were finishing their conversation, rubbing sleep from her eyes, blonde curls sticking up every which way. She had left herself time only for a slice of thickly buttered bread and a gulp of milk. ‘What’s happening?’ she’d demanded, sensing the atmosphere.
‘Pansy’s not going to visit us next week,’ Laura had said calmly, clearing their plates and loading up a new one for her younger daughter. ‘She’s going to leave the Blythes and find something that makes her happy.’
‘Oh, thank God!’ Eveline had declared. ‘You must tell me all about it when I get back from school.’ She hugged her sister and Pansy felt the sleepy warmth of her body and the familiar scent of her skin. It tugged her heart back to a blissful remembered childhood but her mother was right. She couldn’t go back. She could stay at Garrowgate Hall or she could go forward into the unknown; those were her only two choices.
‘I have news too, Pansy. I applied for a job!’ Eveline came fully awake then, brimming with excitement. ‘I’m going to teach piano to young children at a music school in Camden when I finish school in June. I’ll have room and board and I’m going to study music in the evenings so that I can improve and get an even better job one day. We’ll talk more later.’
