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This time when she rang, the door was opened almost immediately. But not by a butler. A maid stood there with a big smile on her face. She gave her name as ‘Annie, miss,’ and with a curtsey said, ‘Welcome to St Martins House, miss. May I take your coat?’
Dottie was relieved by this pleasant welcome and most of her nerves left her.
Annie conducted her across a gloomy hall crammed with the dusty collections of several generations and into the drawing room where the family had assembled to meet her. If Dottie thought she’d have time alone with Cecilia Cowdrey to talk or to at least greet one another, she was mistaken. Dottie was perfectly accustomed to entering a room full of people, but on this occasion, it was horribly as if she’d come out onto a stage at the theatre, and a demanding audience was expecting a performance superior to any she could give. They were all looking at her.
A tall young man came forward, a sardonic grin on his face. He held out his hand. ‘Cousin Dottie, welcome to St Martins. We’re delighted to see you. I’m your cousin Guy.’ Taking Dottie’s hand, Guy leaned to kiss her on the cheek, then drew her after him to make the rest of the introductions.
First was her aunt, Cecilia Cowdrey, looking so like Mrs Manderson, and so like Guy, tall, slim, but her carefully controlled hair was iron-grey where Guy’s was dark. Aunt Cecilia came forward to kiss Dottie’s cheek with cold lips that barely touched her. ‘Hello dear. My, how very like Lavinia you are.’
That surprised Dottie, and threw her a little off-balance. She couldn’t remember anyone ever saying that she resembled her mother physically, and in this particular case, it seemed rather an odd thing to say. There didn’t appear to be anything in the remark, yet it puzzled Dottie, as did Guy’s curious emphasis on the word ‘cousin’. She managed a polite smile and was then abruptly enveloped in a tight hug by her cousin Imogen, who warmly kissed Dottie on the cheek, in total contrast to her mother.
Looking at Imogen was a little like looking in a mirror. The similarities between herself and Imogen added to Dottie’s sense of things feeling rather odd. It hadn’t occurred to her there may be a familial resemblance, and it was disconcerting. Imogen was slim and tallish, though not quite as tall as Dottie. Her hair was dark and wavy, as Dottie’s was, and her eyes too were dark. Then there was the shape of the brow, the chin. There was no doubting they were related. Imogen wore no make-up, however and the only jewellery she wore consisted of a dainty brooch, such as ladies of the previous generation favoured, pinned on the brown jacket that matched her skirt. She looked rather more than her twenty-nine years of age. Her skin was pale and dry-looking, with lines around the eyes and mouth. But her smile was warm, lighting up her soft dark eyes. She was clearly very excited to see Dottie, and Dottie felt very grateful for that.
‘It’s all my fault, you’re not angry are you? Mummy says I’m a fool, but I couldn’t help it, I just had to do it.’
Dottie looked at her, confused.
‘It’s my fault. You arriving early, I mean. You see it was me who invited you to stay. I put the note into the envelope for you. Not Mummy. I didn’t tell Mummy until yesterday that I’d invited you.’
The penny began to drop. Cecilia Cowdrey said in her low voice which conveyed displeasure. ‘She didn’t even do that right. Stupid girl. My own fault, I suppose, I shouldn’t have trusted Imogen with a letter to take all the way downstairs to the hall table.’
‘Will you forgive me? It just seemed like too good a chance to miss. The envelope hadn’t stuck down properly, so I quickly ran upstairs and wrote a note for you, inviting you to come and stay. I expect I put the wrong date. I’m so, so sorry. But I was just so excited at the idea of you coming here.’
She did indeed look wretched, Dottie thought, and excited. Dottie smiled.
‘Of course I forgive you. I’m very glad to have come.’
Imogen gripped Dottie in a tight hug, and exclaimed, somewhat like a child, ‘Oh goody! Thank you, thank you!’
She grabbed Dottie’s arm and led her away from Guy and Cecilia, towards the room’s two other occupants, chattering the whole time.
‘It’s so lovely of you not to mind. I’m so excited you’re here, Dottie. It’s lovely to have you here. May I call you Dottie? Or do you prefer Dorothy? Dottie? That’s lovely, Such a lovely name. And this is our big brother Leo, and his lovely wife June. Oh this is lovely!’ Imogen added as Dottie smiled and said hello to Leo and June.
Leo shook Dottie’s hand rather too firmly, and gave her a tight thin smile, but said nothing, whilst his wife leaned forward with her neck, without moving her feet, and kissed the air three inches from Dottie’s left ear. She too, remained silent, her eyes fixed unblinkingly on Dottie.
It was a lukewarm reception at best, but as the two families had maintained only a distant contact over the years, they were in effect strangers to one another. Dottie wasn’t too surprised that things were awkward. Only Imogen seemed excited and happy, bouncing on her toes and clutching her hands tightly together in front of her like a child about to go to a party. Yet, Dottie thought, she’s a full nine years older than me. But it was nice to have someone on her side, so Dottie stayed close to Imogen, which seemed to excite her cousin even more. And at least now, some of the mystery of her arrival had been explained. Between the Mandersons’ own mix-up and her cousin’s secret invitation, it was all a lot clearer.
Cecilia directed Guy to ring for afternoon tea to be brought in, for which Dottie was very grateful—she only hoped her tummy wouldn’t rumble loudly, she was so hungry after the long hours spent walking in the village or sitting on her bed in the pub, looking through her designs once again.
Everyone resumed their seats and sat looking at one another. No one seemed to know what to say. She longed to say something, to make a comment about the room, but it was neither airy, nor bright, nor usefully large, but was dim because of the trees pressing close up to the house on the outside. Inside it was crowded with all manner of knick-knacks: porcelain, brass jugs and plates, china dogs, china shepherds and shepherdesses, glass fish and birds, fans and feathers, trophies, horrid tusks and antlers, and shiny-eyed dull-looking fish or stuffed birds in glass cases loaded onto half a dozen small tables. It was rather like being in some strange museum. How she would love to fling open a window or simply sweep all the clutter into a waste basket, just to see some clear surfaces. She stayed silent, her hands clasped in her lap, and wracked her brains to think of something to say.
Guy rang the bell and took his seat again. Whilst they waited for the tea to arrive, and after exchanging yet another smile with the fidgeting Imogen, Dottie thought, do please let the tea arrive soon, at least that will give us something to talk about. Then inspiration struck and she said, a little tentatively, ‘Is Uncle Lewis at home or away on business?’ As soon as she’d said it, she wondered if they would think her nosy or rude. She had an immediate sense of having done something improper.
There was a short bark of mirthless laughter from Leo. ‘Where else would Father be but away “on business”?’
Guy and Imogen nodded in response to this, whilst Cecilia merely frowned at her eldest son. Dottie decided she’d better keep quiet rather than risk asking another out-of-place question.
The tea tray was brought in by the same maid who had answered the door. She sent a little smile in Dottie’s direction then bobbed to Cecilia and left. The tea was poured by Cecilia and the cups handed round their little circle.
The tea-service was very fine. Rather too fine for a simple family tea. Dottie knew if she held an empty cup up to the light, she would be able to see through it. Eggshell porcelain. She detested such fragile china. She could immediately think of at least four men and even two ladies—as well as herself—who could not be trusted with such delicate things.
The tea was so pale it was barely tea at all. Stop being critical, she told herself, we can’t all be the same. Looking up she smiled brightly at her relations.
Imogen was by Dottie’s side, and she began to talk about this and that, flitting from one thing to another, as if she had to cram everything in quickly or lose her chance. But it was a good thing Imogen was a talker, because no one else seemed to have a single word to say. Dottie sipped her tea, glad of something to do.
‘Do you have a beau?’ Imogen asked suddenly. To Dottie it was as if the whole room crowded in to hear her answer. She felt embarrassed.
‘Um, well yes, more or less. I am about to be engaged. When I’m twenty-one. So not until the end of March.’
‘How lovely!’ Imogen burbled. ‘How did he propose to you? I expect it was terribly romantic. And I expect he’s terribly handsome. And terribly romantic. Is he, Dottie? Is he terribly handsome? And romantic?’
Dottie couldn’t help smiling. Imogen was like a little puppy eager to be played with. She seemed very young, and naïve.
‘Yes,’ Dottie said, ‘he’s very nice looking. And he can be romantic if I remind him.’ She was trying to make a joke of it, keep things light. But no one laughed or even smiled. There was an odd tension in the room that she didn’t understand, and she still had that feeling of addressing an audience in a kind of monologue.
‘Gosh.’ Imogen wrinkled her nose. ‘I’d hate to have to remind my beau...’
‘And what is this young man’s name?’ Cecilia Cowdrey enquired, cutting across her daughter’s chatter. Everyone was staring at Dottie.
‘His name is Gervase Parfitt.’
Leo frowned. ‘I believe I know that...’
‘And what does Mr Parfitt do for a living? Or is he independently wealthy? I daresay he does not have an estate?’ Cecilia again interrupted. Clearly she conceded to no one.
Dottie began to wonder if she’d fallen asleep in her bedroom at home and was dreaming this peculiar Austenesque scene. She resisted the urge to pinch herself to check she was indeed awake. Trying not to sound snippy, she said,
‘His father has an estate, but Gervase works for a living. He’s the Assistant Chief Constable of Derbyshire.’ She could hear the defiant-sounding ring in her voice and hoped she hadn’t caused offence.
Cecilia nodded, apparently finding Mr Parfitt suitable, whereas Leo snorted and said, ‘Not exactly hard graft, I would imagine.’
His wife June put a restraining hand on his knee, and said, ‘Leo,’ in a low disapproving tone. She frowned at him, though he appeared not to notice anything. They were all still watching her.
Guy said, ‘A bit out in the sticks, Derby.’
Imogen said, ‘How terribly romantic. Are there mountains and forests in Derbyshire?’
Dottie smiled at her and was about to answer, when Leo chipped in with, ‘Don’t be pathetic, Imogen. Of course there aren’t. It’s a bloody industrial area. Mines. Engineering. Cotton mills.’
‘Really, Imogen, mountains? Forests? You are a frightful idiot.’ Guy laughed at her. The others—including June and Cecilia—joined in, shaking their heads at her ignorance. Dottie felt sorry for Imogen and wondered if it was always like this. If so, perhaps that explained her need to rush everything she said. Far from being immune to a lifetime of fraternal jibes, Imogen looked as if she were about to cry.
‘There is some lovely countryside,’ Dottie said, feeling a desire to defend her, and to soften Leo’s sarcasm. ‘Rather like some parts of Sussex, I imagine. Though Gervase actually lives a few miles across the county border in Nottinghamshire. He only works in Derbyshire. It’s quite a hilly area. Also close by in Nottinghamshire there is Sherwood Forest, of Robin Hood fame. Although of course, it’s more like little patches of separate woodland nowadays, rather than one huge forest. And there are plenty of very high peaks. The Dales are in Derbyshire, and the Peak District is only a little further. The Heights of Abraham are very high, and from the top, you can look across the valley to see Hardwick Hall. The little town of Matlock Bath, below, looks like a child’s toy from the viewing platform at the top.’
Imogen shot her a grateful look and squeezed her hand.
‘I suppose it is convenient that one can carry on a dress-making concern wherever one lives, even in the outlying parts of the countryside,’ Cecilia said, and Dottie immediately felt furious at the implied put-down. What did Cecilia Cowdrey know of it, anyway? If she had heard anything about it from Lavinia Manderson, it wouldn’t have been couched in those terms, Dottie was sure. How often would Dottie need to explain that she didn’t run a mere ‘dress-making concern’?
But before Dottie could say anything rash, Cecilia added, ‘Although I must admit I was surprised that Lavinia would permit you to do something so—so menial.’
Dottie’s reaction must have been plain to see, for June hastily said, ‘Oh how clever you must be to be able to sew. You have a very keen eye, no doubt. My sewing skills are confined mainly to a little embroidery and that sort of thing.’
Dottie simply smiled and nodded. She sipped her tea.
Guy said, ‘Must save a fortune if a girl can alter her own duds.’
‘Oh do you? How clever you are! I love embroidery, but I can’t do clothes at all, they just don’t hang right.’ Imogen squeezed Dottie’s hand again.
Dottie was relieved when June made a comment about the weather. From there, the conversation turned to gardening and half an hour later, a long, long half hour later, Imogen took Dottie upstairs to show her to her room. The group dispersed. Leo and June returned to their own home, promising to see Dottie at dinner. Guy wandered away murmuring vaguely about someone he had to see. Cecilia retired to her room with that overused excuse, letters to write. It was a relief to have a break from them. Dottie felt some of the tension leave her shoulders and neck.
‘You’ll be in here,’ Imogen said, throwing open a door to reveal a huge room dominated by a fully draped four-poster bed. Dottie’s luggage was there already; the suitcase was empty beside the dressing-table. She quickly found that all her things had been efficiently unpacked and hung up or placed in the drawers of the tall-boy. The shiny new briefcase lay, still buckled closed, on the edge of a little table crammed with ornaments beside one of the two floor-to-ceiling windows. Here, as downstairs, every available surface area seemed to provide a home for an antique or collector’s item. Statuettes and grimy paintings peered down at her from the walls and the top of the wardrobes, little brass and china things huddled closely together on the mantle-shelf and the shelves of the bookcase, perilously close to the edges. There was a tendency to cover furniture with draperies, too, and fringed edges hung here, there and everywhere, gathering dust, colours fading from the occasional ray of sunlight, stray loose threads dangling down in a highly aggravating fashion. As Dottie took in the scene around her, Imogen spoke from the doorway.
‘I’ll let you rest. Dinner’s at six o’clock prompt, Mummy doesn’t like to be kept waiting. But don’t worry, I’ll come and get you when it’s time to go down. We don’t dress, but if you want to have a quick wash and brush-up, there’s a bathroom along the hall, and the water will be nice and hot. Oh, Dottie, it’s lovely to have you here, you have no idea how lonely I get. Leo and Guy are too busy to bother with me, but now there’s you. You can’t know how much this means to me. I’ve always wanted a sister.’
She was gone. Dottie walked slowly across the room to look out of the nearest window, still inwardly puzzling over what Imogen had said.
When she said, ‘I’ve always wanted a sister...’, Dottie thought to herself. And even that, ‘You have no idea how lonely I get.’ Surely any company Dottie gave Imogen now would be lost again as soon as she left to return home? Of course, they’d no doubt make more effort to keep in touch once they’d got to know one another better, but even so, it seemed an odd choice of phrase.
Dottie shook herself and forced herself to concentrate on the scene before her eyes. The room looked out on the back of the house. It was fully dark now, but by the light from the downstairs windows, Dottie could make out a small rose garden with formal edging almost directly beneath her room. It ran the entire width of the back of the house, from one outcrop of trees and shrubs to another, then out from the narrow strip of uninteresting paving immediately outside the back windows, down to the wide, long lawn beyond. A dark mass in the middle of the grass indicated the flock of geese were still there. Now and again she heard them start up honking, if something had disturbed them. She wondered a fox didn’t get them, but then again, they were formidable birds, especially in a group.
A gap between the hedges on the far side of the rose garden allowed access to the lawn. The trees came down on either side of it, as if a long band had been cut out of their number to lay the grass down. About a third of the way along, the ground began to slope away out of sight. Beyond this, Dottie could see the gleam of the water, the early rising moon shining on its smooth mirror surface. On the other side of the water, there appeared to be a rise of grass and the odd tree sticking up, that was all she could distinguish.
Dottie closed the curtains and pulled off the comfortable, warm coat and skirt, and went to look for a not-too-dressy evening frock. She took her time, there was no hurry.
