Voices filled my ears. A long corridor led directly from the front door to the living room and the rest of the house. I was wearing my pirate shirt, last worn for dinner with Dave, but it was still a nice shirt, I couldn’t hold a grudge against a shirt. I’d borrowed, without asking, a pair of Maggie’s trousers, black, reasonably smart, not as flared as I liked, and pulled on my old scuffed boots. A polished table stood on dark elegant legs bearing a tray of freshly poured champagne.
Paintings lined the corridor, their stories in gold frames, horses and dogs and people from the past dressed in their finery. People caught in a particular time with an expression they had held for the artist while they were painted. What did they think, I wondered, as they stood there in their finery? Did they wonder about the size of their nose, the play of their hair, or did they think they looked pretty good as they were?
The manor house was the largest house I had ever set foot in. Oh, people of Wye, if you thought our house was huge then get a load of this one. I poked my head around corners; there was the kitchen. Oh, Mama, come and see the kitchen, black and white tiled floor, long wooden table, Aga oven on one side, sinks and bottles and glasses on the other, and no red formica in sight. Jane, is this where Mr Rochester makes Mrs Fairfax a sandwich on her one day off every thousand years? Jane? Jane? Byron? I know you can hear me, this is where you play your devilish games. You most certainly refill the glasses here.
The ceilings in every room were high and ornate. Most of the walls in the rooms I stuck my head into were covered with paintings, gilt frames, more paintings. I wondered who had been so busy over the years. The wallpaper varied from room to room and so did the furniture. Warm well-dressed bodies were everywhere, but mainly in the living room, if you could dare to live in a room so large and lovely. Yes, Byron, I know you could. A massive fire roared in a gigantic fireplace at one end of the room. It was beautiful.
I was trying to find Maggie. She was home for Christmas and said she would see us at the manor house when we arrived. ‘Alex has invited me for pre-drinks.’
‘What’s a pre-drink?’ asked Emily.
‘The drink you have before the drink you have,’ I said. ‘It’s just a drink.’
There stood Alex March in front of the fire, surrounded by people, chatting. Same curly dark hair. Did I expect that he would suddenly have had it straightened? Expensive shirt on expensive shoulders. He had that swagger of entitlement that so many people had in Brightley. This is my magnificent house, and this is my wonderful car and all this magnificence belongs to me. He reminded me of Simon, Dave’s brother, strong and inescapable.
Two large rings glittered on his right hand, each set with a striking stone, and I could barely take my eyes off them. I knew from the way Alex March stood, back straight, confidence slung over his shoulders, that he didn’t care what anyone thought of him.
Tables covered with trays of food and glasses full of wine and champagne were scattered around the room. There was a rich fruity smell of perfume, wine and wood smoke converging in my nostrils and Alex March was beckoning me over.
He ran a hand through his hair. ‘We meet again, the second Miss Budde. Hope you’re enjoying yourself.’
A large bejewelled hand shook mine, dry and strong. My arm held firm in its socket. We both stood there, champagne bubbling in our glasses. ‘Help yourself. Anything you fancy. Glad you could come,’ he said, with a voice that was utterly sure of itself, full of the good things of life. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you from your sister.’
I groaned inwardly. I could guess what Maggie had said.
‘Excellent things then.’
‘Absolutely.’ He laughed.
I laughed too but didn’t really know what was funny.
‘Where’s your dog?’ I asked.
‘Having a holiday. My sister’s got him. He gets in the way and eats all the food.’
‘Aren’t you meant to do that at parties?’
‘If you’ve a good enough excuse.’
‘He is a lovely dog.’
‘I think so.’
‘Have you seen Maggie?’
Right on cue my beautiful shining sister walked across the room.
‘Maggie! Maggie! Come here, gorgeous girl.’
Maggie came over, laughing, and kissed Alex March on the cheek. He kissed her back. The logs on the fire spat and hissed.
‘Abes!’ Maggie was wearing a tight knee-length black dress with a choker around her neck. The dress was new, and so was her jewellery, which I had never seen before. Her hair was all swept up and she was the loveliest-looking girl in the room. She hugged me. ‘Abes, where have you been? Your face is all red. Glad you two are making friends. Why haven’t you come to see me yet? Oh, Abes, I’ve missed you.’ She hugged me again, finished her champagne and grabbed another glass for each of us. It was my third glass.
A man dressed in a dark velvet suit and large tie—he was all black and velvet—came up to my father who was standing there checking the buttons on his jacket and shook his hand. He had a sheen of wealth over him like a piece of glazed fruit. ‘Lovely to meet you again, Vicar,’ only it came out ‘VICAAHHH’.
My father was peering over the man’s shoulder and caught sight of me with my mouth full of sausage rolls. Mum sidled up to me.
‘Mum, where have you been?’
‘Upstairs—Alex said we could look round,’ said Mum. ‘Have you seen the rest of the house? It’s lovely. A devil to keep clean though.’
Alex March waltzed over and offered Dad another glass of booze, which he was trying to hold with one hand while shaking hands with the other. ‘This is my brother-in-law, Sebastian Rutherford, but I believe you’ve met already. Sophie’s around somewhere, I’ll see if I can find her.’
Then Dad was introducing me. ‘. . . And this is my middle daughter, Rebecca. She’s started at Hartley College. This is Mr Rutherford, Rebecca.’
‘Hello, please do call me Sebastian.’
When he spoke it felt like someone was trying to pour treacle over me. No one in Wye would dare to be called Sebastian. I couldn’t help but stare at his hand as he shook mine. His handshake went on and on. I stood there like a plum pudding having treacle dripped on my head.
‘You’ll have to meet Lucy, she’ll be down in a few days. Can’t drag her away from the boyfriend. Sophie, darling, come and say hello.’
Lucy. The name jarred in my mind. I hated that name.
A flamingly pretty woman with blonde shoulder-length hair came and stood by her treacly husband.
‘Sophie, Sophie Rutherford, Alex’s sister.’
‘You’re looking after his dog.’
‘Yes, poor Jojo—he’d much rather be here eating everything. You must come over after Christmas and meet Lucy.’
‘Darling, we’ve already had this conversation.’
Her hair swung from side to side. ‘Goodness, I can’t keep up,’ she said. ‘How are you liking Brightley, Rebecca?’
‘It’s lovely,’ I lied, smiles all round. I excused myself and went to find my younger sister. She was kneeling by the fire loading up her chestnut roaster, a flat piece of iron with a long twisted handle.
‘One for you, seven for me,’ she said. ‘I love chestnuts. Why can’t we have them at home?’ Emily had so much tinsel in her hair with her red shift and white frilly blouse we could have decorated a Christmas tree with her.
‘We do have them,’ I said.
There was Flora, meandering through the throng, not in the same clothes, but wearing a sleek grey dress, her hair all shiny and combed back. An otter fresh from the water.
Amanda Armitage came up and said hello, hello to everyone and Happy, Happy Christmas, and Brian was coming over when he could as the pub was full and she couldn’t stay long.
‘What do you think of him, then?’ She stared at Alex.
‘Not sure yet. I think he fancies himself a little bit.’
‘Mr Darcy, Pride and Prejudice,’ said Mum. ‘Not that you’d know, Rebecca.’
Flora glided over and joined in. ‘Talking about him?’ She nodded over to Alex March. ‘Unstable, if you ask me. Thirty-seven years old and already married and divorced.’
‘People make mistakes, Flora,’ said Amanda.
‘Yes, and they should learn to live with them.’
‘Oliver Reed?’ said Amanda. ‘Only he hasn’t a moustache. I like moustaches.’
‘He reminds me of Lord Byron,’ I said.
‘Oh no, dear,’ said Flora. ‘Byron was a poet, dear, not an artist, and he had a limp. Too many words weighing him down, I expect.’ She helped herself to a small sausage roll from a tray of small sausage rolls.
‘Mr Rochester?’
‘Who?’ asked Flora.
‘Jane Eyre’s Mr Rochester.’
‘There’s no one mad in this one’s attic,’ she said. ‘Not as far as I know anyway.’ She looked at me, sipped her champagne.
‘These are good,’ said Mum. ‘Did you make them, Amanda?’
Amanda shook her head. ‘Not this time.’
I’d drunk four champagnes, which was a personal record. I was beginning to think of poor Algernon Keats stuck at home alone in my room.
‘I’m going home,’ I said to my mother. ‘I’m going home,’ I said to the listening walls. They appeared a little unsteady. I grabbed my coat and accidentally brushed against Alex March, who was lounging against his own front door, blowing smoke rings into the air.
‘Rebeccah! Not leaving surely? The party’s only just warming up.’
‘I’m going home.’
‘What are you going to do there?’
‘Talk to my friends. Sleep.’
‘Exciting life. Why don’t you stay, enjoy yourself here?’ He was so very sure of himself.
I shook my head. ‘Don’t think so.’
‘If she must, she must. Come on then, I’ll walk you.’
His jacket made small swishing noises. He stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets and pulled out another cigarette and a lighter. Offered one to me.
‘No thanks.’
He cupped one hand around his cigarette, flicked the lighter with his thumb and stared at me over the top of his burning cigarette. The sky was extra black, with masses of twinkling stars. A plaintive crow called out in the night, an eerie, melancholy sound.
‘I don’t normally leave my own parties,’ he said.
‘No one’s making you.’
‘True, but I couldn’t let you wander off by yourself now, could I?’
Shadows rose and fell, the church said nothing. I could hear a short ragged breath behind me and the hairs on the back of my neck bristled. Oh no. Not her again, not now.
Alex March didn’t notice anything.
A thread of black hair crept around my neck and as soon as I felt it on my skin I screamed. ‘Shiit!’
‘What the hell was that?’
‘Oh—oh, it was a bat or something. It just—just brushed past me.’
‘A bat? Don’t think Brightley has bats. It’s a pretty old place, though, don’t you think?’ He took a long drag on his cigarette. The gate to the vicarage stood like a sentinel, waiting. ‘Come over in the New Year. Pop in and say hello.’
‘Thanks for walking me.’
‘Good night, Rebeccah.’
The cold night air had sobered me up a little. He chucked his cigarette on the driveway, ground it out with his boot, leaned forward and pecked me on the cheek. His skin smelled of cigarettes and wine, which I thought was a sophisticated combination. The silence of the Brightley night was deafening. The crow called again, closer this time, the same mournful sound.
‘Sure you’re all right?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘See you then.’
I fell against the door, hello, door. No one pushed me, did they? It was my own stumbling self. Algie? Algernon? You there?
His footsteps over the driveway, my key in the lock of the door.
‘Me again,’ he said. ‘I thought perhaps I should do this.’ He pulled me towards him with his strong hands, my face inches from his. He was studying me closely and seemed to like what he found there. He kissed me, hard, no tongue, mouth against mouth, I-mean-this kiss. The strength of his body surprised me. I pulled back from him, gasped, wiped my mouth, didn’t know what to say.
‘Merry Christmas,’ he said, and walked off into the darkness.
I stood there for a few seconds, head swimming, mouth tingling. I could taste his confidence, his cigarette smoking inside me. The crow called again, the melancholy in its voice growing louder. Through the house I walked. Up the stairs I climbed to the pale unearthly light waiting there for me.