Theirs was a traditional Victorian upstairs-downstairs, semi-detached house with four bedrooms, a slate roof and minimal decoration; traditional in every sense other than her mother’s passion for colour, which stretched to painting the exterior. The rest of their row was conventional red brick but the Myles family of Clapham had opted for the notoriety of painting their house a pale yellow, like the Breton cream of memory from her mother’s childhood.
‘We like colour in France,’ Didi had explained with a soft outward sigh of disdain. She was plucking home-grown thyme leaves into her Sunday special of simmering chicken casserole at the time. ‘And cream is hardly, how you say . . . brave.’
‘This is England, dear,’ her father had soothed, looking over the top of his newspaper, pipe billowing its sweet-scented tobacco smoke from the corner of his mouth. ‘Bold colours are not in our blood. We’re essentially grey to our marrow,’ he’d winked, and yet he’d been the one to hire the painters and give them their brief, ignoring the raised eyebrows.
Happier days, Stella mused as she sipped a mug of tea, seated in the bench window of the kitchen and overlooking the garden where sparrows scrabbled over a small knuckle of bread she’d tossed out moments ago. It was mild but drizzling – the worst combination, she thought, because it made her hair feel wretched and frizzy. She touched her soft dark curls and considered what to wear. It felt important to get her outfit right.
Aunt Dil yawned, bustling into the kitchen in her dressing-gown. It was Sunday morning and church had been passed up in favour of having a sleep-in. Stella believed after last month’s mind service – many weeks later than it should have been, because neither she nor the children could face it – was more than enough attention from the congregation. The gossip-mongers would be working hard at spreading the news around the neighbourhood of how her parents had died.
‘Penny for your thoughts, love?’
Stella smiled at how much Dil was like her father. He had used that expression regularly too but it was more than that; something about the way they said it, the shapes of their heads, even her aunt’s smile that flattened her lips and dipped her eyelids was reminiscent of her brother’s.
‘Just thinking about tomorrow,’ she replied, ‘you know, whether this is the right decision. I didn’t pour you one because I wasn’t sure —’
Her aunt waved a hand to assure her it was not of any consequence and busied herself making a cup of tea from the big brown pot beneath the knitted cosy; she remembered when her father had knitted it how her mother had laughed at him. ‘I like knitting,’ he’d replied to the snickering. ‘Good skills for the trenches, too.’
She’d missed what her aunt had been saying about today’s dilemma. ‘. . . and it’s a brave decision, Stella, that’s for sure. But they say fortune favours the brave, don’t they? And if what your friend says is right, then maybe you can get yourself on your feet fast.’
Friend? She didn’t even know Rafe’s last name.
‘I spoke to Uncle Bryn and he thinks you’re wonderful, by the way – but then he always did – and he said you’re not to worry about Rory and Carys.’ She came over and squeezed Stella’s shoulder. ‘You know we love them like our own, darling. We’re all in this together. While I still feel as shocked as I did the day we learned of their terrible end, I think if we don’t help you to make changes, don’t help you to take a step forward, then we all risk being trapped by the grief. You’re an adult, you can reason it out, but we have to show Rory and Carys that a good life is ahead of them and that they’re safe and loved. If you think doing this might make all the difference, then we’re right behind you.’
‘What if it’s too much of a change for them?’
‘Change never hurt anyone and they love our house, our garden. Rory can bring his bicycle – he’ll have fun riding the country lanes, he can fish in the river nearby and I’ll make an extra effort with Carys, I promise. I’ll teach her how to sew and I’ll make up that pattern she’s talking about – we can do it together.’
It sounded like a perfect shift of scene from Clapham and her aunt was surely right – it couldn’t hurt them. If anything, the shift could help them to look past the constant sorrow that pressed on their young shoulders. ‘What if they forget me?’
‘Rory, forget you? Don’t be ridiculous, girl. He worships you! And Carys wants to be you. No, we’ll make it like a holiday for them. We’ll talk to the school and I’m sure they’ll understand and support this plan. You’re doing it for them, after all. But more than anything, Stella, you need some time to get your head together. I’m not worried about your brother and sister, I’m worried about you. You haven’t grieved properly and it’s all bottled up in there,’ she said, pointing towards Stella’s heart. ‘You’re having to be so stoic for the children that you’re forgetting you need to find a way out of the bleakness too. Maybe going away from this house for a while will give you a chance to take a break from the memories crowding in all the time.’
Stella nodded glumly at the truth of her aunt’s words.
‘I feel like they’re still here,’ Dil continued with a sigh. ‘I can still smell your father’s tobacco, your mother’s perfume around the house, but we’re all moving so silently around it as though we don’t want to disturb the ghosts. We all need to leave here – and them – for a while.’
‘You’re right.’
‘I am. And when we come back to the house we’ll all feel a bit differently about it and we’ll have what your uncle Bryn likes to call “perspective”.’
‘I’ll go for the interview, then,’ Stella agreed, feeling the decision settle into place snugly.
‘Go and listen. See what this woman can offer you. You said your traineeship should be safe . . . any more word on that?’
Stella put down her mug of half finished, cooled tea and nodded. ‘One piece of luck; apparently my timing couldn’t be better. My supervisor is going to be in America for a number of months on a special buying trip as we broaden our range of products. Management is quite glad that I’ve broached the subject of time away. The manager of our department said he could view it as compassionate leave and that I could take an extended holiday.’
‘Oh, Stella. I think it’s meant to be, don’t you?’ Dil said.
She nodded. ‘I’ll meet her tomorrow, then.’
Twenty-four hours later Stella was seated across a wood, chrome and glass desk from a blonde, glamorously attired woman who smoked using a cocktail-length cigarette holder and wore a chic black-and-white satin dress that tied at the hip. Suzanne stared at Stella with liquid eyes that were the colour of chartreuse. They were seated in a large office of a Victorian building, spring light filtering its way through an overcast Monday and the crowded buildings around Victoria Station. Both of the bulbous wall sconces were switched on, throwing a muted glow from their opal glass, and the tall desk lamp added its yellowy highlight to the surface that was free of clutter and inlaid with gilded leather. Stella’s thoughts were already reaching to the fact that she would be heading home from this appointment in the rain.
‘Do you want one?’ the woman suddenly said, her voice as smoky as the tobacco residue she exhaled as she spoke.
Stella regarded the box of pastel-coloured Sobranie cigarettes. It was surely no accident that Suzanne Farnsworth had chosen to smoke the pale yellow that echoed the waxen quality of her flawless make-up. Stella knew all about make-up from her days on the department-store floor and she was sure the woman was using a colour called gardenia. She wore Jean Patou’s Moment Suprême perfume too, Stella was sure, for despite the cigarette smoke, the room still held warm notes of rose and clove, and even the spicy geranium she remembered from the perfume counter days was echoed close up.
‘I won’t, thank you,’ she replied.
‘It’s just that you look anxious.’
‘Do I? I’m simply unfamiliar with how this all works. But they’re very pretty,’ she admitted, admiring the gleaming gold tips of the remaining cigarettes in the box.
‘They’re like lovely jewels. I prefer to smoke Black Russians at night, though, especially with a flute of champagne.’
And Stella could well imagine this elegant woman in a flowing gown at the theatre, clasping an opera-length cigarette holder and a sinful black cigarette with gleaming gold tip smouldering at its end, while she draped herself in the dress circle. Stella had served enough of those wealthy customers in her time.
Suzanne lifted the holder to the corner of her peach-frosted lips that contrasted with shocking black nail varnish and lazily inhaled from her cigarette again. She apparently had no qualms about studying Stella so obviously, head cocked this time with interest, before blowing out the smoke high.
‘So, Stella, let me explain. My client wishes to secure the services of an educated woman with a “refined demeanour” who can live-in and improve her charge’s French in particular, but also encourage her student to read widely and have a greater appreciation of art and culture.’
Stella nodded and let out a silent breath. Did she really want to do this? ‘Um, may I ask how old the child is?’
Suzanne consulted some notes on a sheet of paper. ‘It says here that Georgina is around sixteen.’ She glanced up and the look in those intelligent green eyes echoed Stella’s sinking feeling.
‘That’s a tricky age,’ Stella remarked.
‘It is, I won’t deny it. But you and I have both been there and I always think the key to teenagers is remembering that we were likely all fractious and self-centred in our teens. I would suggest you think of it as Georgina’s rite of passage if you take the role on. But this is a very wealthy family and everything will be done for you. Your role is simply to be a guide and tutor to Georgina; other household staff will take care of all your domestic needs such as meals, laundering, ironing and so on. You will have a driver at your disposal if you and Georgina wish to take an excursion and of course all expenses, outside of private ones, will be catered to.’
Stella blinked, uncertain; it sounded too good to be true. ‘So just one child?’
‘There is another daughter but far younger. Her name is Grace. She’s um . . .’ Suzanne scanned her page. ‘Ah yes, Grace is nine.’ She lifted an eyebrow. ‘Quite a gap, I agree. But your role for Grace is again French, perhaps some music – you play piano, don’t you?’
Stella nodded.
‘Good. And keeping up her reading, spelling. Nothing too wearying.’
‘What about school?’
‘They both go to a fine ladies’ college – I’ll furnish you with the details if we proceed. So the good news is that you are essentially free during the day of the school term, although you will be responsible for ensuring their delivery and pick up from the college daily. During evenings you supervise Georgina’s homework. On weekends you will work around Georgina’s schedule to ensure she has an hour of French over the days and an artistic excursion once a month. During school holidays is when it becomes more intensive – and as you might know, the girls’ private school holidays can extend longer than your brother’s and sister’s school holidays. As such, you are required to work out a holiday program that steps up your tutoring while still allowing Georgina to enjoy her term breaks.’
‘Where is the family based?’
Suzanne picked up her cigarette from the ashtray. The flakes of burned tobacco dropped off silently. She inhaled slowly and Stella guessed the woman was considering whether this was information she should share at this point. ‘The family resides not far from Tunbridge Wells,’ she finally said.
‘Oh, that’s good to know. It’s easy to get back to London.’
‘Yes. Straight down the line, no train change necessary from the nearest station.’
‘Which is?’
Suzanne smiled softly. ‘I’ll get to that. Now, Miss Myles, thank you for all the information you gave me,’ she said, briefly waving another page in the air that Stella recognised her own handwriting on as being details of her music exams. ‘I should let you know that your French test was flawless too.’
Stella didn’t want to mention that she knew her French was colloquially flawless but that Miss Farnsworth’s test was not, with errors typical of those made by the British who acquire French. The agent continued. ‘I will check your references, of course, but certainly from what you’ve told me you are impressively qualified for this role. Do you care to tell me why you’re applying, though –I mean, you are obviously set on a career path in retailing and you’ve clearly battled to be accepted into the traineeship as a buyer . . . no small feat. Why change that course now?’
There was no point in hiding the truth but she kept the explanation succinct. Suzanne Farnsworth didn’t touch her cigarette throughout, her green gaze never leaving Stella’s face and she was so still it was almost as if she’d stopped breathing. When Stella shrugged and said, ‘I can’t change anything. I can only try and make our lives better,’ she watched that piercing stare soften.
‘And so you will, if you accept this position.’
‘You’re offering it to me?’
Suzanne nodded, removed the cigarette butt and squashed it in the ashtray. ‘There’s something about you, Stella. I’m sensing a courage and steadfastness I find attractive. I like the girls I place to be reliable and I also appreciate strength of will when I recognise it. You have it.’
She began packing up her file, speaking distractedly as though thinking aloud. ‘It’s all very well us women getting the vote and finding new freedoms, but have we the tenacity to make the most of it, I wonder? I suspect an educated, ambitious woman such as yourself is a good role model to all younger women, irrespective of their social status.’
Stella was reminded of Rafe; he shared a view that wasn’t dissimilar. And although Aunt Dil and even Suzanne thought she was here because of the tragedy of her parents, the truth was that he was the reason she was pursuing this work. He had seemed so determined that she come along to the interview that she would have felt she’d let him down not to present herself.
‘I have to tell you, Stella, this family is prepared to pay an inordinate wage for the right person. And I have seen half-a-dozen girls and none of them until today have struck me as ideal.’
‘I’m encouraged,’ she replied carefully.
Suzanne gave a soft, throaty chuckle. ‘Oh, that was truly the right answer. So diplomatic and yet nothing servile about it.’
‘I wouldn’t see myself as a servant, Miss Farnsworth.’
‘But you would serve, Stella. You would serve the family, you would certainly be serving Georgina’s education and, to a lesser extent, Grace’s. But happily, I think you would agree you would be serving yourself when you hear the wage is seven pounds per week.’
‘Seven!’
Suzanne grinned lazily again. ‘Shocking! A slip of a thing like you earning so much; what do they pay you at the store? Two pounds per week?’
‘Two pounds fifty,’ she confirmed with only a hint of offence. ‘Three-fifty when I complete my training, but seven pounds wouldn’t enter my dreams . . . really? Per week?’
‘Really. Twice the average wage, in fact. I can’t say I don’t share your surprise, but that’s my brief. And that wage is outside of all other expenses, including full board – I’ve mentioned that will be covered separately. The family tells me that the amount reflects the quality of the governess they’re expecting. I was specifically asked to find someone over twenty-five but under thirty.’
‘That is specific.’
Miss Farnsworth’s assistant arrived with a tray and two cups of steaming tea. ‘Yes, I won’t even bother with sending them the shortlist. You’re perfect. Over here, Tiggy, please.’ She pointed to the young woman. ‘I took the liberty of ordering a second. Will you join me?’
‘Yes, thank you. May I ask why the brief is so explicit?’
‘No doubt identifying with Georgina’s needs. Someone too young would not have the mettle and someone older may be too distant from their teens, or potentially overbearing for Georgina.’
‘I see. So may I ask what the family is like?’
‘Utterly delightful, from what I hear. You would be well looked after and you would have one day per month to visit your family. I have made provision for that, as you requested.’
Stella took a draught of her tea. It was lightly flavoured. ‘Lovely, thank you. Orange pekoe?’
‘I’m impressed.’
It was Stella’s turn to shrug. ‘My training at the department store has been long and varied. I did a course on tea during my late teens. Um, how long is the employment for?’ She had already calculated that if she saved almost every penny from this job, she could keep up the payments on the house . . . maybe even buy it outright. Or sell it, pay off what had to be settled, add her savings to what might be left and maybe the tearooms in the spa town didn’t have to remain the dream . . . She wanted to laugh aloud but Suzanne Farnsworth was clearly not jesting with her.
‘Ah yes, shall we say a six-month placement? I’m afraid I couldn’t offer less because you understand that it’s an upheaval for everyone and we want no chopping and changing, should you agree.’
Stella nodded.
‘But I won’t lock you into longer until we know everyone’s happy with the arrangement, yourself included.’
‘Yes, that sounds wise. I’ve been given up to one year away from the department store.’ Stella could hear she sounded in control and yet inside she was churning with excitement. Yesterday she hadn’t thought she could ever feel excited again about anything.
‘That’s generous of your superiors,’ Suzanne commented.
‘It suits the management right now.’
‘So, what do you think, Stella? I would like to ring the family later today and confirm an appointment.’
Stella put her cup and saucer down quietly, using the time to draw a silent breath. The honest answer was that she wasn’t thinking about anything but survival; her mind still felt blanketed by grief and confusion. Rafe had surely done her a kindness in obliging her to come to this agency. Plus the money! It would empower her and the family to go forward.
‘I think I should say yes, Miss Farnsworth,’ she said, looking up from her hands, knowing the decision was sound.
Her companion’s bright gaze narrowed from the wide smile. ‘Good girl, Stella. I’m thrilled for you and for the family. I feel sure your life is about to change.’
The words felt darkly prophetic but Stella smiled. ‘May I know their names?’
‘Indeed you may. Douglas and Beatrice Ainsworth. They live at Harp’s End, which is a sprawling property not far from Tunbridge Wells on the edge of the Weald. Quite beautiful it is too. I’ve attended a function on the lawns.’
‘What does Mr Ainsworth do?’
‘Oh, he’s a financier or something in the city. Mrs Ainsworth is involved in various charitable projects and the girls attend Benendon, not far from Cranbrook.’
‘When would I start?’
Suzanne closed the folder. ’As soon as possible, Stella. I would be urging you to leave this week.’ She must have gauged Stella’s response to that recommendation simply through body language because she followed up quickly. ‘All right, it’s the 8th now, so how about May 22nd? Kent is gorgeous in spring. I’ll arrange monies for your train ticket and travel expenses. Take a suitcase of clothes only because the family will organise to send for any other personal items you may like around you.’
‘Like what?’
‘Oh, you know, a favourite piece of bedroom furniture or your bicycle or whatever,’ Suzanne said airily, waving a dismissive hand, black polish catching the glow from the desk light.
‘No, there’s nothing special, some books, clothes, just essentials.’
‘Even easier,’ the woman replied. ‘Right.’ She glanced out of the window. ‘More of those May showers threatening. Will you be all right for getting home?’
‘Yes, thank you, the Tube gets me near enough door to door.’ Stella dug into her bag and pulled out the new Underground map that London was so proud of. ‘Finally, it all makes simple sense,’ she admitted.
‘Oh yes, I’d heard about that – I’m afraid I don’t use the Underground.’
Stella could well understand how a cocktail cigarette holder might attract attention in the honeycomb of public transport tunnels. ‘When it’s raining and the traffic gets so crowded, it’s faster and more reliable beneath the streets,’ she explained unnecessarily but it bridged an awkward moment that surely highlighted their different backgrounds. Stella stood. ‘I’m grateful to you for this opportunity.’
Suzanne Farnsworth followed, becoming upright in a languid movement and held out her long-fingered hand. ‘A pleasure, Stella. I’m pleased to know this unrivalled wage is going to someone so deserving. I hope it makes the difference you need to your sister and brother. Between you and me, I’ve not hired a governess at such a wage before so I’m imagining this to be a very special placement. I know you’ll make me proud.’ They shook hands. ‘I’ll have all the paperwork delivered to your address, but shall we plan for your arrival next weekend in Kent?’
Stella nodded, smiling. ‘I don’t know whether to be excited or nervous.’
‘Bit of both never hurts. You’ve got the goods, Stella. You’ll make an impression, I’m certain of it,’ Suzanne said, smiling and moving to the office door and opening it.
‘Thank you again.’
Stella felt the spring drizzle land on her skin and a ripple of anticipation travelled through her like a current of awakening. Rafe, wherever he was, had been right to insist. The change of scenery and lifestyle was going to be an island in the sea of grief that she could rest on for a while. Six months would fly and she wouldn’t miss either of her youngsters’ birthdays, she realised. In fact she could even plan a family Christmas in a new house somewhere if she could ask Uncle Bryn to help with the sale of the Clapham home. It felt as though everything was falling neatly into position to give her a glimpse into a new chapter in her life.
She unfolded her umbrella and hurried across the damp streets towards London Victoria Station. People were huddling beneath the awning on the concourse as they emerged into the open air and scrambled for their brollies or to pull on mackintoshes. It wasn’t raining properly yet but it would; the sky was looking interminably grumpy with pockets of heavy grey clouds glowering with intent. The dampness intensified the smell of metal and tarmac but the aroma of chips frying somewhere made her belly grumble. She’d not eaten today and she was looking forward to the shepherd’s pie that Aunt Dil had promised tonight. Stella was glad to skip down the steps to the Underground entrance, where the second-hand breath of smokers made sure a fog hovered above the hurrying commuters. Her gaze moved briskly past the familiar series of etiquette posters that asked commuters to let people off the trains first before boarding.
Stella pulled the three-penny bit she’d readied in her pocket to pay for her ticket and moved with the fast-flowing stream of commuters deeper into the catacombs, hardly daring to imagine that she would soon be leaving this life behind for the hills and meadows of Kent. She wished she could tell the friendly stranger she knew as Rafe that she had taken his advice, but as the train arrived with its blast of warm air that dragged her dark waved hair away from her face she decided it was perhaps best he didn’t know, not that she’d know how to find him anyway. She let herself believe that the handsome man had been sent into her life like a messenger to bring change and that seeing him again might stir up feelings she didn’t need to disturb, especially with a married man.