Stella arrived with an armful of books onto the landing and followed the explicit directions that had been delivered with her breakfast tray. She found the room called the nursery on the floor beneath hers at twenty minutes to nine precisely and Mrs Boyd was waiting for her.
‘Ah, Miss Myles, good morning. Thank you for your punct-uality.’
‘I appreciate your meeting me.’
Mrs Boyd was holding a ring of keys. She began to select one. ‘How was breakfast?’
‘Thank you for sending up a tray. It was perfect, although I did say that I’m happy to take my breakfast with the staff.’
‘Not necessary. You have duties here in the main part of the house with changeable schedules and we wouldn’t want to disrupt your flexibility,’ she said in a meaningless excuse that made it clear Stella was not so welcome below stairs.
Stella was surprised how much it hurt but remembered her manners and moved to small talk. ‘It’s certainly quiet here.’
‘Indeed, here is near silent,’ Mrs Boyd said, holding up a key triumphantly. ‘This one hasn’t been used in a while. Yes, only Miss Grace is on this side.’ She nodded towards a door at the end of the corridor where they stood. ‘She’s gone for a riding lesson this morning. Miss Georgina and her parents have their rooms on this level in the east wing.’ Stella’s heart sank a little deeper for her youngest charge, who appeared to be both physically and emotionally cut off from her family. ‘You’ll have no need to go to the east wing.’
Was that a warning?
Mrs Boyd finally jiggled the lock into submission and they heard it shift.
‘Here we are, the nursery,’ she said in triumph, pushing open the door, like stage curtains.
Stella was expecting something prissy, with frills and bows – certainly white with soft pastel touches. She was surprised to be led into a room that was painted a rich sage green with all the woodwork picked out in a soft parchment colour. High shelves were lined with what appeared to be an eclectic collection of memorabilia, from leather footballs to hockey sticks to jars of marbles. Books that couldn’t find a place in the huge bookcase that claimed one entire wall gathered dust in colourful towers nearby. Sketches and watercolours of varying adeptness and of everything from birds and lizards to landscapes hung on the remaining walls in a motley of unmatched frames. Huge, colourful moths or iridescent beetles were framed beneath glass and there were bell jars of preserved creatures she wasn’t even sure about . . . they all appeared vaguely reptilian. School ties, caps and scarves twisted around odd hooks as though they’d been flung from the door and had found a comfortable home by chance, to remain for decades. A marvellous series of colourful kites hung on the walls as well as grainy school photographs and smiling family groups and of clearly much-beloved dogs who claimed their own silver frame. It was too much to take in at once. Brightness flooded in from the tall, oblong windows that had soft white voile curtains to diffuse the sharpness of morning to a deliciously mellow light that added to the tender ambience of the room. She spun around, realising that she was the one giving gentle gasps of delight.
‘Forgive me. It’s a lovely space,’ she murmured, turning back to the housekeeper. ‘I didn’t expect it to be so charming when you called it the nursery.’
‘It’s Mr Ainsworth’s name for it. I’ve never known it referred to as anything else.’
Stella was moving towards the windows.
The housekeeper straightened a heavy shell acting as a paperweight on the large banker’s desk in the middle of the room. ‘We put this desk in here so that you and Miss Georgina could study facing each other rather than side by side. There’s paper, ink, pencils, rubbers, blotting paper, sharpeners . . .’ She stopped opening drawers and reeling off the obvious. ‘Yes, I think all the Ainsworth children down the years spent their infancy in this room. Mr Ainsworth has forbidden us to move any of the memorabilia – dusting it all is fraught because he’s so precious about the items here – and yet he insisted this was the room to be used by you for study. I can’t imagine why, with all this clutter.’
Stella frowned, wondering if yet another invisible, silent message was being communicated.
‘So Mr Ainsworth spent his early childhood days in here too.’
‘Oh, yes, indeed,’ Mrs Boyd sniffed. ‘I might just open a window.’ She struggled with a window as she had with the door’s lock. It was as though the room didn’t wish to permit the present into its chamber of secrets and memories. Mrs Boyd, however, gave a hefty shove with her shoulder, and with a firm grunt the window finally surrendered, sighing open as though expelling the breath in the room it had held tightly for decades.
‘There we are. That’s much better. Now you and Miss Georgina can’t fall asleep.’
‘No threat of that, I’m afraid, on French verbs.’
‘Well, I shall leave you to it. Apparently we’re to send up some hot cocoa for Miss Georgina. Would you like a small pot too?’
‘Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary, Mrs Boyd. Georgina will have only recently finished breakfast, surely? I think she can forgo her cocoa for an hour or two so we remain undisturbed.’
‘Um, she has specifically ordered it. And —’
‘Well, I’m her tutor and her senior, so forgive me but I’d rather you didn’t send up anything as I suspect it will only be disruptive to Georgina’s concentration. She is more than welcome to have cocoa served directly afterwards at eleven sharp when the tutorial ends.’ Stella smiled firmly as Mrs Boyd blinked in consternation. She put her books onto the desk and began sorting through them in the hope it gave just the right polite air of dismissal. ‘Thank you again. This is a perfectly conducive space for Georgina to knuckle down to the study her parents expect.’ She lifted her gaze and fixed Mrs Boyd, surely an accomplice of the two Ainsworth women, to show she was not to be undermined.
‘As you wish, Miss Myles.’
‘Thank you.’ She followed the housekeeper to the door, smiling indulgently as she closed it on the woman. Is every day going to be a battle of wills? she wondered.
Her mind flipped to Georgina and the trial ahead of her today with this hostile teenager. She thought about how her father had reacted yesterday to the suggestion that he speak with his daughter about her lack of respect. Stella hadn’t understood his unfinished response that was nevertheless delivered with repressed anger.
‘She’s not —’ he’d begun.
Not what? Stella had wondered. Not worth it? Not happy? Not going to listen to me? Stella shuddered inwardly, imagining how uncomfortable her household would have been if she had ever dared to mock or bait her father in that manner.
She glanced at her watch. Six minutes to go. Georgina had better not be late . . .
Stella began a slow tour of the room, gazing at the old photos, charmed by the obvious snapshots of Rafe as a boy, which all depicted him either in what looked to be a desert or running seemingly wild on the wilderness of what was presumably the Weald. The pictures of him surrounded by sand dunes were intriguing, especially those with his face half covered by linens in the Bedouin style. There was another lad of similar age, she guessed, but smaller in stature, who was also in a lot of the Arabian-looking photos. Apart from sharing dark hair, they didn’t look at all alike but clearly they were close. Cousins, maybe? She squinted, he looked European; eastern Mediterranean, perhaps?
Meanwhile Rafe looked tanned and relaxed in the images on foreign soil; his crinkled eyes suggested he was always smiling, completely at ease in his surrounds, whether he was perched on a camel or peeping out from a makeshift tent that was more of an awning to Stella’s mind. She wished she could see the colours of the desert . . . Stella imagined the deep gold of the sands and the richness of the camel rugs and carpets within the tent she could just see. What was he doing in the desert as a child? Where was this?
She spied a family photo in what looked to be a large white villa, except they were in some sort of enclosed courtyard. Date palms bent from pots, a fountain nearby spouted water with crystalline droplets sparkling as they caught the sunlight, and in the background, a man in all white wearing a fez blurred behind the family as he crossed the lens, unaware that he’d entered the photograph. Rafe in shorts and crisp white shirt was presumably leaning against his mother, a dark beauty, his elbow crooked on her shoulder while her arm draped affectionately across his bare legs. Her other hand was moving towards her mouth as though trying to cover her own amusement. Stella’s gaze shifted to the little girl who was likely his sister, sitting on her father’s lap; she was caught in a moment of explosive laughter and looking at Rafe as though he’d just said something witty. The father wore a genial expression, indulging his happy family. Stella smiled helplessly. It was a moment of pure joy and she felt a burst of envy; she understood that feeling but didn’t have it captured on film as Rafe had. She would have to rely on her memory.
Stella’s attention was caught by another photo; the same two boys, another couple of male adults, neither of whom she recognised from other photos. They were seated at a table outside some sort of street-side café and in the grainy photo she could make out men smoking in the dim background on bubble pipes. There was another man standing nearby, his hand placed on the young Rafe’s shoulder. This man possessed a luxurious greying moustache that curled dramatically into whorled points and had on a lead – rather outrageously, Stella thought – a peacock. The bird did not have its tail fanned but it too comically appeared to be looking directly into the camera. Embroidered on its owner’s shirt she could just make out an extravagantly sewn letter ‘M’.
The boys were grinning, holding up glasses of what looked like lemonade, and the vignettes of Rafe’s seemingly happy childhood made her feel somehow sad for him that his life now felt controlled by his circumstances. She tried to imagine where this photo was taken, searching for clues in the image.
The door swung open, startling Stella, and Georgina blew in. She brought her usually sulky air into the calm of the Green Room as Stella had absently begun referring to it.
Georgina affected a melodramatic cough. ‘Heavens! Why here? This ghastly old room hasn’t been opened in centuries and yet I’m forced to breathe its dust and filth.’
‘Morning,’ Stella said brightly, determined not to taint a new beginning. ‘You look lovely today,’ she added, noting the long-line narrow skirt in a tiny dogtooth weave. Large buttons did up on the side and there was no pull on any of them – Georgie certainly cut a neat figure but Stella noticed her lack of height meant the skirt made her appear shorter still. Nevertheless, Stella would kill to wear it and couldn’t help but admire the way Georgina had teamed it with a soft frilled white blouse and a tiny red belt. ‘Did you sleep well?’
Georgina looked at her from murky blue eyes. ‘Would you care if I hadn’t?’
So this is how it was going to be, Stella thought with a pang of disappointment. ‘Not really, no.’
Georgina smirked. ‘You may be poor but at least you’re honest.’
‘Poor?’ she asked mildly, opening one of her books and gesturing at the seat opposite.
Her student flounced into the chair. ‘If you had money, why would you want to be a servant?’
‘I have a terrific job actually, Georgina. But I’m taking a sabbatical. Shall we have this conversation in French?’
Georgina ignored the question. ‘That’s right, your parents killed themselves, didn’t they? How perfectly horrid of them. Did you find them or maybe your younger sister did? Was there blood or did they do it neatly with pills and liquor? But then their tongues would have been swollen and blue, I’m sure. How ghastly. Your brother and sister must have been traumatised . . . how can they ever get to sleep at night in the same house where their parents committed suicide?’
Not a word of French had been offered in the teenager’s cruel and sour rant. How Stella kept from leaning across the banker’s desk and slapping her student she did not know. She forced her rage down, and made a promise to herself in that moment that nothing Georgina Ainsworth ever said would affect her again. ‘Georgina, I am not going to discuss my personal life with a child, least of all a student of mine.’ She moved into simple, conservative French. ‘Shall we proceed?’
‘I hate this room,’ Georgie sneered in French.
Stella responded in French as though it was simply a conversation. ‘You seem to hate everything.’
‘I know I hate you most of all, with my father a close second,’ Georgina said in English. ‘I wish he’d just go away on one of his jaunts and never return. Then we could fire you and I could be rid of both of you.’
Stella helplessly moved back into English despite her best intentions. It was obvious the horrid youngster would not understand the nuances of this unsettling discussion if she continued in French. ‘Georgina, that sounds so vicious. Should I be speaking to your mother about your wishes?’
‘What? That I wish my father were dead?’
Stella gasped. ‘You don’t mean that.’
‘What would you know? You know nothing, Servant Stella. Actually, that’s not quite true, is it? You do know about something I’d love to know about because your father’s dead. You must feel so free.’
Trills of anger raced through Stella’s body, flushing at her neck where she felt the heat of fury gathering in spite of her attempt to mask her response. Her voice did not betray her, though. ‘I asked you not to discuss my private life.’
‘I don’t see why I can’t. You get to poke around in my private life.’
‘I have done no such thing,’ she snapped, knowing she was being drawn into the girl’s deliberate trap and yet helplessly against her better judgement she was participating.
‘Of course you have. Just because your life is so dull and poor, you are making sure mine is the same.’
‘Georgina, your parents hired me,’ Stella appealed. ‘I didn’t ask to come here.’
The teenager shrugged. ‘Exactly. So I wish he would just disappear and then my mother would have to agree to let you go and I would celebrate and get on with my life.’
‘You have so much growing up to do,’ Stella cautioned. ‘Shall we continue?’ she said briskly with a feigned smile. Faking it helped, surprisingly. ‘Let’s write down some verbs and then we can use them in our conversation.’ She pulled the inkpot closer and reached for the pen, dipped the nib into it and began writing in French on a sheet of paper.
For a moment all that lingered between the two was the tension of their parried words and the sound of her nib scratching on the paper.
‘You have no idea of my life or my plans. Socially you are nowhere near my level and financially you obviously need my money.’
Stella sighed. ‘You don’t pay me.’
‘I wouldn’t even if I could. What my father sees in you is a mystery, although if he were a different man I could imagine. He could be paying you for other services because you’re pretty enough in a common sort of way.’
Stella tried not to break the nib with the pressure of her gathering wrath. She studiously wrote on, forcing herself to breathe low and long to beat the rising drumbeat of rage.
Georgina sighed, and began undoing her pearl earrings. ‘These are pinching.’ She placed them on the desk.
Stella pulled the ink closer still and dipped again, deliberately not looking at Georgina but the girl’s scathing remarks burned in her mind and, without warning, the words escaped and she helplessly bit back. ‘I told Mrs Boyd not to bother with the cocoa.’ Now she did look up. ‘We don’t need the interruption.’
Georgina’s eyes narrowed. She leaned forward slowly and deliberately to knock over the inkpot. Stella was quick to move but wasn’t fast enough and the royal blue liquid rushed across the desk and splattered over Georgina’s beautiful skirt.
‘Oh, dear!’ Georgina’s insincere tone sickened Stella but she dashed around the table all the same, dreading the mess. ‘Now, look at my skirt,’ her student said, sounding anything but dismayed.
More for the sake of the skirt that Stella had just admired so deeply, she made an effort and leaped up with a sheet of blotting paper. Wordless with fury, she dabbed uselessly at the spreading stain that was greedily crawling across the worsted skirt and privately she deeply lamented that she’d provoked Georgie into this petulant display. She mourned the garment that she suspected would never recover from the ink damage.
Georgina sat patiently, no doubt enjoying Stella crouching at her knees. ‘It’s no good, Stella,’ she said, her tone pitching a disgustingly fake virtue. ‘Perfectly ruined, I’m afraid. I’m so clumsy – I must take after my clodhopping father.’
‘He’s not a clodhopper,’ she answered in her quiet despair, realising a heartbeat too late that her defence was dangerous.
‘How would you know? You only met him yesterday.’
‘Er . . . that’s right. But he seemed entirely at home and well balanced on the moors when Grace and I ran into him.’
‘The way you defend him is admirable. I hope you don’t fancy him because I should warn you, there’s something between my mother and father that no one else can touch. Don’t ask me why,’ Georgina said, her tone dripping with cunning, ‘but my mother who had the looks and money to have absolutely anyone she wanted in life opted for the booby prize. My father is handsome enough but he’s a buffoon, Stella. He is a constant embarrassment and a drag in my life.’
Stella straightened. ‘And you’re a little beast in his, I’m sure,’ she murmured, unable to help her simmering disgust spilling over.
Georgina smiled. It seemed she’d heard. ‘Oh, I can’t wait to tell Mummy what you just called me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I shall go change. I have something to discuss with my parents.’ The teenager stopped at the door and threw back a smile. ‘Not sure how long I’ll be. I may even have to bathe again as I do believe the ink has stained my legs. Maybe it’s best if we rearrange for tomorrow.’
Stella couldn’t hold in her disdain a moment longer. ‘No, don’t rush back,’ she said. ‘I shall see you tomorrow, Georgina. I’ll rearrange a double lesson.’
‘Maybe not, Stella. You may even be packing your bags tonight, if I have anything to do with it.’
‘Close the door behind you, please.’
It was slammed shut. Stella walked to the window, her chest rising in deep, angry breaths as she stared out at the hills, determined not to cry although she watched the landscape through the blur of treacherous watering eyes. It felt peaceful out there and the silent stillness helped to calm her ragged breathing. She was finally able to blot away the threatened tears with a swipe of her fingers.
She wondered if Rafe was roaming the countryside again this morning. She’d heard him moving around upstairs late last night. She hadn’t slept well – her mind racing with thoughts of Carys perhaps crying herself to sleep and Rory desperately trying not to. But those thoughts entwined all too sinuously with snippets of her evening, particularly Rafe winking at her. She was still struggling to drift off when she’d heard the boards creaking above her. She hadn’t meant to derive satisfaction from it, but the realisation that the romantic dinner his wife had mentioned perhaps hadn’t turned out as romantically as she’d hoped was quietly pleasing.
Stella hadn’t left the nursery. It had been a pleasant time exploring all of the family memorabilia, particularly the photographs of Rafe as a boy. Time had seemed to move fast, though, for suddenly her next class was imminent.
‘Stella!’ It was Grace bursting in. ‘Hello – I’m not late, am I?’
Stella smiled at the rosy cheeks of her youngest pupil, their colour heightened from her riding lesson and her dash up the stairs, still in her jodphurs.
‘Mummy said I’m a disgrace to come to lessons dressed like this but I said you wouldn’t mind.’
‘Not in the slightest! It’s lovely to see you.’
‘Are we learning more of the daffodils poem?’
‘If you wish.’
‘I do. I want to learn it all.’
The hour with Grace passed easily and swiftly. Her eagerness to learn and to focus was in direct contrast to that of her sister. While Grace had her head bent, working on writing out some sentences in French, Stella had a chance to study her. She had elements of her mother – the beautifully shaped eyes – and despite her still-podgy build that Stella was sure would fall away in her teens, she could see that Grace possessed her mother’s languid manner when engaged.
‘Which teams do you play in at school?’
Grace kept writing but still answered. ‘I’m the youngest to play in the A team of tennis, and I’m the main substitute for the lacrosse team. Oh yes, I’m second base for rounders but our Games teacher thinks my bowling is coming on so she’s going to try me out this year in that position as we’re fielding two school teams I think. I’m in the under twelve swimming team and in winter I think I’ll make the hockey team . . . I hope so, I want to captain us in hockey one day.’
‘Your father was good at sport like you.’
‘My daddy is good at everything.’
‘Except spraying soda,’ Stella replied and Grace began to laugh delightedly.
Grace mimicked Beatrice’s shriek. ‘Oh, do shut up, Doug!’ and now Stella joined in the laughter. This only encouraged the youngster to leap up. ‘And now look what you’ve done to my Aubusson rug!’
Neither of them saw or heard the door open and only realised someone was standing there when a throat was cleared with obvious intent to catch their attention.
Stella turned and her expression dropped instantly as the temperature plummeted around her to see Beatrice Ainsworth. She stood in a heartbeat. ‘Mrs Ainsworth.’
Her employer regarded her as Stella imagined a cat might patiently await its prey. It was an unblinking stare of ice-blue malevolence.
‘Were we making too much noise?’
‘I was just leaving my room and I could hear the hilarity. I couldn’t imagine what was so terribly entertaining about French verbs . . . so I came this way down the hall. Now I discover what is so funny.’ She looked away from Stella to her child but Stella flinched to see how vicious her expression was. ‘Grace, you have disappointed me. I will be cancelling your riding lessons forthwith for the rest of the holidays.’
Grace’s expression crumpled but she didn’t cry. ‘I’m sorry, Mummy.’
‘Fresh clothes have been laid out. I’m perfectly sure you smell after being with the horses and dancing around in here instead of getting on with what I have paid for you to do.’ She glanced at her wristwatch in irritation. ‘Ah, I see your lesson time – if we can call it a lesson – is almost done. Let’s leave it at that, shall we? Hurry along, Grace. Miss Hailsham has drawn a bath for you. Don’t make a mess, please. I do not expect to see you for the rest of the day. You may stay in your room. Meals will be served there. Don’t let me hear another peep from you until tomorrow morning. And even then I’m not sure I want to look at you.’
Stella felt the horror of the cruel words settle on Grace’s shoulders and her private response was equally passionate but she had to physically clamp her mouth shut.
Grace cast Stella a look of deep apology. She too could sense trouble.
‘Thank you, Stella,’ she lisped just above a whisper.
‘You worked hard, Grace,’ she said firmly, knowing it made no difference but feeling stronger for saying it. ‘I’ll mark your page this afternoon. Hope to see you tomorrow.’
The child scurried away but her mother was in no hurry to leave.
Stella approached. ‘Mrs Ainsworth, I’m so sorry. We were —’
‘Stella, I was greeted not long ago by Georgie with a formal complaint against you. It’s not one I can ignore, I’m afraid, especially given what I’ve just witnessed.’
‘I can explain,’ she said, trying not to let it sound like a bleat, but given the suddenly leaden atmosphere, it sounded worse – like she was begging.
‘I’m sure you can. Just as you want to explain you were not ridiculing me in the presence of my young child just now.’
She held her tongue, Rafe’s warning about his wife’s cunning echoing in her racing thoughts.
‘Nothing to say for yourself?’ Beatrice goaded.
‘Yes, I would like to explain, if you’d permit me.’
‘Fine. I shall see you downstairs in my salon in fifteen minutes. Be prompt, I have a busy day.’ She swung around and left, a waft of her luscious rose and jasmine French perfume polluting the pleasantly musty, boyish smell of the Green Room. Stella recognised it immediately as Jean Patou’s Joy and sighed that Beatrice didn’t deserve to wear a fragrance of that name.