Hannah was certain Mr Opie would reply; he had seemed too polite to ignore her letter even if the position of housekeeper had been filled. She made sure she was outside the house to meet the postman every morning, and two days later, whistling cheerfully, he put a thick white envelope into her hand with an almost illegible script bearing her name and address.
Hannah wanted to run upstairs and open it immediately but Janet called her inside for breakfast. Janet was always desperately lonely the first few days her menfolk sailed off and it would have been mean to keep her waiting. It was an hour later, with the dishes washed and dried, before Hannah could slip up to her room to open the letter. She did so carefully and took out a sheet of white paper which smelled faintly of perfume. Hannah raised her brows; it must be Mrs Opie’s stationery. Would it say what she hoped? Since she had decided to ask for an interview, the prospect of starting a whole new way of life had turned into a strong desire.
My dear Miss Spargo,
I was delighted to hear from you. Would you kindly come to Roscarrock on Wednesday afternoon, at two thirty, for an interview with Mrs Opie. I shall meet you at the front door. I do hope this will be convenient to you. If not, do write and suggest a time yourself.
The signature was a splash of ink but she could just make out P. J. Opie.
The appointment was for this afternoon! For a moment Hannah was thrown into a dither and her heart hammered in her chest. What would she say about herself to Mrs Opie? Would Mrs Opie find her as suitable as her great-nephew had thought? Would the house’s ghosts reach out and terrify her? Then more down-to-earth concerns came to mind. What should she wear? How should she do her hair?
First things first, she told herself firmly. She had to tell Janet before deciding anything. Steeling herself for an argument, because she was determined at least to go up to Roscarrock and see what the position on offer was like, she padded downstairs.
‘Aunty Janet, I’ve got something to tell you.’
‘Have you, dear?’ Janet said, looking up from the piece of blue silk she was cutting out round a pattern. ‘About Matt, is it? I’ve noticed you’ve been rather quiet since he went.’
Hannah took a deep breath and got straight to the point. ‘It’s nothing to do with Matt. It’s about Mr Patrick Opie’s offer as housekeeper at Roscarrock. I wrote to him saying I’d like to consider it and he’s replied, asking me to go up there this afternoon.’
‘But why? You can’t possibly be serious!’ Janet was very nearly shrieking. She loved Hannah as if she was the daughter she’d always wanted. Losing her to Matt or some other young fisherman would be hard but at least she would still be in the village, able to keep her company sometimes when the menfolk were at sea. For her to take a job that would mean being away for most of the time, and there of all places, was unthinkable. ‘You don’t know what you’re saying, Hannah. What about Matt? What about your mother? What about me? Do you want cream on your pilchards, is that it?’ she ended with a sarcastic snap, her eyes filling with tears.
‘But Aunty Janet,’ Hannah pleaded, sorry she had upset her aunt, ‘it’s Mother I’m thinking about, and the rest of the family. Father’s threatened that he’ll make trouble for us if I don’t take the job, he wants me out of the village. I’ll still see you and Matt. I’m bound to have time off and I’ll go to chapel, no one will ever stop me doing that, and anyway, I don’t know if I’ll take the job for certain. I just want to see what it’ll be like. And,’ Hannah tried to soften her aunt with a sunny smile, ‘I’ll get to see inside Roscarrock and I’ll be able to tell you what it’s like.’
‘I don’t care about that,’ Janet said weakly, sitting down as if all her energy had left her. ‘You can’t go there, Hannah, you just can’t.’
There was something about Janet’s vehemence that alerted Hannah; she hadn’t forgotten her father and her grandmother’s words that ‘she belonged there’ at Roscarrock.
Hannah tilted her chin and her eyes blazed in the way they occasionally did when she demanded forthright answers. ‘Why are you so dead against me going to Roscarrock? Because of the rumours? Or something else? Do you know something about the place that I don’t?’
‘I know nothing,’ Janet murmured piteously, seeing her exclamations had made Hannah more determined to go for the interview. ‘I just don’t want to lose you, that’s all.’
Hannah put her arms round Janet and kissed her cheek. ‘You won’t ever lose me, Aunty. I shall always be grateful to you for taking me in and I shall always love you, Uncle Roy, Jowan and Ned.’
Not one to be down for long, Janet brushed away her tears and stood up. ‘Right, if I can’t get you to change your mind then you can go upstairs and take your best dress out of the wardrobe and your best shoes and hat. Then wash your hair and I’ll pin it up for you. I’m not letting you go up there unless you’re immaculately turned out.’
Hannah hoped to slip out of the village without being seen and provoking speculation about where she was going in her smart clothes. She was wearing a semi-fitted cream linen dress with decorative saddle stitching, long cream rayon cardigan with embroidery at the wrists and collar, brown felt hat with self-trimming, worn at an angle, and she carried a handbag. She didn’t actually own a handbag, having no use for one, but Janet had insisted she take hers, a smart brown leather bag Roy had bought her on their tenth wedding anniversary.
Luck was not on Hannah’s side. The men in the bark house and lofts stopped singing to the rhythm of their work as they saw her walk past. They asked her where she was going and when they saw they weren’t going to get an answer, they called out their appreciation of her ‘well-turned ankles’. Then she got waylaid by a group of seven retired old men, armed with pipe and walking stick, clad in shiny trousers, old sweaters, peaked caps or woolly hats, who were on their way down to the wooden seat placed on the quayside in a sheltered spot specially for them to indulge in their daily cogitation of the world and things closer to home. None of them asked her any pointed questions but Hannah knew she would be on their agenda today.
It took a lot longer to reach Roscarrock by road than stealing up to its boundaries over the cliff. As Hannah reached the top of the village hill and turned into the narrow lane, her nerve almost failed her and she nearly spun round and ran home. Her father’s threats carried her along the lane, which was little more than an arm’s length wide in some places. Gradually her tummy settled, and rising to the fore was the youthful sense of excitement and adventure she had suppressed since the day of the boat accident. Marching long-leggedly along the two miles of twists and bends of Turn-A-Penny Lane, praying she wouldn’t come across a motorised vehicle or a farm cart and have to climb the hedge to let it pass and risk her appearance, she took off her white cotton gloves and plucked grasses from the hedge. She glanced down often to avoid ruts and dusty patches marring her only pair of high-heeled shoes. They were quite old and well worn but they were comfortable; at least she didn’t have the worry of arriving with blistered or swollen feet. When she got close to the entrance of Hemmick Farm she had a hard task picking a clean path through the cowpats deposited by Henry Teague’s small herd of cattle.
The lane finally curved round a long sharp bend where some of the few drivers brave enough to take this route to reach Porthellis rather than the wider road had come a cropper. Hannah saw fresh skid marks and the hedge was battered. She nipped on smartly and soon she was on the road.
In a wide break in the hedge was Roscarrock’s gateway. She stopped and looked at the granite posts which had once supported a pair of gates, now long gone. The silent stones gave her no clue as to what she would find if she walked between them; there was only one way to discover that and that was to walk up to the house and meet Patrick Opie. To dispel a niggle of apprehension, she reminded herself of his kindly character, that she was here of her own free will.
Hannah put her gloves back on and slipped through the gap, wondering what the gates had been like and why they had not been replaced.
The ground rose slowly with the gradient of the cliff and soon she was looking up at the side of the house she had peeped at with Matt the week before. In front of the house a wide lawn was sheltered by the small wood which gave way to the cliff and then the sea; a little further upcoast was the wide, rounded protrusion of the Dodman. She felt light-hearted, didn’t understand why but was grateful for it, and her steps quickened. If any servants appeared, a groundsman perhaps, and challenged her, she would make it clear that she had a right to be here, she was invited and, more than that, she thought a trifle smugly, sought after.
The driveway was five hundred yards long and curved round lazily until it reached the front of the house. Hannah felt none of the foreboding of her childhood and thought Matt was probably right to scoff at the rumours. There were four tall windows downstairs and five upstairs, and windows in the attic. One upstairs room had a balcony. Two rows of chimneys stood at either end. Wisteria climbed the walls and tall trees, cedar, ash, sycamore and oak, grew behind the house, giving it a friendly frame.
True to his word, Patrick Opie was waiting for her in the shade of the porch. When he saw her he bounded down the six wide stone steps. They had railings on each side with purple heather and broom growing through them – Hannah could smell the broom’s pineapple scent. He was dressed in the same clothes, again slightly dishevelled, as when she had met him on Hidden Beach.
‘Ah, Miss Spargo, there you are. A few minutes early too, how kind. You must be parched after your long and dusty walk. Do come inside and I shall take you up to my great-aunt and bring you a glass of refreshing lemonade.’
It was a very hot day and Hannah was extremely thirsty. ‘Thank you, Mr Opie,’ she said, shaking his hand before he whisked her up the steps and inside the house. She did not see the woman watching her from the first-floor balcony window.
Hannah held her breath before crossing the threshold through a heavy four-inch thick door. The house smelled of a combination of age, history, flowers, and the fresh salt air wafting in behind them. She wasn’t disappointed in what she saw; in fact everything far outstripped her imagination. Standing on the thick plum-coloured carpet in the hall she gazed at a long, ornate, marble-topped side table where at one end stood a tall tapering green plant in a colourful bowl and at the other lay a small silver tray for calling cards. Between them were various ornaments in ivory and jade.
Upholstered chairs, some leather with studs, all with cabriole legs, were placed at regular intervals and mirrors and paintings adorned the walls in plaster picture bays. One mirror in particular caught Hannah’s attention. Its glass was round and convex, enclosed in an ebony reeded frame with gilt foliage top and bottom. A more modern addition was a curiously twisting umbrella and coat stand. On opposite sides of the hall were two white doors with cornices but quite different intricate patterns carved on them. Hannah hoped Leah would venture out to see her at Sarah’s house tomorrow so she could tell her all about this at first-hand. A long-case clock with a shell carved block front chimed the half hour, but Hannah was so absorbed she didn’t hear it.
Patrick Opie could see she was awestruck. ‘The mouldings and furniture in the house are mostly Georgian and Victorian – you’ll see quite a variety in the house,’ he said.
‘It’s lovely,’ she breathed, looking up at the ceiling which had an exquisite cornice of plaster foliage. It made her feel totally cut down to size. She was extremely nervous about meeting Mrs Opie.
There were no servants about and Mr Opie headed towards the stairs. ‘This way, Miss Spargo, if you please. My great-aunt will receive you in her suite of rooms.’
Hannah dutifully trotted after him. The stairs were carpeted and wide enough for them to walk side by side with room for two more. Flanked by the wrought-iron balustrade, they climbed eight steps and were on a large square landing. Hannah remarked on the beautiful arched window, which looked out on the back courtyard where she could see a cottage and stables.
‘The window is Queen Anne,’ Patrick Opie said with gusto and Hannah could tell he was very proud of the house. ‘It’s older than the house itself which was built round it. I’ll tell you all about the place, it has a fascinating history.’
He carried on talking as they turned and climbed another eight steps, at the top of which a narrow flight of steps led presumably to the attic rooms, and a wide corridor gave on to rooms to left and right.
‘The big manor house that stood originally on the site in the seventeenth century crumbled and was pulled down in the mid-eighteenth century. The house you see now retains some of its features but was built on smaller and more simple lines by the owners – they were mining speculators called Rosevear and loosely connected to the Robartes family. Their fortune dwindled as the mining industry petered out and they gradually relinquished much of the surrounding land and Porthellis. My great-aunt’s father-in-law, Hector Baden Opie, bought the property for a song in eighteen ninety-four. My Great-Uncle Redvers was killed in the war. I’m the son of Great-Uncle Redvers’ nephew Michael Opie.’
They were at the end of the corridor in front of double doors and Mr Opie tapped on them, grinned shyly at Hannah, and entered.
Hannah held her breath and her insides knotted.
‘Miss Spargo for you, Great-Aunt Feena,’ he said gaily and motioned Hannah to follow him.
Feena Opie was standing sedately in the middle of the room. It was a sitting room and every inch a woman’s room with a more modern touch than what Hannah had so far seen. Everything was beautiful and tasteful; the wallcovering alone was worth looking at, Hannah thought, an oyster-pink background with blue and pink roses and large leaves hiding behind masses of paintings of every size and shape. The curtains were extravagantly styled with swags, tassels and rosettes, and rich rugs covered the oak floor. Silver-framed photographs vied for space on the mantelpiece with ornaments and vases of flowers; the whole room seemed to be filled with flowers. Hannah noted sculpted flowers under glass domes similar to those she had seen on graves in the churchyard. There were two other doors in the room, one leading to the balcony, the other she assumed to a bedroom.
Hannah had taken it all in at a glance then kept her eyes pinned on Mrs Opie who dismissed her nephew with a flick of her hand. When he had closed the door, she beckoned Hannah to her.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Spargo. You seem a little surprised.’
Hannah gulped and was horribly embarrassed to realise she had been staring. ‘I-I’m sorry, Mrs Opie. I thought you’d be… um, I mean, I…’
Mrs Opie smiled. ‘I think you’re trying to say you thought I’d be much older. I’m afraid it’s Mr Patrick’s fault. He has the tiresome habit of calling everyone by their correct title or their relationship to himself. I would prefer he simply called me Aunt, but there it is. My mother had me late in life, you see, and Mr Patrick’s mother had him at a very young age, so we are more of an age to be aunt and nephew. Do take off your hat, your cardigan too if you are hot, Miss Spargo. I’m afraid Mr Patrick is not any good at formalities.’
Hannah forced a nervous smile, put her handbag down on a chair with padded arms and a heart-shaped back and taking off her hat placed it on top of her bag.
‘Has Mr Patrick offered you refreshment?’ Mrs Opie asked, smiling lightly, and Hannah felt the lady was looking her over closely.
‘Yes, yes, he has, lemonade.’
‘Good. Shall we sit out on the balcony? It’s quite cool out there and there is a magnificent view of the sea.’
‘Yes, that would be lovely.’ Hannah hoped her reply hadn’t come out as stilted as it sounded.
Mrs Opie turned slowly and walked to the door leading to the balcony. She had a decided limp on the left side. Even so, Hannah marvelled at her elegant carriage as she followed her. Everything about Mrs Opie was perfectly poised and sophisticated. She was slender, tall and straight despite her limp, wearing a classic, tailored, linen dress with deep pleats, and court shoes. Her grey hair was chicly parted on one side and waved close to her head. Hannah had expected her to be in her late seventies at least but Mrs Opie looked to be in her early sixties. Her face was expertly made-up, a little wrinkled and rather puffy, but there were hints she had once been a very handsome woman.
At the door, Mrs Opie took the gold-topped walking stick propped against it. On the balcony were three plush padded chairs with parasols attached to the backs, situated round a circular conservatory table. Mrs Opie sat in the first chair and put her left foot up on a footstool and invited Hannah to sit beside her. Before Hannah could exclaim at the splendid sea view, a ball of white fur in the third chair suddenly came to life and a small dog, no bigger than the average cat, gave a little yap and jumped on to Hannah’s lap.
‘Oh! Who are you? Aren’t you lovely?’ she laughed, stroking the excited creature’s silky head.
‘Pogo, you are a bad boy,’ Mrs Opie chided light-heartedly. ‘I hope you don’t mind, Miss Spargo. Pogo is very curious and absolutely loves being spoiled. He’s a Pomeranian.’
‘He’s sweet,’ Hannah said, thinking that Daniel would call the dog a piece of nonsense and disclaim its right to be called a dog at all.
Patrick Opie came out on the balcony with a tray. ‘Here we are, ladies. My favourite recipe and I’ve added plenty of ice.’ He put two tumblers, a glass jug of lemonade and two napkins on the table. ‘Drink it before it gets warm. And,’ he sounded pleased with himself, ‘some of my very own brandysnaps, filled with thick cream. Eat them before they melt.’
As suddenly as he had appeared, Patrick Opie was gone. Mrs Opie smiled after him. ‘He’s very sweet,’ she said fondly, deliberately echoing Hannah’s comment about the dog, and Hannah laughed. Patrick Opie was as pleasant as he had first seemed and she was warming to his great-aunt by the moment.
Mrs Opie poured out the lemonade. ‘I think we’ll thrash out the details about the position of housekeeper first, Miss Spargo, and then I’ll ring for Mr Patrick to show you over the house. As you can see, I’m not very good on my legs, it’s arthritis of the hip, and I spend a lot of my time up here. I have a wheelchair to get about the grounds and sometimes I am foolish enough to allow Mr Patrick to wheel me around his beloved gardens. I must warn you he’ll probably want to drag you all over them before you go. He has two passions, gardening and cooking. It’s all he does, and since he came here to live I haven’t had to employ either.’
‘I see.’ Hannah didn’t see, she thought it rather strange, a gentleman doing the work of two servants.
‘I’ve had to let my housekeeper go because her father took a turn for the worse and his need was greater than mine. First of all, Miss Spargo, let me assure you that you will have absolutely no skivvying to do. I have a maid who does the laundry, cleaning, looks after the fires, that sort of thing. Her name is Angie Miller, she’s quiet and middle-aged, and after she’s finished her work she likes to go up to her room. You won’t have any trouble from her.’
It wasn’t lost on Hannah that Mrs Opie was talking as if she had agreed to take the job.
‘You will be required to make sure things are running smoothly, to order goods from the tradesmen and check their prices, to decide when a room needs spring-cleaning, the chimneys sweeping, if repairs of any kind are needed and so on. And the linen, of course. There is a modern sewing machine in the linen room. You are a seamstress, I understand, and I have some of your and your aunt’s work in the house.’
‘Yes, Mrs Opie. I noticed some lacework of mine on a table in your sitting room.’
‘Isn’t it nice,’ Mrs Opie paused, ‘that you and I already have a connection? One other little job I’d like you to do. Mr Patrick for some obscure reason quite forgets to water the indoor plants, so if you wouldn’t mind, Hannah.’
So I’m Hannah now, Hannah thought wryly as she sipped her lemonade. She was in no doubt Mrs Opie was used to getting her own way.
‘Your room will overlook the sea – I have a feeling you have a fondness for the sea. Your meals, clothes and shoes will be supplied, also toiletries. I like to look after my staff. You may wear a little jewellery, but please nothing too flashy. Your pay will be one pound, one and sixpence a week with an annual review. You will have two half days off a week, you can choose them on regular days or move them about, as long as I know what you’re doing, and all day Sunday off, when I’m sure you’ll want to go to chapel and spend the day with your family. Mr Patrick and I occasionally attend Gorran Church and you’d be welcome to join us. There is a bicycle in the stables you may use so you won’t have the walk back and forth to the village. If you go out in the evening, I’d like you to be in by ten o’clock. Mr Patrick locks up at ten fifteen. If there is a special occasion, I’m sure we can accommodate you. Do you happen to have a boy friend, Hannah?’
Hannah didn’t know how to answer that.
Mrs Opie eyed her keenly. ‘You seem uncertain. Is someone becoming special to you?’
Hannah thought it was none of Mrs Opie’s business. She said blandly, ‘He’s just a friend.’
That must have satisfied the lady, for next she said, ‘Your family may call on you occasionally as long as they don’t keep you from your duties. Tell me a little about your family, Hannah.’
‘They are all involved with the fishing industry. I have two brothers and three sisters.’ Hannah flushed as she admitted she lived with her aunt. ‘The family home is rather crowded, you see,’ she offered as a reason.
Mrs Opie smiled and handed her the plate of brandysnaps. Pogo jumped about on Hannah’s lap and tried to filch the one she took. Mrs Opie tapped his snout. ‘No, Pogo, bad dog.’ The dog looked crestfallen but after a whining grumble, settled down to sleep on Hannah’s lap.
When the brandysnaps were eaten, Mrs Opie delicately wiped her fingers on her napkin. ‘I’m sure you won’t find it too much for you here. Roscarrock is a family home. Have you any comments or questions, Hannah?’
‘Well, I’ve never worked in service before but your terms sound very generous. I particularly like the fact that my family can visit me.’ Now she was talking as if she’d accepted the job. ‘Does anyone else live here?’
‘My grandson, Mr Gregory Opie. He’s not here all the time. He’s an author and playwright and is often away researching his projects. He’s currently in London. When he’s here, he spends most of his time in the library which he’s turned into a study.’ Hannah had a vision of another Patrick Opie, a dried up, rather eccentric bachelor, shutting himself away to write. Mrs Opie smiled graciously. ‘You’ll find us no trouble, Hannah.’ She rang a little silver bell. ‘Mr Patrick will come and show you around now, then come back to me and we’ll make the final arrangements.’
‘If I decide to take the position, Mrs Opie,’ Hannah said, finding her independence as she lifted Pogo on to his own chair and stood up.
Mrs Opie looked at her sideways. ‘Of course.’
Patrick Opie showed her a guest bedroom on the first floor, which was richly furnished and smelled faintly of mothballs, then he took her up the servants’ back stairs to the linen room. Hannah gingerly touched the sewing machine; her aunt would love to own this model. If she took the job, perhaps she could keep up her sewing and continue to contribute to her foster family’s funds.
Next they went down to the drawing room. Hannah was astounded and wished Leah was with her. The marble fireplace could only be described as magnificent, its plaster decoration reaching nearly to the high ceiling. It had intricate patterns of grapes and leaves, garlands and tassels and, most intriguing of all, a face in the centre under the mantelshelf.
‘It’s in memory of a dead relative of the previous owners,’ Patrick Opie explained.
On the mantelshelf were a bracket clock and porcelain figures of eighteenth-century lovers and lute-playing shepherdesses.
The ceiling, which seemed very far away, was decorated with symmetrical plasterwork and a huge cut-glass chandelier hung from the centre. The deep windowsills held potted greenery and a satinwood grand piano stood in the corner behind the door. A gramophone sat on a small square mahogany table with cabriole legs and ball and claw feet. A dado rail ran round the four walls between contrasting designs of flock wallpaper. The bays were painted with country scenes, seascapes and vases of flowers.
The next room, the dining room, had four small chandeliers and a huge rectangular mahogany table and twelve chairs. This ceiling had a moulded arabesque design.
‘The sideboard was made in the second half of the eighteenth century and the two things that look like urns at either end are actually knife holders,’ Patrick Opie said.
‘It’s all so beautiful,’ Hannah marvelled, studying the back rail with candle holders, and the fluted designs on the serving table. Hannah was captivated by the house and its contents, and drawn to the job of housekeeper in it. The two Opies she had met seemed perfectly charming. As Patrick Opie led the way down the narrow, uneven, servants’ stairs to the kitchen to enthuse over what he saw as his own private domain, Hannah knew she couldn’t turn down the offer to work here at Roscarrock.