Autumn Softly Fell (16 page)

‘All we need now,’ Henry said, ‘is to persuade your uncle that
autocars really are worth investing in. The prototype will help us there.’

‘What’s a prototype, Henry?’

‘Something that’s the first of its kind.’

‘Like Adam and Eve?’

‘Well, yes, I suppose so. In fact,
Eve
would make rather a good name for the prototype we’re going to build. What do you think?’

Dorothea thought it was perfect. Now she had a hand in the prototype, even if it was just giving it a name. But next to her Mlle Lacroix was leaning forward in some concern as the motor swung round a brace of empty wagons heading towards the harvest fields.

‘Oh, Monsieur Henri, you must take care!’

‘Don’t you worry, Mademoiselle!’ cried Henry, manhandling the steering wheel, sending the motor veering from one side of the road to the other. ‘You’re quite safe with me!’

And Dorothea laughed, because she did feel safe with Henry, for no one knew more about motor cars then he did.

Dorothea, balanced on her bicycle, stopped to catch her breath, looking back along the Lawham Road towards the village. It was a bright October afternoon, the air still, the blue sky mottled with high white clouds. Mlle Lacroix was some way behind, labouring up the gentle slope on her bicycle, pedals going slowly round, round but they needed to hurry, or they would miss all the excitement back at Clifton.

‘Why, hello, Miss Dorothea! Fancy meeting you here!’

Dorothea swivelled on her saddle and found herself face to face with Mrs Turner, Nora’s mother, plump and rosy-cheeked and smiling as ever, puffing a little after walking up from the canal. She had a covered basket on her arm.

‘I’ve just been to Lawham, miss. There were one or two things I needed that couldn’t wait for the carrier.’

‘You walked all the way to Lawham, Mrs Turner? But it’s so far!’

‘Bless you, miss, but it’s no more than three mile.’

‘You should get a bicycle like mine. It would be ever so much quicker than walking.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t do that, miss!’ exclaimed Mrs Turner as she mopped her face with a spotted handkerchief. ‘I’m too long in the tooth to be learning new tricks. Our Jem’s taken to cycling. He cycles to work every day now. But I’ll stick to Shanks’s pony, if it’s all the same to you.’

‘Whose pony?’

‘Shanks’s. My own two feet.’ Mrs Turner laughed. ‘You may be sure I’ve never owned a
real
pony. Not like your aunt. She was a great one for riding when she was a girl. Out in all weathers, she was. Fearless, too. But then they always said she could ride before she could walk.’

Aunt Eloise, out in all weathers, a fearless rider? It was
impossible
, somehow, to imagine. It was impossible even to picture her as a girl; she seemed so impermeable and unchanging. Yet she must have been young once – as must Mrs Turner. They were perhaps of a similar age, Nora’s mother and Aunt Eloise, but they were chalk and cheese in everything else.

Mlle Lacroix came toiling up just then. ‘Ah, Dorossea, you wait for me,
merci
. And Mrs Turner. How do you do? Bonjour.’

‘Bon journey, mam’zelle.’ Mrs Turner’s smile grew even broader. ‘Hark at me, speaking French! Who’d have thought it? But that’s our Nora for you. She’s always teaching us something new, things she’s learned up at the big house. So you’ve both been in the village, have you?’

‘Dorossea is always anxious to meet her friends.’

‘Well, of course. And she has so many friends in the village now.’

‘Today, Madam Turner, we also chase a— how do you say?
Un cochon
.’

‘A pig,’ said Dorothea.

‘A pig?’ exclaimed Mrs Turner. ‘Not the Hobson’s beast again? If it’s escaped once, it’s escaped a dozen times! I don’t know. Those Hobsons.’ She shook her head, as if she doubted whether there was anything to be done about the Hobsons.

Dorothea set her foot on the pedal. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Turner, but we must go. Eve is coming today!’

‘Who might she be, when she’s at home?’

‘I’ll tell you another day!’ cried Dorothea, setting her bicycle in motion. ‘Goodbye Mrs Turner! Goodbye!’

Quite a crowd had gathered in front of the house. Interest in the new autocar had grown apace in the months since Mr Smith’s visit. The prototype had been built at Uncle Albert’s factory in Coventry and was being driven down today by Henry to Clifton on its first test run. Mr Smith himself was a passenger whilst Uncle Albert headed the welcoming committee. Aunt Eloise was there too, along with Henry’s mother and Henry’s friend Mr Giles. Mrs Somersby was also present. She had just happened to call by. As Dorothea propped her bicycle against the garden wall, she could hear Mrs Somersby giving Uncle Albert the benefit of her wisdom. She had an opinion on everything. Motors were something of a novelty, she was saying, though mainly only of concern to men. One might find that women would take more of an interest if the clothes could be improved on but most motoring attire was simply frightful. She would never be seen dead in such clothes herself. Motors would never really take off until these important matters were addressed. It was high time someone took note. Uncle Albert nodded and muttered that she was right, quite right and Mrs Somersby smiled, for she liked people to agree with her. And as if to test Uncle Albert’s metal she added that it was rather warm for October, didn’t he think so?

Aunt Eloise and Lady Fitzwilliam were sitting on the bench under the cedar tree, looking up at the house with its glinting windows and grey pilasters. Such a pleasing façade, said Lady Fitzwilliam, so neat and well-ordered – she had always thought so.

‘That’s all very well, Alice, but what about the crumbling
brickwork
, the broken slates, the leaning chimney?’ Aunt Eloise lamented. ‘Not to mention the leaks, the dry rot and the piles of mouse droppings in the attics.’

‘My dear! You make it sound positively decrepit!’

‘But it
is
decrepit. It has been frightfully neglected.’

‘It wouldn’t take much to put it right, a few repairs, a lick of paint.’

‘It’s the cost, Alice, the cost! That’s the nuisance of it. One really
can’t expect Albert to pay when it isn’t his house; one really can’t expect it. But the trustees are so niggardly, the house could go to wrack and ruin before they ever lifted a finger!’

Taking a fresh look at the house, Dorothea wondered if things really were so bad, or if Aunt Eloise was exaggerating. She
remembered
Bessie Downs’s words from ages ago:
the house is all she’s ever cared about.
Watching it crumble away would break anyone’s heart – if one really could feel that way about a mere building, and if that building really was crumbling away.

There was no more time to consider the point for at that moment there came a shout from Mr Giles who was on lookout at the top of the drive. Everyone was swept up in the excitement of Eve’s
imminent
arrival.

Sleek, compact, hood down, bodywork gleaming, wire wheels spinning, Eve crunched across the gravel and came to halt outside the house. An admiring crowd gathered round as Henry jumped down, tearing off his goggles. The machine was a triumph, he cried – lightweight, but strong as steel, it ran smoothly, handled easily, and the fuel consumption was nothing short of miraculous. Mr Smith was a genius! Would anyone like a ride?

Of course, everyone did – even Mrs Somersby. ‘So much less
noisy
than the usual run of motors,’ she declared. ‘So elegant, too. One feels like a queen. One might be tempted to purchase such a vehicle oneself – if only one could find the right clothes!’

‘I am pleased to announce, Viola, that such a purchase will indeed soon be possible,’ said Uncle Albert. He stepped up onto the running board to make a little speech. He was proud and delighted, he said, to proclaim this very afternoon the founding of a new concern: the BFS Motor Manufacturing Company. The initials stood for the three investors: himself, ‘young Fitzwilliam there’ and ‘that very talented and forward-looking engineer, Mr Stanley Smith’. The order book would open immediately. ‘But don’t all rush at once,’ he added, drawing a general laugh.

So, thought Dorothea, Uncle Albert had once again moved with the times and was taking up the challenge of autocars. No wonder Henry was beaming from ear to ear, no wonder Mr Smith looked
bowled over. As she ran her hand over Eve’s paintwork, traced with one finger the rim of the spare tyre, caressed the shiny brass lamps and felt the heat coming through the radiator slats, Dorothea wondered what would happen to all the copies of Eve that were to come. Uncle Albert had gambled. Would it pay off? Only time would tell.

The prototype took its leave the next morning. Henry was to drive it back to Coventry, accompanied by Uncle Albert, along with Mr Smith who had stayed overnight at Clifton. The BFS Motor Manufacturing Company was to begin in earnest.

After the feverish excitement the previous day, Dorothea found herself feeling rather flat. She wished she could have gone off with Eve too, to join in the adventure. What was Uncle Albert’s factory like? What was Coventry like? Uncle Albert had lived there for years and years until moving to Clifton to become Richard’s guardian – and to please Aunt Eloise, no doubt.

Going down to the library that afternoon to choose a book, Dorothea’s head was still full of thoughts of Coventry. Uncle Albert had been born somewhere called Seton Street, in a little court that sounded very much like the place where she had lived with her papa in London. Later, Uncle Albert’s family had moved to a bigger house in Forest Road and that was where Dorothea’s mama had been born. Sitting at the desk in the library, absent-mindedly turning the pages of an old book she had picked at random, Dorothea wondered what her mama had been like as a girl and how she had spent her days up until the time of the fateful elopement. And what then? Where had they run to, her papa and mama? Where had they lived? How had they ended up in London? She had not dared ask Uncle Albert about any of this.

Looking down at the book, she became aware of the small,
intricate
and highly-coloured illustrations. The text was all about fabulous creatures said to inhabit the far corners of the earth: birds as big as houses, sea serpents that swallowed ships, men with faces in their chests. It was faintly disturbing, somehow, to read about such things. The world was so big it made her head ache to think 
about it. Her curiosity about Coventry withered. She pushed her unknown mama to the back of her mind. Clifton, the village, an occasional trip to Lawham – that was quite enough for anyone. She had no desire to meet the fabulous creatures from the pictures.

At that moment she heard the faint sound of a door opening – the drawing room door, at a guess. A bell tinkled in a distant part of the house. She stood up, her heart thumping. Although she had
permission
to be in the library, it was still something of an ordeal to run into Aunt Eloise or Mrs Bourne. But the footsteps she heard in the hallway were heavy and slow-paced, a man’s footsteps.

Moving to stand by the ajar door, Dorothea saw Bessie Downs come dashing past, running to answer the bell, presumably, and behindhand as ever. Despite the dangers of loitering, Dorothea edged out into the passage and made her way slowly towards the front hall. She heard Bessie say, ‘M’lord?’ And then a stranger’s voice snapped, ‘My hat! My stick!’ The words were curt, clipped,
short-tempered
.

Holding her breath, Dorothea peered around the corner. There in the hall was a man tapping his foot on the black-and-white tiles, side-on to her. Tall and thin, he had a pale, gaunt face, like the face of an effigy in church. His dark hair was streaked with grey. There was a hauteur about him – a supreme indifference to his
surroundings
– that made Dorothea uneasy. Though he wasn’t as big as a house, though he didn’t have a face in his chest, it was almost as if one of the fabulous creatures had stepped out of the pages of that old leather-bound book – a man from another world.

Bessie came hurrying with his things. Of course, being Bessie, she dropped the hat, fumbled with the stick, almost tripped over her own feet. The man snatched his hat and stick then pushed past her as if she wasn’t even there. Bessie had to dodge round him to open the door. The tall man went down the steps and out of view. Dorothea caught a glimpse of a waiting carriage before Bessie shut the door with a resounding crash. She sniffed, wiping her hands on her apron.

Dorothea emerged into the hall, daring to breathe again. ‘Bessie, who was that?’

‘Humph! Hoity-toity, that’s who he was. Lord Snooty.
The Viscount Lynford,
to give him his right name. I’ll give him
viscount
if he speaks to me like that again. Huh! Humph!’

‘But who
is
he? Why was he here?’

‘I don’t know and I don’t care. Why don’t you ask Master Richard? That’s who he came to see, supposedly – though he spent as much time in the drawing room with the mistress as he did upstairs. It’s not surprising, I suppose. Him and the mistress make a right pair – two crabby old miseries together. Well, he’s gone, and good riddance!’

It was most unlike Bessie Downs to let anyone put her nose out of joint. She didn’t stop to chat. That wasn’t like her either.

Richard was also out of sorts. The man who’d called was his uncle, he reported. He’d heard his grandfather occasionally speak of an Uncle Jonathan but there had been no sightings of him until today. ‘I don’t like him,’ Richard said. ‘He made me feel unwell. I don’t want to see him again.’

Richard, of course, never liked anyone – to begin with, at any rate. But this time Dorothea could not help feeling that he had a point. One glimpse of Viscount Lynford had been enough for her. His lordship had now gone back to the unknown places from which he’d come. She hoped he would stay there.

WHEN UNCLE ALBERT
made an abrupt and unexpected appearance in the nursery, Dorothea was bursting with questions about Eve and the BFS Motor Company, now seven months old. But Uncle Albert was not his usual self this evening. He answered vaguely, leaving his sentences hanging as he paced around the room, picking things up, putting them down, lost in thought. His behaviour was odd – unnerving, even. Going back to her place at the big table, Dorothea pulled a book towards her – one of the big, stuffy ones from the library that the governess seemed to enjoy – and opened it at random.
Roger Massingham
, she read,
acquired a sizeable estate
—But which Roger Massingham was this? There had been several, all distant ancestors of Aunt Eloise (and of Richard). One was apt to get confused.

‘Mam’zelle!’ Uncle Albert spoke abruptly, making Dorothea jump. ‘A word, if I may.’

‘But of course, Monsieur.’ Mlle Lacroix laid aside her sewing and her spectacles and got up.

They talked in the vestibule. Hanging over her book, Dorothea could not help cocking her ear at the door. Uncle Albert’s deep growl was unintelligible. The governess’s high sing-song voice carried better. One could make out some of the words.

‘…ah, you talk of
Monsieur le vicomte,
poor Richard’s uncle, no…?’

Growl, growl, growl.

‘…every week, sometimes twice in one week. He talk to Richard and….’

Growl, growl.

‘Mais, oui
!
Le vicomte
—the viscount I should say: he takes tea with Madam Brannan, sometimes they walk in the gardens. They are old friends, is it not so?’

A very deep growl.

‘Monsieur, if there is anything I can—’

A final brief growl followed by the sound of the baize door
slamming
. Silence.

Dorothea returned to her book, her heart thumping.
Roger Massingham acquired a sizeable estate
….

Mlle Lacroix reappeared. She took up her sewing and her
spectacles
, resumed her seat, a picture of calm. Dorothea was burning with curiosity, but knew that the governess would never entertain any thought of speaking out of turn.

Le vicomte
…. They had been talking about Lord Lynford, Richard’s mysterious and unsettling uncle. Any hopes that his visit last October would be both his first
and
his last had been
short-lived
. He had returned many times since – including that very afternoon. Dorothea had only learned this after he’d gone. Returning from her walk in the gardens, running ahead of the governess, she had overheard Bessie Downs and Tomlin
tittle-tattling
(as Nora called it) in the morning room.

‘And has his high-and-mighty lordship gone yet?’ Bessie’s voice had carried loud and clear out into the hallway, making Dorothea wince to think of who might be able to hear: Mrs Bourne, for instance.

‘He’s been gone a good while,’ Tomlin had replied. ‘He didn’t stay so long today.’

‘Good riddance. I can’t abide him, with his nose in the air.’

‘The mistress likes him well enough.’

‘And what do you mean by that, Mr Tomlin?’ Bessie had asked archly. ‘Have you been eavesdropping again, you naughty boy?’

‘What if I have? You’re as bad yourself, Bessie Downs. At my last situation, the missus used to h’entertain gentlemen regular in the afternoon, and was not to be disturbed in the drawing room. She forgot about the keyhole, though!’

The sound of giggling had come from the morning room but at that moment Mlle Lacroix had caught up with her and Dorothea had not been able to linger to hear more.

She looked down now at her book. It really was the dullest thing she had ever read. Her eyes kept going over and over the same words without taking them in. Was it her imagination, or was there an
atmosphere
in the nursery this evening? Not just the nursery, either. It seemed to be seeping through the whole house.

Polly could feel it too. Without warning she broke out with, ‘Hello! Hello! Hello! Hello!’

As if on cue, Nanny burst into the day room, back from one of her
quick words
with Cook.

‘Well! What do you think? You’ll never
guess
!’ Her eyes were popping out of her head as she looked from Dorothea to the governess and back again. ‘There’s such mayhem downstairs, I’ve never known the like! The Master’s gone off, not five minutes ago, and all out of the blue. Cook says it’s because of the glove and—’

‘
Excusez-moi.
’ Mlle Lacroix broke in rather stiffly. ‘What is zis glove?’

‘Why, his lordship’s glove, of course. The glove that he left behind this afternoon. That girl Downs found it and – what do you think! – the silly thing only went and took it to the Master and asked what she should do with it. And that’s how it all came out – about his lordship’s visits and everything!’

‘But Monsieur Brannan, he know all about the visits, no?’

‘No. I mean yes. I mean, he didn’t until just now. And Cook says he was so angry you could hear him from down in the kitchen, and it’s no wonder he was angry when—’ Here Nanny paused, glancing briefly at Dorothea before enunciating her words slowly and clearly as if by doing so she would render them meaningless to anyone except the governess. ‘—when at one time his lordship wanted to marry the mistress! Well then! What do you think of that!’

‘It is none of our concern—’

‘Cook knows all about it, you may be sure. Mr Brannan just took off, then and there, she says, and Mrs Brannan was on the doorstep
begging him to stay, and Mr Brannan more or less accused her of carrying on with—’

‘S’il vous plaît! L’enfant!’
Mlle Lacroix’s razor-sharp voice made Dorothea jump. Nanny stared, open-mouthed. Her face showed first shock, then incredulity, then anger. Her mouth snapped shut. Blotchy red marks appeared on her cheeks, matching the red of her nose. Finally she drew herself up.

‘Well! There’s no need to use
that
sort of language, I’m sure!’

The governess did not reply, carrying on with her sewing as if nothing had happened.

Nanny sniffed, stuck her nose in the air. She said, to no one in particular, ‘Pardon me for breathing. I don’t know nothing about nothing.’

‘Hello! Hello! Hello!’ shrieked Polly as Nanny took her seat by the fire with injured dignity. Dorothea stared down at her book, burying herself in it as the day room lapsed into silence.
Roger Massingham acquired a sizeable estate in the mid-sixteenth century following the dissolution of Lawham Priory
…. She had read the same sentence at least eight times without understanding a word. Her head was in a spin. Had Uncle Albert really gone away? Why? When would he come back? What did Nanny mean when she said that Aunt Eloise had been ‘carrying on’ with his lordship? Was it the same as
h’entertaining
(spoken in the sly tone that Tomlin had used)? Was it really true that the viscount had once wanted to
marry
Aunt Eloise?

Questions, questions: and no answers. There was no one to ask.

Roger Massingham acquired a sizeable estate,
she read. The clock ticked. Polly bit the bars of her cage. Mlle Lacroix’s needle bit into the cloth.

Outside, the May evening faded into twilight.

There was an unsettling, breathless mood in the house. The usual routines seemed to fall into abeyance. People spoke in whispers. Dorothea took the risk of following Nanny down to the kitchen, which she would never normally have dreamt of doing. Cook was there, and the scullery maid, and Milly Carter the kitchen maid.
Bessie Downs was lounging against the range. Dorothea lingered in the doorway, listening.

‘Come to hear the latest?’ said Bessie Downs to Nanny.

Nanny was affronted. ‘Me? Listen to gossip? I’ve never heard the like!’

‘Nor me, neither,’ said Cook. ‘The very idea!’

They nodded and winked at each other, looking superior.

‘Well, I say what I think and I don’t care who hears,’ said Bessie Downs. ‘And what I say is that his lordship came looking for money, and the Mistress let him have it and all!’

Nanny and Cook tutted and shook their heads. What a saucy wench, they said to each other, talking out of turn like that! Who did Downs think she was? You’d never catch
them
tittle-tattling, oh no! In any case, Downs had it all wrong. Why would his lordship come looking for money when he was one of the richest men in the country (he was a viscount, it stood to reason)? His father was richer still. No, the truth of it was – and far be it from them to tell tales, but really! Downs needed to put straight! – the truth of it was, his lordship had never ceased to pine after the woman he’d wanted to marry all those years ago and now he’d come to win her back. But (Nanny and Cook dropped hints in meticulous detail), although the mistress was torn in two, her agonies impossible to describe (Cook did her best), she had remembered her wedding vows just in time and would stay with her lawful husband – and no wonder, when you considered that the viscount, though fabulously rich, was also unbearably snooty.

‘Then the Mistress is a fool,’ said Bessie Downs. ‘I’d marry the viscount at the drop of a hat, if he is as rich as you say.’

Nanny and Cook threw up their hands in horror. Of all the
brass-necked
cheek! It was shocking, the way young girls talked nowadays. In any case, it was Downs who was the fool, for the mistress could not possibly marry the viscount, not unless she got a
divorce
.

Divorce! The word sent a shudder through the whole kitchen. It was unthinkable, said Cook; the scandal would be impossible to live down. She herself would never stoop to working in the home of a divorcee. The shame would kill her.

But it seemed very likely that someone else would kill her first, because at that moment Mrs Bourne appeared as if from nowhere. There was considerable carnage in the kitchen from which Dorothea barely escaped with her life.

‘Oh, Dorossea! I am so forgetful! I have left the letter from
maman
in the garden!’

‘I’ll fetch it, Mam’zelle!’ Dorothea jumped up from her chair. It was a welcome relief, the way things were, to run errands rather than sit at her lessons.

More than usually wary of Mrs Bourne after the massacre in the kitchen the other day, she edged her way down the back stairs and out of the side door. In the stable yard, she was surprised to find Henry tinkering with the engine of Uncle Albert’s own copy of Eve.

‘It’s not running smoothly. I promised your uncle that I would take a look at it. I rather expected him to be here today, but when I asked after him I got some very shifty looks. Your aunt,’ he added with a wounded air, ‘seems very out of sorts, I must say.’

Dorothea could not stop herself. She had been bursting to talk to someone about the goings-on and this was too good an opportunity to miss. One could say almost anything to Henry, he took it all in his stride – although she thought it wise to leave out some of Bessie Down’s more lurid details.

‘Ah. So that’s it,’ said Henry. ‘Viscount Lynford.’

‘Henry, who is Viscount Lynford?’

‘He’s the son and heir of Lord Denecote.’

But she knew that. What she itched to know was different, less tangible. She gave him a questioning look.

Henry rubbed his chin, looking round the yard uneasily but there was no one about, apart from a horse regarding them with some interest over the top of a stable door. ‘Look, Doro, I really can’t tell you much, I’m afraid, only what Mother has let slip, and some things that Milton has told me. You know Milton – my chum Giles Milton? He’s got about a hundred brothers and sisters, and one of them, Philip, was great friends with Lord Lynford once upon a time. Philip was something of a black sheep, by all accounts. His father
turned him out of the house in the end – got fed up of paying off his debts, so Giles said.’

What had this got to do with Uncle Albert and Aunt Eloise? Dorothea was used to Henry’s penchant for going off at a tangent and decided to let him run on for a while in the hope of learning something useful.

Lord Lynford and the black sheep Philip Milton, she gathered, had also been friends with Frederick Rycroft.

‘Richard’s father?’

‘And your aunt’s brother, that’s the chap,’ said Henry. ‘They met at university and lived something of a wild life, or so one is given to understand.
The Three Musketeers
, Mother called them. Her idea of a joke, I suppose. Drinking, gambling, wom—er, yes, gambling. Gambling and so on. All that sort of dissolute behaviour. Young rakes. Nobody took much notice. It’s expected of men of their sort when they’re at a certain age.’

Dorothea hesitated to interrupt again in case Henry clammed up (he looked like he might do so at any moment). What, she wondered, did it mean to be
dissolute
? Had Henry also been
dissolute
when
he
was at university? Doubtful, she thought. She remembered Becket once saying that Frederick Rycroft had been a
rapscallion
in his youth. Was this the same as being a
rake
? Or different?

The three friends, Henry continued, had often stayed in one another’s houses and had got to know one another’s people – which was how Frederick Rycroft had come to marry Lady Emerald Huntley. She was Lord Lynford’s sister.

Lady Emerald, said Dorothea to herself, slotting the names into place. Lady Emerald was Richard’s mother, of course. Becket had said of her long ago that she’d had
no sense
and had
not fitted in.
Henry now added that she’d been something of a hedonist (which meant what?) as well as a headstrong sort of woman, whilst Frederick, after his marriage, had been notoriously
uxorious
. (Was this equivalent to
rake
and
rapscallion
or did it have an entirely different connotation?)

‘Lady Emerald was five years older than Frederick,’ Henry added
tangentially. ‘Mother seems to think that was the root of all their problems. But I … I don’t think age matters when two people are … are fond of each other—do you?’