Autumn Softly Fell (17 page)

‘No, Henry, of course not,’ said Dorothea patiently. (What had this got to do with
anything
? She had been out of the nursery for
ages and ages.
Someone would come looking for her if Henry didn’t get to the point.)

Henry resumed. Frederick Rycroft and Lady Emerald – Richard’s parents – had got married in 1880. Henry knew the date off pat because it was the same year that his father had lost his seat in the election. (Lost his
seat
? In what way?) ‘My father took up Fred as a sort of protégé.’ (A
what
?) ‘Of course, he would have liked to win his seat back himself but – reading between the lines – I think he knew that he didn’t have it in him. He had realized by then that he was ill, hadn’t much time left. So he pinned all his hopes on Fred.’

This was interesting in a way. Dorothea had often wondered about Henry’s father. But if (she thought) she had been writing an essay on Viscount Lynford and had included all these superfluous details, Mlle Lacroix would have crossed it all out and written
not
relevant
in the margin. Time was getting on, and even the horse had now grown bored and drawn in its head.

Sifting Henry’s words, she understood him to be saying that after the wedding Frederick Rycroft had stopped being a rake and/or rapscallion, and had become sensible and respectable instead. Partly this was due to his wife, who stood no nonsense (‘unless it was her own nonsense,’ Henry added), partly it was because he saw less of his dubious friends, Lynford and Milton. Mainly it was due to his newfound interest in politics. Politics was to have been Frederick Rycroft’s glittering career (did Richard know about this?) but
unfortunately
everything had come crashing down round his ears when he lost in the election of 1885. And that, said Henry, had been that.

‘Father was terribly disappointed, I remember,’ he went on, toying with a spanner, a distant look in his eyes. ‘Our house was rather under a cloud for weeks. It put me off politics for good. Put Fred off, too. He was not a sticker, Fred, he got easily discouraged. After the
election he went travelling with his wife all over the continent – leaving, if Mother is to be believed, a trail of unpaid bills.’

But now – at last – Henry was getting to the interesting bit. It had been in that same year of the lost election, 1885, that Lord Lynford had asked Aunt Eloise to marry him. This, it turned out, had
really
happened. It wasn’t just a figment of Nanny’s and Cook’s
imaginations
. Lynford and Aunt Eloise had known one another for years, with Lynford and Fred being such good friends and Fred later marrying Lynford’s sister. Aunt Eloise had formed what Henry called
an attachment,
by which he meant
love
, thought Dorothea.

But 1885! It was nearly twenty years ago, ancient history! One did not really think of Aunt Eloise as being that old. Then again, one never thought of her as being any age at all. She was timeless, like the Snow Queen. But if Henry could remember these events, then he must be getting on a bit, too – he must be a quarter of a century old
at least
!

She looked at Henry with new esteem as he explained that the expected marriage had never taken place and that no one could say for certain why. Everyone had their own theory. His mother was of the firm opinion that Old Harry (as she called Mr Rycroft, Aunt Eloise’s father) had been against the match from the start, especially so since he had seen how Fred’s marriage had turned out. Aunt Eloise had been devoted to her father, it was well known. She would never have gone against him. And so Lord Lynford had slunk away with his tail between his legs and had disappeared from view. The next anyone had heard of him, he had sailed to America and married an heiress.

‘Mother says that this proves Lord Lynford had been up to no good all along – he only wanted to marry your aunt for money, to pay off his debts. But that doesn’t ring true to me. Your aunt wasn’t an heiress. She had no money to speak of. So I think, in his own muddled way, Lynford did have a … a soft spot for her.’

Dorothea wrinkled her nose, remembering the viscount’s
cadaverous
appearance and haughty manner – the way he unsettled Richard and ruffled Bessie Downs’s feathers. She doubted that he’d ever had a soft spot for anyone except himself. Perhaps Lord
Lynford – unlike Frederick Rycroft – had never turned his back on his wild days, was a rake/rapscallion even now.

But this didn’t help in trying to guess what might happen next. She could understand why Uncle Albert might be vexed at Lord Lynford’s visits, but surely he couldn’t imagine that Aunt Eloise was still
attached
to the viscount – could he?

When she asked Henry about this, he went red and began
stammering
. ‘I don’t … it’s not my place to— Oh lord! Mother’s always saying I should learn to think before I open my mouth! I really shouldn’t have told you any of this! It’s not … not suitable. I’ve been horribly indiscreet. The problem is, I always think of you as being older than you are.’

‘But I
am
older, Henry; I’m quite grown up, nearly twelve. And you are the only one who talks to me properly, who tells me about things. Even the mam’zelle won’t talk about this sort of thing.’

‘She’s obviously got a good deal more sense than me.’ A grin stole onto Henry’s face which – with his red cheeks – made him look rather sheepish. ‘You mustn’t worry, you know, about your aunt and uncle. Grown-ups are forever having disagreements. It never amounts to anything.’

‘You told me that once before.’ She smiled at Henry, who really was the best sort of friend one could have but there was no time for any more talk. ‘I have to fetch the mam’zelle’s letter, and then—’ She was already running towards the gardens. ‘Goodbye, Henry! Goodbye! And thank you!’

He waved, the spanner still in his hand. ‘Don’t mention it! Any time!’ He sounded pleased as punch, but she couldn’t for the life of her think what she’d done to make him so happy.

Nora came into the day room in a fluster.

‘Mrs Brannan has asked for you, without delay,’ she said, bundling Dorothea into her hat and coat.

Dorothea went cold. ‘Aunt Eloise
never
wants to see me!’

‘Well, she wants to see you today. Oh, these dratted buttons! I’m all fingers and thumbs!’ Aunt Eloise had that effect on people.

As they hurried downstairs, all manner of thoughts chased
through Dorothea’s mind. Perhaps Aunt Eloise was taking the opportunity – with Uncle Albert away – of sending her unwanted niece to the orphanage, as she had wanted from the start.
Or maybe,
thought Dorothea,
I will be turned out and made to work for my living.
Girls of her age in the village were in service by now. But would Aunt Eloise
really
do any of these things? Dorothea could not decide. The thought that she might be leaving the house forever clouded everything else.

Aunt Eloise was waiting in the hall, dressed to go out. ‘Come along.’ She led the way, sweeping past Mr Ordish who was holding the door open, unobtrusive as always (Mr Ordish was so
unobtrusive
as to be almost invisible). The carriage was waiting at the foot of the steps – the carriage, not the motor. Had Henry not fixed it? Or was Aunt Eloise rejecting everything that spoke of Uncle Albert?

‘Quickly, or we shall miss the train!’

Dorothea looked out from the carriage as it jerked into motion, the horses treading the gravel. Nora was standing on the steps, a tight little smile on her face. Dorothea was too shy to wave, with Aunt Eloise sitting up beside her, and already the house was slipping away, quickly lost behind the trees.

They reached Welby station in no time. Aunt Eloise hastened up to the platform. Dorothea ran to keep up.

Almost at once, a train came in. They got on. The train pulled away, hissing and clunking. It trundled over the Hayton Road on the grey brick bridge and quickly gathered speed. Facing backwards, Dorothea saw Welby dwindling into the distance. Goodbye to Welby – to Hayton, to Clifton too. Goodbye forever?

The door to the corridor opened. A man in a dark suit and a bowler hat stood there. He was carrying a rolled-up newspaper. His eyes took in the spare seats, then swivelled round to look with obvious approval at Aunt Eloise. Aunt Eloise met his gaze. Her cold, blue stare raked over him. The man stepped back, seemed suddenly overcome with embarrassment, as if he’d been caught out in some unseemly act. The door slid shut. He was gone.

They were alone together. Dorothea had never been alone with Aunt Eloise before. She did not dare to look at her and looked out
out of the window instead. The train was bowling along, swaying and rocking, the clackety-clack of the wheels loud in her ears.

Without warning, they plunged into a tunnel. The darkness outside roared and seethed, the lamps in their compartment gave out a pale yellow glow.

‘Duncan’s Hill Tunnel,’ said Aunt Eloise: the first words she had spoken since leaving Clifton. ‘My father remembered it being built. Navvies from Ireland worked on it. They were hard-bitten men. When they went on the rampage in Welby village, the militia had to be called in. But even their games were perilous. They dared each other to leap across the top of the air shafts. One slip equalled death.’

Aunt Eloise spoke almost as if she approved of the rough-
and-ready
navvies. For a split second, Dorothea had a glimpse of a different Aunt Eloise, the young girl Mrs Turner had spoken of, riding wild and free on her pony or horse, her hair flying in the wind.

But then the train poured out from the tunnel into the daylight again and the brief vision shattered like glass. The navvies, too, who’d loomed up real and threatening in the dark, were now swept away, lost in the whirling hedgerows. With a sharp, precise
movement
, Aunt Eloise straightened her skirt. Dorothea thought of Nanny and Cook and Bessie Downs, and all the talk of Aunt Eloise
carrying on.
It seemed monstrous, meaningless. It couldn’t possibly be true. Perhaps once, long ago, that wild girl on her pony might have been dazzled by Lord Lynford who’d been older, glamorous, titled, but not now. Now – sitting poised on the seat, her back perfectly straight, her face set – Aunt Eloise was a pillar of virtue. Her very blood ran with it.

‘Rugby! This is Rugby!’

They had come to a station. Dorothea looked out of the window, watched people milling on the platform, saw them pointing,
gesticulating
, their mouths opening and closing soundlessly on the other side of the glass. Uniformed porters pushed trolleys, carried bags. The black minute hand of the station clock moved forward one notch. Immediately, a whistle blew.

The train jerked into life, eased away from the platform, quickly got up a head of steam, went streaking into the green spring
countryside
. Overhead, grey clouds swirled and began to thicken. Despite her apprehension, Dorothea was aware of an irrepressible
excitement
building up inside her. The speeding train, the ever-changing view from the window – it was buoying her up, sending her spirits soaring like a bird on the wing. And she knew now where they were going. This must be the very journey Uncle Albert made each morning on his way to the factory. They must be going to Coventry.

They took a cab from the station. Dorothea was glued to the window. After Hayton, after Lawham, Coventry seemed like the centre of the world. Crowds of people surged along the pavements. Traffic clogged the streets. Carts and carriages rattled over the cobbles, horses were plodding here, prancing there, their hooves clip-clopping, their eyes hidden by blinkers. Motor cars buzzed like angry bees. A stately tram glided past.

There was a sudden gust of wind. Shop awnings flapped, hands clutched at hats. People went scurrying for shelter as rain began to fall, a sudden downpour. Umbrellas popped up. Raindrops bounced high off the road. The cobbles glistened. Water streamed in the gutters. Puddles formed and spread.

The outside world grew remote as the window fogged up. Dorothea saw rows of shops, caught a glimpse of a lowering grey sky. A tall spire pierced the clouds like the point of a knife but was quickly obscured by the fat raindrops which spattered on the window and ran down the glass in streaks of wet. All the while, Aunt Eloise sat still and silent.

The rain ceased as abruptly as it had begun. They had left the city centre behind, turned into a long avenue lined with trees. Rows of well-appointed villas were set back from the street. Through the misty glass, Dorothea made out a sign:
Forest Road.

The cab came to a halt outside one of the villas, a solid brick-built house with a large bay window. Angry clouds churned overhead as they stepped down onto the pavement. Dorothea looked along the empty street. The trees swayed in the gusting wind. Smoke trailed
from the chimneys. Water dripped from the branches, pooled in the gutters, glistened on the paving stones. It seemed very quiet and tranquil after the noise of the train, the bustle of the city.

Dorothea followed Aunt Eloise up the short path to the front door, jumping over the puddles. A woman in cap and apron came hurrying to answer the bell. She was middle-aged and
capable-looking
. She gave a start of surprise at seeing Aunt Eloise.

‘Mrs Brannan! We didn’t know – we didn’t expect—’

‘Good afternoon, Mrs Reade. I believe my husband is in
residence
.’ (Did Aunt Eloise know this for sure? Or was it merely a guess? There was no sign of doubt at all).

The woman was apologetic. ‘Mr Brannan is at the works just now, ma’am. Mr Simcox too.’

‘Then we shall wait.’

Aunt Eloise swept into the house, handing her hat and gloves to Mrs Reade. Dorothea followed meekly.

They sat together on a wide settee in the room with the bay window. There was a decorated screen in front of the fireplace and a large mirror over the mantelpiece. The woman called Mrs Reade brought them tea and sandwiches. Mrs Reade was the
housekeeper
, Dorothea assumed – a very different personage to the forbidding Mrs Bourne. They ate and drank in silence. A carriage clock on the mantelpiece ticked away the slow minutes. Why had they come?