Autumn Softly Fell (2 page)

‘Best not to ask!’ A noisy young man interrupted. ‘Fitzwilliam’s the most awful shot, you know!’

‘As you can tell, Alice,’ said Dorothea’s uncle to the gracious lady, ‘young Harding here has had a most pleasurable morning. I am not sure which he has enjoyed more: shooting pheasants or making sport of your son!’

‘Fitzwilliam has been telling us all about that contraption of his,’ yelped the noisy young man. ‘Apparently it’s gone lame!’

‘I’m having a spot of bother with her hind wheels, that’s all,’ said the man named Henry. ‘I’ll soon have her running smoothly again, you’ll see.’

‘Ha! You heard him! He calls the thing
she
. I rather think he’s cracked!’

Dorothea, peeking through the banisters, decided that she did not care for the young man called Harding. How dare he make fun of Henry! Of all the people in that big, glittery room last night, Henry had been the only one who was kind to her. Indeed, he’d been the only one who spoke to her. He had gentle eyes, she remembered, and bony knees.

She shivered on the stairs. There were details about last night that she would rather not remember. She had been left on her own, shaking with fear, the strangers gathered round, watching her closely. And then, after what had seemed an age, the tableau had broken. People had begun to drift away, had started to speak in low, murmuring voices. The voices had grown louder as the piano struck up once more in the next room. There had been laughter, the sound of singing. All that time, Dorothea had stood there fighting the urge to burst into tears, her face working with the effort.

Without warning, a young man had loomed up in front of her. ‘Hello there! You’re a funny little thing, aren’t you!’

She had flinched, raising her hands to protect her face, and the shock had opened those flood gates which she had been struggling to keep shut.

‘Hey now! Don’t cry! There’s no need to cry! Come to Henry, that’s the way!’

She had been terrified to begin with as the young man scooped her up and carried her to a chair where he sat down, perching her on his knee. She had swallowed her sobs in alarm, wondering what
on earth the man wanted from her and in what way he thought her
funny
. But as she had looked down at herself, she had been struck by the great difference between her clothes and the lavish clothes of the people all round. Her smock had been decidedly grubby – the bright gaslight made it glaringly obvious – her bonnet was too small and her boots had holes in. She had actually been able to see a little white toe peeping out. To the jolly young man holding her, whose big shiny shoes looked brand new, she must have seemed
funny
indeed.

He had passed no further comment on her clothes, however, and had given her instead something to drink – something fizzy in a tall glass. It had tasted most peculiar. The bubbles had gone up her nose and made her sneeze.

‘Is that wise, Henry, feeding the child champagne like that?’ The gracious lady who was forty at least had appeared at their side.

‘It’s a good old nannying trick, Mother,’ Henry had said, looking up at the lady. ‘Give the baby some spirits to keep it quiet.’

‘I hope you are not suggesting, Henry, that any of your nannies ever did such a thing! In any case, champagne is not spirits, and this child is not a baby.’

Henry had grinned. ‘What’s the matter, Mother? Someone has provoked you, I can tell.’

‘Oh, it’s nothing. Just Arthur Camborne, as usual.’

‘What has the good doctor said to upset you this time?’

‘He talks such
nonsense
. To insist that we are still in the
nineteenth
century is simply absurd – and I told him so. Half an hour ago it was
eighteen
ninety-nine. Now it is
nineteen
hundred. The century has changed. That is clear enough, even to me.’

Henry had laughed. Dorothea had felt the tremor of it running through her body, oddly comforting. ‘Impeccable logic, Mother.’

‘Well, I think so.’

‘But Dr Camborne does not?’

Henry’s mother had pursed her lips. ‘He merely said – in his most condescending manner – that he never gainsays one of the fair sex. Then he made some remark in Latin in that irritating way he has:
sed fugit
—oh, I forget what it was.’

‘Sed fugit interea, fugit irreparabile tempus
: meanwhile time is flying, flying never to return. It’s Virgil.’

‘Nonsense.’

‘Not nonsense, Mother. It is a genuine quote from Virgil.’

‘I mean that
he
talks nonsense. I’m afraid I was quite short with him. And then there’s Viola Somersby—’

‘Mrs Somersby too! Golly, Mother, is there anybody here tonight with whom you
haven’t
quarrelled?’

‘Don’t be silly, Henry. You know I never quarrel with anyone. All the same, if I have to hear once more how old-fashioned Clifton is, how Victorian its décor…. But one bites one’s tongue. One makes allowances.’

‘Because her son is in South Africa?’

‘Yes, Henry. Precisely. The news has been so bad lately, too. One can only imagine what she is going through.’

‘I’m sure no measly Boer will dare lay a finger on Mark Somersby. They will all be too afraid of what his mother would do to them!’

‘Oh, Henry! How very naughty of you!’

But Henry’s mother had been smiling too, as if she didn’t think him naughty at all. She seemed to enjoy being teased, had not shown him the back of her hand for such sauce as Mrs Browning would have done. Not that Henry was cheeky in the same way as Mickey; he was not so blunt, had much better manners. Dorothea had felt safe with his arm round her – even if it was rather beneath her dignity to be sitting on someone’s knee at her age (eight-
and-a
-half!).

Crouched now on the stairs, Dorothea found herself wishing that Henry was her uncle and not the angry man with the bushy
moustache
. But she would much rather not have an uncle at all – not if it meant she had to lose her papa. This thought reminded her of her quest. It was high time she found her papa; then the two of them could set off for home.

Taking her courage in both hands, Dorothea stood up, but the people below were too engrossed in their own business to notice her. They were still discussing Henry’s
contraption
, whatever that might be.

‘I don’t really approve of these horseless carriages,’ Henry’s mother was saying.

Several people agreed with her.

‘But we must move with the times!’ exclaimed Henry. ‘Autocars are the future!’

‘Nonsense, nonsense!’ A bluff and blustery old man spoke up, jerking his arm as if to sweep away all such poppycock as horseless carriages. ‘They are nothing but an infernal nuisance, raising all that dust in summer, splashing mud everywhere in the winter – knocking people down, too. And those ridiculous pilots, done up like monkeys! There ought to be a law against it. A law, I say!’

‘There was a law,’ said Henry, ‘the Red Flag Act.’

‘What’s become of that law now, eh? Tell me that!’

‘It was an outdated law. Stood in the way of progress.’

‘Ah, now,’ rumbled Dorothea’s uncle. ‘I’m all for progress as a rule. But I’m not convinced that….’

The voices faded as the whole party moved off along a passage that led towards the back of the house. The last of the servants
scurried
away. All was suddenly quiet, except for the ponderous ticking of the clock.

Gathering her skirts, Dorothea walked down the last flight of stairs and stepped into the hallway. The black and white tiles were cold against her feet, made her toes curl. She looked along the passageway where the people had gone. At the far end was a door with glass panels, a white wintry light coming through. There was no sign of the people, just a faint murmur of muffled voices. She looked round, wondering what to do next. The big house was bewildering.

All at once she stiffened. She could hear another voice, a woman’s voice, getting ever nearer. There must be another corridor, she
realized
, leading off from the main one. She hesitated, wondering if she could ask this woman about her papa, but she didn’t like the sound of the voice at all, sharp and complaining. She decided instead to make a dash for the stairs.

But it was too late. The voice was upon her.

‘… and it’s almost more than mortal can bear. I’m sure that
you
appreciate the problems, Mr Ordish. Cook says it’s like old times,
with so many guests and the carriages rolling up morning, noon and night. But I said to her, I said, “If all the old times were like this, then I’m glad to be living in normal times.” Needless to say, I don’t get any cooperation from Cook
at all.’

With that, a woman dressed entirely in black came sweeping out from the unseen passage, a short, deferential man trotting at her heels. The woman paused, half turning so she could address her companion head on. Dorothea shrank against the newel post, hugging it.

‘We need a deal more staff, is all I can say, if we’re going to have this sort of performance on a regular basis. I’m sorry, but there it is. I can’t be expected to do the jobs of three people at once. I’ve hardly had a wink of sleep, and—’

The voice came to an abrupt stop. All this time, as she was speaking, the woman’s eyes had been darting about as if she was looking for something (something else to complain about, Dorothea said to herself). Now – suddenly, terribly – her gaze came to rest on Dorothea. Several different expressions – none of them pleasant – passed across her face. Finally she turned to her companion with a meaningful look.

‘The Abandoned Child!’ she enunciated.

This was too much for Dorothea. To be given a dressing down was one thing – nothing less could be expected from such a woman – but to be called
abandoned
wasn’t just an insult, it was a slur against her papa. He would never abandon her, never.

She drew herself up. ‘Please, I can’t find my clothes.’

The woman ignored her. ‘You see how it is, Mr Ordish? One can’t rely on
anyone
to do
anything
!’

Suddenly, with a darting movement, she came swooping towards Dorothea like a great black bat, a bunch of keys jangling at her belt.

‘What
is
Nanny thinking of, letting you wander all over the house practically
naked
!’

‘But my clothes….’ stammered Dorothea.

‘
Those
pestilential rags were fit only for the fire!’ An arm darted out, strong bony fingers clamped onto Dorothea’s wrist. ‘Come
along
. Back to the nursery.’ She yanked Dorothea up the stairs,
sweeping on ahead, her black skirts swirling. ‘As if I hadn’t enough to do….’

Dorothea felt that her wrist might snap off at any moment as she was jerked and dragged back the way she had come, lashed by the woman’s displeasure.

‘Mrs Brannan wants you in an orphanage,’ the woman said coldly. ‘It’s the best place for you, in my opinion. There’s enough to do as it is, without taking in waifs and strays. But there’s no knowing
what
the master will do. He’s a law unto himself.’ She sniffed, as if being a law unto yourself was not to be encouraged.

They crashed through doors and came back to the room where Dorothea had slept. Here, a maid was kneeling on the hearth, lighting the fire. It was the same maid who had taken Dorothea upstairs the night before. She looked rather startled as they whooshed into the room. Her eyes widened at the sight of the woman in black.

‘Well, so here you are, miss!’ The girl got to her feet, brushing down her skirt and apron with the backs of her hands. ‘I was wondering where you’d got to.’

The woman glared at the maid in a way that made Dorothea quake. ‘I found her wandering in the hall. In her
nightgown
!’

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Bourne. I was only gone for a moment. I—’

‘It’s not good enough, Turner. Not good enough at all.’ The voice was like a whip, slashing. ‘I shall be having words with Nanny.’

Mrs Bourne pursed her lips, gave them both – maid and child – a look of infinite contempt, then turned and swept off. The door slammed. The sound of jangling keys faded.

‘Oh dear,’ said the girl. ‘Now I shall catch it hot from Nanny. She does hate it so, when Mrs Bourne has anything over her.’

Dorothea stood rubbing her wrist, her head spinning. She wished she could wake up and find it had all been a terrible dream. This giant house with its seemingly endless number of inhabitants did indeed seem the stuff of nightmares.

But then a slow smile spread across the face of the rosy-cheeked maid and Dorothea felt a tiny bit better.

‘Well, miss, you’re back now, any road. We can get you washed and dressed. How would you like that?’

‘I’ve no clothes. That lady said she burnt them.’

‘I’m afraid that’s true, miss. But look here, how about this? It’s only an old frock of mine, but it will serve for now. Our Billy fetched it up from the village. And here’s some nice hot water and a bit of soap. The fire’s lit now, so the room will soon be nice and snug. I ought to have lit it first thing, but it’s been one thing after another this morning, and I’ve had to help out downstairs and all.’

As Dorothea listened to the maid’s chatter, she found herself being eased out of her nightdress, scrubbed with soap and water, dried on a soft clean towel, dressed in the borrowed frock. It seemed that she was required to do nothing for herself, not even speak.

She did not like having her nightgown removed. It felt wrong, having nothing on. She had never taken all her clothes off at the same time before. It was bad enough that someone had undressed her when she was half asleep last night, but to be left exposed in broad daylight was shameful. The maid, however, seemed to think nothing of it. She was gentle but insistent, worked quickly. Soon the borrowed clothes were being put on.

‘That’s the way, miss. Let me do up those buttons.’ The maid’s flow of chatter continued unabated. ‘As I was saying, I’ve had to help out downstairs today, but normally – why, this fits a treat! Who’d have thought it? Now for your hair – normally I spend all my time in the nursery. That’s my position, miss: I’m the nursery maid. Why, what lovely curls you’ve got! But they’re all in knots. I’ll be as gentle as I can. There now!’ The maid stepped back, looking at Dorothea with approval. ‘Pretty as a lily!’