Authors: Fiona McIntosh
‘Are you her driver? I mean, Mrs Ainsworth’s?’
‘I’m at the disposal of the family.’
‘I was told that Georgina and I would have the services of a driver. Would that be you, John, or do you have other duties?’
‘Very happy to drive for you. Mr Ainsworth specifically put me in charge of your needs and those of Miss Georgina’s while you’re together. He assures me he will cope without me.’ He gave her another wink. ‘Mr Ainsworth is away quite a lot, anyway; you probably won’t see very much of him.’
‘Does he work in London?’
‘Yes. He travels for his work too.’
‘Oh, how exciting.’ She knew she sounded wistful.
‘And Kent isn’t exciting enough?’ At her instantly apologetic look, he waved a hand to calm her. ‘I’m only teasing. It’s a quiet family. We don’t hold many parties and the like – all very peaceful at Harp’s End. Just a few charity fundraising events, that sort of thing. Mrs Ainsworth does have some social gatherings that she hosts, but as I say, it’s a tranquil life.’
Stella gave him a look of huge relief at his remark.
Again they made a turn, this time away from the traffic on the main highway between London and the south coast, and swinging into a far narrower pass lined by hedgerow.
‘You’re going to be fine. Fitting in with strangers is never easy, but you’ll work it out, I’m sure.’
‘How do you find Mr Ainsworth?’
‘He’s not terribly easy to get to know but you probably won’t have to. You’ll be more in touch with the girls and Mrs Ainsworth, although I suspect she too will leave you very much to your own plans.’
‘I hope I can win the girls’ trust.’
‘Don’t try. Just be yourself and I’m sure they’ll be charmed by you.’ His words resonated solidly in her mind as being wise. Yes, she shouldn’t try too hard and instead let the children respond to her.
He seemed to understand her fears. ‘Miss Georgina is at an age where she is beginning to assert herself, and that’s to be expected, but dare I say she is beautiful like her mother and knows what she wants. She’s a modern woman.’
Despite his conversational tone Stella heard only caution shadowing the innocent words. She remembered Suzanne Farnsworth’s breezier warning, and repeated it. ‘We were all teenagers at one time.’
‘Good for you, Stella.’
Stella reckoned they drove for another ten minutes with hedgerow giving way to open country and scenes that made her think of a living patchwork quilt before it closed in again with high brambles. She could just make out chimneystacks towering above quick glimpses of a hipped roofline.
‘Is that Harp’s End I spy through the trees?’
‘Oh, yes, just moments away now.’
Stella held her breath and they swung around a narrow corner and her world opened up again as they eased out of the shadows of the hedges and into a long driveway.
‘Here we are,’ Potter said, sounding proud. ‘I never get tired of this sight of the house,’ he admitted.
Home
, Stella thought, regarding the imposing Georgian residence that loomed ahead. Its proportions even to her untrained eye looked perfectly square. ‘Four floors.’ She thought she’d counted silently and was taken aback when Mr Potter answered.
‘Four living levels plus the attic and the basement, of course.’
‘It’s so grand,’ she breathed, taking in the pleasing symmetry and gazing at the charming sash windows that were too numerous to count. Stella briefly wondered who was behind those windows gazing back at her but the mansion, every bit as pretty as the doll’s house her sister had fallen in love with on a special visit to Hamleys Toy Shop in London’s Regent Street a few years ago, soon distracted her from the thought.
‘It was built at the turn of the eighteenth century,’ Potter said, as he slowed the car to a crawl up the drive, ‘and from what I understand it was considered “quaint” by the standards of the day, and in the language of the day that meant modest; not at all flashy.’
‘It looks enormous to me,’ she admitted, imagining how much her warm French mother would loathe its bleak grey stone walls. ‘I live in a modest Victorian semi-detached house of four bedrooms.’
Potter chuckled. ‘And I live in a tiny apartment above the garage.’
Stella shared his smile.
‘I’m not sure I can even tell you how many guest rooms we have at Harp’s End, Stella, but there are four grand reception rooms, including a ballroom.’
‘And all this land around us, I presume?’
‘Oh, yes, upwards of forty acres, and there are other landholdings nearby that belong to the family with cottages and farmhouses on them.’ He manoeuvred the car gently around the gravel circular drive ringed by beds of spring flowers. They crunched quietly to a halt. ‘There you are. Leave everything. We’ll have it all brought in for you. Ah, there’s Mrs Boyd. She’s the housekeeper. She’s a spinster but perhaps you know the housekeeper is always called Mrs?’ He nodded to where a woman in a long, dark dress awaited her with hands clasped. Potter was already out of the car and moving to Stella’s side to open her door.
‘I didn’t,’ she admitted, cutting him a grin. ‘Thank you, John. Wish me luck!’
He helped her out of the car. ‘You won’t need it.’ He winked. ‘Hello, Mrs Boyd, here we are. I’ve brought Miss Stella Myles.’
‘Hello, Miss Myles,’ the woman said. There was a soft Yorkshire lilt in her tone. ‘Welcome to Harp’s End.’ She emerged fully from the portico and descended the flight of stone stairs with a hand out in greeting. ‘We’ve been looking forward to your arrival.’
Stella shook her head and, swallowing, put on her happiest voice.
First impressions
, she heard her father’s advice,
account for so much
. ‘Oh, it’s wonderful to finally be here. Thank you for sending Mr Potter.’
‘Are you hungry?’
‘Not really. Nervous, perhaps,’ she admitted.
Boyd smiled beneath hooded eyes and a tightly tied bun but she had a fine complexion and her tone was friendly. ‘Come, there’s a fresh pot of tea on and the family is expecting you in the conservatory.’
Stella wasn’t sure what was appropriate to say to this so she smiled. ‘I’d better not keep them waiting any longer, then.’
‘You haven’t kept them waiting. It’s three o’clock and teatime in the house. Please,’ she gestured inside but craned her neck to catch Potter’s attention. ‘Shall I send someone out, Mr Potter, or can you manage?’
Stella didn’t hear his reply but saw Mrs Boyd nod and then turn back. ‘Right, follow me, Miss Myles.’
‘I’d prefer you call me Stella,’ she said.
‘All right, then. This way, Stella.’ The housekeeper didn’t sound terribly sure about the suggestion and didn’t offer that she be called anything but Mrs Boyd, but Stella was already entirely distracted by the vastness of the house to let this worry her.
‘Good grief,’ she muttered. ‘How will I ever find my way around?’
‘You won’t have to. We’ll keep you moving in a much smaller triangle, I promise, or you could get lost with all the hallways and nooks and crannies of Harp’s End.’
Stella knew Mrs Boyd meant this to sound light-hearted and yet it perhaps unwittingly came across as a warning not to snoop. She let it pass.
‘Gosh, that staircase!’ she remarked, gazing up, astonished by the fussy, panelled design that swept up through the various floors.
‘Magnificent, isn’t it? True William and Mary style,’ Mrs Boyd remarked, sounding proud. ‘The panelling is reminiscent of the staircase on the HMS
Titanic
, and we’re assured that the structure remains intact to this day, despite sinking.’ She chortled but it didn’t resemble amusement to Stella’s ears. ‘But there is a back stairs passage to quickly reach your rooms.’
‘Thank you,’ Stella murmured, not sure if she was glad she wouldn’t be using the floridly grand staircase to the upper levels, or offended that she wasn’t important enough to be invited to do so.
‘Ah, here we are,’ Mrs Boyd said eagerly, ‘just through this hall into Mrs Ainsworth’s favourite area of the house.’ She led an increasingly nervous Stella into a glass-enclosed room that trapped the sun and thus turned up the temperature from a cool autumn day to a mild afternoon. ‘Mrs Ainsworth, I’ve brought Stella Myles.’
Stella watched a slimly built woman turn from where she had been admiring a citrus bush. Stella was struck first by her employer’s make-up, which seemed bright for a day at home, her slash of red lipstick clashing against the abundance of lime-green leaves beside her. Cat-shaped eyes the colour of the Wedgwood blue pottery she’d seen displayed in cabinets in one of the rooms they’d passed through blinked and regarded Stella. Red polished fingernails glimmered as a barely burned, lipstick-stained cigarette was put out with a low hiss in a nearby upright ashtray.
‘Miss Myles,’ a smoky voice welcomed. ‘How lovely that you’ve arrived.’
Stella heard no sincerity in the remark and cut a glance at Boyd before stepping forward, hand outstretched. ‘It’s a delight to be here, Mrs Ainsworth.’
‘Boyd, can you fetch Georgie, please?’ She touched her golden, upswept hair that was tidily pinned and regarded Stella’s hand. Finally, she shook it.
‘Certainly, Mrs Ainsworth,’ Boyd said. ‘Tea will be ready to pour. Shall I . . .’
‘No, I’m sure Stella wouldn’t mind.’ She looked at Stella as though she were an afterthought. ‘Would you?’
She didn’t think she was in any position to refuse. ‘Not at all,’ she answered with as much levity in her voice as she could muster. ‘Do you take milk, Mrs Ainsworth?’
‘No, thank you, and no sugar either. Just lemon. I thought we should meet here where it’s warmer,’ Mrs Ainsworth continued, and Stella felt that the temperature had dropped considerably since Beatrice Ainsworth had spoken.
Instead she smiled. ‘It’s beautiful.’ She handed her host a delicate teacup and saucer, recognising with a pang of regret for home the distinctive Limoges pattern from a single tiny jug her mother owned. She wished now she’d asked her mother how she had come by it.
‘Yes,’ her host remarked, unaware of Stella’s pain and her tone hinting at boredom. ‘I prefer to use one of the morning rooms but it’s fully shaded by an oak at present and I didn’t think we needed to light a fire this late in the season; not now the sun is finally showing itself. I always think it’s akin to surrender to light fires once the daffodils are out, don’t you?’
‘Er, yes,’ Stella agreed, thinking about her brother and sister shivering only a week or two earlier, wearing one thick jumper over another in an attempt to stay warm because Stella wasn’t certain of paying the fuel bills.
‘Do sit,’ Mrs Ainsworth said, gesturing at a cane chair with an upholstered cushion next to an enormous fern. Stella couldn’t help but touch it. ‘I’m told that one was discovered on the other side of the world – that faraway place called Australia, I think – when a relative went adventuring in the previous century. He brought it home and somehow it has survived.’
‘It’s incredible. I didn’t know they could grow this big.’
Her hostess seated herself languidly in another of the cane chairs and shrugged to show she really didn’t care one way or another. ‘Called the King Fern, apparently, but you’d have to ask my husband about that. He’s the naturalist in the family.’
‘Really?’
Mrs Ainsworth looked around, still giving Stella the impression that even breathing was boring. She waved her manicured hand. ‘Yes, all of this is his work.’
‘I think it’s magnificent.’
‘Do you?’ The feline stare fixed upon her. ‘Tell me about yourself, Miss Myles.’ She sat back.
Stella was perched on the edge of her chair and took a deep breath. She gave her new employer a potted history, keeping it simple, and while not lying she didn’t offer up anything beyond the bare facts, mainly about her education and work experience.
‘. . . very glad to teach Grace piano, and although —’
‘I was told your parents killed themselves,’ Mrs Ainsworth interrupted.
Stella felt the statement hit her like shards of glass, as though one of the large windowpanes in the conservatory had shattered and been hurled down upon her. She couldn’t reply immediately and stared helplessly with incomprehension at her employer.
‘The agency mentioned it,’ the woman qualified. ‘I feel we should raise this and ensure that you are completely over the grief.’ An attempt to smile kindly failed.
Stella struggled through her shock at not only the callousness but the casualness of the enquiry. She needed to draw on all her control not to bristle openly. ‘No, Mrs Ainsworth, I cannot lie. I am certainly not over it and doubt I ever shall be. But I am no danger to myself or anyone else, least of all your daughters.’ She was relieved her tone was polite and entirely under her control despite the raw pain still thrumming through her.
‘It’s just that I prefer to be open about such things.’
Such things?
Stella thought, as the woman in front of her carelessly waved her hand in reference to two people she loved.
Stella cleared her throat softly. ‘Yes, indeed, honesty is always preferable,’ she muttered. Her anger was now as cold as her parents’ grave. She mustered an assuring smile. ‘And I want you to feel confident that I’ve come here looking forward to this role.’
‘Is that so?’ For the first time since they’d met, Stella thought Beatrice Ainsworth sounded genuine.
She nodded. ‘From the moment I took the train this morning I felt different.’
‘Oh? In what way?’ Mrs Ainsworth wasn’t watching her; her voice sounded suddenly distant and she was staring slightly unfocused at the tray of afternoon teacakes left untouched by both women.
‘Because I was leaving London, I suppose.’
‘How sad. I love London. I’d live there if my husband would agree to it.’
‘Well, I know my decision was the right one. I hope you feel as certain as I do, Mrs Ainsworth?’
‘I had little to do with it. Miss Farnsworth from the agency obviously does. You come incredibly well recommended.’
Stella murmured thanks but her companion wasn’t listening.
‘Frankly I can’t imagine any woman wanting to leave London. And choosing this . . .’ Her words trailed off as she heard a familiar voice. ‘Ah, here comes Georgina. You’ll adore her, as I do.’
Stella’s gaze fixed on the doorway and suddenly a petite blonde arrived in an outfit that – to Stella’s judgement – looked overly dressy for daywear at home. She also wore a slash of red lipstick. Mrs Boyd remained just inside the doorway.
‘Mummy, I thought we were going into Brighton this afternoon and now look at the time!’ It wasn’t a question, not even so much a statement; more like an accusation. She didn’t even cast a glance towards Stella, who had risen to greet her.
‘Did I forget to mention we couldn’t, Georgie? Sorry, darling. Georgie, this is Stella Myles.’
A cool, appraising gaze, not unlike her mother’s but not from nearly as such striking eyes, turned her way.
‘Hello,’ she said, and it sounded vaguely like a dismissal.
‘Hello, Georgina.’
The girl looked at Stella’s offered hand as though she wasn’t sure what to do with it. She shook it grudgingly and immediately turned back to her mother. ‘So Brighton’s off?’
‘I’m afraid so, darling. Your father insisted we be here today to greet Miss Myles.’
‘Call me Stella, please,’ she insisted, but they ignored her.
‘That’s all very well but I don’t see Daddy here. What’s he doing today, roaming the Weald looking for cuckoo droppings or sketching the petals of some unknown and rare species of daisy?’
‘Georgie,’ her mother admonished without any heat, glancing now at Stella. ‘No need for that.’
‘You think it all the time, Mummy. At least I’m prepared to say it. Where is he?’
‘I don’t know, darling. He said he’d be gone for a few days. You know how he is.’
‘I do. He gets to roam the country without being accountable to anyone, meanwhile you promised me Brighton today for shopping and now I hear I’m stuck here and it’s such a nice afternoon.’
Stella watched this snappy and revealing conversation between mother and daughter with a sense of growing dread.
‘Well, enough said, Georgina. Your father insisted we greet Miss Myles . . . Stella,’ she corrected. ‘She’s to be your new companion and educator.’
Stella blinked. She didn’t mind the change of title in the least but it was obvious Mrs Ainsworth was carefully navigating her introduction.
‘Remember we said we wanted you to improve your linguistic skills and appreciation of art?’
‘I remember
Daddy
saying that,’ she said in a pouty tone.
‘Well, darling, we’d both like you to be able to converse across a range of subjects, from art to politics, especially if you’re to join us properly for the Season in a year or so. We want you as a stand-out.’
‘Mummy, I could be dead by then,’ her daughter groaned, dramatising the statement further by lifting her eyes heavenward. ‘These are holidays, for pity’s sake.’ She flounced into a chair. ‘And the tea is likely cold now,’ she complained at Mrs Boyd, who arrived unflappable from where she had been hovering.
‘I’ll send a fresh tray up,’ she said and took this as her chance to withdraw. Stella wished she could tag along with her.
‘All the more reason, Georgie. Now, don’t be unreasonable. Queen Charlotte’s Ball costs a small fortune and you will make us proud when you’re presented. I want you fluent in French and —’
‘I am fluent!’
Stella couldn’t resist and asked her a question in deliberately conversational French. ‘What is your opinion of the monster that is reportedly swimming around in the deeps of a loch in Scotland?’ Stella was well aware that it was not the same, conservative language taught in ladies’ colleges in England.
Georgina Ainsworth stared back at her, somehow managing to look flummoxed and yet at the same time enraged. ‘What did you say?’
Stella calmly repeated the question.
‘I heard the words you spoke. I wanted to know what you actually
meant
.’
‘Surely you know, darling. It sounded very French to me.’
Stella’s gaze was locked on the narrowed, unremarkable blue eyes of her pupil. She knew she shouldn’t be enjoying this feeling of power but the girl was already loathsome, in her opinion, and she wondered how she was going to get through a day, let alone months, with this child trapped in a woman’s body. ‘It was a question,’ she replied in English, and she explained it as though for Beatrice’s benefit when in fact it was clearly for her daughter’s.
‘That was not the French I know. I understood only some of it,’ Georgie snapped.
‘And that’s why I’m here, Georgina,’ she replied, now deliberately loading her tone with interest and encouragement. She had to try! ‘I am going to teach you how to hold your own in French no matter who is talking to you. If you work with me, I can promise that no one will be able to whisper behind your back in colloquial French even if you were presented at a coming-out ball in Paris.’
‘Bravo, Miss Myles!’ Mrs Ainsworth’s eyes sparkled. ‘Now, that’s what I had hoped to hear. Ah, here’s a fresh tea.’
She really was quite beautiful, Stella thought.
The conversation stretched to other studies of Georgina’s and Stella realised both women found her twice as interesting the moment she began talking about life in the department store. She even made them laugh but in a derisive manner when Stella began discussing the curious habits of some of the wealthier, more eccentric customers.
‘Oh, do tell us her name, Stella. That’s priceless.’
She shook her head, smiling. ‘No, I was taught from my first day at Bourne & Hollingsworth that discretion was not simply a gracious act but part of the strict code of conduct for all members of the personal shopping staff.’
Before the women could press her further they were interrupted by the arrival of another, much younger, Ainsworth girl.
‘Hello, Mummy,’ the girl said, genuinely affectionate in the way she hugged her mother. ‘Hello, Georgie. You look beautiful.’
‘Hello, Podge. How were dance lessons? Didn’t kill anyone by falling on them?’
‘We’re learning how to do an arabesque,’ the youngster replied, lisping slightly on the word, and as though she hadn’t heard the insult. She smiled shyly at Stella. ‘Miss Bellamy took turns holding our legs so we could stretch out properly like this.’ Grace made a clumsy attempt to balance on one leg while extending and pointing one arm and the other leg.
‘Needs some work,’ Georgie said with a smirk.
Grace was unperturbed, almost falling over as she tried to regain her balance. ‘Hello,’ she said, dark eyes sparkling as her gaze fell on Stella. ‘Are you my new music teacher?’
Stella couldn’t help but smile back warmly at the round-faced child and was struck immediately by how she seemed not to resemble her older sister. ‘I am,’ she replied. ‘And you must be Grace,’ she said, helplessly reminded of Carys. ‘I love your tutu.’
‘Miss Bellamy let us go early because she had a headache and we were allowed to come home in our ballet clothes,’ Grace explained to her mother. She looked worried she may be told off.
‘Go change, darling. You smell, too . . . of sweaty little girls and sugar. Have you been eating cake again?’
Grace nodded, grinning widely to make her plump cheeks dimple deliciously. ‘There were fairy cakes afterwards because Miss Bellamy said she wanted them to . . . to . . . um, inspire us,’ she said, stumbling over the word and lisping on it also. ‘She said she wants us to learn to dance as light and sweet as her fairy cakes taste.’
‘Eat many more of those, Podge, and your tutu will stretch beyond all recognition. You don’t want to be the chubbiest ballet-dancing Ainsworth ever, do you?’
Stella frowned at the mounting series of barbs aimed by the elder sister, while the younger showed no sign of offence. Either she was used to it or her awareness was not registering it. She watched, intrigued also as Beatrice Ainsworth flinched away slightly from the second hug her youngest lavished on her.
‘Boyd, have Miss Hailsham give Grace a bath, would you?’
‘Yes, Madam. Is Mr Ainsworth eating with you tonight?’
‘I really couldn’t say. Set a place as always.’
‘Of course.’ She turned to Stella. ‘Miss Myles, would you like me to send a tray up tonight? I’m imagining you will likely be tired, and want to get settled in.’