‘So nice to see you again, Miss Marcham!’ She was a few years older than her employer, finer-boned and far sprightlier. Her eyes glowed with kindness from behind her round, wire-framed glasses as she warmly clasped my hand. I found I breathed a little easier in her company.
Mrs Henge’s appearance cast a dark shadow into the room, as she informed us that dinner was served. Lady Brightwell led us out into the draughty corridor to the dining room, leaning heavily on her silver-capped cane, a necessity since the stroke that had afflicted her twelve months previously.
Our steps echoed off the wooden floorboards as we took our places at the enormous rosewood table. I thought we looked rather absurd, the four of us clustered at the one end while its gleaming top stretched into the distance. Every cough, chink of cutlery and ting of wineglass seemed to reverberate off the barrel ceiling above us, which was itself an extraordinary sight – a dazzling collection of hand-painted panels, all executed in the Italianate style and excessively trimmed with gilt. The room was lit by four huge chandeliers boasting tier upon tier of crystal drops the size of my fist, their brilliance rendering the flickering flames of the candelabras before us obsolete. Yet none of this opulence served to make the room more comfortable, and though the fire was lit, it was not enough to take the edge off the cold that had my skin stippling in protest.
As Maisie placed soup bowls before us, Lady Brightwell launched into complaint after complaint about her day spent with friends, which had been soured by dull conversation, chipped china and over-cooked asparagus. I tried to offer sympathy where appropriate, but she would not permit any interruption, so in the end I kept quiet, relying on the contents of my wineglass to see me through the ordeal.
There was a brief respite as the table was cleared, with Lady Brightwell making a few curt enquiries into my parents’ health and my own present occupation, the latter of which I deftly side-stepped. Unfortunately, the arrival of the main course brought to mind yet another unsatisfactory element of her day, and her disgruntled diatribe was reignited, quite spoiling my enjoyment of the sweet Dover sole and later the wonderful gateau the cook had prepared.
There were several times during this extraordinary monologue of misery that I attempted to catch Madeleine’s eye, desperate to share with her the absurdity of it all, but she fixed her gaze firmly on the table. She appeared completely withdrawn as she played with the stem of her wineglass, from which she sipped sparingly.
It was whilst Lady Brightwell was midway through a comprehensive character assassination of the ‘dear friend’ she had visited, that the heavy dining-room door suddenly slammed shut. The sound thundered through the air, surprising everyone. Madeleine jumped so violently she toppled her glass, spilling her wine over the table. She pushed her chair back, aghast, and I feared she was about to burst into tears.
‘Oh Madeleine! How careless of you,’ Lady Brightwell cried as I sprang to mop up the spillage with my napkin. Miss Scott got up to help me. She righted the glass and assured Madeleine no harm had resulted. I was shocked to see my sister visibly trembling as she stared at the closed door.
‘There really has been no damage done,’ I said, echoing Miss Scott’s reassurance. I spotted one of the curtains lift and immediately deduced the cause of the door’s sudden movement. ‘It was probably just a through draught.’ I excused myself from the table and pulled back the offending curtain, the rings raking sharply against the brass pole. ‘Yes, look! The window has been left open – no wonder it was so cold in here.’ The sash clattered against the frame as I pushed it down.
Madeleine remained pale and shaken. Rather foolishly we leapt again as the door swung open, but it was only Maisie. Lady Brightwell was quick to reprimand her for not having closed the window. The young maid apologised as she gathered our dishes and meekly withdrew.
I breathed a sigh of relief when our little party retired to the drawing room. Madeleine joined Lady Brightwell on the sofa by the now sedate fire while Miss Scott and I took two chairs a short distance away. It was not long before Lady Brightwell succumbed to the somniferous effects of the flickering flames as they comfortingly crackled around the pine logs. Madeleine opened her book, but I noticed she spent more time staring into space than losing herself within its pages.
Miss Scott pulled out her knitting from the bamboo-handled bag resting alongside her seat. She smiled serenely at me as her dancing needles clicked a tattoo with practised dexterity.
‘Do I see a matinee coat?’ I asked.
Her face lit up and she held the skilled weave of wool up for my perusal. ‘It is indeed.’
‘What a charming pattern.’ I glanced at Madeleine, now drowsily absorbed in the pages of her novel. ‘It’s an exciting prospect, isn’t it? A new life coming into the world.’
The older woman looked wistful and sighed. ‘The most wonderful thing.’ The needles began to clack softly once again, but then came to a stop. She appeared to wrestle with some inner dilemma, but her mind was soon made up. ‘Miss Marcham, may I say how sorry I was to hear about your fiancé? Such a terrible loss for you. I know I only met him briefly at the wedding, but he struck me as being a most lovely young man.’
Startled, I felt a lump block my throat. ‘He was.’
‘Had you known each other long?’
‘We met as children,’ I said, picturing the solemn little boy who had gifted me a jam jar of water boatmen one summer. ‘We shared a godmother,’ I explained. ‘She would take us out on theatre trips and to tea at The Ritz.’ I thought back to a Christmas party where a bout of tonsillitis prevented me from partaking in the festivities, and how an eleven-year-old Gerald had sat at my bedside, entertaining me with card games, insistent he would rather spend time with me than join in with the fun downstairs. In time, I came to learn such loyalty was as characteristic of the man as it had been of the boy. ‘We lost touch, for a while – his family moved abroad – but our godmother brought us together again some years later. She always thought we were meant to be.’
‘You certainly looked very happy together.’
I nodded to dispel unwelcome tears. ‘Well, at least Hector is safe,’ I said, keen to change the subject.
‘Thank God, yes!’ She regarded me intently as she rested her knitting on her lap. ‘A most fortunate posting!’ With the quick movements of a sparrow, she tilted her head towards her sleeping employer, before tilting it again to check Madeleine was not eavesdropping. She lowered her voice, drawing me into her confidence. ‘I have to admit I did stress to Lady Brightwell that if she could bring any pressure to bear to find him something safe, then she should.’ She released her knitting needles and laid her dry hand on mine. ‘Oh, I know some people would say it was wrong to do so – to use one’s connections in such a way. Lady Brightwell struggled with the idea for some time, but I told her firmly, she would never forgive herself if something happened and she had not done everything in her power to protect him.’
She appealed for my understanding, if not my sympathy – perhaps even my approval. I itched to withdraw my hand – there was something sullying about this confession, and I wanted no part of it. After an awkward pause she leant back in her chair and resumed her knitting before continuing.
‘Lady Brightwell saw sense in the end of course and was able to make some suitably discreet arrangements. I’m not even sure Hector is aware, but I for one sleep easier knowing he has been kept from that dreadful slaughter over there. Such a waste of young lives!’ She remembered herself and quickly added: ‘As you, more than anyone, must know.’
I looked across to the dancing flames. I was right – Hector’s family had indeed intervened to keep him from harm’s way. Gerald’s family could perhaps have done something similar, but they had not. I took little comfort from the knowledge that Gerald would never have accepted anything but a frontline command. I wondered how Hector would react if he knew the truth.
Madeleine’s head nodded tellingly. Closing her book, she covered a yawn.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she