As we reached her bedroom door, she swung round and gave me a fierce embrace that quite knocked the wind from me. ‘Oh, ignore me! I’m sorry if I’ve been a little off. I’ll feel much better after a nap.’
‘It’s been a tiring trip. Get some rest. I might even catch a wink or two myself,’ I confessed. The prospect of sleep was quite alluring now that my bed was within easy reach, but I found myself hovering in her doorway. ‘Madeleine, the toy soldier – I dismissed it as a prank by the housemaid. I failed to mention it to Mrs Henge when I had the opportunity – was I wrong to do so?’
‘Telling Mrs Henge wouldn’t have helped.’
‘But …’ I struggled to believe the housekeeper would tolerate such behaviour if she were made privy to it. ‘I know it’s a harmless jest, but it’s not appropriate. Someone needs to say something to the girl. I take it Maisie has left them for you too?’
‘It’s not Maisie, Stella – Maisie’s a good girl. Please, don’t let’s say any more about it, there’s no need to trouble yourself.’ She began inching the door to. ‘We both need some rest. Come and get me when you’re ready, we’ll go down to dinner together when it’s time.’
Try as I might, I could not understand Madeleine’s reluctance to resolve the matter. It appeared there was an underlying nuance to the whole situation that I was missing completely.
I closed my bedroom door behind me. It was a relief to cast my shoes from my aching feet. I removed my dress, not wanting to crease it, and draped it over the bedroom chair. I held my breath as I yanked back the bedcovers, half-expecting to find another toy figure. I was relieved to see nothing but a crisp expanse of white sheet. I lay down, hoisting the covers over my shoulders, wondering whether I should set my alarm clock. I soon regretted not drawing my curtains against the bright sky, but I couldn’t be bothered to heave myself out of bed now that I was settled. So I closed my eyes and ignoring the vibrant glow beyond my eyelids, I concentrated on slowing my breaths.
Just as my consciousness was ebbing, the image of Annie’s furled fist came back into view. It was then I realised what I had failed to see.
A slash of scarlet wrapped in the cream skin of her palm.
I awoke with a start, my hand flying to the side of my head, my hair roots tingling. I almost expected to knock someone’s hand aside, so vivid was the impression of my hair being stroked – but my fingers merely dug into thick hanks. My heart raced as I scrambled upright. The room was unchanged: my dress still lay folded over the back of the chair and the curtains were still drawn from the window, though the sky outside was smothered with cloud now and the room felt heavy without the lift of yellow sunlight. Only the steady ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece and my own ragged breaths punctured the dense stillness. I pressed my palm to the side of my head, confused. The sensation of the gentle touch had seemed so real, yet I must have imagined it.
My breath caught. The door was wide open.
I scrabbled from the bed and stood shivering in my slip, staring at the opening. The door had been shut when I had taken my nap, I was sure of it. I snatched up my wrapper and pulled it on. Had someone been in while I slept?
My breath shuddered from me as I crossed the room, the carpet soft under my stockinged feet, until I stood on the threshold. My attention was immediately caught by creaking wood. I looked up the corridor. Annie Burrows was halfway up the staircase at the end.
‘Annie! Where do you think you are going? Are you supposed to be up there?’
A jerk of her head revealed a fleeting look of irritation, before her expression quickly closed. She began to backtrack, the stair treads grumbling underfoot as she descended. She stood at the bottom as I bore down on her, her head hung low, but I noticed her eyes swivel up towards the landing above us.
‘Were you just in my room?’
‘I wasn’t, miss.’
‘Was anyone else?’
Her eyes skidded again towards the empty staircase before meeting mine. ‘No, miss.’
Her curious behaviour aroused my suspicion, but I could see nothing amiss. The mahogany steps rose steeply, siding onto a wall lined with paintings, before opening out onto a short galleried landing, which hosted two doors set in the wall facing me, while the landing itself ended rather abruptly with a further half-glazed door. My damp palm cupped the newel post. I was surprised at how cold it felt. I mounted the first step, focused on the landing above. I had an irresistible urge to explore. I took another step, the wood creaking as it took my weight. An icy draught brushed my cheek sending a shiver down my spine. I took another step and then another until I reached the collection of small oil paintings that hung above me.
Most of them were whimsical rural scenes – sheep being driven down muddy country lanes; a milkmaid sitting with her ruddy cheek pressed to a cow’s side, her fingers closed on its teats. But as I drifted on, I came upon a much larger painting in an exquisitely carved, gold leaf frame. I stopped. I was acutely aware of Annie’s inquisitive gaze as I tilted my head back to appreciate the striking work of art. It was a portrait of an angelic young boy, his cheeks rosy, blond curls looping round his petite ears, his blue eyes soft and loving, his rosebud mouth prettily pursed. Dressed in a blue sailor suit, his right hand rested on a metal hoop, whilst the fingers of his left brushed the head of the King Charles spaniel that was looking up adoringly up its master with bulging brown eyes. There was something about the portrait that was both touching and totally entrancing.
‘Stella!’
The urgency in Madeleine’s voice sliced through the air, startling me from my strange captivation. She stood stock-still outside her bedroom door.
‘Come down, Stella. There’s nothing to see up there.’
I was unwilling to tear myself away from the portrait. ‘Who is this painting of, Madeleine? Is it someone in the family?’
‘Come down, Stella, will you?’
I felt a devil of resentment inside me as I began my descent.
‘Is he one of the family?’ I persisted.
Annie was standing meekly with her hands clasped before her, but her eyes strayed to Madeleine, as if she too were curious to hear the answer. Madeleine fidgeted, folding her arms across her body, hugging them to her.
‘Yes,’ she answered as I reached the last step. She visibly relaxed as my feet finally settled on the carpeted landing.
‘Who is it? It’s a charming portrait.’
‘It’s Lucien.’
‘Lucien?’
‘Hector’s half-brother, Lucien Brightwell.’
‘I didn’t know Hector had a brother.’
‘Half-brother,’ she corrected me. She was clearly reticent about providing more information, but I pressed her for it. ‘His mother was Sir Arthur’s first wife, she died in childbirth. Lucien died of influenza just after Hector was born.’
I always remember my grandfather advising me to pay attention to the silences in a conversation, rather than the words. When I asked him why, he had removed his ever-present pipe and bestowed his wisdom upon me. The things that are most important are often left unsaid – they fill the pauses, he explained, the rest is often inconsequential. As I stood now observing my sister’s uncomfortable silence, I knew there was a lot more to be gleaned – a story she did not want to share – and I couldn’t help wondering what and why. I had never known her to exclude me from a secret, yet since my arrival at Greyswick I couldn’t dispel the feeling that Madeleine was hiding many things from me, and I feared no good would come from it.
‘Mrs Henge will be ringing the gong soon,’ she said. ‘We really ought to get on.’
‘What