The Novel in the Viola (35 page)

In my daze, it took me two days to realise that in their masters’ absence the servants came to me for orders. The gardener wanted to know whether he ought to still plant sweet peas this year, or just shelling peas (I insisted upon sweet too, cheerful flowers being even more necessary during wartime) while Mr Wrexham ironed the newspaper and left it for me in the breakfast room each morning. When Mrs Ellsworth asked me for the dinner order, I informed her that I would eat whatever she was making for the servants.

‘Mrs Ellsworth, we’ve enough cooking to do between us without making something special for me. The master’s not here, and this does not constitute a slackening of standards,’ I said firmly when I saw her ruddy cheeks blanch. ‘While the Mr Rivers are away, I shall dine in the kitchen with you. It’s silly having Mr Wrexham wait upon me in the morning room.’

The housekeeper scowled, and cleaned the already spotless kitchen table. ‘Mr Wrexham won’t agree.’

But Mr Wrexham did agree. The elderly butler was tired; he was undertaking the tasks of footman and valet as well as overseeing the household, and even for a man with the dignity of Mr Wrexham it was too much. The week before Kit and Mr Rivers left, I noticed that the firedogs had not been cleaned for a fortnight, while the evening silverware had vanished and we now used the luncheon silver at both meals. At first, I tried to reassure him, saying, ‘This is very sensible, Mr Wrexham. We can bring out the dinner silver again after the war,’ but while he said nothing at the time, the following evening the dinner silver reappeared, perfectly polished. The evening after that I surreptitiously wiped a black smear of polish off my knife and onto the napkin. In another week, the dinner silver vanished again, and this time I was careful not to say a word.

It was strange taking my meals with the servants again. Mr Wrexham and Mrs Ellsworth insisted on serving me first, rather than themselves as they had in the past when I was only a housemaid. It was cosy, if a little stifling, sitting in the kitchen before the great black range.

‘May I offer you some wine, Miss Landau?’ inquired the butler.

‘No thank you. I am very happy with barley water.’

We ate in silence. I was glad of the quiet, but felt guilty at the restraint my presence now inflicted on the company. After dinner Mrs Ellsworth refused to allow me to help with the washing up and I withdrew to the stillness of the library. I never sat in this room when Mr Rivers was present – it was his domain, and yet perhaps that was why at that moment it offered me some comfort. It was a man’s room. Fumes from the whisky decanter mingled with the fusty aroma of the old books. His presence had seeped into the atmosphere and I could almost feel him, seated in his usual chair, half-watching me out of the corner of his eye. There was an hour until sunset and I sat with the doors and windows thrown wide. I perched on Mr Rivers’ desk, idly playing with his binoculars – the pair he used when out walking or hunting so as to get a better glimpse of the peregrines or buzzards. I trained them on the sea and watched a gull drift along the horizon. I blinked. It couldn’t be a gull. It was too far away to be a bird. I looked again.

It was a boat.

I dropped the binoculars and ran onto the terrace, shouting for Mrs Ellsworth and Mr Wrexham.

‘A boat! A boat. Down to the shore.’

Without waiting to discover if they had heard me, I sprinted helter-skelter along the ragged path down to the sea. Dusk was drawing in and the shadows lengthened around me, tree outlines leered over the path and a thin smuggler’s moon hung above the surf, a cut-out from a stage set. I heard the click and whirr of the evening crickets in the blue sea-grass like the tick from a thousand pocket-watches. As I reached the highest point on the path, I halted and peered into the distance, scouring the bay for the boat. Yes. There it was: a small dark sail flapping and not properly trimmed. I couldn’t see how many figures were aboard. It crept along the mouth of the bay, turning in and hugging the black rocks. I scrambled down to the beach, skating on the scree. As I reached the strand, I saw that the fishermen were waiting, Burt and Art in their midst. They stood at the edge of the breakers, watching the fishing-boat sail closer and closer. Nobody spoke. It tacked and headed directly for us. I heard the crack of the wind in the ripped foresail, until I realised, a moment later, that it was the boom of my own heart.

‘There’s two of ’em,’ shouted Burt.

And in the darkness I saw that he was right. Two silhouettes huddled on the deck, one beside the tiller and another sprawled over the main sheet. Burt’s voice triggered something in the fishermen, and suddenly they were all wading into the sea, those who could swim slicing through the waves and rushing the small boat.

‘Engine must ’ave packed in. Been sailin’ fer hours, no doubt,’ said Burt, frowning.

I ran into the shallows and stared as two, then three, then four men caught up with the boat and hauled themselves on board, and steered her onto the beach. Her hull ground across the pebbles as she beached, mast bent and unsteady. Kit sat at the helm, his greatcoat black with water and his hair plastered to his face, but he smiled at me. I breathed for the first time in five days. As Burt helped him climb out of the boat, I looked for Mr Rivers. He lolled on the deck, fingers gripping the main sail line, knuckles white. His face was grey, and there was a dark stain beneath his arm and a tear in his oilskins. I hauled myself onto the deck and scrambled over to him. I knelt beside him and slid my arm around his shoulders. As I brushed his cheek, I felt his skin, cool and damp.

‘Go to the house. Tell Wrexham to call a doctor,’ I shouted. The fishermen gazed at me, frozen with shock. ‘Now!’

There was a scramble and I glimpsed Art sprint towards the shore.

‘Brandy,’ I called.

A bottle of something was thrust up to me, and I pressed it to Mr Rivers’ colourless lips. He sipped feebly and opened one eye.

‘Hullo you,’ he said. ‘This is pleasant.’

‘Kit,’ I called. ‘What happened? Is he hurt?’

Kit sat on the beach, waves washing around him, too tired to move.

‘Just tired. So tired. And a little piece of shrapnel.’

I lifted Mr Rivers’ arm and examined the stain on his coat. I couldn’t tell if the blood was his. The entire deck was reddened with bloodstains, and bullet holes pockmarked the sides. All the stanchions along the portside had been wrenched out of their mountings and dangled like loose teeth on snatches of skin. I closed my eyes as I pictured the desperate men swimming alongside, clawing
The Lugger
in their frenzy to climb aboard. The jib was in tatters, torn into strips for bandages, which now lay in seeping heaps, leaking reddish rivers across the deck. The only part of the boat that appeared intact was the necklace of witch-stones, draped around the bow, but in the darkness even they appeared tinged with blood.

‘Lift him out and take him up to the house,’ I said. ‘And Burt, take Kit into your cottage and give him some hot food and dry clothes. Put him to bed by the fire.’

Two stout fishermen with muscles strong and lithe as eels slid their arms underneath Mr Rivers and, as though he weighed no more than a glittering fish, hoisted him up and passed him reverently down to another pair of waiting hands. I splashed beside them through the rushing waves to the shore.

‘Carry him to the house, smooth as you can,’ I directed, catching hold of Mr Rivers’ hand and clasping it as the fishermen bore him across the beach to the cliff path. With the blackout in force it was now darker than the depths of the Tilly Whim caves. The moon and stars were veiled by cloud, but our eyes adjusted to the murk and we hastened along the chalk track, surefooted as the hares that streaked across the verges. The doors to the house had been thrown open, and I could hear Mr Wrexham and Mrs Ellsworth chattering anxiously. A feeble yellow torch beam wavered before the porch.

‘Mr Wrexham! Over here,’ I called.

The butler hurried towards us, shining the beam at Mr Rivers. Seeing his master’s grey face, Mr Wrexham snorted in alarm, like a horse spooked by the wind, and I found myself speaking to him firmly.

‘Mr Wrexham. Mr Rivers needs to be taken upstairs and put in a warm bed.’

The old butler continued to stare at his master and remained motionless, his lips parted in dismay.

‘Wrexham,’ I snapped.

The butler stiffened. He awoke from his stupor and began organising the fishermen and servants, herding them into the house.

‘A hot-water bottle, Mrs Ellsworth, right away. And upstairs to the master’s bedroom, please. No. Don’t worry about your shoes,’ he added as the fishermen paused in the hallway to discard their sand-encrusted hobnail boots. ‘A posset, Art. Run down to the bungalow and ask the Miss Bartons to make up a posset. Bring it back here, soon as you can.’

I trailed after them, following them up the broad staircase and into Mr Rivers’ own room. I lingered for a second on the threshold before entering; I had not been inside since I was a housemaid. Thick red curtains had been drawn and it reeked of leather and unfamiliar spices. Even on a June evening it was cold, and Mr Wrexham bent to strike a match to the kindling in the grate, before hastening to look for the doctor. Mrs Ellsworth bustled in, and hurried the fishermen out onto the landing.

‘Thank you all very kindly. Now please go to the kitchen and wait there. There’s a teakettle on the hob.’

There was a shuffle of feet and then a clatter as four pairs of hobnail boots descended the wooden stairs. Mr Rivers lay on the bed, skin as white as the linen sheets. Mrs Ellsworth hurried over and started to unpeel his sodden oilskins.

‘You go and wait outside for the doctor, Miss Landau.’

I shook my head and crossed to the bed. ‘No. It’ll hurt him less if both of us do it.’

She clicked her tongue in annoyance, but allowed me to help. With her sewing scissors, she sliced through his wet sweater and shirt. In the light of the bedroom, I could see that the blood beneath his arm belonged to Mr Rivers, seeping from a gash between his ribs. It looked red and inflamed around the edges.

‘Will you fetch a dressing from my room, miss?’ asked Mrs Ellsworth.

I looked at her, reluctant to leave.

‘Please. I want to get him into his pyjamas. He’d not like you here,’ she concluded, her voice gentle.

I nodded and slipped out of the room, running down the stairs to the housekeeper’s room. When I returned a few minutes later with a dressing, Mr Rivers was tucked under the covers, and a handsome fire roared in the grate. I pulled up a chair beside the bed, and reached for his hand, grateful to discover that he was warmer than before. I felt a squeeze around my fingers.

‘Elise,’ he whispered.

‘Yes, Mr Rivers.’ I leant in close. ‘Please don’t talk. You’re quite safe now. And Kit’s safe too.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes. Kit’s safe. I brought him back to you.’

I bent over the bed and kissed him.

‘Thank you.’

I felt him seize my fingers beneath the blanket, squeezing so hard that my bones creaked. Then he released my hand and closed his eyes. I walked to the door, eager to hurry down to Burt’s cottage and see Kit. My hand resting on the handle, I glanced back at Mr Rivers. His chest rose with shallow gasps and his fingers gripped the eiderdown. I couldn’t leave him – not like this, his face tight with pain. I couldn’t leave him with only the servants to care for him. I shut the door and settled into an easy chair, drawing a woollen blanket around my shoulders. Kit would understand.

‘Mrs Ellsworth,’ I said. ‘I need to stay here with Mr Rivers. Please will you go down to Burt’s cottage and check on Mr Kit? Make sure that he’s resting. Tell him that I love him, but I must stay with his father.’

‘Yes, miss,’ she said.

As the door clicked shut, Mr Rivers opened his eyes and glared at me.

‘Go. Go to Kit.’

‘No. He’s perfectly all right. Mrs Ellsworth will take excellent care of him, and so will Burt.’

He sighed, brow creasing. ‘Shouldn’t be here. Leave,’ he added, with less resolve than before.

I ignored him and wriggled in my seat, feeling drowsy in the warmth of the fire. From downstairs I heard the distant thud and hurry of the household, but it felt far away, like listening to sounds underwater. Mr Rivers and I were cocooned in the sick room, sequestered from the rest of the house. The last time I had been ill, he and Kit had fussed over me like a couple of worried aunts, but the person I had craved was Anna. At home in Vienna she fed me honey-water and hummed the overture of
La Traviata.
Unlike most mothers, Anna couldn’t sing to me when I was ill. Her operatic voice was simply too powerful even when she sang
pianissimo
,
but humming
La Traviata,
the opera about the dying beauty, gave the sick room an aura of glamour. Margot complained that we were both morbid, but she was quite wrong. Imagining myself to be a wide-eyed beauty dying of consumption was my only solace when lying in bed feeling feverish and dreadful. I was not sure how much this game would comfort Mr Rivers, but I took his hand and hummed.

Some time later there was a knock at the door and the doctor entered. He smiled at Mr Rivers over the top of his spectacles.

‘Dashing about the country, at your age. I don’t know.’

‘You’d have gone yourself, John, if you’d had a boat.’

‘Yes. I probably would. Come, let’s have a look at you.’

The doctor turned to me. ‘Miss? Would you mind stepping outside while I examine the patient?’

‘I’d prefer to stay.’

‘Christopher?’ asked the doctor.

‘Yes, yes. She can stay.’

The doctor cast me an odd look, half curious, and half concerned. I lingered by the fireplace, my back to the room to give the men privacy. I wanted to turn so as to see the doctor’s face while he examined him. I wanted to read in his expression what he saw, not wait for the platitudes, but I did not turn and I did not look. I closed my eyes and bit my lip and listened to the rustle of bedclothes, the unpeeling of bandages and then a sharp gasp from Mr Rivers as the doctor explored his wound.