Autumn Softly Fell (10 page)

The day room was just as she’d left it, deserted except for Polly – poor Polly who spent her whole life in a cage. But wasn’t it the same for people, too? Weren’t houses cages, even a house as big as Clifton? And life, life was just a series of traps and pitfalls and dead ends.

She sobbed, thinking of a dream she sometimes had – not the dream of the cottage or the portentous chimes but a cold, clammy, smothering sort of dream in which she was walking the streets at dead of night trailing after her papa and sucking her thumb, her tummy empty, her feet sore. She had an idea that something of the sort had really happened – perhaps more than once, in the days before Mrs Browning and the room in Stepnall Street. But she couldn’t be sure. London was slipping away from her, getting hazier and hazier in her memory.

She thought of the girl in her dream, the girl she’d once been. She thought of the words that the boy had used:
la-di-dah
…
uppity
…
Miss Posh Frock
. Would the people in Stepnall Street – Mrs Browning, Mickey and the others – would they see her in the same light, all airs and graces, a toff? Was she too grand now even for her papa?

But she didn’t fit in here, either. She was an outsider, a cuckoo in the nest, the girl who’d been
raised up,
nothing more than a guest, a lodger. ‘You should think yourself lucky, my girl,’ Nanny often said. ‘You ought to be grateful.’ But she
was
grateful; she tried her hardest to be the perfect guest. But that didn’t stop her from feeling that they might send her away at any moment. Uncle Albert, perhaps, wouldn’t but Aunt Eloise would have no compunction, nor Nanny or Mrs Bourne. And as for Roderick…. ‘I suppose that’s what girls do, where you come from….’

Where you come from.

She ground her teeth, stamped her foot, hating Roderick with a passion, setting himself up as a hero, so nice in his letters from school, so horrible in real life – so
contradictory
, you never knew where you stood with him.

Hardly aware of what she was doing, she began to sweep the toy soldiers off the table and started stamping on them, enraged, howling. Polly watched in amazement, flexing her wings anxiously. Finally she gave a single loud squawk.

The sound of Polly’s squawk was like a douche of cold water. Dorothea stood stock still. She looked down at the tin soldiers on the floor and began shaking. She had never lost control like that in her life. It made her afraid. And the soldiers, the poor soldiers!

She fetched their box and knelt to pick them up, putting them slowly away one by one. Many were broken and mangled, some were squashed quite flat. Here was one, its head skew-whiff, its legs missing. What had it ever done to deserve that?

Tears began to flow again, silent tears, sliding down her cheeks, dripping onto the little body of the disfigured soldier that she held in her hand.

‘Why, Miss Dorothea, whatever’s the matter?’ cried Nora when she came into the day room some minutes later to begin laying the table for tea.

But Dorothea couldn’t explain. It was all such a jumble in her head: the toy soldiers, the boy in the Orchard, the sense of being adrift.

‘Don’t you worry about those soldiers, miss. Most of them were broken already, and no wonder the way Master Roderick treats them. As for Nibs Carter – well, I’m sure he didn’t mean to upset you. He’s a handful, I’ll grant you, but he’s not a bad boy at heart. What’s a few apples when all’s said and done? There’s no need for Master Roderick to go picking on him and pointing the finger. They’ve enough troubles, the Carters, what with their mother passing on and then their dad, and Arnie Carter being left to bring up his brothers and sisters all on his own – and him little more
than a boy himself! I think he’s done a grand job, whatever folk say, but there’s always somebody ready to pick holes, even when they wouldn’t have coped half so well had they been in Arnie’s shoes!’

Nora grew heated in her defence of Arnie Carter and Dorothea, drying her eyes, wondered who he was – but before she could ask, Nanny suddenly loomed up, catching them unawares.

‘What’s this? What’s this? What nonsense are you filling the girl’s head with now, Turner? Why isn’t the table laid?’

Nanny hated to be left out of anything, so of course the whole story had to be gone through again, such as it was. But, like Nora, Nanny didn’t seem to understand what Dorothea was trying to say either.

‘Well! Pardon me, I’m sure, if I’ve got it wrong,’ she said
officiously
, ‘but it was always
my
understanding that it says in the Bible,
Thou shalt not steal
. And what’s taking those apples if it’s not stealing? I’m surprised at you, Turner, for suggesting otherwise. I thought you’d been brought up better than that, even if your father is only an
agricultural labourer
. Yes, yes, Miss Dorothea, I know very well that the apples aren’t being used for anything, but that doesn’t mean just
anyone
can take them! Where would we be if everyone got their food for free? No one would want to do any work at all! Everyone would live in idleness! And need I remind you that the devil makes work for idle hands? No. No. People must go hungry, that’s what I say. People who go hungry soon find an appetite for work to match that of their bellies. Those Carters of yours, Turner, would do well to remember it. But now, that’s quite enough of that. I won’t hear another word about it. I want that table laid, Turner, and Baby needs feeding once you’ve finished. And as for you, my girl, you just go and make yourself presentable. You look a fright with your eyes all puffy and grass round your hem! Where’s that governess, I’d like to know? I shall be having words, you may be sure!’

Nanny folded her arms and looked down her nose and Dorothea hung her head but Nora said nothing, merely pursed her lips and began laying the table, banging the cutlery about and rattling the
crockery in a most un-Nora-like way, almost as if she didn’t give a fig for Nanny at all.

Don’t you worry about the toy soldiers,
Nora had said. All the same, Dorothea could not help but worry. She felt duty-bound to own up. ‘If you give Master Roderick an inch, he’ll take a mile,’ Nora warned, but Dorothea didn’t care about inches or miles. She just wanted to do what was right.

She confessed as they sat down to the birthday tea, adding, ‘Don’t worry, Roddy, I shall buy you some new ones.’

He looked perplexed as he piled his plate with cakes, ignoring the sandwiches. ‘There’s no need for you to buy me anything. Mother will buy new soldiers if I ask. She likes to buy me things.’

‘You mustn’t tell Aunt Eloise about the soldiers! She will be angry! She will want to send me away!’

‘No she won’t! I shan’t let her, anyway.’

‘It’s not up to you.’

‘It’s up to Father and he shan’t let her either.’

‘But I
will
buy you new soldiers. I feel I should.’

His mouth was too full of cake for him to argue anymore and she was glad to have that settled. But now there was something else to worry about. Where would she ever find the money?

She was no longer mad at Roderick. It was never possible to stay mad at him for long – especially this afternoon when he looked as ill-treated as his soldiers, with his split lip and bruises. Nanny had given him a beating, too, for it would be her head on the block (she’d said) when the mistress saw the state of him. Roderick had shrugged this off as if it was nothing but he was sitting on his chair rather gingerly all the same. It would almost have been possible to feel sorry for him – if he hadn’t been so infuriating.

He was eyeing the table with a disgruntled air. ‘There is to be a dinner party downstairs in honour of my birthday, but all I get is this shabby tea.’

Dorothea thought it was a sumptuous tea, and said so, although secretly she thought her own birthday tea six weeks ago had been
better. But then she was Cook’s special friend and Roderick was not. (Was he anyone’s special friend?)

Roderick helped himself to more iced buns. ‘There is a chink in the Dining Room door. We could watch the grown-ups as they eat and listen to what they’re saying. I don’t see why we shouldn’t. It’s all in
my
honour.’

‘But wouldn’t that be rather … naughty?’

‘I don’t care if it’s naughty or not, it’s what I’m going to do.
You
can do what you like.’

‘We could ask if—’

‘That’s no good. One doesn’t get anywhere by
asking
.’

‘But—’

Roderick rolled his eyes. ‘We can’t all be as
pure
as you, Miss Goody-Goody. I’m surprised they haven’t made you a saint already.’

Dorothea was stung. ‘I am
not
a goody-goody! And I
shall
look through the chink!’

Roderick broke into a grin, spoke with his mouth full. ‘I knew you would.’

Dorothea’s heart was thumping. What if they were caught? Oh, but it was worth the risk, she thought, putting her eye to the chink and seeing the long table draped with a white cloth and glittering with glass and silver. Candles flickered in the tall candelabra which served as the centrepiece. There were a dozen or so grown-ups seated there. They looked as if they’d been polished up just as diligently as the cutlery.

It wasn’t such a lavish occasion as the party on the night Dorothea had arrived. There had been no more parties of that sort. Aunt Eloise, it was reported, had considered that evening a failure.
And that is all my fault,
thought Dorothea, recalling the
consternation
that had greeted her unexpected arrival. Clifton’s social occasions in the days of Aunt Eloise’s youth had been renowned, Dorothea had learned, but after the failure of the New Year’s party, Aunt Eloise had vowed never again to try to emulate the past – which was rather a shame, thought Dorothea, nursing feelings of guilt.

Roderick gave her a shove. ‘It’s my turn! Let me look!’

‘In a minute, Roddy. I haven’t finished! Stop pushing!’

Some of the guests Dorothea recognized. Colonel Harding was there – the bluff man who hated motors. His son was there too. Mrs Somersby of Brockmorton Manor was accompanied by her eldest daughter. And the Fitzwilliams were in attendance, Dorothea’s
especial
friends. Henry, of course, had been her knight in armour that day on the Welby Road but his mother took an interest too and never failed to ask after ‘Albert’s little niece’ whenever she called. Dorothea’s allies told her this, for not all the servants were as
ill-natured
and terrifying as Nanny or Mrs Bourne. There was Nora, there was Cook, there was Bessie Downs and Becket and even Tomlin would pass the time of day when he was pushing Richard in the bath chair.

Roderick gave her another shove and she surrendered her place to him, stepping back, looking up and down the dusky corridor. Light still glimmered through the glass panels of the back door, the tail end of twilight.

Roderick was giggling, his eye pressed against the gap. ‘Look at the way Henry eats his soup! He
is
a goose! And Miss Somersby is making eyes at him, like this—’ He rolled his eyes wildly. ‘I don’t suppose Henry has even noticed, the pudding-head!’

‘Henry is
not
a pudding-head, nor a goose!’

‘Yes he is. And so is Charles Harding. Charles Harding is a
half-wit
, everyone says so. And—oh, I say! Father has bits from the soup caught in his moustache! How killing!’

Roderick doubled up with laughter and Dorothea took the opportunity to push him aside and reapply her eye to the chink. Why did Roderick have to pick fault and laugh at people all the time? Why did he
exaggerate
? Miss Somersby was not making eyes at anyone. She looked far too stodgy for that, was busy with her soup, a frown of concentration on her face as she lifted the spoon to her mouth. Henry had finished his soup already. He looked very dapper and gallant in his dark jacket and waistcoat, his hair slicked back and shiny with oil. He was crumbling his roll absently as he listened to Colonel Harding going on and on as usual. Dorothea
watched as Henry narrowed his eyes, puffed out his cheeks, as if he was trying to stop himself from yawning.

‘Stromberg, Magersfontein, Spion Kop: disaster after disaster!’ boomed the Colonel. ‘I was beginning to have my doubts, I don’t mind telling you. Is this what the British Army has come to, I asked myself? Things must have changed, I said, if this is the kind of
shambles
that….’

But Colonel Harding, strident and bombastic though he was, was somehow not as imposing as Uncle Albert, sitting there silent at the head of the table. He was just as smart and polished as the others (even if he did have bits in his moustache) but there was also
something
blunt and rough-edged about him, his big hands resting on the table as if, at any moment, he might get to his feet and say— she could not imagine what he would say, but his words would be hard, incisive, to the point. Not like Colonel Harding, blustering and bumbling.

‘…it wouldn’t have happened in my day! No! No! You can be sure! In
my
day—’

‘
In my day
,’ Roderick imitated, elbowing her aside.

‘Stop
pushing
Roddy!’ She gave him a shove, turned back to the chink.

‘The Boer, the Boer,’ thundered Colonel Harding, reaching a crescendo. ‘The Boer is—’

But Dorothea’s gaze was drawn to where, enthroned like an empress, Aunt Eloise sat at the far end of the table. Her mauve gown shimmered as she moved. Her hair was up, made her neck look slim and graceful – like a swan’s. She was listening to the Colonel with a slight smile as if to say,
Yes, yes, go on. You are doing well, you are doing oh so well.
As Dorothea watched, however, Aunt Eloise glanced along the length of the table, her blue eyes questing, and with an all but imperceptible movement of one finger she brushed her upper lip before turning back to the Colonel. At the other end of the table, Uncle Albert laid hold of his napkin and mopped at his moustache.

Dorothea’s heart beat fast. So
that
was what it meant to be married,
that
was the secret: a flick of the finger, a dab with a
napkin. She remembered Bessie Downs’s words:
she only married the master because no one else would have her.
But that couldn’t be right. There was more to it than that, much more.