Autumn Softly Fell (22 page)

Time passed. She did not stir.

When the lych gate clicked, the sound did not sink in; it was the voice which roused her.

‘Miss Dorothea! So it
is
you! I caught a glimpse from the street, and it’s lucky I did. You look half-perished!’

It was Mrs Turner. Her rosy face, usually so cheerful, was creased with concern.

‘Is Richard here?’

‘Master Richard’s gone, dearie. He’s gone up to heaven. But, now, come you with me. We need to get you in front of a fire, take the chill off you.’

Mrs Turner held out her hand and Dorothea took it, allowed herself to be drawn to her feet.

‘See who’s with me today, miss? It’s little Dicky, that’s who it is.’

The small boy looked at her with solemn eyes but Dorothea shrank from him, inexplicably afraid.

Mrs Turner led them down the path and out through the
lych-gate
. A little way along the street they turned off and took the footpath to Back Lane, the one that led through the Wilderness, the very place where little Dick had made his precipitous first
appearance
two and a half years ago. Dorothea’s mind stirred. She thought about the sliver of slimy skin lying motionless on the dead leaves and she began to shiver. She was shuddering violently as they made their way across Seed Meadow. Dick was stumbling on his little legs but Mrs Turner’s leathery hand was warm in hers. After a time, as they walked, the warmth began to seep into Dorothea’s chilled fingers and then slowly up her arm.

The fire had burned low in the Turners’ cottage. Mrs Turner put more wood on, drew up a windsor chair, eased Dorothea into it, spread a rug over her knees.

‘Now then, miss, how about a nice cup of tea? Hot, sweet tea, just the thing.’

Mrs Turner put the kettle over the fire, fetched out the tea pot, reached for cups, saucers, spoons, sugar, a tea caddy. But Dorothea was conscious of only two things: the flickering flames in the grate and the sound of Mrs Turner’s voice which seemed to come from a great distance.

‘It’s lovely to have you visit, miss, I must say. We don’t see nearly enough of you – do we, Dicky-boy? But I don’t know what they’re thinking of up at the big house, sending you out in this weather with no coat nor hat. You’ve come to pay your respects, I daresay, but he
wouldn’t have wanted you to catch your death, now, would he? Master Richard wouldn’t have wanted that! You were such friends, the pair of you. Thick as thieves, our Nora always said. She was so upset when Master Richard passed on, you can’t imagine. And you were ill too, of course, and we were all ever so worried. Everyone was asking after you, you may be sure. It’s such a blessing to see you up and about again. But such a shame about poor Master Richard. And there’s Maggie Hobson, too, poor thing. Like a haystack done up ugly, she was, but always smiling, never stopped smiling. I do feel for her poor mother. She’s not the easiest woman in the world to get along with, Mrs Hobson, and she will go round borrowing things – tea and sugar and the like – and always replaces it with less than you gave her. But I don’t like to complain. We all have to live in the same village when all’s said and done. And there’s her husband, too, always out of a job. So, no, I don’t like to complain.

‘Now then, miss, here’s your tea. Drink it down. That’s the way. And I’ll take the weight of my feet for a moment. Oh, what bliss to sit down! I’ve been on the go all morning. He runs me ragged, little Dicky-boy. But if I have him for a morning it gives our Pippa a chance to get on. She’s doing some dressmaking, you see, to make ends meet, so I like to lend a hand when I can. But he does run me ragged, little Dicky-boy. That’s why I took him for a breath of air, to tire him out a bit. And a good job I did, otherwise I’d never have found you lying there and goodness’ knows what might have happened!

‘But listen to me, going on! I’ll talk you to death at this rate, I’m sure! It comes natural, though, talking to you, miss. Our Pippa was only saying as much this morning. “You have to watch your Ps and Qs with most of ’em up at the big house,” she said, “but with Miss Dorothea it’s different. She’s like one of our own, is Miss Dorothea.” So there you have it, miss, and you’ll always be sure of a welcome here. You’re welcome any time.

‘Well, now. Have you finished your tea? I’ll take your cup, then, miss, shall I? And how would you like to have little Dicky sat on your lap for a bit? He won’t be no trouble now. Ready to drop, he is. Here, up you come, Dicky-boy. You’ll like sitting in Miss
Dorothea’s lap, won’t you? Of course you will! There! That’s the way. Oh, but don’t you look a picture, the two of you! A real picture!’

Dorothea drew her eyes away from the flames, looked down at the boy on her knees, resisting the urge to shy away. But he was nothing like the slimy bundle she had been picturing in her mind’s eye. Two years had passed since then. He was heavy and warm and alive in her arms – and his name was Richard. His name was Richard.

So there would always be reminders, she thought. There would always be pieces to cling to.

Tears pricked her eyes, but she didn’t cry. It seemed an age now since she’d last cried, an age since she’d felt anything. A lifetime had passed since she left the house that morning. She looked down at little Dick, snuggled in her arms, half asleep, sucking his thumb, and she felt her mouth twitch in an odd way, a way she had almost forgotten. The muscles in her face were rusty from long disuse, but nonetheless the smile slowly came. Dick was watching her from under half-closed lids. After a moment, he smiled too, still sucking his thumb.

The fire was hot on her legs, Dick like toast in her lap. She felt as if she was slowly defrosting. She felt sleepy, too. But most of all, she felt that she would like to go on sitting there just as she was forever and ever.

‘HELLO! HELLO!
May we come in?’

Dorothea was sitting at the table with her supper of cocoa and bread-and-butter, the newspaper spread out in front of her. All was quiet. It was past Eliza’s bed time, of course. Nanny had gone down to ‘help’ Cook. Mlle Lacroix was in bed with
la grippe.
Dorothea had been all alone. But suddenly—

‘Henry! What are you doing here?’

He looked very smart in his dinner jacket and dickey bow, his hair brilliantined, his smile as broad as ever.

‘Mrs Brannan said it was quite in order for me to come up and see you. In fact, she insisted. And look! I’ve brought my chum Giles with me.’

‘What ho!’ Mr Giles advanced, raising his hand in greeting. He spoke with a lisp. ‘What a jolly nursery! Rather empty, though. When I was a kid at Darvell Hall, we couldn’t move for falling over one another.’

But the nursery did not feel empty – not now. The two gentlemen were larger than life, filling the day room with their high spirits and gusts of laughter.

‘Who’s a pretty girl!’ Mr Giles tapped the bars of Polly’s cage.

‘That’s no way to talk to a young lady, Milton!’

‘I wasn’t talking to the young lady, as well you know, Fitzy. I was, in actual fact, addressing the parrot.’

Dorothea found herself laughing as the two friends quipped and joked. It was impossible not to. And to think that, just six months ago, she had felt that she would never laugh again! She was a little
shy of Mr Giles but Henry seemed to sense this, smiling and winking, putting her at her ease. He was so very gallant. Everything he did was gallant.

‘We are here for the pre-race dinner,’ he said. ‘You know about the race, I suppose?’

It was impossible not to know. There had been talk of little else for weeks. Originally Henry’s idea, it had been taken up with gusto by Uncle Albert. ‘Not a race as such, child,’ he’d told her. ‘Not an event for those Grand Prix cars with their monster engines. This will be more of a reliability trial. The perfect opportunity to show what BFS motors can really do!’

‘But only if you win, Uncle.’

He had rubbed his hands together. ‘That’s what makes it all the more interesting!’

‘We have come to Clifton to settle our plans,’ said Henry,
straddling
a chair. ‘Mother, of course, has been dreading it, all the shop talk, but it can’t be helped. Then tomorrow we’re off – off to Darvell Hall for the final preparations. You … you’ll be coming on race day, I hope?’

‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world!’

‘I’m glad!’ A smile quivered on his lips, but his eyes were hesitant. He looked at her sidelong. ‘I say, Doro, you’re looking very … very pretty this evening.’

Mr Giles, astride the rocking horse, guffawed. ‘You’re making her blush, Fitzy, you fool!’

But it was Henry who was blushing. At least, that was how it looked. But probably it was running up the stairs too quickly that had brought the colour to his cheeks.

He grabbed hold of the newspaper. ‘What have you got here?
The Times,
is it?’

‘Reading the newspaper is one of my chores. Mam’zelle says it’s important to keep abreast with the world.’

‘Very wise of her,’ said Mr Giles. ‘But I never find the time myself.’

Henry was peering at the print. ‘
The Battle of Tsu Shima
,’ he read out. ‘
Admiral Togo’s strategy.
Where’s Tsu Shima, Milton? Any ideas?’

‘Somewhere near China, I think. The Russkies got rather a pasting, one hears.’ Mr Giles swung off the rocking horse. ‘We should get going, Fitzy. Don’t want to show ourselves up by being late for dinner, what?’

‘Talking of which,’ said Henry, tossing the newspaper aside and jumping to his feet, ‘what’s the name of that girl you’re taking in to dinner?’

‘Haven’t the foggiest. Why?’

‘Would you mind awfully if we swapped? I’ll have Miss
What’s-her
-name, and you can have Miss Somersby.’

‘By all means, Fitzy. But do get a move on or we’ll both be in the dog house.’

The two young men said goodnight and set off downstairs. For a while, Dorothea could still hear their voices echoing along the corridor.

‘What’s so wrong with Miss Somersby, Fitzy?’

‘There’s nothing
wrong
with her. She’s just not
right
for me. Only Mother can’t see it.’

‘Oho, like that, is it! Well, I think she’s rather nice. Miss Somersby, that is, not your mother.’

‘Are you saying my mother is not nice, you scoundrel?’

‘That’s not what I meant at all, Fitzy, and you know it!’

‘But that’s what you said.’

‘I did not say that, confound you….’

The voices finally faded. The day room fell silent once again.

Polly was watching with a beady eye. ‘Oh, Polly…!’ Dorothea had been falling asleep over the newspaper (the story of the battle was rather long and confusing). Now she was wide awake, restless, swinging round the day room, her thoughts full of the race – just the day after tomorrow! ‘What will happen, Polly? Will the BFS motors win?’

Polly shut her eyes disdainfully but there was no one else to talk to. Dorothea thought longingly of the dinner downstairs. When would she be allowed down to dine? She was nearly
fourteen
. There was less than two weeks to her birthday. Would she be someone Henry would want to take into dinner? He had called her pretty but
that was just his gallant way. She wasn’t pretty, she knew that. Probably, if it came to it, people would try to swap her the way Henry had swapped Miss Somersby.

She sighed, returning to her supper and the newspaper.
The wind was now freshening,
she read,
and the sea, already rough, began to run very high. The fog began to lift. Togo signalled that the fate of the Empire depended on this effort and the men must do their utmost
….

The fate of the Japanese empire had depended on the battle; the fate of the BFS motors would depend on the race at Darvell Hall. Henry, Mr Giles and the others must do their utmost. But would it end in victory – or in ignominious defeat?

‘Such characteristic bank holiday weather,’ said Aunt Eloise drily as she got into the motor.

It was Whit Monday and it was drizzling. They were off to Darvell Hall for the race. Dorothea was sitting in the back of the motor next to her aunt. Nora was up front next to the grey old chauffeur. (Mlle Lacroix was still unwell, so Nora had been chosen to deputize; she was ‘pleased as punch’ to be having a day out.) Aunt Eloise looked both regal and somewhat mysterious in her long coat and veil. Even Mrs Somersby could have no complaints about Aunt Eloise’s motoring clothes.

The aged chauffeur drove at a snail’s pace. Dorothea’s mind raced ahead, through the village, along the Newbolt Road, past Hayton Grange (Had Lady Fitzwilliam set out yet? Henry along with Uncle Albert and the others had spent last night at Darvell Hall in
preparation
for the big day). Next came Newbolt (wave to Colonel Harding in passing?), then the junction with the Roman Road. Straight on at those crossroads, then arch over the canal, dive under the railway, and up, up, to the fork in the road and after that— After that her imagination failed her. She had never been beyond the fork in the road, had never seen Darvell Hall.

The race was taking place at Darvell by kind permission of Sir Walter Milton, Mr Giles’s father. Although not a speed trial – as Uncle Albert had pointed out – the competing vehicles would still be
going faster than the twenty miles per hour speed limit, which made it necessary to hold the event on private land. Sir Walter had plenty of land which his father had bought. His father had made a fortune in coal or iron or something (Dorothea could not remember the details).

Looking out at the grey sky, the rain, the dripping hedgerows, the mournful flowers peeping amongst the long grass of the verge – white stitchwort, yellow celandine, blue speedwell – Dorothea found she had butterflies in her stomach. Why should it matter so much if the BFS motors were successful or not? Yet ever since the days of Eve, Dorothea had felt that she had an interest in them. She had been there at the birth – just as she had with little Dicky Turner. And that meant something. You were snared. Your fortunes ran parallel, like the tracks of a railway – that was how it felt.

They came at long last, after crawling through the rain, to the turning for Darvell Hall. The gates were wide open. Bunting adorned them. A banner hung across the arch.
Darvell Hall
–
Fete and Motor Trial
–
Whit Monday
–
All Welcome.

And
all
had indeed come, it seemed – despite the weather. There were flocks of people on foot, on bicycles, in gigs and carts, all of them making their way up the long drive. The Clifton motor nosed its way amongst them, passed through a belt of trees – and suddenly, there was the Hall itself!

Clifton paled beside it. Darvell Hall was much more imposing, with a vast façade of pale grey stone and an ornamental parapet on top. There were windows beyond count, and two tall towers flanking a colonnaded entrance. On the steps in front of this entrance stood a white-haired figure, arms flung wide as if greeting the whole world – surely Sir Walter Milton, thought Dorothea. He looked like an illustration of Old King Cole from a picture book.

The driveway bisected a wide green lawn, smooth as a carpet. On the left was more bunting and many flags on poles. Marquees had been set up here, along with coconut shies, roundabouts, swing boats, and many other booths and stalls. Somewhere, a band was playing. People thronged the walkways.

On the right hand side there were no marquees. Here, autocars of all types were lined up, row after row. So many, thought Dorothea, that the BFS machines were lost in the crowd. Men were busy, polishing the motors, checking the engines. Other men stood in little groups, talking and pointing. Nearby, some sturdy shire horses were patiently waiting.

Dorothea looked ahead. The motor was sweeping round in front of the house, following the left-hand branch of the driveway. They passed under a wooden arch with START and FINISH written on it, and proceeded into a meadow round the side of the house where already many carriages, carts and autocars were parked. There were also bicycles in profusion. Horses with nosebags were tethered to a fence. Coachmen and chauffeurs in smart uniforms were standing round, chatting and smoking.

Their own grey old chauffeur found a place to stop. The engine died. Dorothea could hardly wait to get down. She held her skirts up away from the wet grass. The leaden sky pressed down on them but at least the rain had stopped now. Birds were singing. The sound of music and many voices came faintly on the breeze.

‘Oh, miss!’ whispered Nora. ‘Isn’t it lovely! What a treat!’

Aunt Eloise sounded less impressed. ‘Let us go and find out what one is meant to do in all this pandemonium.’

They left the aged chauffeur in charge of the motor, picked their way across the soggy field and out through a gate onto the drive. Aunt Eloise forged ahead like a galleon breasting the waves. People jumped out of her way then stopped to look back – for her aunt, thought Dorothea with a rush of pride, was magnificent: immensely dignified; handsome; immutable.

As they neared the front steps of the house, a woman in a striking lime green dress and an enormous hat came bearing down on them.

‘So you are here too! Isn’t it extraordinary? Such a triumph for Sir Walter. Half the county is here.’ It was Mrs Somersby, wildly ostentatious as always; her daughter Julia was demure at her side. ‘One had wondered if … with Sir Walter only being the son of a –
ahem
– but— There are rumours that Lord Denecote himself will grace us with his presence later, which puts rather a different
complexion on things. I am just going to pay my respects to Lady Milton. We can go together, Eloise. Only the select few are being admitted to the house, naturally. Come along Julia. And do try not to frown, darling, it really doesn’t become you.’

Poor Julia. There was nothing
wrong
with her, Dorothea
remembered
, but she wasn’t
right
for Henry. But nobody would be good enough for Henry – not unless he married Nora or the mam’zelle. But alas, Dorothea was old and wise enough to know that some marriages would never be possible.

Aunt Eloise went off towards the house with Mrs Somersby and Miss Julia – after giving Dorothea permission to go and look at the autocars, with Nora to keep an eye on her. They wandered between the rows of vehicles.

‘There they are, miss!’ exclaimed Nora. ‘There’s Mr Brannan and Master Henry and the rest. And – oh—!’

Nora stopped short, went bright red. Following the direction of her gaze, Dorothea saw a young mechanic bent over one of the BFS engines – none other than Arnie Carter, she realized, looking very smart in his blue overalls, almost as smart and bright and polished as the motors themselves. But the motors! There were two of them, sleek, shiny, stylish. Her heart thumped with pride. She felt as if they were hers, her own creation.

This was the new model, Mark II. It was very similar to the old Mark I (Eve) to look at, but there was something different about their engines – some great improvement. Henry had tried to explain, but Dorothea had not been able to keep up. It all sounded so complicated. Richard, of course, with his dream of becoming an engineer, would have been rapt; but Richard—

Oh, Richard! When would she learn to stop saying to herself, ‘I must tell Richard that’, only to remember with a terrible jolt that she would never tell him anything ever again?

Dorothea blinked away tears as she looked at the rows and rows of vehicles. She could not mask a twinge of doubt. Would the BFS motors really get the better of them
all
? But it was so very
important
that they did. The order books were nearly empty, Uncle Albert said. Business was ticking over instead of taking off. What was
required was a practical demonstration of just how reliable and superior a BFS motor car was.

The BFS contingent certainly looked cheerful and confident. Dorothea had never seen Uncle Albert so expansive, accosting passers-by, pointing proudly to the Mark II, engaging in banter. Mr Simcox and Mr Smith were handing out leaflets. Henry and Mr Giles were on hand, looking very dashing in their leather coats with their goggles pushed up over the caps. Along with Arnie Carter there was another mechanic by the name of Young. Formerly the
blacksmith
’s apprentice, a dab hand at knocking up spare parts for Henry and now employed by Uncle Albert in Coventry, Young was working on the manufacture of components (getting hold of components had always been a problem which Uncle Albert had partly solved by turning over some of the bicycle business to making them). The blacksmith had been philosophical about losing his assistant. ‘Young lads these days, they don’t know when they’re well off. They think nothing of giving up a good trade at the drop of a hat to take up the latest fad and fancy. I don’t know what the world is coming to.’