Chapter 7 #2
Miss Macintyre claimed that where she slept was a matter of complete indifference to her, as a woman of rational habits rather than a giddy girl, but when pressed again to choose, she selected a room that overlooked the water, which she said would remind her of her childhood home, and had as a bonus a great many solid-looking shelves built in on either side of the curiously carved fireplace.
Her brass-bound leather trunk had all three girls staggering under its weight, and reflecting that Mr Fisk must be a great deal stronger and less decrepit than he appeared.
It was, they knew, mostly full of books rather than clothing.
The ex-governess had no time for the fripperies of fashion, and owned several gowns that were barely distinguishable one from the other, all of them being grey, or greyish, and made of sturdily practical fabrics that permitted the insertion of that most unfashionable of items: the pocket.
She closed the door more or less in their faces, and they left her to some much-needed solitude.
The rest of the chambers on offer were all of a reasonable size, or had some other advantage to recommend them, and the girls ran from one to the other, remarking on their merits and arguing over them, half-seriously, half in jest.
In the end, without too much unseemly argument, Beatrice settled on a small room that led into a larger boudoir overlooking the overgrown gardens; the quaint old bed in the little room was built into a sort of cupboard with a tiny window inside, making it into almost a nest. Cecilia and Bianca decried the whole arrangement as horribly confining, but Bea declared that it was the cosiest thing in the world.
‘I shall think myself very grand,’ she said loftily, ‘having two rooms to my name. If you are fortunate, I shall invite you to visit me in my boudoir, strictly by appointment.’
Bianca’s choice lit on a large chamber that had a magnificent four-poster on a platform, which made her feel, she said, laughing at herself, like Sleeping Beauty.
The room was an irregular shape – they all were, to some degree – and had a curious little space projecting off it, which had been filled with a padded seat surrounded by built-in shelves.
In the midst of the shelves were set small, many-paned windows, giving tantalising views of the estuary and the road winding along beside it, which was not the way they had come but led off in an unknown direction.
It was like something out of a fairy tale, and Bianca found it irresistible.
There would be time to look at the rest of the first floor later, and judge the rooms that had not been made ready – Bianca, as the youngest of six, did not ever like to feel that she might be missing anything – but for now she was content.
Cecilia shut the heavy oak door behind her and surveyed the chamber she had picked out, next to Bianca’s, with Miss Macintyre on her other hand.
It was a corner room, which had windows on both sides, and padded seats beneath.
One of them looked out over the coast – a long, wide sandy beach stretching for what must be a couple of miles in each direction, with white-capped waves lapping at some distance – and the other faced inland like Bianca’s, over the winding silver estuary that led back through low wooded hills.
It gave her a great sense of freedom, unlike anything she had ever experienced before, to be able to see so far merely by turning her head.
She could imagine watching dramatic storms rolling in, even though it was sunny today, and great banks of cloud and beams of sunlight chasing each other across the ever-changing sky.
Unless paying a visit on one of her wealthy older sisters, she’d shared a room with at least one other person all her life, usually Bianca; to have space of her own, and so much of it, was a unique experience for her, and one she relished.
The chamber had a half-tester bed, less grand and imposing than the four-poster in Bianca’s room, but newer.
It might be cold in winter here, she supposed, especially as the situation of the room was somewhat more exposed than either of the ones her sisters had chosen.
But it was not winter now, and the late-afternoon light was streaming in gloriously.
She opened a window and drank in the heady sea air.
Bea would see the sunset on her side, but here, Cecilia would see the dawn, and the moon over the water, and the wild sea-birds.
There wasn’t another human being in sight – no, that wasn’t strictly true.
There was someone walking along the beach, she saw, standing for a few moments, idly watching.
They were making heavy going of it, judging by their slow pace – perhaps the sand was wet and slowed their progress – but he or she was too far away for any detail of their appearance to be discernible.
There was a large press built in on either side of the fireplace, and when she tried the doors of each, she found that one had hanging space for gowns, and the other shelves freshly lined with paper, which released the elusive scent of lavender as she began to unpack and put away her undergarments, shoes, boots and stockings.
The wooden mantel had an old Venetian mirror over it, ornate and gilded, too spotted by age to offer a very clear reflection, but lovely in its tarnished elegance.
There was a pot cupboard by the bed, a paisley-upholstered chaise longue opposite the fireplace, and little other furniture but a washstand furnished with soft, old towels.
The colourful Turkey carpets on the floor were clean but worn, and the heavy green damask curtains faded by perhaps decades of sun. She was delighted by it all.
She was humming a gay tune as she set her few books and possessions in their places, stepping back to judge the effect. Who would not be happy, in such a fortunate situation?