Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
The following morning I awake at five to the cheerful sound of birdsong. For a moment, in the darkened room I don’t remember where I am. I blink up at the canopy of the four-poster bed and believe that I’m in the present – that Ulysses is about to come into my room and tell me I’m being a lazy troll. But as I take in the dress hanging over the standing mirror and the brown suitcase placed against the wall, the day before comes flooding back. I know where I am. It’s 1895, 20th June, the second day of my slide. I have ten days to find out what happens to Felix.
I lie on the crisp sheets and think how strange it is not to see any light switches on the wall or a lamp on the bedside table. Of course, electricity hasn’t yet been rolled out in homes. It’s at least another ten years before that starts to happen. You only realise how much you rely on these things when you don’t have them. These people can’t imagine how much their lives are going to change with the wealth of inventions that are to come.
I open the curtains and gaze onto the garden, serene in the pale dawn light, and I don’t believe I have ever seen a garden more beautiful. The greenery is still fresh with newness, the grass and flowers still abounding with the enthusiasm of early summer. They’re not yet tired; they’ve only just begun to take pleasure in their aliveness. And everything looks so positive in the sunshine. It’s impossible to imagine the darkness that is to come.
I awaken Robert at six and he dutifully practises the piano for an hour before breakfast. I leave Felix to Gwen, mindful that my duty is to turn Robert into a gentleman and give him an education. I’m also aware of the responsibility I have towards Hermione Swift. I believe that when I leave, her memory of these days will be non-existent. Apparently, the hosts put their amnesia down to trauma or fever – at least that’s what I’ve read in the small amount of literature that exists on the subject, which, by the way, is called astral projection possession. Timesliding is my own term. Hermione will continue from where I leave her, so it’s imperative that I do the best I can for her while I’m in possession of her body. I don’t take that responsibility lightly.
The four of us meet at the breakfast table in the nursery at half past seven, and I notice that Gwen is sleepy. Her round face is pale and the shadows beneath her eyes are accentuated, making them look almost purple. The eyes themselves have a sparkle, though, and a dreaminess, as if she hasn’t fully awoken. Felix demands her attention, and she gives it, but without the zest of the day before.
I watch her, curious about her demeanour, and make polite conversation but get little in return. I focus my attention on Robert instead, and we make a plan to ride after lunch. He wants to show me the chapel and the beach and the gypsy encampment. ‘They’re a rotten sort,’ he says crossly, and I hear his father’s voice and know that the boy has picked up this blinkered attitude from him. ‘They make a frightful mess and have no respect for anybody.’
‘Perhaps we should steer clear of them then,’ I say, but he wants to show me all the same.
He lifts his chin. ‘I’m not afraid of them.’
I realise his fervour needs to be tempered. ‘They are probably here temporarily to find work picking fruit and later to help with the harvest. It’s unkind to judge them when you do not know them. They are likely going about their business and doing the best they can just like everyone else. ’
‘Nonsense, they are up to no good, I tell you.’ He believes this passionately and I have to remind myself that we are in 1895, not 2013, and people’s attitudes are different. However, I can’t help but see them through the lens of my own time. I want to encourage Robert to view them as people and to understand our shared humanity. Just because they’re different doesn’t mean they’re bad. I don’t want him to grow up with a sense of superiority simply because he’s born into more favourable circumstances than others. I’m mindful of the Butterfly Effect, but, surely, influencing someone for the greater good of the world is a positive thing?
After breakfast and before we begin our lessons at nine, I take the opportunity to meet the servants. I make my way through the hall and down a passageway that leads to a green baize door. The same door that exists now, separating Elsa’s domain from Olivia’s. On the other side of this door is a different house. No more the fine furnishings and grand log fires. Here the floors are tiled, the walls white, the furniture simple and functional. I introduce myself to the cook, Mrs Moyle. She’s a large-boned woman with an air of authority and the weary patience of the sorely tried. She greets me briskly, pausing her rolling pin for a only moment before resuming her work, indicating that she doesn’t have time for niceties. I’m not at all surprised that she’s stretched considering there are no kitchen appliances to lessen her load, or ready-made meals from the supermarket. I meet Miss Prideaux, who is Cordelia’s lady’s maid. She’s plump and comely with shiny brown hair, fine features and a wily expression in her eyes, which are almost the colour of amber. She’s friendly and not at all harassed like Mrs Moyle. When she speaks, she has an air of education, as if she’s a cut above the usual women of her station. I sense she’s a rare jewel, and that Cordelia is fortunate to have found her. There’s Mrs Petworth, the housekeeper, and Mr Lanyon, the steward, a cheerful kitchen maid called Esther, Mr Pengower’s valet, Mr Roskelley, who is handsome and self-satisfied, a couple of housemaids named Ida and Rose, and various under-butlers. They are all welcoming enough. I feel none of the usual resentment, only from Mr Symons, who is the most important member of the household being the butler. He has no reason to feel threatened by me for I, as the governess, answer directly to Cordelia and not to him. Perhaps he’s supercilious with all the servants.
I spend the morning teaching Robert in a room upstairs, which has been converted for this very purpose. It has a view of the stable block and every now and then I look out and see John Snathe, smoking against the wall, or bringing round the pony and trap, or saddling up a horse, or loitering. He loiters a lot, I’ve noticed. He looks like a character from Central Casting. But this is no film set. This is real, and soon a little boy will go missing.
I teach Robert French. My French is basic, but I manage to convince him that I know what I’m talking about. He frowns when I mention the word geography and, after some explanation, I realise that he calls it ‘Use of the Globes’. The same happens when I declare that we’re going to do some maths – he knows that as arithmetic. He looks at me with a bewildered expression, as if I’ve come from a different land. If only he knew! But once we get going, he’s quick to learn and keen, soaking up information like a greedy sponge. I slip very comfortably into my role. The dress makes it easier to act the Victorian governess. Because of its restrictive structure, I find it simple to take on the deportment and manners of a woman of this time, as if I’m in a period drama and therefore mindful of the character I’m playing. However, I’m not sure how I’m going to keep it up for nine more days. At least actors get to go home in the evenings and slip into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.
After lunch we both need fresh air. The day is too lovely to spend inside. We change our clothes and head out to the stables. I pray that I can remember how to ride. It’s been a long time.
As we walk through the archway beneath the clock tower my heart gives a little skip, for there, on the cobbles mounting his horse, is Cavill. When he sees me, he takes his foot out of the stirrup and smiles, his eyes lighting up with pleasure. He exudes an energy that’s so spirited I’m infected by it and feel spirited too.
‘Miss Swift,’ he says, lifting his hat. His hair is tousled beneath it and the blue of his eyes very bright against his tanned skin. ‘Robert, where are you off to?’
‘I’m going to show Miss Swift the chapel and the beach,’ the child declares importantly.
Cavill grins. ‘Then allow me to come too, for I would very much like to see the chapel and the beach for myself.’ He’s joking, of course, because he’s more than familiar with both, but there’s a playful twinkle in his eye. ‘Grantly, mounts for Miss Swift and Master Robert,’ he shouts, and Mr Grantly appears in the doorway and waves an acknowledgement, before disappearing again to do as requested.
We chat in the sunshine while Robert runs in to help Mr Grantly. I feel myself flowering once again in the appreciative light of Cavill’s gaze. He admires me and isn’t shy to show it. This is a novelty for me. As Pixie Tate, I do not receive so much male attention. I tell him how much I love the gardens and how grateful I am that his family has made me feel so welcome.
‘Mrs Pengower is an admirable woman,’ he says. ‘She has no airs, only grace.’
‘And her children are delightful, just as she is,’ I reply.
‘My brother is not an easy man to live with,’ he confides, running a hand down the blaze on his horse’s face. ‘But Mrs Pengower is a soothing influence. He is quick to temper and to find fault, but she always understands the bigger perspective and enables him to see beyond his often narrow viewpoint. He has married a sensible and patient woman. He is fortunate. St Sidwell needs a mistress like that.’ He smiles at me, and I notice the slightly pronounced canine teeth that give his mouth a jaunty charm. ‘She is keen to make a friend of you ,’ he adds, arching an eyebrow, aware perhaps that friendship between mistress and governess is unusual.
‘It is uncommon for her to seek my friendship,’ I reply. ‘A governess is usually a lonely figure, neither fish nor fowl, but something in between.’
‘Not in this household. We are remote here, and my sister-in-law is in need of female company. You are obviously intelligent and level-headed, a natural friend for her. However, I would understand if you have incited the jealousy of your previous mistresses.’
He’s flirting with me. I imagine that, being undeniably attractive, he flirts with all women. I must tread carefully. How would the real Hermione Swift respond to that, I wonder? ‘Mrs Pengower is above jealousy,’ I reply tactfully. ‘And has every right to be, being so lovely.’
‘You are lovely too, Miss Swift, if I may be so bold.’
I’m at a loss of how to answer. He’s moving in fast and I’m not ready for him. I laugh, for what else can I do? ‘I fear you are toying with me, Mr Cavill,’ I reply at last, attempting to deflect his comment gracefully and with the modesty of a woman of my situation. I turn my eyes to the stable, hoping that Robert will come out, or Mr Grantly, or even John Snathe. I don’t trust that Cavill is altogether sincere.
‘I am not toying with you, Miss Swift,’ he says seriously. ‘Merely admiring. You cannot pretend that you have not been admired before?’
I’m sure Hermione Swift has been much admired before, but it’s not my place to answer for her, or to put her job and reputation in jeopardy. I remind myself once again that I’m not here to enjoy a flirtation, but to investigate a possible crime. That is my only job.
‘I thank you for your admiration, then, Mr Cavill.’ I smile with feigned confidence, but my heart is thumping in my chest. I cannot deny that I’m enjoying his attention.
‘It is sincerely given,’ he says.
Just then Robert skips out, shadowed by John Snathe who is leading a small brown pony by the reins. Mr Grantly follows with a grey mare in tow. ‘Ah, your steed, Miss Swift,’ Cavill declares.
Mr Grantly leads the mare to the mounting block. I realise from the shape of the saddle that I’m expected to sit side-saddle. I’ve never ridden like that before. I conceal my panic behind a frozen smile and walk towards the horse. I stroke its long nose, playing for time. From the shape of the saddle it’s quite obvious where to put my legs. At least I think it is. I really don’t want to get this wrong. I climb the steps of the mounting block and, as Mr Grantly holds the horse steady, shift my bottom into the seat, placing my right knee behind the lump of leather designed to hold it in place and, I presume, to stop me falling off. I hold my breath. It feels strange, but not uncomfortable. Mr Grantly slips my boots into the stirrups, and I arrange my skirts, relieved that I’ve got this far without betraying my ignorance.
Robert swings himself into his saddle with ease. I thank Mr Grantly, who pats my horse’s neck and tells me what a good-natured creature she is. ‘You’ll have no trouble from her,’ he says, and I hope he’s right.
‘Lead the way, Robert,’ says Cavill, who is dashing in the saddle, being so at home there. He then looks at me. ‘After you, Miss Swift.’
We walk our horses up a track that leads away from the house and into the open countryside. After an initial apprehension, I begin to feel more confident. Robert rides ahead while Cavill and I ride side by side. I ask him about his growing up here at St Sidwell Manor, and about his other brother, Albert, who I learn is in India. Cavill is the youngest by twelve years. We slip into an easy conversation, and I’m relieved that we’re no longer talking about me. I keep my wits about me. It’s all too easy to lose oneself in the past, and I don’t want to get lost.
He tells me that Ivan not only inherited the house and the estate, a vast amount of farmland and various cottages which are rented to tenants, but a tin mine that their father purchased in 1857. It’s a given that Robert will inherit it one day, being the firstborn son. ‘I hope that he will treat his workers more kindly than his father does,’ Cavill says, and I’m surprised that he’s confiding in me an aspect of my employer’s nature that is less than flattering. ‘My brother is a hard taskmaster,’ he continues. ‘If you can instil in Master Robert a sense of fairness that will ensure he treats those who work for him with courtesy, that would be a fine thing.’
‘I hope I will,’ I reply, determined to do so. He nods, satisfied. I’m impressed that he cares.
A breeze brushes my face; it smells of the sea and pine, and I feel the fullness of summer. It’s hot. Too hot to be wearing these clothes and this corset. What I would give for a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. But the countryside is breathtakingly beautiful. Periwinkles and dandelions shimmer in the sunlight and the long grasses gently sway, and there’s not a telegraph pole or a pylon to ruin the view. The hills and vales extend for miles, uninterrupted by the ugliness of the modern world. My heart aches at what is to come – for the wider world, and for this small world here at St Sidwell Manor. They cannot imagine how their lives are going to change and what the twentieth century will bring.
The track takes us through a small copse, and I spot through the trees the chapel that Tabitha wants to show me. It’s serene and quiet there, resting sleepily among the gravestones, with the big sky above it and the estuary glittering in the distance in a line of blue.
‘Is this where your family is buried?’ I ask as we approach.
‘Yes, and where I will also be buried someday.’
The thought appals me. I’m suddenly aware that, where I come from, he’s already in the ground. ‘When was it built?’ I ask, deflecting his comment, not wanting to talk about death. Not wanting to be reminded of why I’m here. Wanting very badly, suddenly, to be lost in this innocent moment of sunshine and splendour and not to have to think of my purpose, which is so dark.
‘It dates back to the seventeenth century,’ he replies.
‘How wonderful to be able to trace your family that far into the past.’
‘We can trace our ancestors much further back than that, Miss Swift.’
‘Does it give you a heavy sense of responsibility?’ I ask. ‘Knowing that this beautiful place has been in your family for so long. That it must remain so?’
‘It is certainly a concern of my brother’s. It matters a great deal to him that the house and estate remain in the family. But he has two sons. The continuation of the line is assured. Master Robert will inherit it and his son thereafter. My brother sees himself as a caretaker. He would like to hand the estate to the next generation in a better condition than that in which he found it.’ He puffs out his chest and imitates Mr Pengower’s pompous voice. ‘Each generation must improve it, nurture it, love it.’ He laughs. ‘That is the way he feels and he never tires of telling us about it.’
‘And you?’
He turns to me and grins. ‘I cannot think of anything worse than being stuck here for the rest of my life. In fact, I think I would rather gnaw off my left arm.’
I laugh with him. ‘That would be a pity. So, instead of gnawing off a perfectly good arm, what are you going to do?’
‘I leave shortly to seek out my own fortune.’
‘Where do you intend to go?’ I ask.
‘South America,’ he answers. ‘Argentina to be precise. I am hungry for adventure, Miss Swift.’
‘That’s brave,’ I reply. ‘To go all that way on a boat.’ Then a cold hand squeezes my heart. I suddenly remember the book Bruce Talwyn found about Ivan Pengower, written by Robert. Cavill dies in 1895, on his way to South America. I realise with a shudder that he doesn’t make it to Argentina at all. I want to tell him not to go – but I mustn’t interfere. It’s a burden that only a timeslider will ever know.
‘How else am I going to get there?’ he asks, looking at me in amusement. ‘Am I to fly?’
I suppress the sick feeling in my stomach and laugh bitterly at the irony. ‘I’m sure that one day people will fly all over the world.’
I expect him to laugh at the absurdity of my comment, but he doesn’t. His eyes gleam. ‘You have heard of Otto Lilienthal, then?’ he says.
I frown, aware that I’m showing my ignorance, but unable to lie. ‘Who is he?’
‘The Flying Man, Miss Swift. Have you not read about his glider in the papers?’
I shake my head and he looks bemused. I suppose everyone has heard about him but me. I rally. ‘Then I am right. One day people will be travelling by air rather than by sea. Perhaps they will even fly to America.’
‘That would be fine thing,’ he replies. ‘I would be the first to buy a passage on an air machine to America.’
‘Then they will fly to the moon,’ I add merrily.
I’ve gone too far. He frowns and chortles with scepticism. ‘You have a strange way of looking at the world, Miss Swift. An adventurer’s spirit. But I think the moon is …’
‘A pie in the sky?’
I laugh and he laughs with me. ‘Well, I suppose, yes, as unlikely as a pie in the sky.’
I realise then that that’s a phrase he’s never heard before. ‘Why do you want to go to Argentina?’ I ask, changing the subject and reminding myself to watch my language or else he’ll think me eccentric beyond redemption.
‘I want to make something of my life,’ he replies.
‘Of course, you do.’ My question was a silly one. Why else would a Victorian gentleman want to go to Argentina? Certainly not to see the Casa Rosada – Eva Peron, who will make that balcony famous, hasn’t even been born yet!
‘Ivan’s life is mapped out for him,’ Cavill continues. ‘His life is here, at St Sidwell. It has ever been thus.’
‘It seems unfair,’ I say, even though I know it’s been tradition for centuries. ‘Your brother inherits everything. What is left for you and Mr Albert?’
Again, he looks at me, surprised, I suppose, by the ignorance of my question. ‘It’s the way it works, Miss Swift. If one were to cut up estates, after a few generations there would be nothing left.’
‘That is true,’ I concede. ‘It just seems unfair,’ I repeat.
‘I wouldn’t want St Sidwell,’ he says with a shrug. ‘I would hate to have my life planned out, with no way of escape. I am delighted to have the freedom to choose. I can go anywhere, be anything, do exactly what I want. Not many men can boast of that. I will make my fortune in Argentina and live a great adventure.’
But I know that he won’t, and my heart hurts for the light of ambition in his eyes that will soon be snuffed out.
We reach the chapel. Cavill dismounts and then takes my hand to help me down. I look into his eyes and thank him. He holds my gaze for a long moment, and I stare back at him, transfixed by the intimacy I find there. It’s as if we’re seeing each other for the first time. I avert my gaze, bewildered. I could swear that he’s seeing through Hermione’s eyes to Pixie looking out, but I know that he isn’t. That it’s not possible. I’m invisible, even to myself.
Robert is already wandering around the gravestones, and I gather my skirts and walk hastily after him. I must not allow myself to be attracted to Cavill, or to encourage him to be attracted to me. There’s no point. I will depart in nine days and Hermione will have to deal with whatever I leave behind.
We read some of the inscriptions. Robert is proud to show off his grandfather’s large memorial, and I’m reminded of the transience of life, the brevity of it. I stare at the inscriptions, at the dates carved into the stone, the numbers separated by a dash. I think for the first time how inadequate that dash is in marking the span of a whole life lived. It tells nothing of the love, nothing of the joy, nothing of the tragedy, the ups and downs, the heartaches, the ecstasy, the sheer fullness of a life.
Soon Cavill’s gravestone will be here too, carved with another set of meaningless numbers. Numbers that will never capture the cornflower blue of his eyes, or his zest for adventure.
I feel him at my side. He, too, looks upon the gravestone. He has no idea what I’m thinking. How could he?
‘We must seize the day,’ he says. I nod thoughtfully. He looks at me with concern. ‘Are you all right, Miss Swift?’
‘I find graveyards sad places,’ I confess. ‘Life is too short. There is so much to do and not enough time in which to do it.’
‘That is why when one is taken by an idea, however wild, one must grab it by the collar.’
‘And not waste a moment.’ I feel him close, as if he’s a flame and I’m a moth, fluttering into it.
He wanders to his father’s memorial. The names James Ivan Clarence Pengower are carved into the stone at the base of the giant obelisk. He stands solemnly before it and takes off his hat. ‘My father,’ he tells me.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
‘I am not,’ he replies. His profile hardens and his mouth twists with bitterness, even the dimple on his chin seems to toughen. ‘He was not a sympathetic man, Miss Swift. In truth, he was cold, selfish and unforgiving. I would even go as far as to say he was cruel. Albert and I did not receive his love, if you can call what he gave to our brother Ivan love. Such as it was, he gave it to the son who would succeed him. His other sons counted for nothing. We were as understudies in a play. But I should thank him. He taught me the most valuable lesson I have learnt in my life.’
‘And what is that?’ I ask.
‘That I do not want to embody a single one of his qualities,’ he replies. ‘Unfortunately, Ivan has not yet seen the lesson in his example. Perhaps he never will.’ He puts his hat back on and lifts his chin. ‘One cannot control events and people in one’s life, but one can …’
‘Control how one reacts to them,’ I cut in without thinking.
We look at each other in surprise. I had not intended to interrupt. He frowns. ‘You spoke my mind, Miss Swift.’
‘Because I have learnt that lesson too, the hard way.’ My mind springs back to my childhood and for a brief and painful moment I am Pixie Tate, curled into a ball at the bottom of my bed.
His eyes soften and for the first time I see behind the humorous twinkle to the seriousness lying like a shadow beneath the light. ‘If you have suffered, then I am sorry for it, for I know what it feels like and I would not wish it on anyone.’
‘Don’t be sorry. Life is not meant to be easy. It’s meant to be laden with potholes and ruts so that we grow wise and compassionate. If it were easy we would all be selfish and unfeeling.’
‘Then like me you are the product of a life laden with potholes and ruts and are the wiser for it.’
‘Let us just say it is a work in progress.’
‘As it is for me, Miss Swift. The two of us are alike.’
I smile at him and he smiles back with understanding. He’s no longer flirting with me. He’s taken off the mask of entertainer to reveal an empathetic man beneath whose life has not been as carefree as I first imagined.
‘It is comforting when one finds another on a similar path,’ I tell him.
‘A pleasant surprise,’ he replies with emphasis. ‘I had not expected that when I met you in the hall yesterday.’
I want to talk more but Robert calls from the door of the chapel. He wants us to go inside. I take a breath and reluctantly walk towards him. It feels cold away from the flame.
Inside, the chapel is cool and smells of candlewax. I walk around, looking at the memorials on the walls, reading their inscriptions, but I’m not taking anything in. I’m aware only of where Cavill is. I need to get a grip. I’m not here to lose myself, or my heart. I’m not here to lament his death, but Felix’s disappearance. That’s all I’m here for.
Cavill goes up to the altar and bows. There’s a simple white cloth upon it and a vase of yellow flowers and cow parsley. ‘We used to keep the silver candlesticks and plates out, but since the gypsies have been camping nearby we have had to lock it all away,’ he says.
‘Would they steal it, Uncle Cavill?’ Robert asks, standing beside him.
‘One can never be too sure. There are always a few rotten apples in a barrel of fruit, and those rotten apples are giving your father a dreadful headache poaching birds and rabbits on his land.’ Cavill looks at me steadily. ‘If it were me, I would turn a blind eye. But my brother is less forgiving.’
‘They are a rotten lot,’ Robert interjects. ‘They need to be moved on at once.’
‘I’m afraid they are here for the summer,’ his uncle tells him. ‘They won’t be gone until the harvest is over and there is no more work for them to do.’
‘How near are they?’ I ask, joining them at the altar.
‘The other side of the estuary,’ Cavill replies.
‘We’ll show you, won’t we, Uncle?’
‘I don’t think that is prudent, Robert. Best keep our heads down and not give them any ideas,’ Cavill suggests.
Robert looks disappointed. ‘I’m not afraid of them,’ he says, lifting his chin.
Cavill chuckles. ‘You should be.’
‘Why?’
‘Because sometimes fear is a good thing. It keeps us safe.’
‘But we’re safe at St Sidwell, aren’t we, Uncle Cavill?’
Cavill ruffles the child’s hair. ‘Of course, dear boy. St Sidwell is the safest place in the world.’
We gallop through the long grasses to the estuary, and I give over to the rhythmic movement of the horse beneath me. I’m not at all afraid – in fact, I’m filled with exhilaration. With the wind against my face and the sweet, marshy smell of the sea in my nostrils, I laugh with the sheer joy of being alive. We leave the gravestones and death behind and ride out with the enthusiasm of the living. The horses relish their freedom and so do we. Even Robert, who’s on a small pony, manages to kick up quite a pace.
We reach the estuary. The tide is out. The sea glitters in the distance, but where we stand there’s only a narrow stream and a wide expanse of sand and grassy dunes. We draw our horses to a halt and gaze out over the stunning view. There are no houses anywhere, just nature, uncorrupted by the human hand. I look up and see gulls circling, their wings shining white in the sunlight. Their cries are mournful, and I’m reminded once again of my short stay here in this place and time. Soon this world will fade, and I will slip away. Soon it will all be gone.
I glance at Cavill. He’s watching me with a curious expression on his face. I smile and he returns it, but the frown does not ease. He knows there’s something on my mind, but he can’t, for all the world, know what it is. I usually fear being swallowed into the dream, but suddenly I want to forget where I come from. I want to forget who I really am. I like it here. I like him.
Cavill turns his attention to the estuary and points out a pair of goosander fishing in the low water channel. ‘And there is an oystercatcher, do you see? Are you familiar with birds, Miss Swift?’
‘I regret that I am not an expert,’ I reply. ‘But I love them all the same.’
‘It is a hobby of mine.’ He pats his saddlebag fondly. ‘I like to draw them, thus keeping a record of the rare birds that fly into the estuary.’
‘I think that is an admirable hobby, Mr Cavill. You must be very knowledgeable on the subject.’
‘There is always more to learn. I’m an amateur. A keen amateur.’
‘Might I look at your drawings? I would love to see them.’
He smiles bashfully, reaches into his bag and pulls out a sketchbook. ‘I’m no artist, Miss Swift,’ he says, passing it to me. ‘But they might amuse you.’
I open it and am surprised to find that he’s very talented. I look closely at the first drawing. It’s of a dunlin, sketched in January 1887. The detail of the bird’s brown-and-grey plumage is meticulous. ‘But this is exceedingly good,’ I protest. ‘You are very accomplished, indeed.’ I turn to Robert, who’s been forgotten at my side. ‘Have you seen your uncle’s drawings?’ I ask.
‘Of course,’ he replies. ‘He paints too. He especially likes painting ducks, don’t you, Uncle Cavill?’
Cavill chuckles. ‘Indeed, I do, Robert. They are plucky little fellows.’
It’s not long before I find a sketch of a duck. ‘ Teal ,’ I read out. ‘ December 1889 , and what a plucky teal he is.’
‘I have a special fondness for teals,’ says Cavill. ‘There’s something about the curve of their chests that I find pleasing to draw.’
‘The males are pretty,’ I comment. ‘The females are drab by comparison. I find it unjust that the males have all the fun with their plumage.’
‘But the females hold the power,’ Cavill argues. ‘The males have to work hard with their fine feathers and beautiful song to attract their mates’ attention.’
‘Is it correct that they mate for life?’ I ask, handing him back the book.
‘They mate for the season,’ he replies. ‘Their reputation is a romantic one, it is true, but I’m afraid they must disappoint you. They are not as romantic as people think. They do, however, pair up in a way that other birds do not. During the season it is charming to watch them together, and painful when one of them loses a mate.’
‘I would like to know the birds by name,’ I say, watching the oystercatcher prising open a shell with its beak. ‘Like trees and flowers, I think it’s important to know the natural world.’ I look down at Robert who’s watching the birds too. He’s curious about everything. ‘I think it is important for Master Robert to know about these things too.’
‘Then I will make it my duty to teach you and Master Robert,’ says Cavill, then, in a low voice that is meant for me alone, he adds, ‘It will be a pleasure to spend time with you.’
I can sense where our acquaintance is headed and wish suddenly that I had not only days to be with him, but months and years and decades. I envisage us together on the bank, he drawing in his sketchbook and me observing the birds through a pair of binoculars. It’s a beautiful image, but one that’s as illusory as a mirage.
Robert, bored of watching the birds, suggests we gallop again, and I’m happy to, for galloping will throw me into the present moment and distract me from dreaming impossible dreams. We set off and I toss my regret into the wind.
When I return to the nursery, Gwen informs me that Cordelia has taken Felix into the vegetable garden to pick sweet peas. Keen to get to know the object of my mission, I hastily change out of my riding habit and set out over the lawn to find her.
The vegetable garden is contained within a tall wall covered in heaps of pink and white roses and giant purple clematis. Cordelia, in a wide straw hat and elegant white dress, is talking to one of the gardeners at the mouth of a tunnel made out of bamboo and wire, up which sweet peas have begun to climb. They look like multicoloured butterflies gently flapping their wings in the breeze. When Cordelia sees me she waves. She says something to the gardener, who nods and then strides off in the other direction. I look about for Felix, but he’s nowhere to be seen.
‘Aren’t these splendid?’ she says as I approach.
‘I can smell them from here,’ I reply.
She sighs with pleasure. ‘They are my favourite flower. I especially love the deep violet ones.’ She presses the bouquet to her nose and closes her eyes. ‘Wonderful,’ she breathes.
‘Where’s Felix?’ I ask.
‘Pretending to be a rabbit, or a fox, I cannot remember which.’ She laughs. ‘He’s always something with four legs.’
I laugh with her. ‘How does he do that?’ I ask.
‘He has made a burrow in a hollow tree. Come, I will show you.’ She puts the secateurs and flowers in a wicker basket she’s brought with her and leads me through the tunnel. We head up one of the gravel paths that slice through the raised vegetable plots, richly planted with all sorts of cabbages and carrots, until we reach an old, gnarled chestnut tree. There is a clear opening in the trunk, revealing a dark cavity and Felix’s mischievous face peering out.
‘Look, Mrs Pengower, there’s a rabbit in there!’ I exclaim playfully.
Felix grins. ‘I am not a rabbit, I’m a fox,’ he retorts.
‘Of course you are,’ says his mother. ‘How could we mistake you for anything else.’
‘May I come in?’ I ask, but I’m much too big. The hole is barely large enough for a small boy to squeeze through.
‘You are not a fox, Miss Swift,’ he says.
I pretend to look disappointed. ‘You are so right. Besides, there is only room in there for one fox.’
Cordelia smiles indulgently at her son. ‘Is the fox hungry, do we think?’
Felix crawls out. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Foxes are always hungry.’
‘What do they eat?’ I ask.
Felix thinks about this for a second. His mouth opens into a giant smile. ‘Boiled eggs and buttered soldiers,’ he says with relish.
‘Then we’d better feed him,’ says Cordelia, putting out her hand. Felix takes it and with a laugh, the three of us return to the house.
That evening, Mrs James Pengower comes for dinner, escorted by Pascoe Bray, the foreman at Mr Pengower’s mine and a family friend. He’s a man of about fifty, with a slim, athletic build, a long, noble face partly concealed behind an auburn beard, and intelligent hazel eyes. I’m struck at once by his eyes, because they’re sensitive and wise, the eyes of an old soul. Cordelia has requested that I join them, claiming that, without me, the two women will be overpowered. Cavill is on edge because his brother is in a foul mood – he’s angry that the gypsies have been trapping hares on his estate. He stands in front of the empty grate, thumbs hooked into his waistcoat pockets, holding forth as his face reddens with indignation. Cordelia tells him to ignore them. ‘What do you care if there are a few less hares running about your woods?’ she says with a smile, but I can tell from the shadow of disdain in her eyes that she despises his lack of charity.
Mr Pengower turns on her and growls. ‘It is best if you do not voice an opinion, my dear, when you know nothing about it.’ His tone is surprisingly sharp, and Cordelia blinks a few times to mask her hurt. Her smile remains fixed. However, two pink stains bloom on her cheeks. Mr Bray looks uncomfortable. He stiffens on his chair and sweeps his auburn hair off his forehead with a strong hand. He glances at Cordelia and his expression is one of concern. He’s clearly troubled by Mr Pengower’s harsh words but is in no position to do anything about it. I don’t suppose anyone contradicts Mr Pengower, and certainly not when it involves his wife.
Mrs James Pengower is not as I expected her to be. She’s a small-boned woman, like a chihuahua, vivacious, with high cheekbones and the same bright blue eyes as Cavill’s. Her smile has a sweetness in it that belies her age, and she exudes a light, joyful energy that lifts us all, even Mr Pengower who, for a moment, forgets his fury as she turns the subject to a more cheerful one. ‘Did you hear the wonderful news that Mrs Tally was delivered of twins?’ she says happily. ‘After losing so many, it is simply lovely to be blessed with two, and a pigeon pair.’
‘That is indeed wonderful news,’ Cordelia agrees. She has shaken off her husband’s rebuke and is serene once again. ‘It is always magical when a new soul comes into the world.’
Mr Bray smiles. ‘They bring with them hope,’ he says.
‘And love,’ Cordelia adds. ‘A mother wonders how she can love another child and yet they seem to bring their own love with them.’
‘That is a lovely way to put it,’ says Mrs James approvingly.
I want to add that sometimes their love isn’t enough, but instead, I say, ‘One cannot help but look into the eyes of a baby and wonder at the adventures in store for it. They are at the beginning of their journey. Where will it take them?’
‘To the moon,’ says Cavill pointedly, giving me a meaningful look, and I laugh, embarrassed, because no one else understands the reference but me.
Mr Pengower grunts; he’s not interested in babies or the moon.
The conversation inevitably turns to the travellers once more as we sit with glasses of wine in the drawing room before dinner. Mr Pengower can’t leave the subject alone. Like a tongue craving the aching tooth he goes back to it time and again. He has nothing nice to say about them. ‘They are filthy and immoral, and have no respect for our laws and our ways and live by thievery,’ he declares hotly, tossing out every cliché as if they’re facts.
‘Shame on you, Ivan,’ Cavill snaps. ‘Those are absurdly wild generalisations.’
‘If I were making wild generalisations, Cavill, I would not have seen fit to have a pair of them locked up in a cell for the night. They should have languished there for a week I tell you, to teach the rest of them a lesson. Poaching is a crime and it needs to be managed with the full force of the law. They steal a rabbit one day, what might they steal the next? No, they need to be halted and reprimanded. A soft heart will only encourage more thievery and I am not a charity.’
Cavill chuckles with derision. ‘You make it sound like they’re an army poised to swarm St Sidwell and rob it of every living thing.’
Mr Pengower curls his lip and flares his nostrils. ‘Foreigners like them who wander from place to place cannot be trusted. They have no sense of community besides their own. They are criminals, no less. It might sound like exaggeration to you, Cavill, but while you are gallivanting about the countryside on your horse, some of us are trying to keep this family safe.’
Cordelia attempts to voice another opinion, which is brave of her considering the reception she got the last time. ‘My dear, they are human beings like anyone else,’ she says patiently. ‘They are simply poor and have no fixed abode. In God’s eyes they are no different from you and I.’
Mr Bray adds, ‘It is a shame that a few bad ones tarnish the reputation of the rest. I have met them, and they are, on the whole, decent folk doing their best, raising their children and feeding their families. Most earn an honest wage when they manage to find work.’
‘Well said, Mr Bray,’ Cavill exclaims. ‘If one treats people well, they most often respond in kind.’
Mr Pengower scowls. ‘We cannot have people trespassing on our land and laying traps for animals that do not belong to them,’ he says irritably. ‘You give these people an inch and they will take a mile, goddamnit.’
‘Ivan, dear, do mind your language,’ says his mother softly. However, she doesn’t seem at all offended by her son’s raised voice. She’s probably used to it.
‘We certainly don’t want them coming to the house,’ Mr Pengower continues.
‘They already have,’ says Cordelia in a steady voice.
‘Cordelia?’ Mr Pengower is horrified. ‘When?’
‘Only a few days ago. Two of them, a couple, with a young child. They wanted food. I took pity.’
Mr Pengower’s face goes the colour of a beetroot. ‘You took pity?’ He spits out the words in disgust as if pity is a dirty thing.
‘I did.’
‘One cannot turn away a woman and child,’ says Mr Bray in Cordelia’s defence, and she looks at him with gratitude.
Mrs James agrees. ‘When one is fortunate to have so much, it is only right that one shares.’ She smiles sweetly at her daughter-in-law. ‘So good of you, Cordelia, to take pity.’
Mr Pengower is struggling to hold his temper. ‘That was unwise of you, my dear,’ he says, clipping his consonants with forced patience. I get the feeling that, if we weren’t present, he’d have called her a fool or worse. ‘They will be back.’
‘For food,’ returns his wife. Her eyes shine suddenly. ‘Is that such a crime?’
‘It is Christian to help,’ adds his mother.
‘It is human,’ rejoins Mr Bray.
‘They are a rotten lot,’ explodes Mr Pengower.
‘Enough, Ivan,’ Cavill exclaims. He’s no longer chuckling and being good-natured. For the first time I see his face harden with fury. ‘Let us talk about something else. This is no discussion to have in front of the ladies.’
Mr Pengower ignores him. ‘Nothing good will come of this,’ he says with a snarl. ‘Mark my words. Give them an inch and they will take a mile,’ he repeats and shakes his head portentously. ‘Symons, another whisky and make it a double.’
The drawing room falls silent. Mr Pengower is angry, and his energy has dampened the mood. Even his mother’s light is unable to disperse the shadow that has suddenly darkened the room. Symons goes to the drinks cabinet and pours his master another glass. The only sound is the clinking of the crystal decanter as Symons removes the lid and pours. I catch Cavill’s eye and he sighs and shakes his head. Mr Bray turns his face to the black grate. The muscle on his jaw is strained with suppressed emotion. Cordelia sips her wine and appears as placid as a swan on a peaceful lake – however, I suspect her feet are paddling fast beneath the waterline.
Mrs James turns to me. ‘Do you play the piano, Miss Swift?’
I can only play two tunes and they haven’t yet been composed. ‘I do,’ I reply, lifting my chin and feigning confidence. ‘I’m afraid, I am not accomplished,’ I add, hoping that I won’t be asked to perform.
Cavill is looking at me expectantly. I imagine he suspects I’m being modest. I wish I was. I’ve never had a piano lesson in my life and only taught myself two tunes because my grandmother had an upright piano in the house, and I was bored. I pray that I won’t have to expose my lack of talent. My prayer, however, is ignored.
To my horror, Mrs James claps her small hands cheerfully. ‘What a lovely evening,’ she says with a sigh. ‘Just lovely. How very blessed we all are to be here, together, and that Miss Swift is going to give us a rendition on the piano after dinner.’
I cannot wriggle out of it. I contemplate falling into a faint or feigning a headache, but neither of those is a credible excuse; I look perfectly well. I’m sure Hermione Swift can play the piano – isn’t that a qualification every governess is expected to have? The prospect of shaming myself – and Hermione – ruins my dinner and I can barely eat or speak.
Finally, the moment arrives. My audience take their seats in the drawing room, and I take mine at the piano. I lift the lid and rest my fingers over the keys. I take a deep breath. Then I begin. I have no alternative but to play one of the only tunes I know. It’s not Beethoven, or Bach. It’s the Beatles – ‘Let It Be’.
There is a horrified silence as I sing. I’m surprised to find that I have a rather good voice, which is encouraging. I sing it with emotion, because I figure that if I’m going to do it I might as well do it with aplomb. When I finish, no one moves. They’re all staring at me in astonishment, as if I’ve just turned into an alien. I put down the piano lid and stand up. There’s nothing for me to do, but smile.
‘Good Lord. Is that what they teach young people these days?’ says Mr Pengower at length, clearly appalled.
‘What is it?’ asks Mrs James slowly, and I see the joy drain from her face, leaving it ashen with confusion.
But Cordelia is amused. ‘Most original,’ she says.
‘I concur,’ agrees Mr Bray, and the two of them look at one another and laugh together.
Cavill roars with laughter. He gets to his feet and claps loudly. ‘I do declare,’ he says, eyes shining with enjoyment. ‘I have never been quite so entertained!’
At that moment, I smile to myself. It is true then. The music of the Beatles really is timeless!
I’m grateful they don’t ask me to play the only other tune I know: ‘Patricia the Stripper’ by Chris de Burgh.