Chapter Four #2
Lady Lascy shakes her head, helpless. ‘Oh, I am sorry. It’s just – Welsh!
I had forgotten!’ Wipes an eye with the palm of her hand.
‘You will have to forgive me.’ Flutters her fingers.
‘It’s not often I speak to anyone new.’ A full smile this time, stretching to the corners of her eyes.
‘I was curious to see if you were what I expected. Up close, I mean.’
An uncertain moment of silence. ‘Well … here I am,’ I say, stepping further into the room. This space is a little clearer than the previous two, making it easier to move around.
‘Here you are.’ She gazes at me with unabashed interest, her eyes glittering. Not at all the mousy woman I’d first imagined.
The way she’s looking at me gives me more confidence. ‘So am I what you expected?’
‘I’m not sure yet.’ Her voice, like Reacher’s, is all round vowels and over-pronounced consonants.
I jut my chin. ‘Good, cos I’m not sure about you either.’
Lady Lascy twists one of her rings, meditative. Not offended by my bold tone, but meeting it with the calculating look of a card player who sees what her opponent is doing with that ace and plans to intercept it. ‘Would you like a drink? I believe I have some whisky.’
‘It’s eight o’clock in the morning.’
‘Is it really?’ Tone doubtful, as if I might be lying. ‘Tea, then.’ She points behind me, and I turn to look. Don’t see what’s being indicated until Lady Lascy says, ‘The bell there by the door. Would you ring it for me, please?’
I wonder again if she has an ailment, a condition that keeps her in the house. But then, she’d been walking about last night without trouble, so it seemed. Is she now too weak to stand, or simply too entitled to do it for herself? I wonder if this command is some kind of test.
Still, I do as she asks, crossing to the call button and giving it a press. Somewhere in the Allens’ quarters, the bell marked ‘morning room’ must be ringing away. Lady Lascy’s instructions from my hand.
When I turn back, the woman is still watching me. Enough of this malarkey, I think. ‘Will you just tell me plain: are you giving me the sack, or not?’
‘Not. It was enough trouble to hire you in the first place.’
A tension I hadn’t even known I’d been holding melts out of my limbs. I move a little closer again. ‘It was you who did that picture of me, wasn’t it?’
‘I often stitch things that I see out of the window. Whatever catches my eye. Things I find interesting.’ She suddenly smiles again, as if to reassure me this is meant as a compliment. ‘Just like the Lady of Shalott. The curse is come upon me. Do you enjoy Tennyson?’
We did ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’ in school, but I don’t say this. The conversation keeps veering away from what I’m expecting. ‘My Lady …’
‘Why don’t you call me Arabella. Tom and Nora both do.’
I don’t know that I believe her. I’ve only ever heard the Allens use a formal address – behind her back, at least. I press on: ‘I still don’t understand why you sent me the picture, in that case.’
Lady Lascy – Arabella – holds my gaze. ‘Maybe I wanted to see what you would do.’
A rattle at the door, then Mrs Allen comes in with a tea-tray.
Thin bone china, green motif like abstracted ivy.
Tarnished silver spoons and sugar tongs.
A plate of biscuits, garish yellow. They’ve been cut neatly into tiny squares, each one just a mouthful in size.
It’s unclear if Arabella requested this all in advance, or if Mrs Allen simply knows her well enough to predict whatever request is about to arise.
As Mrs Allen walks over to us, she keeps glancing at me, as if nervous.
Perhaps worried that I haven’t been behaving myself.
‘Hold this.’ She shoves the tray at me, and I take it by reflex.
Mrs Allen moves a side table right up next to Arabella, clearing its ornaments away in a practised sweep so that I can set the tray down. Pours out the tea.
‘These are my favourites,’ says Arabella, pointing to the biscuit pieces. Catches my curious expression. ‘I only eat in small bites these days. I had a nightmare once about choking to death on my food. One can’t be too careful.’
After Mrs Allen has retreated, with one last, lingering stare cast in my direction, we’re in silence again. I examine a cabinet, the objects arranged on it. Three little china pigs, a framed photograph that I recognize as Arabella’s mother, a silver snuff box, a dead wasp.
‘We have an Epstein bust somewhere in here,’ says Arabella, waving over her shoulder without turning. ‘My second brother, Harry.’
Epstein … I may have heard the name before, but I’m not sure.
Following Arabella’s direction, I walk round behind the settee to look, and yes, there it is beneath a discarded shawl, a young man’s face set in bronze.
A squarish jaw and full, fishy lips. Could be any one of the four from the photograph.
The house must be filled with relics of all these dead brothers.
Dead parents, too. Doesn’t Arabella find it morbid?
‘It’s a good likeness,’ I say. Then, realizing I have no reason to know this, add, ‘Tom showed me a picture of you all, posed in the garden.’
‘Oh yes,’ says Arabella. ‘I think I know the one. I was quite the thing back then, wasn’t I? Time is so cruel …’
‘Go on, you aren’t so bad now,’ I say, before remembering again that I’m speaking to my boss. Keep forgetting it. Her attitude is too informal, as if we’re on the same level. ‘I mean to say, you’ve aged well. And you’re not exactly old anyway, are you?’
‘Hmm,’ says Arabella. She sounds amused. ‘It’s kind of you to say so.’
I clear my throat. She keeps steering the conversation away from the subject of me and my employment.
‘Your family must have been here a long time,’ I try, following her lead as I return to claim my tea.
Sit on the sofa opposite Arabella’s. Immediately regret it when I hear rustling beneath me, some small animal shifting around under the seat.
A footstool to my side is decorated with yet another needlepoint hare, the same as the furnishings in my cottage.
Arabella takes a biscuit. ‘We built the house, you know. In 1709 – James Lascy, the second Viscount. But of course we can trace the family further than that – on Daddy’s side at least, as far as the Norman Conquest. We lose Mummy’s side sooner, around the Tudor era.
’ She gives a casual shrug, but her eyes dart to my face, as if wanting to be sure she’s impressed me.
‘That’s a shame.’
‘I must show you the family genealogy one day. We have it on a wall upstairs. The room is normally closed up, though, so I will have to get Nora to ferret out the key first. I don’t mean today – I am not … quite up to it. But you must come back to take a look; it really is most interesting.’
Sipping my tea, I wonder how it must feel to be so anchored to your ancestry.
To see the roots of your family tree dug into the soil like this, the country house bold evidence of an innate belonging.
I assume my own family are Cardiff-born a fair way back, but we dwindle into obscurity after a couple of generations.
I don’t even know the Christian names of my great-grandparents, let alone some chap from the 1700s.
‘Of course, the grounds were much more extensive, back in their era,’ Arabella goes on.
‘And the house in better shape, I’m sure.
It is simply impossible to run a country estate these days …
In any case, I look forward to seeing what you can do with our depleted gardens.
Maybe you could plant more hedges along the east boundary. ’
I’m relieved to be back on comfortable ground, but this strikes me as a strange request: the east garden has the best outlook over the fields down to Harfold village. ‘Wouldn’t that block the view?’ I ask.
‘Exactly. I cannot abide that church tower – so ugly.’ She touches one hand swiftly to her neck, as if she has just felt something there, then frowns. There are biscuit crumbs scattered over her breast. ‘Well …’ A long pause. ‘I am glad we’ve met.’
It’s clear this is a dismissal. I set my cup back on the tray, before standing. Half expect Arabella to stand too and wish me goodbye, but she doesn’t. ‘Thank you for the tea.’
‘I hope I shall see you again soon. Tinkle the bell again on your way out.’
Going back through the dining room, I meet Mrs Allen, who is forced to reverse into the hall so that I can get through. ‘On your way?’ she asks.
I nod.
Her eyes flit over my face. ‘And how did you find her Ladyship?’
‘She was all right,’ I say. Hesitate. If I don’t ask now, I’ll never be able to. ‘Well, I don’t want to pry, but … What exactly is it that’s wrong with her?’
‘Nothing’s wrong.’ The reply comes sharp and quick.
‘I thought … She hardly leaves the house, does she? And the way everything’s … I thought she must be ill.’
Mrs Allen shakes her head. ‘No, she’s perfectly healthy. Just a bit peculiar.’
‘But,’ I say, in a last feeble protest, ‘she didn’t stand up at all …’
Strangely, Mrs Allen lets out a snort at this. ‘No, I expect she didn’t. That old dress has a great big tear up the back, and she won’t let me mend it for her. She was probably worried about showing you her arse!’
This doesn’t strike me as funny, though.
I’m touched with a surge of pity for Arabella, in her sham finery.
Trying so hard to impress me – just an employee, after all – without letting on that she’s doing it.
Desperate to talk about the past. She must be very lonely.
Maybe this is what Mrs Allen has been trying to hide from me until now, feeling ashamed on behalf of her dilapidated employer, not trusting me as an outsider to keep her secrets.
But if that’s the case, why tell me about the dress?