Chapter 29 Dorothea
DOROTHEA
‘Here! Over here, Dorothea!’ Francis was waving from an opening in the crumbling brick wall of the kitchen garden.
‘Look! He went in under those berries.’ He was pointing to the patch of raspberry canes.
A tiny rabbit, no bigger than a mitten, had sprinted across the lawns as they sat, reading.
It had pulled Francis from what should have been a poetry lesson.
Francis was on his stomach, peering beneath the tangle of bushes.
‘Don’t get scratched by those awful things, darling.’
From the other side of the walled garden, Stan looked up from his vegetable patch. ‘Damn pests,’ he said, then grinned at Dorothea. ‘I’ve gotten most of them, but they’ve bred in the last week! They’ll eat all those brussels sprouts before I can pick them.’
‘I hate brussels sprouts! They can eat all of them.’ Francis was standing now, disappointed the rabbit would not be enticed from its hole. He picked strands of straw from his sleeves until he was clean.
‘I’ll grow you extra carrots, lad. They’ll make you see in the dark. And I’ll plant extra for Peter Rabbit there.’ Stan forked hay into his wheelbarrow and pushed it past Dorothea, giving her a wink.
A cooing noise came from the direction of the Moses basket, and she walked back and eased herself down onto the grass. Louis’s hands were jerking around, out of the swaddle. He blinked slowly, and her heart squeezed with love for him.
‘We should go in soon and wash for dinner, Francis,’ she called.
He frowned, then disappeared behind the wall. A leg, then his whole body appeared as he heaved himself up onto the top. ‘Ta-da!’ He let his legs drop over the wall, pleased with himself. ‘Do you think we could go to Paris one day?’
‘Why do you want to go to Paris?’
She watched him eat a handful of raspberries as he peered out over the lake. ‘I want to be like Yves Saint Laurent and own a camera and see all the pretty things they make there.’
‘How do you know about Yves Saint Laurent?’
‘I read about him in British Vogue. And about fashion houses.’
‘In Paris?’
‘Yes! And the fashion shows! And the lovely fabrics and wonderful clothes the models wear on stage.’ He reached to his collar and said, ‘I think this shirt is out of date. We are very behind in England.’
‘Where did you see a British Vogue?’
‘Mummy liked them. I have loads of them.’
Dorothea was saddened by his wistful face, his longing for the days his mother had been here. ‘Perhaps I could borrow them,’ she said. ‘They sound fascinating.’
‘You can, if you look after them.’
‘Of course I will.’
He was silent, staring out across the lake. Out of nowhere he asked, ‘When will Cricket come back?’
Dorothea checked the basket. Louis was looking back, blowing bubbles. She had an urge to hold him tight. ‘She’s just away for a few days. I told you. In London for some shopping.’
‘I don’t think she likes me.’
‘Oh, Francis, no. That’s not true. It’s just that … she finds all the responsibilities a little overwhelming. It’s such a big change to her life.’
Francis pondered this. He took his last raspberry and began to dab it on his lips. He rubbed them together as he must have seen his mother do when applying lipstick, then ran his finger around, so that his lips were stained pink and pretty.
He stood, balancing on the rock wall and posed, one hand on his hip, a haughty chin in the air. ‘I am a great fashion designer! One day it is my destiny to be famous! You must pay one hundred pounds for my clothes!’ His voice rang clear and crisp across the garden and Dorothea clapped.
‘What’s all this?’
Their heads shot around. Edward. He must have arrived back early from London, as he was still dressed in his suit.
‘What are we paying one hundred pounds for?’ He frowned at Francis then strode towards the Moses basket.
Dorothea blanched as Edward picked up the baby and held him awkwardly, hardly supporting his head.
‘He’s going to be a strapping lad. What do you think, Francis? Do you think he’ll be a rugby player?’
‘Maybe.’ The boy had slid off the wall, his whole demeanour changing, curving into himself.
‘He has the makings of a fine young man. We’ll have him hunting and shooting in a few years’ time, mark my words.
’ He grinned at Dorothea, and in his suit and tie, with his muscular frame and strong jaw, she could see why women thought Edward handsome.
‘Which prep school should we put him down for, Francis?’ He gave the boy a hard look, then peered closer at him.
Dorothea’s heart was thudding in fear, at the raspberry lips as much as the suggestion of boarding school.
‘Not the Dragon School with you. I see no need for the coeducation they’ve forced on us there. Turns the boys into sissies, doesn’t it, Louis?’ The baby was in the crook of his arm, and he moved up and down. Dorothea had to restrain herself from reaching out to make Louis safe.
‘None of that for you, my boy!’ he said.
Dorothea could see Francis looking at her, confused.
She propelled herself forward, forcing a smile. ‘He needs changing, I think. Shall I take him?’
Dribble ran down Louis’s chin. Edward glanced down.
A knitted booty had fallen to the grass, and this seemed to hold Edward’s attention.
The asymmetry of it; the messiness. He appeared to smell the baby’s nappy, winced, handed Louis to Dorothea as if it had just occurred to him that soiling and mess might feature in this equation—unpleasant and disagreeable possibilities at odds with his grand plans for the boy.
Francis hovered at Dorothea’s side. He took Louis’s hand, toying with his grasping fingers.
He leaned in. ‘Poo-ee, Louis! You need a new nappy. Shall we use a red or yellow nappy, do you think? Which is prettiest?’ His face was animated as he spoke to the baby.
It was almost as if he had forgotten momentarily that his father was there.
‘Quick!’ said Dorothea with her brisk voice. ‘You run ahead to wash for dinner, Francis. Your father must have so much to do after his meetings. We must let him get on with it.’
She forced a smile, but Edward’s gaze was fixed on Francis’s departing back. ‘Interesting trousers he’s wearing.’ Then he looked her up and down. ‘Don’t encourage this ridiculous phase he’s going through. You’ll turn him into a screaming queer.’
Louis wriggled in her arms. Edward eyed the baby thoughtfully, then he reached out his hand and put his finger inside the baby’s palm.
Drool slipped from Louis’s sweet little chin onto Edward’s wrist. Her employer reached into his pocket and withdrew a handkerchief.
He wiped his son’s drool away, flicked out the handkerchief, folded it back up and put it into his pocket. Then he walked away.