Chapter 46 Dorothea
DOROTHEA
‘In ancient Rome there was no symbol for zero,’ said Dorothea, pointing to the page with her pencil.
‘Not possible,’ declared Francis. ‘How would you count ten apples or one hundred and two British Vogue magazines? That’s how many Mummy has.’
His reference to Adeline in the present tense, despite losing her more than two years ago, made Dorothea’s heart clench.
‘They used letters, as I wrote here, see. Fine for record-keeping, but not terrific for more complicated equations.’
Francis was pirouetting around the room, hardly listening. ‘Can we have lessons in the garden?’ He had been unable to settle all morning, jamming his ruler into crevices and flicking at the pages of books drawn from the shelves at random.
Dorothea found herself uncharacteristically snappy. ‘Stop, Francis.’
He should be properly on holidays, that was the problem.
Long summer holidays where he could roam outdoors all day or curl up with a book.
Why did Edward insist on lessons in the schoolroom?
They could learn as easily in the garden.
Biology. Botany. Hydrology. It was all there in this gigantic wonderland of a place, where staff beavered away to keep it beautiful.
At least Edward seemed less worried about keeping the staff employed, now that he had secured the marriage to Cricket and her family money.
Still, as often as not, Edward came and went like a bear with a sore head, unless it had been a very good day at his club or the races or some other sort of social outing.
On those days he could be magnanimous, and both she and Cricket breathed easier.
When Francis was younger, she sometimes saw Edward smile with him.
But now his son’s features were losing their childish sweetness and his father seemed to despise the heralding of adolescence.
She supposed Francis wasn’t a strapping boy either.
He was odd and awkward and physically uncoordinated, so like James, she thought with a pang.
Francis had tried with sports and physical pastimes, but it was books and collections, or anything pretty and of good quality that held his real interest. None of which Edward approved of.
She wondered what he suffered at school.
She knew that boys like Francis—those too sentimental and sensitive—would not find favour with their masters.
Also, those too colourful. This morning’s efforts were a case in point.
They’d been attempting Shakespearean character portraits.
And truth was, Lysander was probably not inclined to wear robes in the three shades of pink Francis had carefully sketched and blended (‘ombré,’ he had declared), although Puck’s floral embroidered skirt might have worked.
She thought his drawings accomplished and creative but wondered what his schoolmasters or father would say if confronted with such vivacious creations.
She thought of Edward’s ire as Francis pushed eggs around on his plate this morning; his irritation at the way he drank his milk.
The formality with which he treated his son.
She sometimes had the urge to dig her fingers hard into each of Edward’s cheeks, pull upward and say, ‘Smile! See? Not so difficult, is it?’ There were probably easier ways to cause a viscount to have a tantrum, but Dorothea thought this one would work as well as any.
She supposed she should feel sorry for Edward. His own upbringing had probably been awful. Edward’s father was dead but she’d met his mother. She was so cool and unpleasant that Dorothea went out of her way to avoid her if she happened to be visiting.
Had Edward always been so awful? It was hard to say.
He had charisma. He could charm on cue; and he could sustain it when he thought it might pay off.
When she had made an appointment with him after Adeline’s death, and upon hearing Nanny Pam had been taken ill, he had turned it on.
She had no experience of child-rearing and her degree in English Literature and a job in an antiquarian bookshop didn’t really scream, ‘I am qualified to raise your progeny!’ But she had argued her case and had looked her best. She had the right accent.
She recalled what she had worn to the interview: her favourite patterned dress that hugged her ‘ridiculously gorgeous figure’ according to her friend Iris.
At the interview, Dorothea had said all the right things.
She’d known Francis from a baby. Every week Lady Fitzhenry had brought him into the bookshop and Dorothea would read to him; book after book as Lady Fitzhenry did her browsing or ran errands.
So, she and Francis were already well acquainted, Dorothea had explained.
Plus, she was excellent at maths. Surely that all qualified her?
It had. The nannying position will be in school holiday periods.
Soon, Francis will be off to boarding school.
In term time, there is plenty to do in the garden and around the house.
She had agreed, eagerly, sickened at little Francis being packed off to school, but she’d clean toilets if it meant she could step into Adeline’s shoes and be there for the newly motherless Francis.
She knew she would need to be jack of all trades too.
Large homes such as this one were being abandoned or sold all over the country.
Generations of privileged families lacked the money to keep the grounds and maintain the crumbling bricks and leaky roofs.
‘Open to the public and make a business of it, or abandon ship’, had been the choice for many.
Lord Edward Fitzhenry had chosen to stay and fight.
He sold off land and valuable paintings, and reduced his staff.
She was to be one of only five still on his payroll back then.
But with Cricket now in tow, it was recently back to nine.
Edward’s charm had been abundant at first. And when Francis had been younger and easier to adore, Edward had found less fault with him.
Still, she had seen glimpses of the real man early on—cross words to Francis without need; belittling Mrs Wilson when the food wasn’t perfect.
Adeline had hinted he could be difficult.
There had been signs. In hindsight, she had continued to forgive him long after she should have known better.
This need to believe in the goodness of human nature would cost her, later.
Edith Wilson popped her head in the doorway now. ‘Do you want morning tea? I’ve baked a raspberry sponge for his Lordship’s visitor.’
‘Yes, please, Mrs Wilson,’ said Francis.
The housekeeper nodded. ‘It’s there when you’re ready.’
Dorothea found Edith Wilson hard to fathom, although since their run-in last week, with the whisky in the kitchen, she had begun giving advice to Dorothea about how to care for Louis—hard-won and now wasted mothering knowledge she was eager to share—which had thawed the freeze between them.
She would happily feed him his bottle or burp him if Dorothea needed to do something with Francis.
If they heard him whimpering in his pram, she insisted Dorothea let him cry to get himself off to sleep, telling her to go off with Francis to lessons.
She would listen for him, and Dorothea needed to learn that crying never harmed them.
It was the least thing that could harm them.
Dorothea’s heart rattled for poor Mrs Wilson and her dead children.
She appreciated the woman’s concern but was a little afraid too.
Was it safe to leave a baby with someone who’s mind had suffered through such a gruesome history?
In the quiet hours of the night-time, Dorothea’s intuition had been sending out icy tentacles.
Something was coming, but she could not place its origin.
‘Louis will sleep for a while longer. Let’s get some cake and have your lessons outside,’ she said to Francis, knowing that Edward had taken his friend through the woods.
They would likely be an hour or two. There would be little chance of being seen outside the schoolroom in the next half hour.
‘If we put on our coats, the wind won’t bother us. ’
Outside, Francis ran ahead, and she called for him to wait.
The central rose garden was in full bloom and to the left was a stand of elms covering the space of half a football field.
To the right was the lake and jetty and small brick outbuilding that housed Francis’s collections.
Francis was beetling across the lawn towards it.
He kept feathers, interesting rocks and flowers in a press she had gifted him for his birthday.
The wind was a little too wild to be handling the feathers, although most were pinned to a board they had lined with fabric. She wondered what he was fetching.
A hint of colour caught her eye, and Dorothea looked towards the main gates. Edward’s friend was walking back through. Dorothea gave a polite wave, and the man headed towards her.
‘Hello,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘Archie Pembroke.’ He eyed Dorothea with a diffident smile as she shook his hand.
‘I’m the nanny. Dorothea Stewart.’ Anxiety churned in her gut. She looked over her shoulder for Edward then nodded to the outbuilding. ‘Francis and I are just rummaging about for a bit. Some informal lessons …’ She let the words trail off.
He gave her nothing; no smile, no hint of reproach that lessons should be saved for school term. Dorothea looked towards the building door and Francis came out with a box in his hands.
Archie said, ‘Edward is around somewhere. We were looking at the dovecote. Fascinating structure, isn’t it? I’m an architect, so perhaps I’m biased.’
‘Mmm, yes,’ murmured Dorothea, hoping Edward would not appear.
‘Hello,’ said Francis, arriving beside them.
‘Oh, hello.’ Archie nodded at the box. ‘What do you have in there?’
‘It’s a collection of rocks. Interesting ones we’ve found on the estate, and some from Cornwall when Mummy took me to the beach. I also have some from Cumbria when we visited my cousins. I would like some from Mount Vesuvius one day. They’re volcanic.’
‘I know. I’m one-quarter Italian.’
‘Really? You don’t look it. Can you speak Italian?’
‘A little,’ said Archie.
‘Say something.’
‘Good lord, how funny you are,’ said the man, laughing.
A movement drew Dorothea’s attention. Edward was striding towards them from behind Francis.
‘Baby Louis thinks I’m very funny,’ said Francis.
‘Who’s baby Louis?’
Francis looked uncertainly at Dorothea.
‘What are you two doing out here?’ said Edward.
‘Learning,’ said Francis. ‘About rocks and we were discussing Italian.’
‘Must be time for the classroom, don’t you think, Dorothea? Don’t want to raise a barefoot savage who doesn’t know his mathematics.’
Dorothea glanced down at Francis’s feet, fully shod, of course, because it was cool and damp. And also, because he was Francis, the sensation of grass on his feet would make him squirm.
‘We should go in for morning tea, Francis,’ she said.
‘Mrs Wilson made cake for you,’ Francis said to Archie. ‘You could come in and have some and meet Louis. He’s the cleverest baby ever. Dorothea thinks he’s very advanced for his age.’
‘Does she now?’ said Archie with a puzzled air. Dorothea thought Francis was quite fascinated by this man’s lovely face so that his father’s stern presence, usually a dampener on his enthusiasm, did not touch him. Archie laughed at his dear, earnest expression.
Francis’s face blossomed to a grin. ‘Dorothea is the best at looking after us. She’s kind and lovely and meravigliosa!
’ He said this while putting his fingers to his lips and making a dramatic kissing motion as if he were an Italian in the films. Dorothea was proud he’d remembered the word, but Edward’s stony face had her on edge.
Edward turned to Archie. ‘You head in for morning tea, old chap. We’ll follow you in.’ Archie hesitated, noting the steely grip Edward now had on Francis’s upper arm. Emotions flitted across his face, until he finally seemed to land on faintly amused. ‘Goodo. See you in there.’ He walked away.
‘I’ll take Francis in to finish lessons,’ said Dorothea, as Archie retreated.
But Edward ignored her. He watched Archie until he disappeared.
‘You are not to discuss Louis or Dorothea with outsiders,’ he said to Francis.
‘And I asked you to spend your mornings inside in the schoolroom. Did I not make that clear?’ His fingers were now prongs in Francis’s shoulder.
‘It’s my fault, Edward. We came down to get some rocks for our study of geology. We can take them inside now.’
Edward ignored her. The boy’s eyes were filled with tears, pleading with Dorothea. Edward began dragging his son towards the lake.
‘Please, Edward,’ she cried hopelessly.
‘Be quiet!’ he hissed.
Edward dragged Francis to the end of the jetty. ‘I mean it. Do not discuss our business with outsiders. Ever.’ Then he hurled Francis into the water. Edward strode back past Dorothea to the house, ignoring her horrified look and the boy’s splashing cries.
Dorothea ran along the jetty and dropped to her knees. She grabbed Francis’s hand and hauled him up onto the timber slats. The wind whipped across his shivering, sopping body.
‘Let’s get you changed, my boy. Quick sticks.’ She put her arm around his shoulders and ushered him, sobbing, across the lawns towards the kitchen, where nobody in the library would catch a glimpse of him.
Her mind fizzed with anger. Edward Fitzhenry was cruel and insane. Utterly deranged.