‘Why don't you leave it here?’ Diana asked.
‘Here?’
‘Yes. At Nancherrow. In your bedroom. Then, every time you come to stay, it will be waiting for you.’
‘But…’ (She was going to be asked again, was all she could think. This visit was not a one-off. She was going to be invited to return.) ‘But won't it be in your way?’
‘Not in the very least. And the next time you come, you must bring some clothes and leave them here as well, just as though this were your other home. And then you won't have to wander around in Athena's cast-offs.’
‘I've loved wearing them. I've never had a cashmere pullover.’
‘Then you shall keep it. We'll hang it in your cupboard. The beginning of your Nancherrow wardrobe.’
Lavinia Boscawen, who had long ago come to terms with the fact that the very old need little sleep, lay in her downy double bed, with her head turned towards the window, and watched the night sky lighten with the dawn. The curtains were parted, drawn back as far as they could go, because the darkness, the out of doors, with its starlight, and night scents and sounds, she had always believed too precious to be shut away.
The curtains were very old…not as old as Mrs Boscawen herself, but as old as the years she had lived in The Dower House, which was nearly fifty years. Sunshine and wear had faded and shredded them; the thick interlining, like the wool of an old sheep, protruded here and there, and the braid on pelmets and the elaborate tiebacks had unravelled and hung in little thready loops. No matter. Once they had been pretty and she had chosen and loved them. They would see her out.
This morning it was not raining. For that, she was grateful. Over the winter, there had been too much rain, and although at eighty-five she had stopped striding up and down to the village or going for long healthy hikes, it was still pleasant to be able to step out of doors and into the garden, and to spend an hour or two pottering about in the sweet fresh air, mulching the roses or making tidy plaits of daffodil leaves once the golden flower-heads had died back. For this latter task, she had a patent kneeler, which her nephew Edgar had designed and had made for her in the estate sawmill. It had a rubber pad to protect her old knees from the damp, and sturdy handles which were good for grasping when she wanted to haul herself to her feet again. Such a simple device, but so practical. Rather like Edgar himself, whom, because Lavinia had never been blessed with family of her own, she had always cherished as a son.
The sky paled. A fine, cold day. A Sunday. She remembered that Edgar and Diana were coming for luncheon, bringing with them Loveday, and Tommy Mortimer, and Loveday's schoolfriend. Tommy Mortimer was an old acquaintance, encountered on the many occasions when he abandoned London and escaped for a country weekend to Nancherrow. Because he was Diana's friend, attentive, affectionate, and the source of an endless supply of flowery compliments, Lavinia had initially been deeply suspicious of him, suspecting nefarious intent, and, on Edgar's behalf, resentful of his constant attendance on Edgar's wife. But, as the time passed, Lavinia had made up her own mind about Tommy Mortimer, realising that he offered no threat to any person's marriage, and so she was able to laugh at his extravagant ways and become quite fond of him. As for Loveday's schoolfriend, she was an unknown quantity. But it would be interesting to discover what sort of a girl that naughty, wayward child would choose to bring home for the weekend.
Altogether, quite an occasion. For luncheon there would be a pair of ducklings, fresh vegetables, a lemon soufflé and bottled nectarines. On the larder shelf was an excellent Stilton. Lavinia must remind Isobel to cool the hock.
Isobel. Lavinia had, in old age, few worries. In her middle years, she had come to the conclusion that it was useless to worry about matters over which she had no control. These included her own eventual death, the weather, and the unhappy way things seemed to be going in Germany. So, having dutifully read the newspapers, she would resolutely turn her mind to other things. A new rose to be ordered; the trimming of the buddleia; her library books and letters to and from old friends. Then there was the progress of her tapestry carpet, and the daily conference with Isobel concerning the general smooth running of the little household.
But Isobel was a bit of a worry. Only ten years younger than Lavinia, she was really getting beyond all the cooking and the caring, which had been her life for forty years. From time to time Lavinia gathered up her courage and brought the conversation around to the subject of Isobel's retirement, but Isobel always became immensely huffy and hurt, as though Lavinia were trying to get rid of her, and, inevitably, there would always be a day or two of sulky umbrage to be dealt with. However, compromises had been made, and now the postman's wife climbed the hill from the village each morning. Employed to do ‘the rough’, she had gradually infiltrated beyond the kitchen doors and taken over the rest of the housework — polishing floors, scrubbing the slates of the porch, and generally keeping everything shining, sweet-smelling, and trim. At first, Isobel had treated this good soul with cool disdain, and it said a lot for the postman's wife that she had stuck out a long period of non-co-operation, had finally broken through Isobel's hostility, and made friends.
But she did not come on Sundays, and the luncheon would mean a lot of work for Isobel. Lavinia wished she could help a bit, not that she could do much, being incapable of so much as boiling an egg. But Isobel's prickly pride was always at stake, and at the end of the day it was easier all round if nobody interfered.
Somewhere, out in the garden, a blackbird sang. Downstairs, a door opened and shut. She stirred on her piled linen pillows, and turned to reach out a hand for spectacles, which lay on the bedside table. It was quite a large bedside table, as big as a small desk, because of the number of small but important objects it was necessary to keep close to hand. Her spectacles, her glass of water, a tin of rich tea biscuits, a small pad of paper and a sharp pencil in case she got a brilliant idea in the middle of the night. A photograph of her late husband, Eustace Boscawen, staring sternly from its mount of blue velvet, her Bible, and her current book, Barchester Towers. For, perhaps, the sixth time, but Trollope was such a comforting man; reading him was like having someone take you by the hand and gently lead you back into an easier past. She struggled for her spectacles. One thing, she told herself, at least you haven't got a set of dentures grinning at you out of a tumbler. She was proud of her teeth. How many old women of eighty-five still had their own teeth? Or, at any rate, most of them. And the ones that had gone the way of all flesh had gone from the back and didn't show. She was still able to smile and laugh with no fear of embarrassing anybody with a gap-toothed grimace or a slipped plate.
She looked at the time. Seven-thirty. Isobel was on her way upstairs. She could hear the stairs creak, the old footsteps across the landing. A cursory knock, and the door opened, and she appeared bearing on a tray Lavinia's early-morning glass of hot water in which floated a slice of lemon. She shouldn't continue this old tradition; Lavinia could do perfectly well without it; but Isobel had been serving early-morning hot lemon for fifty years, and she had no intention of stopping now.
She said, ‘Morning. Some cold it is.’ She made space on the table, and set down the tray. Her hands were gnarled and reddened, the knuckles swollen with arthritis, and she wore her blue cotton, and a white apron with a bib. In the old days she had covered her head with a voluminous and unbecoming white cotton cap, but Lavinia had finally persuaded her to abandon this badge of servility, and she looked a great deal better without it, revealing frizzy grey hair scraped back into a little bun fastened with huge black hairpins.
‘Oh, thank you, Isobel.’
Isobel crossed the room to close the window, shutting out the blackbird's voice. Her stockings were black; she had swollen ankles over worn strapped shoes. She should be lying in bed herself, being brought warm comforting drinks. Lavinia wished she did not always feel so guilty.
She said, on impulse, ‘I do hope you're not going to have to do too much today. Perhaps we should stop
having luncheon parties.’
‘Now, don't start that again.’ Isobel fussily settled the curtains, giving herself something more to see to. ‘You carry on as though I was just about dead and buried.’
‘I don't do anything of the sort. I just want to be sure you don't wear yourself to a frazzle.’
Isobel gave a snorting laugh. ‘Little chance of that. Anyway, it's all on the road. Table laid last night, when you were eating your supper off a tray, and all the vegetables done. Lovely Brussels sprouts, they are, just a touch of frost and they're some crisp. I'm going down now to make the soufflé. That Loveday wouldn't thank me if there wasn't a soufflé.’
‘You spoil her, Isobel, just as everybody does.’
Isobel sniffed. ‘All spoilt, those Carey-Lewis children, if you ask me, but doesn't seem to have done them any harm.’ She stooped and picked up Lavinia's fine wool dressing-gown, which had slipped from the chair onto the floor. ‘And I never approved of them sending Loveday off to that school…what's the point of having children, if you send them miles away?’
‘I suppose they thought it was all for the best. Anyway, that's all in the past now, and she seems to be settling down at St Ursula's.’
‘Good sign she's brought a friend home. If she's making friends, she can't be too put out.’
‘No. You're right. And we must remember that it's nothing to do with us.’
‘Maybe so, but we can have our opinions, can't we?’ Having made her point, Isobel went to the door. ‘Like a fried egg for your breakfast?’
‘Thank you, Isobel dear, that would be a treat.’
Isobel departed. Her footsteps faded, treading cautiously down the curved staircase. Lavinia imagined her taking the steps one at a time, a hand on the balustrade. The guilt would not go away, but what to do? Nothing to be done. She drank her hot lemon water, thought about the lunch party, and decided that she would wear her new blue dress.
Loveday's behaviour the following morning made it perfectly clear that Great-Aunt Lavinia was one of the few people — or perhaps the only person — capable of exerting any sort of influence on her wayward personality. To begin with, she got up early in order to wash her hair, and then dressed without the slightest objection in the clothes which Mary had set out for her the night before: a checked woollen dress with shining white collar and cuffs, white knee-socks, and black patent-leather shoes with straps and buttons.
Finding her in the nursery having her hair dried and brushed by Mary, Judith started to worry about her own appearance. Seeing Loveday looking so unusually pretty and smart made her feel really pathetic, like a penniless relation. The holly-red cashmere sweater was just as perfect as ever, but…
‘I can't go out for luncheon in shorts, can I?’ she appealed to Mary. ‘And the uniform's so ugly. I don't want to wear a uniform…’
‘Of course you don't.’ Mary was understanding and practical as always. ‘I'll look in Athena's wardrobe and find you a nice skirt. And you can borrow a pair of Loveday's white socks, just the same as the ones she's got on, and I'll polish up your shoes for you. Then you'll be smart and bright as a new penny…Now keep still, Loveday, for goodness' sake, otherwise we're never going to get this mop dry.’
The skirt, shamelessly purloined from Athena's cupboard, was a tartan kilt, with leather straps and buckles at the waist. ‘Kilts are lovely things,’ Mary pointed out, ‘because it doesn't matter how fat or thin you are, you can always make them fit.’
She knelt and wrapped it around Judith's waist, and fixed the straps.
Loveday, watching, giggled. ‘It's a bit like fixing Tinkerbell's girth.’
‘Nothing of the sort. You know how Tinkerbell blows himself out like a little balloon. There. Perfect. And it's the right length, too. Just to the middle of your knee. And there's a bit of red in the tartan that picks up the red of your jersey.’ She smiled and heaved herself to her feet. ‘Lovely, you look. As though you wouldn't call the King your cousin. Now take your shoes off and Mary will shine them up so you can see your own face.’
Breakfast at Nancherrow wasn't until nine o'clock on Sunday mornings, but even so, by the time the nursery party put in its appearance, the others were already there, tucking into hot porridge and grilled sausages. The big dining-room was full of early wintry sunshine, and there was the delicious smell of fresh coffee.
‘I'm sorry we're late…’ Mary apologised.
‘We wondered what you were all doing.’ Diana, at the far end of the table, wore a pale-grey flannel coat and skirt, so immaculately cut that it rendered her slender as a wand. A blue silk blouse turned her eyes to sapphires, and there were pearl-and-diamond studs in her ears, and a triple string of pearls gleamed at the base of her throat.
‘Getting ready took us a bit of time.’
‘No matter.’ She smiled at the girls. ‘Seeing such an elegant pair, I can perfectly understand. You've done brilliantly, Mary…’
Loveday went to kiss her father. He and Tommy Mortimer were equally formal, wearing suits with waistcoats, stiff-collared shirts, and silken ties. The Colonel laid down his fork, so that he had an arm free to hug his daughter. ‘I hardly recognise you,’ he told her. ‘A real little lady, wearing a dress. I was beginning to forget what your legs looked like…’
‘Oh, Pops, don't be silly.’ Looking as though butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, Loveday clearly had no intention of behaving that way. ‘And look, you greedy old thing, you've got three sausages. I hope you've left some for us…’
Later in the morning, they drove the short distance to Rose-mullion, all five of them disposed in great comfort in the Colonel's enormous Daimler. For church, Diana had put on a grey felt halo hat with a flirty little veil, and because the day, although bright and sunny, was chill, had wound a silver-fox fur around her shoulders.
The car was parked by the churchyard wall and they filed up the path with all the other village people, between the old gravestones and the ancient yews. The church was tiny and very, very old, even older, Judith guessed, than the one at Penmarron. It was so old that it seemed to have sunk into the very earth, so that from the outdoor sunlight one stepped down into a chill gloom, smelling of damp stone and woodworm and mouldy prayer-books. The pews were hard and hideously uncomfortable, and as they settled themselves in the front pew, a cracked-sounding bell began to toll from the tower high above them.
At a quarter past eleven, the service commenced. It all took rather a long time because the vicar, the verger, and the organ were all, just like the church, extremely ancient, and became, from time to time, rather muddled. The only person who seemed to know what he was doing was Colonel Carey-Lewis, who stepped smartly up to the lectern to read the lesson, read it, and then stepped smartly back into his pew again. A rambling sermon was duly delivered, the subject of which was unclear from start to finish; three hymns were sung; a collection taken (ten shillings from each grown-up and half a crown from Judith and Loveday), and finally the blessing and it was all over.
After the seeping cold of the church, emerging into the sunshine felt positively warm. There they stood about for a bit, while Diana and the Colonel exchanged a few words with the vicar, his sparse white hair blown on end by the breeze, and his surplice billowing and flapping like a sheet hung on the line. Other worshippers, on their way home, tipped their hats and spoke respectfully. ‘Morning, Colonel. Morning, Mrs Carey-Lewis…’
Loveday, becoming bored, began to hop on and off a lichened gravestone. ‘Oh, let's go.’ She tugged at her father's arm. ‘I'm hungry…’
‘Morning, Colonel. Lovely day…’
At last everybody drifted away, and it was time to move. But the Colonel now looked at his watch. ‘We have ten minutes in hand,’ he announced. ‘So we shall leave the car here and walk. A little exercise will do us no harm, and we shall all work up a good appetite for lunch. Come along, girls…’
So they set off, taking the narrow winding road which led up the hill from the village. Tall stone walls stood on either
side, smothered in ivy, and bare elm trees soared up into the pristine sky, their highest branches filled with cawing rooks. The hill steepened and everybody became rather breathless.
Diana said, ‘If I'd known we were going to walk, I shouldn't have put on my highest-heeled shoes.’
Tommy put an arm around her waist. ‘Shall I sweep you into my arms and carry you?’
‘I hardly think that would be very seemly.’
‘Then I shall simply urge you forward. And just think how splendid it will be coming back again. We can run all the way. Or slide on our bottoms, like tobogganists.’
‘That would at least give everybody something to talk about.’
The Colonel, ignoring this banter, strode ahead, leading the way. The lane took yet another right-angled turn, but it seemed that here, on the steep corner, they had reached, at last, their destination. For, in the high wall on the right-hand side of the road, appeared an open gateway. Beyond this a narrow drive curved away between grass verges and neatly clipped hedges of escallonia. It was something of a relief to be on level ground, although the path was gravelled with sea-pebbles, which made noisy walking.
Tommy Mortimer trudged gamely. Physical exercise was not one of his passions unless he happened to be wielding a tennis racket or carrying a gun. ‘Do you think,’ he asked wistfully, ‘that I shall be offered a pink gin?’
‘You've been for lunch here before,’ Diana reminded him briskly. ‘You'll be given sherry, or perhaps Madeira. And you're not to ask for a pink gin.’
He sighed, resigned. ‘Dear girl. For you I would drink hemlock. But, admit, Madeira does have tones of Jane Austen.’
‘Neither Jane Austen nor Madeira will do you any harm.’
The little party rounded the curve of the escallonia hedge, and the Dower House stood before them. It was neither large nor imposing, but possessed a certain dignity of style that at once impressed. A square house, symmetrical and solid, harled and whitewashed, with Gothic windows, a grey slate roof, and a stone porch smothered in clematis. Sitting there, tucked into the shelter of the hill, it had the aspect of a place that had turned its back upon the world, slumbering secretly through the passing years, for a longer time than any person could remember.