House of Splinters, page 3
Sawyer had not visited before. The sight seemed to strike her differently. She gazed out of the window and frowned. ‘Where is everyone?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘It’s a village. Don’t you think it strange that there are no carts, no people walking to and fro? If it weren’t for the smoke coming out of the chimneys, I’d say this place was deserted.’
Belinda hadn’t considered that. Everywhere seemed quiet and subdued to her compared with London. ‘Perhaps they are all out working the land?’ she suggested. But there had been no obvious signs of cultivation.
Freddy drew their attention away. ‘We’re going over a bridge now! Look at the big stone lions!’ His blue eyes widened. ‘I never saw water run so fast, Mamma! If I made a paper boat, would the current carry it all the way out to sea? Like one of Grandpa’s ships?’
‘Well, perhaps we shall try it.’
‘Maybe Papa will teach me how to swim?’
Sawyer spluttered a laugh. ‘Not in a current that fast, Master Freddy. I bet the water’s cold too. You’d be all goosebumps!’ She affected a dramatic shiver and he squealed with glee.
Once they passed over the water, it was a nobler scene, with the old deserted gatehouse and the hills that tumbled down, down towards the manor. No decay or passage of time could mar that Jacobean edifice. It remained impressive, formidable, like a grand old dower who refused to die.
Belinda drew her shoulders back. ‘Do you see it, Freddy? That huge house is your home now.’ She couldn’t keep the pride from her voice. Those born with noble blood would never experience this sense of elevation, of floating a little above the ground.
Sawyer sat straighter in her seat to look. ‘Well, I’ll be,’ she muttered.
A lantern tower drew the eye first; tall and imposing. Beneath that came the gable roof and rows of glittering windows, not a single one boarded over to avoid the tax. The main entrance was a massive, iron-studded door, more suited to a castle keep, flanked by matching wings to either side. Each terminated in an ivy-coated turret. Trees curved beyond, holding the manor in a gently cupped hand, but Belinda was not studying them. Her eyes sought the parterres before the house; shallower soil where she could plant her own roots.
Freddy was beside himself. ‘It’s giant!’ he gasped. ‘Big enough for a – a – an elephant! Like we saw at the Tower, Sawyer.’
Sawyer cocked her head. ‘Actually, I think it’s a good deal bigger than the pen they assigned to that poor elephant in the menagerie.’
‘Then maybe he can come and stay here with us instead!’
Belinda let their chatter fade from her ears. She was the artist now, studying her canvas. Her own grounds at last. Where would she start? Nothing too tall should be planted in front of the house, for it would be a pity to spoil that prospect over the hills. Nor did she want to skew the careful symmetry. It would be better to repair the formal hedges and weave patterns using box and cherry laurel. Here could be the edging plants, primroses, pinks and London-pride.
Out the side and round the back would be a different story. The wildflowers would be better suited there, winding in a pretty little wilderness towards the orchard. She’d make herself quick-draining shrubberies for the winter, full of benches and serpentine paths.
Gravel crunched as the wheels began to slow and the carriage arched around the sweep. Dragging her eyes from the gardens, Belinda caught sight of a mullioned window at the very end of the west wing. The same prickles ran over her skin as before, a sensation she’d forgotten in her absence. Had that been the room? She thought it was. The very casement she’d spent days lingering by with newborn Freddy in her arms. A ghost of her past self seemed to be gazing down at the very spot where they were now drawing to a halt.
‘There’s a dog on the fountain!’ Freddy cried. ‘Can we get a dog now we live in the country?’
Belinda turned to face him, put on her best smile. ‘A moment ago you wanted an elephant. You must make up your mind which it is to be before you ask Papa.’
Whatever unease she felt, she was determined to leave the carriage as if she belonged here. Hours of deportment lessons and that tedious elocution tutor had all been building to this: the irreversible twining of her merchant blood with the Bainbridge lineage.
Creswell, one of the few servants who had accompanied them, opened the door, let down the steps and handed her out of the vehicle. A light breeze soughed through the ivy and rippled the tinkling water of the fountain. Belinda inhaled. The air here tasted different from London, seasoned with greenery – it was almost herbal. Freddy tumbled out behind her and Sawyer followed him. The maid’s eyes skirted around the edges of the house. It was difficult to tell if she was committing its lines to memory in preparation for a sketch, or trying to locate every possible exit.
They had scarcely taken five paces before hinges creaked and the huge main door grated open. Wilfred himself appeared on the threshold and trotted quickly down the steps, ready to catch up Freddy who dashed towards him.
‘Ho, there! Look at this boy!’ He swung his son into the air. ‘Look at the size of him! What’s this? A trick? I thought they were bringing my son Fred!’
‘It is me!’ Freddy squealed in delight. ‘I’m Freddy.’
Wilfred affected astonishment. ‘No! It’s not possible. Why, this boy is big enough for breeches. He’s big enough for his own horse!’
Freddy threw back his head and shrieked with glee.
Breeching, already? The idea of shearing off those long golden curls, of making Freddy into a tiny man… But she was thinking weakly, smothering him like her own mother had done to her. She must let him grow up.
At last Wilfred set Freddy down. The boy trotted off to dip his fingers in the fountain, while Wilfred took Belinda’s hand and kissed it. ‘My love, I beg your pardon. I am abominably rude to keep you standing out here while we lark. You must be fatigued.’
In truth she was flagging, but she hoisted up a smile. If she admitted to tiredness, he might hustle her back into that old suite of rooms with its four-poster bed, where she’d languished before. ‘On the contrary, I am keen to make a start. I have so much to discuss with Mrs Knowles.’
‘In time, in time. Take a moment,’ he urged, drawing her arm solicitously under his own. ‘Tell me, how was your journey? I fear those roads must have given you a good shake – but they will be set to rights. I promise. I will put everything right.’
‘I came to no harm.’
He smiled upon her. His bearing reminded her of their wedding day: pride radiated from every pore. ‘That’s the spirit. Now come, I want you to savour this special moment. You are about to enter The Bridge for the first time as its rightful mistress. Are you ready?’ She nodded. He helped her up the steps into the house, pushing open the huge door and making a flourish with his spare hand as the Great Hall unfolded before them. ‘Mrs Bainbridge – welcome to your true home.’
It was far more imposing than Belinda remembered: a scene from Horace Walpole’s novel, full of medieval grandeur. Weapons were displayed upon the walls: great fans of gleaming swords that warned, rather than welcomed, a visitor. The stone floor was set with lozenges; the ceiling was high and beamed. A gallery looked down from above.
Freddy, who was too young to recall any of this, turned around and around, his mouth a perfect circle.
The iron grate of the fireplace yawned empty in deference to the mild weather. All the doors leading to other rooms were firmly shut. But three servants hovered in the far corner, beneath the shadow of the staircase. They must be the Knowles family she had heard so much about. Belinda made the calculation in her head. Three Knowleses, Sawyer, the footman Creswell, Wilfred’s valet Hurley and the driver-cum-groom Dawkins. Seven live-in staff. It was enough, but male-heavy. She would prefer more maids.
‘Ah, yes,’ said Wilfred, ‘here are the Knowleses, come to pay their respects to you. You must remember them from before. See how young John has grown!’
The youth flushed. He was an awkward, gangly boy with bad skin. Belinda took care to receive his bow kindly and comment on what a fine lad he’d become, but she had little recollection of him or his parents. Had her mind been so badly disordered, following Freddy’s birth? It alarmed her to think so.
Knowles Senior was older than she’d remembered – a good deal older than his wife. But his advanced years made him seem reliable, rather than frail, with his bob wig and stalwart figure. Mrs Knowles’ only defining feature was her harassed expression – understandable, given the lack of female attendants to help her. She and Belinda had been corresponding already.
‘It is good to see you face-to-face,’ she said, as Mrs Knowles curtsied. ‘We have much to arrange between us.’
‘Yes, we do, madam.’
Despite her exhaustion and swollen ankles, Belinda found herself relishing the idea of a challenge. She would not be powerless here, as she’d been in her mother’s house, or overawed by a strict housekeeper like Mrs Marsh. The reins were hers to hold.
Mrs Knowles glanced surreptitiously over Belinda’s shoulder. She turned and saw Sawyer lingering there. ‘Oh – yes. Mrs Knowles, this is my…’ She had to stop herself. If she were at liberty to be honest, the words would flow easily enough. This is Sawyer, my dearest friend. You will respect her as if she were my deputy. But society muddied the waters, made her draw lines where none should be. ‘Sawyer. My – my lady’s maid. Although she is helping with Freddy too, at the moment,’ Belinda explained haltingly. ‘Sawyer performs a variety of roles, she – well, she is invaluable. I mentioned her in my letters. She’s served my family for many years. As you have served the Bainbridge family.’
Mrs Knowles nodded calmly, as if Belinda had not embarrassed herself and blushed up to the roots of her hair. ‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Sawyer.’
‘Likewise, Mrs Knowles.’
‘Capital!’ Wilfred exclaimed. ‘Everyone is acquainted. Mrs Knowles, perhaps you’d be good enough to fetch my wife some refreshments. She is the picture of politeness, but I’m sure she is fit to drop after that journey.’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll set the tea tray.’
Sawyer stepped forward. ‘I’ll help. You can show me around the kitchen.’
Belinda wished her maid would stay with her.
‘As for me,’ Wilfred went on, ‘I have a good deal of catching up to do with my son.’ He turned and swept Freddy into his arms again. ‘What do you say, my boy? Shall we look over the house? This will all be yours one day. What shall I show you first?’
Freddy didn’t respond. He was staring fixedly at a point on the far wall.
Belinda followed his gaze. There was nothing much to catch his eye, only a small divot in the panelling. ‘I think he’s looking at the weapons?’ she guessed.
Wilfred adjusted his son in his hold. ‘Well, they’re antiques, Freddy, every one of them. The swords were always my favourite, when I was your age.’
Rather than answering, the child pointed, making duelling pistols of his fingers. ‘Bang,’ he said softly. ‘Bang, bang.’
Wilfred paled.
Freddy was aiming at the bullet mark on the wall.
*
By the time Belinda retired to her old suite of rooms in the west wing, she was too exhausted to fret over the unpleasant memories they inspired. The baby had been pummelling her insides without mercy. Her head still teemed with the menus and laundry lists she’d discussed with Mrs Knowles. To recline on a chaise-longue – any chaise-longue – would be bliss.
Yet she chose to sit in the little dressing-room, rather than entering the bedroom proper. There was still a reluctance to cross that threshold, even if it offered her a washstand and the chance to lie flat. Foolish, really. There was little difference between the two chambers: both were decorated with pale paper, slightly worn carpets and floral embroidery. If anything, the bedroom offered more space and light. But it had never felt light. That was the trouble. Like Mamma’s parlour, the air was suffused with invisible weight. As Belinda allowed her head to nod, she could almost feel it, thrumming through the closed door.
There was a scent, too. Something powdery that teased at the edges of her consciousness, something familiar that should be pleasant, but cloyed instead. Roses.
Maybe Mrs Knowles had put out a vase of them to welcome her. A flower to associate with the bedroom furniture, which was all made of rosewood, from the dressing-table to the carved four-poster bed. An expensive timber. Belinda should know. But she didn’t appreciate it as she should. It was too dark, too lowering.
Her eyelids had shut without her noticing. She felt herself drifting, unmooring. A scene began to play in her mind, but she couldn’t tell if it was a memory or a dream. She was lying upon that bed, her hands pressed over her ears, her body still. But the flowers carved on the posts were beginning to wilt. Petals sagging, releasing a sickly-sweet tang. Vines slithering down towards the floor. Inch by inch, the tester was getting lower. A canopy slowly descending to smother her.
Hiss.
Belinda jerked awake.
‘My love? Are you asleep?’ There was a tap at the door.
She pulled herself upright. It must have been Wilfred’s knocking that woke her. Yet it had sounded like something else…
‘Belinda?’
She found her voice. ‘Yes, come in.’
He entered softly and, seeing her position, grimaced in sympathy. ‘Forgive my intrusion. Have they overtaxed you, dearest? I shall leave you in peace, my news can wait.’
She shook her head. The last thing she wanted was to be left alone, free to drift into more troubling dreams. ‘No, do not go. We have not spoken properly in weeks. Sit down. You must wish to tell me how the funeral went.’
‘Pfft!’ He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. ‘Every funeral is the same, Bel. I’ve no desire to bore you with details of that. Rather, I have a surprise for you.’
‘A surprise?’
He grinned like a boy. ‘The nursery. I fitted it up, as promised.’
‘In so short a time?’
He nodded eagerly. ‘I have not taken Freddy up there yet. I thought you might like to see it first.’
‘Well… yes. I would love to.’
Wilfred’s kindness often took her aback. Her father and brothers never stinted on their gifts, yet they gave her the kind of presents you could buy for any lady, on the assumption that the most expensive item must be the best. Wilfred listened to what she wanted. Selected not just specific items to please her, but performed acts of service too. He viewed her in a way only Sawyer had before: as an individual.
Taking Wilfred’s offered hand, she squeezed it, hoping to convey the feelings she was never quite able to articulate.
‘It’s in the east wing, I’m afraid, but we’ll go slowly.’
With the help of his hand and the chaise-longue, she managed to climb to her feet. They throbbed with their own pulse. She leant her weight on her husband’s arm as they shuffled out of her suite of rooms and into the corridor. The walls here were covered in red flock paper. She watched the repeating pattern, relieved to see it held firm. After Freddy was born, she’d had a notion of these walls running like wax – but as Wilfred said, it would be different this time. She was different. Back then she had been so young, married for less than a year, still a conduit for her mother’s fears.
They approached the stairs leading down. ‘Wilfred,’ she started.
He stopped, one hand on the banister. ‘Yes?’
‘If the nursery is in the east wing… ought I not to be a little closer to it? Maybe we could swap suites of rooms? Then I’d be in easier reach.’
He considered, brows raised to the line of his wig. ‘That did not occur to me. I’ve set myself up in the old man’s rooms over these past weeks, but belongings can be moved. Yes, why not? It makes sense, doesn’t it? I’ll tell Knowles.’
Belinda beamed. Now she would be liberated from that tainted room and all its memories from five years ago. This would be a new start.
They hobbled downstairs together, gradually coming within sight of the gallery overlooking the Great Hall. Faded tapestry sofas were positioned at intervals along the wall where one could sit and admire the splendour below. Sawyer occupied the nearest of these. A few steps further down, their view widened and they could see Freddy pressed against the gallery’s handrail, peering down at the drop to the stone floor.
‘Good God.’
Belinda stumbled as Wilfred yanked his arm from hers and leapt the remaining stairs. He sped past a startled Sawyer to snatch up his son.
‘Ouch! Papa, put me down!’
But Wilfred didn’t listen. He was deadly pale. ‘What were you thinking?’ he snapped at the maid. ‘I told you to watch him!’
Sawyer rose warily to her feet. ‘Sir… I was watching him.’
‘I daresay you would sit there and watch him dash his brains out! I meant supervise him. Don’t you know—’ The stairs gave a creak as Belinda slowly edged down them. Wilfred stopped to glance at her. He was still clutching Freddy too tightly, but the sight of his wife seemed to steady him. ‘No,’ he said dully, closing his eyes. ‘Of course, you do not know. I forgot you are new here.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Sawyer, these railings are very old. They are not firm. A person once fell from up here.’
Her eyes widened. ‘I understand, sir. I will keep Master Freddy away from them, going forward.’
He nodded, regaining his breath. ‘Please do.’
Belinda had never seen him so agitated. ‘It’s all right,’ she said softly. ‘Freddy has come to no harm. Why not set him down now?’
Swallowing, Wilfred put the child on his feet. ‘I’m sorry, my boy. I did not mean to scare you.’ He ruffled Freddy’s curls. Wilfred’s own wig sat slightly askew after the dash. ‘But you must be careful up here. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.’
Freddy pouted at him. ‘It was the other side.’
