Consider the Lily (18 page)

With her tearstains and disarranged hair, Matty reminded Ned strongly of his own daughter. ‘No, Mrs Kit.’

‘Then...’

‘Yes, Mrs Kit?’

Whatever it had been – vision, possession, breakdown – it was too complicated to discuss with Mr Sheppey. Matty pushed her aching body upright, rubbed her eyes with the handkerchief and said the first thing that came into her head, ‘What are you doing with the wheelbarrow, Mr Sheppey?’

‘Taking the lily-of-the-valley to the shed to pot them up in the good china. That way I bring them on early, for the house. I always do at this time of year. It’s a tradition, like. They smell nice inside.’ He picked up a plant and held it out as if it was the most natural thing in the world to do, and Matty left the step to inspect the bundle that said nothing much to her.

‘Very nice, Mr Sheppey.’

Mr Sheppey was wearing string mittens and his cracked fingers and black-rimmed fingernails stuck out from them. The manner in which his hand curved around the plant caught Matty’s interest. It was a gardener’s hold, an easy one, born of long acquaintanceship.

‘Your hands must hurt in this cold.’ Matty pointed to a cut on his right forefinger which was clotted with a mixture of dried blood and earth. ‘You must take care of that, Mr Sheppey. It might go septic.’

‘You gets used to it, Mrs Kit. My father used to say, you can’t garden if you don’t dirty your hands. He was head gardener here for upwards of thirty years. Thank you all the same.’ Ned replaced the lily-of-the-valley in the wheelbarrow. He seemed perfectly happy to stand in the cold and to talk, but Matty was aware that she was being minutely observed. ‘Do you like gardening, Mrs Kit?’

‘Me?’ Matty spread her hands and inspected the fingers sheathed in their expensive gloves. ‘I haven’t really thought about it... but—’

‘Lady Dysart did. She had plenty of ideas, but it’s different now. There’s too much to do here without help so I keeps to the kitchen garden, except for a few odd things.’

‘Yes,’ she said, soothed by the Hampshire burr.

Mr Sheppey seemed to understand that she was troubled and kept talking. ‘I do up pots of narcissi for the spring, too, because of the smell. I’ve got them in the greenhouse. Would you like to choose the pots for the house?’

‘I think I would, Mr Sheppey.’ A thought struck Matty. ‘Perhaps I ought to come and find out what you’re doing in the garden, anyway.’

They looked at each other and, for different reasons, liked what they saw.

‘Good morning, Mrs Kit, then.’ Ned patted a plant into place, touched his cap and hefted up the wheelbarrow handles.

Matty watched him make his way across the lawn, a sane figure in a real world, and set about convincing herself that nothing whatever had happened to her that was out of the ordinary.

‘You’ve had me in a fright.’ Robbie accosted Matty on her return to the bedroom. ‘Here’s me worrying my head off and your breakfast getting cold.’

Matty peeled off her gloves, dropped them onto the bed and kicked off her shoes. Robbie scented another opening. She eyed the shoes with satisfaction.

‘You’ve never been outside? You’ll have caught your death. It really is too bad.’ Robbie steered Matty towards the armchair and anchored her into it with a tray. ‘Eat up, Mrs Kit.’

The Lapsang Souchong had the sweet, smoky taste she adored. Matty fished out a floating leaf with a teaspoon and drank it gratefully. Then she reached for a triangle of toast and the butter.

‘That’s right, Mrs Kit.’ Robbie attacked the bed and clicked her tongue at the stain on the sheet. ‘Have you been taking the tonic I told you about?’

Matty closed her eyes for a second. ‘Yes, Miss Robson.’

‘Well, never mind, then. There’s always another month. Mind you . . Robbie stripped off the sheet oblivious that every fibre in Matty’s body protested against her nosiness and the assumption that Matty was now her property. ‘You’ll have to try harder. There are things you can do to stop the monthly visitor.’

‘Really, Miss Robson!’ The idea of Robbie lecturing her on her fertility floored Matty but, while appalled, she was fascinated.

‘Well, Mrs Kit.’ Robbie drew out the words as if she was back in the nursery, the Little-Miss-Manners-School-of-Life tone which Matty had rapidly grown to dislike.

She forestalled the lesson. ‘Miss Robson, this is a private subject, not for discussion.’

But Robbie was not easily beaten and over the years she had fought and won many Waterloos in the pursuit of her duty. ‘There’s no need to get on your high horse,’ she said, whisking sheets here and there. Matty chewed some toast and watched her: Miss Robson pulsed with energy and she suspected there were hidden forces suppressed beneath the blue serge. Robbie turned her attention to Matty’s clothes for the day. ‘You can’t have an heir quick enough, you know. That’s your duty. That’s what you’re here for.’

Matty’s chin came into play. ‘Miss Robson. That is enough.’

Robbie shook out a pair of silk stockings. ‘You just concentrate on yourself, never mind anything or anyone else. There’s time enough afterwards. Lady Dysart produced Mr Kit nine months to the day. Mind you,’ Robbie paused for effect, ‘I think I shall speak to him. He really shouldn’t go away to London so much.’

Matty’s tolerance vanished. ‘Miss Robson,’ she said, ‘you will do no such thing.’

‘Don’t take on, Mrs Kit,’ said Robbie in a kindly tone, and rolled up a stocking. ‘Mr Kit and I are just like that.’ She crossed two forefingers. ‘And Flora. There’s no secrets between us.’ She attacked the second stocking. ‘He needed me, you know. They all did, and I saved them. So you just leave him to me. If you will excuse me saying so, I know how to handle Mr Kit.’

Do you? reflected Matty grimly. ‘But, Miss Robson—’

‘No buts, if you please, Mrs Kit.’ Robbie laid the second stocking down beside the first and they sat, two beige ring doughnuts, beside Matty’s suspender belt. ‘I’m here to help you. I’ll be back to run your bath in ten minutes.’

Matty was finishing her breakfast when Kit knocked at the door. ‘Sorry to interrupt. I’m on my way to a disgracefully late breakfast. Everyone else is late too.’ He smiled down at his wife.

Matty flushed soft pink. ‘You’re not interrupting.’

‘What are you going to do today?’

‘Goodness,’ she said, pushing her teacup aside. ‘I must get a move on. Lady Foxton will be wanting breakfast in her room.’

Kit dug his hands into his pockets. ‘Stop flapping, Matty. Your rage for perfection has resulted in a perfectly ordered household.’

She had succeeded in irritating him, and Matty knew it. She was also aware that if Kit had made a similar remark to Daisy she would have batted it back:
But, darling, that is what makes me so fascinating.

Eventually Kit asked, ‘Are you feeling all right?’

Matty was startled. ‘Yes, of course. Why?’

‘I met Robbie in the passage.’

‘Ah.’ Matty wanted to cry out at him, ‘What
are
you doing talking to Robbie about something so private? It isn’t any of her business. This is between us.’

Kit shrugged. ‘Better luck another time, Matty.’

Do couples who do not understand one another ever succeed in having children? Matty supposed that they must, but she also wondered if the fact that Kit did not love her had something to do with her failure each month. Corn seed would not settle on parched ground and there was nothing moist or nourishing in Matty.

Kit made an effort to soften the atmosphere. ‘I must say, you have made it nice in here, Matty. You have a real gift for that sort of thing.’

Matty tensed, for she had been nervous of changing too many of Hesther’s things. ‘I took out some of the furniture as it was a little cluttered. I hope you don’t mind.’

‘Yes, I suppose it was. I seem to remember my mother liked things all jumbled up.’ Kit had little interest in and none of Matty’s flair for details. He was aware only that, under her short reign, Hinton Dysart had become comfortable and homelike. He had given Matty licence to do what she wished, but requested she take into account both Rupert’s and Flora’s wishes. It’s difficult for them to adjust, he had said looking at her seriously, so you will be careful?

Matty had been clever. One of her first acts was to sit regularly with Rupert and to listen to him. Then she considered the occupants of the house, and the house itself. As a result, nothing was too smart and jarring, but everything was clean, polished and fresh. Meals appeared on time. There were flowers everywhere, and bowls of pot-pourri scented the living rooms. Somehow the unmanageable areas became livable-in, dark corners light and yielding, and the interior balance of the house shifted.

‘Are you going to be able to cope over Christmas with all the comings and goings? Especially with Great-Aunt Hetta and Lady F?’ Kit was asking.

Apparently Great-Aunt Hetta required the undeviating attention of a companion, and a constant supply of bile beans for a costive digestion.

Matty grimaced. ‘At three shillings a box for bile beans, we’re in danger of going bankrupt.’

Kit made for the door. ‘Don’t let Lady F. bully you.’

Matty reached for her notebook. Today, Christmas Eve, there was a lunchtime sherry party for the village and Christmas dinner for thirty-four to which Mr Pengeally and his spouse, who had designs on Matty’s time, were bidden. The seating plan ensured that Mr Pengeally sat next to Matty and, since hair grew out of his ears, a stigmata that repelled her, Matty did not relish the prospect. The Boxing Day meet was scheduled to take place in the drive... stirrup cups... picnic lunches, cold collations for those remaining at home and, of course, tea for the hunters on their return.

‘
Look
at me, Matty,’ ordered Kit from the doorway. ‘Can you cope? Just say the word and I’ll put a stop to it all.’

Her expression was calm. ‘Even to Great-Aunt Hetta and the bile beans?’

Kit was never sure when Matty made a joke. He smiled politely. ‘Even Great-Aunt Hetta.’

‘Well.’ Matty stood up in her stockinged feet. ‘It’s fine and everything is planned.’ She crossed over to the door and placed a tentative hand on his arm. ‘I
can
cope, you know.’

There it was again, the tiny, but definite, recoil. In an attempt to disguise it, Kit reached for the door handle. I wish Daisy was dead, thought Matty, and her demon hammered under her ribs.

‘Good girl.’ Kit rallied. ‘It’s nice to think that the old traditions will keep going at Christmas. See you later, Matty.’

In that moment Matty almost hated him.

Mrs Dawes was feeling belligerent, brought about by panic, unfamiliarity with her new mistress and more than a touch of what she termed ‘tincture’ for her back. Realizing this, Matty negotiated her way around the rocks while details for lunch and dinner were finalized between them. Then she made her mistake.

‘The hunting tea in the drawing room, please, Mrs Dawes. Crumpets, muffins, sandwiches, fruit cake and ginger snaps.’

Mrs Dawes said a rude word in her head. Aloud she said: ‘You mean the library, ma’am. It’s always in the library.’

‘I think the drawing room will be more comfortable.’

‘Miss Flora won’t like it.’ Mrs Dawes considered the extra tablecloths she would need and had not prepared. A mutinous look descended over her features. ‘They won’t like it, ma’am, and I don’t think I can do it, ma’am, at such short notice.’

‘Mrs Dawes,’ Matty tried. ‘I think—’

‘Can’t do it, madam.’

What would Jocasta do? What would Emma Goldman do? More to the point, what would Aunt Susan do? The answer was quite plain. Matty ignored Mrs Dawes’s last remark and asked, ‘Do you have the anchovy paste we ordered from Farnham? It’s my husband’s favourite.’

‘Three pots, ma’am.’

‘Good. We’ve done everything, then, haven’t we?’ Matty smiled to show goodwill and indicated that Mrs Dawes could go. ‘Have the family finished breakfast yet?’

With difficulty Mrs Dawes shook her aching head. ‘No, ma’am.’

‘I’ll go and see what is happening.’ Matty got up from the desk in the morning room. ‘Thank you very much for all your hard work.’ Mrs Dawes practically tottered to the door. ‘And, Mrs Dawes, it is tea in the drawing room. Is that quite clear?’

Mrs Dawes did not reply.

Cheered by her small but significant victory, Matty went to the dining room. Greenery filled the hall and the holly looked cheerful beside the Christmas tree. She put her head around the door. The sideboard was cluttered with silver chafing dishes, containing kidneys, bacon, and scrambled egg, and two teapots. At the table the family were eating and talking. Kit waved a fork on which was speared a kidney. ‘Do you remember the time when he took us back through Caesar’s Camp and Paradise and—’

‘Oh, yes,’ Polly cut in. ‘You came a cropper that day.’

‘And I still bear the scars.’ Kit stuck out a leg. ‘Trust you to remember, Polly.’

Flora giggled and got up to refill her cup. She was dressed in her riding habit and her big frame looked its best under the nipped-in waist and severe lines. Her hair was braided into a loop, and her skin was shiny with health and innocent of powder. ‘Pride before a fall,’ she said in a wiseacre voice.

Rupert held out his cup. ‘Give me one, too, Flora.’

It was the first time Matty had seen her father-in-law so relaxed with his children. ‘Let’s hope the weather holds,’ he said, looking out of the window. ‘It’s just right.’

‘Tally-ho!’ shrieked Polly and banged her knife down on the table.

None of them noticed Matty standing by the door. Alone, stomach aching, she observed them for a moment longer and then closed the door.

True to form Flora woke at dawn on Boxing Day, and stumbled round her bedroom in the dark in a frowst of hair and iced breath. She had been too tired the night before to wash properly: her eyes were sticky and there was a disgraceful piece of orange peel under one thumbnail.

‘Pig,’ she muttered to the mirror and, in the spirit of truth, added, ‘Fat pig.’ As a penance she washed from head to toe which left her gasping.

Dressed in a pair of Kit’s trousers and a jersey, she let herself out of the sleeping house, and headed over the field towards the cottages at Jonathan’s Kilns, drawing in lungfuls of freezing air.