The Edge of the Fall (24 page)

‘There, dear.' The maid patted her shoulder. ‘I'm sorry if I was harsh, miss. You were just a little early. They wanted to make things nice for you.'

Louisa put her hands over her face. In her mind, Verena and Celia came to put their arms around her. ‘Come along, dear,' they said. ‘Let us help you.' Instead, the maid patted her arm again. ‘Let me take you to your room, miss.'

There was nothing for it, Louisa thought. She would have to pretend to be her mother, after all. She pulled herself straight,
smiled, that impersonal, cool smile her mother always used for servants. ‘Thank you.'

She followed the girl upstairs, two flights, on to the second landing. Rows of neat cream doors with gold handles. Her mother said that the rooms were rather shabby, that Aunt Verena didn't have an ounce of taste – although, frankly, you could tell that from the whole business of her marriage – and the house was no better than it should be. This was the first time Louisa had been here since Michael's funeral, and they hadn't been past the parlour that day. Mama had said then that they might do more for ‘poor Verena', but they hadn't visited. Her mother pretended not to have a sister, if anyone asked. ‘It's for our
protection
,' she told Louisa and Matthew. It was all because of Rudolf. They needed to be as far as they could from the suggestion of a German relation. No one needs to seem German, Mama had said, by associating with them.

‘I hope you like it, miss,' said the maid, opening a door to a large room with a washstand in the corner. The walls were rose and the eiderdown a darker pink, the rugs, the curtains all different shades of rose and fuchsia and carnation. At least, she thought, that meant it wasn't Michael's old room – for she had dreaded that.

The girl was hovering in the corner. ‘Thank you,' said Louisa, pretending to be her mother again. ‘I'll wait here for my aunt and cousin.' The girl left.

Louisa stood there a moment then pushed at the heavy door. She'd go out, explore the house, see it before they returned, see the parts they'd lock away from her. She padded, quietly, so that the nosy maid wouldn't hear, walked down the staircase, holding tight to the dusty rail. There were portraits on the wall, of who, she didn't know. They all looked a bit like Rudolf: stern. Mama had said that Uncle Rudolf just collected them, to make the place look like a country house.

She slipped downstairs and, remembering the way, through the great marble hall. She couldn't imagine what it must have looked like as a hospital, men everywhere. The place didn't look as if there'd been people in it for years. She drew a hand over the
marble wall, brought it away covered in dust. She wondered if Celia ever came in here.

She pulled at the door of the parlour and it came towards her. She'd been here for Michael's funeral, just three years ago. Matthew had talked about paintings, amused everybody as he always did. He was probably amusing everybody in Delhi now, telling them stories, everyone saying how brave he was. Surely people said to him,
why not invite your sister out here? Especially as she has no one else
. When he'd first talked of going to India to work with Jardines, import-export or whatever it was they did, he'd said it wouldn't be for long. But that had been almost three years ago, and he still wouldn't come back. Or invite her to go there. She'd like it, really she would – hot weather, elephants, the colour pink everywhere. He didn't suggest a visit. ‘Stay brave, little sister,' he wrote, after Mama's death, in a too-short letter. ‘I know it was hard for you. You'll be happy with Aunt Verena.'

Of course it was hard, she wanted to write back. I sat up with Mama every night. She was always asking for you and when she grew more unwell and her mouth filled with foam, she started talking of giving birth to you, that was all she would talk about. Every time the door downstairs rang, I hoped it was you. Matthew! You'd make everything better.

She wrote to him, begging him to come, even though she knew the letter might take weeks to arrive. Perhaps he guessed she had written because the next week, he sent four lavender soaps in a box, ordered from some shop in London. She'd unwrapped the box, held the things under her mother's nose. ‘From Matthew,' she said. The smell was awful, chemical. Her mother opened her eyes. ‘All the way from India?'

‘Yes,' said Louisa. ‘And he's coming soon.'

Her mother would keep looking at the door, asking after him. ‘He's coming,' Louisa said. ‘He's coming.'

Instead, she received letters from him saying, ‘I'm keeping my spirits up, so should you! Always smile.' She wanted to throw them into the fire. He didn't come, even when their mother died. She wrote to him, but the funeral couldn't wait, of course. Instead,
the village came, her father's friends she didn't know and Aunt Verena with cousin Celia and cousin Emmeline. She told them Matthew was still in India, important work, couldn't possibly leave.

On the day after the funeral, Mr Grierson, the solicitor, called her in to look over the wills. He said that the house was Matthew's and would remain waiting for him. Mr Grierson said Matthew had asked him to send money to him in India, which he would – although he really should come home and manage the estate, occupy the title properly.

‘I could look after it until he arrives,' she said. ‘I know how the house works.' And she did, she could. Mama wouldn't like the house to be alone.

‘A nice offer. But you're too young, my dear. Don't worry. Your parents have set aside a lot of money for you. You are a very wealthy young lady. You can have the capital when you are twenty-one or when you marry with permission of your family. Otherwise, you have the interest.'

‘What family? Matthew?'

He looked at his paper. ‘That would be your aunt and uncle. They are your guardians.'

‘They have to give permission for me to marry?'

‘That is correct.'

‘I hardly know them.'

Mr Grierson tapped his desk with his pen. ‘Well, you will come to know them better. As you are underage you must live with someone, and they are your nearest relatives. Your parents have set aside money for them as well, so you mustn't worry about that.'

She stared at her hands. ‘Matthew isn't coming home?'

‘That may change things, I admit. For the moment, you must live with them. Are you not interested in the sum your parents have set aside for you?'

She shook her head.

‘It is over a hundred thousand pounds. You will never need worry about money again.' He leant forward. ‘This is a very unique situation. Most families would set this money aside for the house. But this is yours.'

‘I don't want it. I'll give it to Matthew.'

He nodded. ‘You can do as you please, Miss Deerhurst. But I'd keep it for yourself. It is yours, after all. Life is long. You may need it. And one day you will have a husband, who might require it for his own house and family.'

‘I wish I could give it back. I want my mother.'

He patted her hand. ‘I know, Miss Deerhurst. But no use crying over spilt milk. Now, let us discuss the banking arrangements.'

She sat down in the Stoneythorpe parlour, looked at the portraits over the fireplace of Arthur, Michael, Emmeline, Celia. She'd always been too young to play properly with her cousins when she was smaller. Michael and Celia had sometimes let her join in with their games (Arthur and Emmeline seemed like grown-ups, so adult that they dizzied her), but after a while they'd grow weary of her, run off somewhere with Matthew.
Wait for me!
she'd shout, but they never heard.

She'd wanted to be Celia's friend most of all. She'd imagined herself telling the girls at school about her cousin Celia who was four years older than her! Celia might write to her and Louisa could show her letter around. They'd send each other little pictures and keepsakes, like toy dogs, a diary with a key.

But Celia and Michael only played with her when the other one wasn't around. When they finally did let her join in, she felt stupid, so much younger, not fast enough to run with them, not quick enough to understand the games they played. And she always had to go to bed so much earlier.

Once, she remembered, Celia had even sat on the stairs, telling their parents she would make sure Louisa didn't come down. She'd lain in bed under the summer light, listened to them laughing.

Now she was older, and she would surely be friends with Celia. She imagined Celia showing her around the house, describing how they had arranged things when it had been a hospital. They'd go on walks, just the two of them, maybe even ride. And after a while, they'd get the train to London together, look at the shops, perhaps go to the theatre. She smiled up at the portrait of Celia.
You've changed so much
, she imagined Celia saying.
You're a grown–up now
.

‘What shall I look at now?' she asked the Celia picture. She walked away, turned the handle of the glassy doors and let herself into the garden. The grass was wet on her boots. It didn't look like it had been cut recently. She walked towards the false river her mother had mocked so, dipped her hand into the muggy waters.

The long garden stretched in front of her, looking rather better, she thought, than it had done last time. The whole thing was divided by the long false river, topped off by a fountain at the very far end. Her mother had always laughed at Verena's ambitions to make a Versailles garden, but, Louisa had to admit, it had more life than Howe Hall's dreary hedges. At least there were flowers here. She reached a finger for a dirty spot on the window, traced it around. In only a few hours, she supposed, her aunt and cousin would return – perhaps Rudolf too. The whole lot of them would be asking her questions, talking about Mama, gazing at her with that soft look in their eyes, as everybody had at the funeral.

What was the point of it? she wondered, suddenly. Howe House had been the same. Why did you need all this land, if you only neglected it, let it overgrow? At home, there were great grounds, but no one there to see them. Surely, she thought, they could do something more useful with them. When Matthew came back, she decided, she'd speak to him and that was exactly what they'd do.

She walked along the river. It used to flow, back and forth, to the fountain. Rudolf had been very proud of it, said it rivalled the best engineering. Now it was stopped, stagnant. Dead fish lay face up, burning in the spring sun. She wondered how you'd mend it. Matthew would probably know, he'd be able to find the secret button you pressed to make it all start again. Her mother's voice billowed up in her head.
It would take more than pressing a button to make this place start again! My sister was always terrible with money
.

Louisa put her hand on the fountain, mossy, the carving worn down by rain. ‘Well, at least she's alive!' she said. ‘You were the one who died.' She felt the tears in her eyes, tried to brush them away. She walked on. At the end of the garden, there was an entrance
into a mossy dell, a place where Celia had always gone to think. Louisa had tried to follow her in, but Celia sent her away, once even standing in front of her so she had to turn back. She edged towards it. She knew, really, that she should wait for Celia to take her in. They'd link arms and laugh together about how Celia would never let her before. Celia would say how she was sorry for always sending Louisa away and Louisa would squeeze her arm, say it didn't matter, really, it didn't.

She cut into the dell. It was just as she'd remembered it, the willow tree overhanging the pond, the stones dotted with flowers. When Celia had sent her away, Louisa used to hide behind the wall and listen. So she knew that Celia thought it a place where fairies lived, she even talked to them, closing her eyes and pretending she saw them. Louisa edged around and went to sit on the stone that was Celia's favourite, gathering up her skirts out of the way of the damp grass. The willow edged so low that she could touch it; she pulled it towards her, rubbed her face on the leaves.

‘Well, hello, stranger,' said a voice.

She jerked her head up and saw a tall man, standing against the sun near the wall. ‘You don't look like anyone I know. Are you a friend of Celia's? You'd be the first friend of hers ever here, frankly, if you were.'

She shook her head.

‘Well, you don't look much like a maid. Or a neighbour. You're far too pretty.' He jumped down and swung himself under the tree, so he was standing right next to her. Now he was so close, she could see he was actually extraordinarily good-looking, with thick dark hair and dark eyes, a chiselled face. He looked like something out of a magazine, advertising a holiday to France or new coats.

‘I shall have to guess again.' He held up his hand. ‘I've got it! You're a foreign princess, just arrived from overseas and paying a visit to our garden. But you need to
prove
yourself a princess.' He raised an eyebrow. ‘We could put you to bed with a pea, if you liked.' He threw back his head, laughed. The sound rang out across the trees.

Then she realised – she'd heard that laugh before. ‘You're Arthur!' she said, delightedly. ‘I didn't recognise you.'

He was still craning over her. ‘I certainly am. I am most honoured to be recognised by a foreign princess. My fame has clearly spread.' He held out his hand.

She grinned. ‘I'm Louisa. Your cousin. Don't you remember?'

He stopped, shook his head a little, like a dog shaking off water after being in the sea. ‘Why, of course! Of course you are!'

She smiled. ‘I am come to live with you.'

He nodded. ‘So my mother said. I had forgotten.' He looked, she thought, quite honest. And yet she felt sure that he'd known; all that princess stuff had just been a joke. The shaking of the head hadn't been quite right, made up.

‘Did you just arrive?' he said. ‘They've all gone out. I think they were expecting you later.'