The Lost Ancestor (8 page)

Mary entered Lord Rothborne’s bedroom,
closed the door behind her and smiled.  The size and layout of the room
was comparable to Lady Rothborne’s, yet somehow it struck her as definitely
belonging to a man.  The wallpaper, carpets and curtains all exuded
masculinity.  She approached the bed and ran a finger over the crisp,
pristine pillow.  Unlike Edward’s inferior bed, there was no revealing
indentation.  Unable to help herself, Mary lowered her face down onto the
pillow and closed her eyes.  Over the sterile scent of fresh laundry, she
could detect the faintest whiff of an expensive cologne.  Never in her
most fanciful childhood dreams did she imagine such intimacy with Lord Mansfield,
Earl of Rothborne. 
Cecil. 
For just that single moment, they
were together.  Mary took a long, deep breath, yearning to hold the
fragment of his smell inside her for as long as possible, then stood and
returned to herself: Mary Mercer, third housemaid of Blackfriars.  She
turned down the bed, added logs to the fire, refilled a jug of water and
brought in a hot can of water.  She did her duty, took one last longing
look into the bedroom, then moved on.

When, at last, Mary climbed the ninety-six
stairs for the last time that day and fell into bed, sleep would not
come.  Clara had fallen asleep the moment she had crawled under the
blankets, but for Mary, the emotion and difficulty of her first day plagued
her.  It had, without doubt, been the toughest day of her life; every
muscle, every joint, every bone throbbed with pain.  Her mother’s words
and a flashback of a visit to see her granny in the Rye workhouse filled her
mind.  Now she understood why Granny, spirit and body broken, was dead and
buried in a pauper’s grave at the age of sixty-two.

The chunks of willow in the grate had all
but disappeared when sleep finally came for Mary.  She had cried for what
seemed to her like an eternity: she cried for the pain in her body; she cried
for her granny; she cried for her sister, Edie; she cried for the life she
wanted; but most of all, she cried for the life to which she had given herself
over.

Wednesday
18
^th
January 1911

Mary’s
first half-day off had finally arrived.  She was granted half a day in the
previous two weeks but, under pressure from Clara and Eliza, decided to spend
it on needlework practice which, as far as Mary was concerned, had made no
difference at all to her inability to stitch.

It was one o’clock, just when the rest of
the servants would be settling down for lunch, when Mary Mercer flung open the
kitchen door and bound out into the fresh air.

‘
Eh!  Ferme la porte
!’
Monsieur Bastion called after her.

Mary gasped at the air like a miner who
had been trapped underground for weeks on end.  At last, she was free,
albeit for just half a day.  She didn’t need to be back until nine o’clock
and she intended to make the most of every single second.  She hoped to
goodness that her letter to Edie had arrived on time, giving warning of her
imminent visit.  Maybe they could go for a long walk together.  There
might even be time to get a ride into Rye for the afternoon.

The pervading snows had now completely
vanished, leaving no trace of ever having been, and today, the sun shone
brightly.  As Mary hurried up the back path from Blackfriars towards her
home, she looked out at the beautiful sun’s rays, illuminating the manicured
lawns and the orchard around the ruined abbey in the distance.  She was so
happy to be free that she felt sure that the sun was shining just for her.

Mary ran the final few yards, wanting to
spend as much of her precious time at home as possible.  She quietly
pushed open the front door, wanting to surprise her mother and Edie.  Her
father would likely be out at work but she hoped to see him at teatime. 
Tiptoeing silently into the passageway, Mary closed the door without a sound
and peered into the sitting-room: empty.  She crept along the short
hallway to the back of the house and opened the kitchen door.  To her
surprise, she found her father eating lunch at the kitchen table with her
mother and Edie.

‘Surprise!’ Mary cried, bursting into the
room.

‘Oh my godfathers, you scared the living
daylights out of me!’ her mother said with a smile.  She stood and hugged
Mary.

Over her mother’s shoulder, Edie looked
up, briefly met Mary’s eyes, then flicked her gaze to meet their father’s eyes:
Mary was perturbed by the conspiratorial look that passed between them. 
Her mother, as if sensing that Mary wasn’t about to receive the same welcome
from Edie and her father, kept her held in a tight embrace.  Letting her
arms fall limply to her side, Mary let go and was waiting for either her sister
or father to look back at her.  Finally, her mother released her grip.

‘Sit down, Mary dear, there’s tea in the
pot.  Thomas, fetch Mary a cup,’ her mother said.  ‘We’ve had some
very sad news reach us.’

‘What’s happened?’ Mary asked.

‘It’s Caroline’s William: he’s dead from
consumption.’

‘Oh,’ was all Mary could think to
say.  She barely knew William but was mightily grateful that he had taken
her horrible sister all the way to live in Bristol.  She hoped that this
didn’t mean Caroline would be making a return.  ‘Is Caroline coming back?’

Her mother shook her head.  ‘I don’t
know—it’s too soon to say,’ she said, pouring Mary a cup of tea.  ‘I’m
minded to go and stay with her a few days, but your dad’s not keen on the
idea.’

‘Who’s paying for you to get there, then?’
he barked.  ‘Better that she comes home here if anything.’

‘We’ll see,’ her mother said.  She
smiled and changed the subject.  ‘Will you be wanting some food? 
There isn’t much, but you’re welcome.’

Mary glanced at the bare plates on the
table.  Her family were existing on scraps of bread and the merest sliver
of butter between them.  Her father’s presence at the lunch table usually
meant no work, which meant no money.  As hungry as she felt, she couldn’t
possibly take their food.  ‘No, no lunch for me, thank you—I’ve already
eaten.’

Her father snorted and mumbled, ‘Bet you
have, some fancy three-course meal or other, I shouldn’t wonder.’

Mary knew what might cheer her
father.  She reached into her bag and pulled out a handful of money—it was
every penny she had earned so far at Blackfriars.  She placed it on the
table in front of him.

‘It’s my wages so far—’ Mary began. 
She stopped mid-sentence when her father reached up, snatched the money from
the table and pocketed it without so much as looking up.

‘Thank you, Mary,’ her mother mouthed
softly.

Edie finished her last mouthful of bread,
stood up and left the room.  Mary hurried after her.  ‘Wait, Edie!’
she called, chasing after her sister.  Edie continued up the stairs and
into their shared bedroom without so much as a glance back at her twin.

Edie stood defiantly at the window, her
shoulders dramatically surging up and down with every angry breath.  ‘Just
go away!’ Edie cried.  ‘Go back to Blackfriars; I don’t want you here.’

‘Please talk to me, Edie,’ Mary pleaded,
reaching out to touch her sister’s hand.  ‘I hate the job and I wish to
goodness that I hadn’t taken it from you.  One of the reasons I came home
today was to beg you to go back there tonight instead of me; they’d take you on
in a flash.  I’m terrible at being a third housemaid.’

Edith turned to face her sister, her
raging eyes red and watery.  Her jaw was clenched and a small purple vein
throbbed at her left temple.  ‘Oh, it’s alright for me now, is it? 
Have you got something much better, then?  I heard you and Mum talking about
how the job was alright for me but you’re capable of so much more.  Maybe
you’re not so clever, then, if you can’t even be a third housemaid.’

‘Please, Edie,’ Mary said quietly.

‘I don’t want the wretched job.  I
don’t want anything from you ever again.’

‘Edie, please…’

‘Just go!’ Edith yelled.

The gentle groaning of the wooden
floorboards in the hallway made the girls switch their attention to the door,
both realising that the outcome of their argument rested with whichever parent
was standing at the top of the stairs.  It was their father; Mary had lost
the battle and no more words were needed.

‘Think it’s time you went back to
Blackfriars,’ her father said.

Mary knew from the tone of his voice that
it was not a suggestion but a command and that the slightest rebuttal on her
part would result in a violent outburst.  As she had done on so many prior
occasions, Mary conceded defeat, pushed past her father, down the stairs and
straight out the front door.  She desperately wanted to hug her mother,
but she knew that remaining in the house a minute longer would make her
mother’s life a misery for the next month.

Mary maintained her composure as she
walked from the house towards the gates of Blackfriars.  She was fully
aware that she had the entire afternoon and most of the evening to herself, yet
the gravel path to Blackfriars drew her back in.  Somehow, it seemed the
only logical and sensible place to go.  The moment that she crossed into
the estate, every angry, incredulous word that she had just suppressed, every spiteful
glance between her father and sister and every angry rejection from home flowed
out of her as hot tears.

Without having consciously gone there,
Mary found herself sitting in the ruins of the ancient abbey.  There was
now little to see of the former complex, razed to the ground by the Reformation
in 1558.  One solitary three-arched wall and another perpendicular flint
wall were all that remained, having defied history and the elements for
hundreds of years.  It was to here that Mary and Edith would sneak as children,
providing them as it did with cover from the house, before scrumping for apples
and pears in the nearby orchards.  Mary sank down with her back to the
wall and, knowing that she was protected from view from prying eyes from the
house, allowed herself to cry and cry.  Since starting work at
Blackfriars, Mary had never cried as much in her entire life.  Each and
every night when she went to bed, the woes and anxieties from the day
manifested themselves as tears.  Most recently, she wept for the fanciful
relationship that she now knew that she would never have with Lord
Rothborne.  Four days ago, her childish fantasies had been dropped like a
delicate glass vase onto a marble floor, smashing into a thousand pieces. 
Mary had been working in Cecil’s bedroom, as she had managed to do each day
since starting.  She had always wangled it so that it was she who prepared
his room.  She had diligently cleaned the fire grate and restocked it with
the best seasoned wood that she could find, swept his floor and dusted his
furniture before saving the best part for last: Cecil’s bed.  She had
carefully washed her hands prior to touching the soft sheets, then pulled them
back ready to be turned down.  As she had done on each occasion, Mary had
laid her head on his pillow, closed her eyes and imagined that he had invited
her into his bed.  In her mind, he was asleep next to her, tenderly
breathing on the nape of her neck.  Mary had then dared to pull her legs
up into the bed and, even through her coarse uniform, she could feel the
softness of the sheets, which Clara had told her were made from the finest
Egyptian cotton.  All of her childhood dreams had come rushing back into
her mind, as though a dam had suddenly burst.  All things for which Edie
had mocked her. 
Now look at me, Edith Mercer!
Mary had
thought. 
You’re moping at home with Father and here I’m in Lord
Rothborne’s bed!

With a gloating smile, Mary had opened her
eyes.  In the doorway stood Lord Rothborne, Mrs Cuff, Clara and
Eliza.  Horrified, Mary fell out of the bed onto the floor, gasping at
various words to try and formulate a sentence which might justify what she had
been doing.

‘Out.  Now,’ Mrs Cuff had barked.

Mary, still unable to speak, had regained
her exterior composure, while the inside of her mind raced and jerked
manically, unable to hold a single thread of thought.  As her heart
pounded inside her chest, she had walked calmly towards the door, her eyes
following the contours of a lavish Turkish rug on the floor.  Despite all
that had happened, a small part of her had still believed that Cecil would
smile, reach out and take her in his arms, dismissing the other servants.

At the last second, Mary had thrown her
head up to look him square in the face.  He was stood in a core of light,
as if illuminated by God Himself.  She saw his beautiful boyish face and
striking dark red hair up close for the first time since 1902.  She had
locked onto his pale blue eyes.  A tiny gasp of breath had escaped when
what she saw shocked her, like a knife to the heart.  There was nothing
there.  Not even simple affection.  His eyes had reflected repugnance
and repulsion, as he had looked her up and down as though she were a dirty
street vagrant.

Mary’s eyes had fallen to the floor as she
left the room in disgrace.  A wave of nausea had rippled through her body,
biting at her stomach as the realisation that they would never be together came
crashing down upon her.

A faint shadow passed across the ground in
front of Mary, jolting her back to the present.  She turned and stared
towards the sunlit silhouette of a male figure.  Despite all that had
happened, a small part of Mary wondered if, at last, Cecil had come for
her.  Come to make amends.  Come to take her away.  Come to make
her his.  Yet, she knew it was not true.  She recognised the shadowed
form.

‘Mary, what’s the matter?  What are
you doing here?’  It was Edward’s voice. 

Mary wiped her eyes on her sleeve. 
‘Nothing.  Resting.’

Edward stepped out of the sunlight and
crouched down beside her, placing his hand on her wild red hair.  ‘Why
didn’t you go home?  It’s your afternoon off.’

The softness of his touch and the
sentiment in his voice sent a fresh torrent of emotion flooding out.  She
fell, like a weak child, into his arms.

Edward carefully placed his hands under
her elbows and pulled her towards him.

Mary allowed Edward’s gentle hands to
guide her up.  As she stood, any pretences of grandeur fell away and she
returned to being Mary Mercer, a bashful seventeen-year-old girl.  She
looked into Edward’s dark eyes and saw a fragment of what she knew he could see
emanating from hers.  She stood, frozen to the spot by a burgeoning
feeling inside which set her heart beating faster, his eyes exerting total
control over her.

Edward leant in and kissed Mary lightly on
the lips.  The spell was broken.

‘Don’t,’ Mary said, taking a step
backwards.  ‘We can’t.’

Edward’s brow furrowed and his grip on her
arms tightened.  ‘What’s the matter?’

Mary turned, freeing herself from his
hold.  ‘It’s Edie.’

‘What about Edie?’  A few seconds of
silence passed between them before Edward repositioned himself in front of
her.  ‘What about Edie?’ he repeated.

Mary’s eyes returned to his.  ‘She
likes you and she thinks you like her back.’

‘What?  Where has that come from?’

Mary shrugged.