The Novel in the Viola (12 page)

‘I’m Christopher. Christopher Rivers. Though everyone calls me Kit.’

I looked at him in surprise. ‘But you’re not supposing to be coming till Thursday.’

‘Well, it’s Tuesday and here I am.’

‘Mr Wrexham will be being most annoyed. He is liking to be prepared.’

‘Wrexham is always annoyed. He was born cross. And goodness, your English really is dreadful.’

I shot him a furious glance, picked up my books and scrambled to my feet. He caught my wrist and tried to draw me back down. I wrenched my arm away from him, to my shame feeling tears prick my eyes.

‘Let me go! Stop you.’

‘I’m sorry. I’m only teasing. Honestly. I’m a bit of an idiot. Really didn’t want to upset you. Here.’

He offered me a dirty handkerchief. I looked at it in disgust and he shoved it back into his pocket.

‘See? Told you I was an idiot.’

I found myself repressing a smile. His hair fell across his eyes, and there was a large hole in the elbow of his navy sweater, which was rather endearing. Although, I suspected, he would not be short of girls eager to darn his sweaters, socks or anything else.

‘You’re working up at the big house?’

‘Yes. I am Elise Landau. New house parlour maid.’

He fumbled inside his pocket and produced a damp packet of cigarettes. He placed one between his lips, and offered me another. I shook my head. Anna did not approve of young men smoking, especially before four in the afternoon. I tried to disapprove of Kit.

‘Ah, yes.
Elise.
I know all about you. You’re from Vienna. And I’m sorry to say, you’re terrible at polishing silver. Oh, yes, and your father is the rather serious novelist Julian Landau.’

I stared at him in surprise, and he preened, clearly gratified by my reaction. I must learn to disappoint him. And it was all true – only the day before Mrs Ellsworth had reprimanded me for leaving polish residue on the silver and not buffing the spoons.

‘You’ve read my father’s books?’

Kit tried to light his cigarette. The matchbox was soggy and he tried several times before he finally discarded the sodden box and struck the match against a rock.

‘No. I’m afraid I haven’t. Though, now of course, I must.’ He exhaled a puff of smoke. ‘My father is an avid reader. And since he only reads very earnest, and I’m sorry to say, rather dull books, I must therefore deduce that your father’s books are . . . serious.’

‘They are most serious. And also . . .’ I reached for the dictionary and thumbed through the pages, while Kit watched, ‘profound.’

‘Profound? Oh, well, in that case I rescind my offer to read them. The
Racing Post
is as profound as I can manage.’

I laughed. ‘You are not so stupid. I am very sure.’

‘Not stupid, Elise. Idle.’

He leant back on his elbows in an elegant sprawl, and I found myself wishing my hair were still long. I felt awkward beside this English man-boy. Not wanting to seem childish, I sat back down, maintaining my careful distance. He pointed at the cliffs behind us – sandy brown and heather cropped. Tufts of coarse grass and purple thistle sprouted amongst the crumbling rock face. ‘This is Worbarrow Bay. And that snout-shaped rock just there is the Tout.’ Then he gestured to the sweeping curve of the beach, curling for a mile to a precipitous cliff of jagged yellow stone, which bookended the bay. He wriggled upright a little more and leant closer to me, so that I could follow the tip of his finger. ‘And that is Flower’s Barrow.’

I squinted, the round disc of the sun dazzling my vision, and saw a stark outline of rock on the pinnacle of the hill towering above the sea. Running back from it were grass ridges cut in sprawling rows, all trailing down the slope and back towards Tyneford. Kit closed his eyes and lay flat on the pebbles. ‘Yes, you need a tour guide. And someone to teach you proper English.’

I scowled at his audacity. ‘I have dictionary. And books to learn me.’

‘Oh yes? What books?’

I pulled out the battered paperback from inside the dictionary and handed it to him, daring him to laugh. Kit opened one eye and studied the first instalment of the
Forsyte Saga
with a serious expression, and returned it to me, giving a helpless shrug.

‘Well, you’re quite right, Elise. I can’t do better than that – the first family of England is not the Windsors but the Forsytes. I think we ought to read together.’

I looked at him, trying to discern whether he was teasing, but he shot me an easy smile. Only this morning, I had been silently bemoaning my loneliness and poor English. Lessons with Kit sounded fun.

‘Yes. Very well, Mr Rivers.’

He rolled his eyes. ‘My father is Mr Rivers. I told you, I’m Kit. Anyway, I’m going to call you Elise, although I must admit “Fraulein Landau” has a lovely ring to it. Stern and exotic all at once.’

I giggled and held up the book. ‘Who is to read him first?’

‘It. Not him. And I’ve read it. You shall read the adventures of the beautiful Irene and the dastardly Soames tonight and we’ll discuss tomorrow.’

As I gathered up my books, I dropped my chocolate bars onto the ground. Kit rolled his eyes.

‘Can’t eat all of those. Give yourself a bellyache.’

I shrugged and stuffed them into my pocket, suddenly not wanting them at all. ‘I must be travelling back to the house.’

Kit yawned, stretched and stood, offering me his hand and when I took it, he hauled me to my feet. ‘I’ll walk with you,’ he said, and I found to my surprise I was glad.

We strolled past the pair of stone cottages, the old man still busy with his lobster pots. The space outside his hut was littered with nets, some tangled and torn waiting to be mended, others neatly folded. Kit waved to him.

‘Morning, Burt.’

The old man looked up from his broken lobster pot and grinned at us.

‘Mornin’, Mister Kit.’ Comin’ boatin’ soon?’

‘Course. This afternoon if the weather holds.’

Burt shook his head. ‘Nope. Rain comin’ in later. Jist after luncheon’s my guess. Tomorrow’ll be fine. But Sunday’s best.’ He winked, and grinned at Kit showing a mouthful of bare gums, brown and pink like an earthworm. ‘Yup. Sunday’s the day. I can feel it.’

Kit studied the old man, appearing to read something in his expression. He thrust his hands in his pockets, and gave a curt nod, as though to mark he understood. ‘Sunday then. And I’ll bring Elise.’

‘Righty ho.’

Burt bent his head back over his pots and we continued up the lane. The muddy surface was drying in the sunshine, and cloudy puddles formed in the dips.

‘Did you recognise him?’ asked Kit.

I frowned. ‘He is seeming familiar but I cannot think . . .’

Kit laughed. ‘He’s Burt Wrexham. Wrexham the butler’s elder brother.’

I thought about the two men and suddenly realised the likeness between them was striking: they could almost be twins. ‘But they sound so different. Were they both birthed in Tyneford?’

‘Yes, both born and bred here, sons of Dick the fisherman and Rose Wrexham – I suppose that made Rose a fishwife.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘They called their first son Burt, but Rose insisted on calling their second son Digby. Don’t know why. Rumour has it that Lord Digby did her a kindness, picked her up in his coach when she was pregnant and walking back from market or something. Nonsense probably. But people here believe that the name Digby gave the younger Wrexham boy airs and graces. Aspirations above his station.’

I gave Kit a suspicious look.

‘Oh, I’m permitted airs and graces. I’m a son and heir, you know.’

He held up his hands in mock surrender, giving me an innocent smile, before he paused to light another cigarette, puffing smoke happily into the breeze. ‘Anyway, Digby Wrexham vanished from Tyneford on his thirteenth birthday – day he was supposed to be apprenticed to his dad. All Wrexham men are fishermen. But he came back five years later with no trace of his Tyneford accent and knocked on my grandfather’s door and asked for a position as upper footman.’

I tried to imagine Mr Wrexham growing up in the tiny hut on the beach and running away so he wouldn’t have to become a fisherman. I couldn’t really understand it. Burt exuded contentment as he pottered in the sunshine, surrounded by his nets.

‘He still goes fishing with Burt on his afternoon.’

I pictured Mr Wrexham perched at the bow of the small rowing boat in his black coat and tails, like an oversized seasick crow, and giggled.

We walked along the lime avenue and into the empty stable yard. The cobbles were almost dry, although a dribble of water trickled out of the pump and sluiced between the stones, forming a miniature river system.

‘Wait,’ said Kit, catching my arm. ‘Your cap.’

I stood quite still as he adjusted my white maid’s cap, squaring it neatly on my head. He brushed down my apron and picked a burr from my sleeve.

‘There. Now Flo won’t complain.’

‘Flo?’

‘Mrs Florence Ellsworth. Although I wouldn’t recommend that you try calling her that.’

As I scurried through the back door and along the servants’ corridor, I could hear Kit shouting after me, ‘Hurry up and read about the Forsytes. Then we can start our English lessons.’

I raced up the stairs to my room under the eaves, shoving the books onto the dresser, and smiled for the first time in several days.

As I suspected, Mr Wrexham was exceedingly put out by Kit’s unanticipated arrival. He was fully prepared for Kit’s disembarking the 11:43 train from Basingstoke on Thursday morning. Art had been told to prepare the car; the appropriate brand of cigarette had been sent from London, the
Racing Post
had been ordered into stock at the general store, and additional marmalade taken down from the high shelves in the pantry. However, May was in the middle of washing the curtains in Kit’s room, and presently they lay draped all around the scullery and laundry, and the room was not ready. If he had been able, Mr Wrexham would have reproached Kit, but since he could not, he made do with scolding me. He somehow connected Kit’s early arrival with me, and though he could not quite deduce why, I was deemed responsible.

‘These things should not happen. How is a butler to be prepared in such circumstance? And with such a small staff. It’s not to be borne. Not to be borne.’

All my work was found to be at fault: the knives were dirty, the mirrors smeared and the fires did not draw properly. Mr Wrexham was so dissatisfied with my duties that he banned me from serving at dinner, a dishonour he was certain I must feel keenly. ‘Go upstairs to bed early tonight, girl. Study your English and let us try to do better tomorrow.’

That night I lay on my bed watching the evening sky turn orange, then black, and wondered if I was disappointed to be banished from dinner. I was grateful to have another hour of freedom; usually I crept into bed wanting nothing but sleep. Yet I experienced a pang of disappointment at the thought that I would not see Kit again until tomorrow. And perhaps not even then: I knew from watching Anna’s operas that foreign gentlemen were inevitably fickle and not to be trusted. And yet, life at Tyneford already seemed less awful than it had that very morning when I had raged at the sea. When I thought of Kit, I felt a fulsome glow in my belly, as though I had eaten a large helping of Hildegard’s goulash and dumpling stew.

CHAPTER TEN

Fish and a rose-patterned teacup

Kit’s presence seemed to breathe life into the old house. Everyone woke up: the daily housemaids dusted each nook with fanatical care, humming as they rubbed beeswax onto the stone floors or beat the ancient rugs with hazel brooms. It was as though the manor and its inhabitants had been covered with an invisible dustsheet and Kit had shaken it off. The scent of Mrs Ellsworth’s baking pervaded the service corridor and wafted into the musty hall. Mr Wrexham retreated into a dark pantry that I hadn’t known existed, and began to fill cauldrons with water pulled from the spring in the kitchen garden. He appeared to have forgiven Kit his premature arrival as first thing after breakfast the pair disappeared into this pantry. Sounds of bubbling emitted from behind the closed door, while sweet yeast-filled steam trickled from underneath the seam. Even May seemed less resentful of my presence, going as far as to offer me a humbug from a newspaper twist.

I did not speak to Kit again until Saturday. During the week I tried to linger outside the pantry, waiting for him to emerge but Mrs Ellsworth pounced, hurrying me away with a list of chores as endless as Penelope’s web. Every moment was occupied with tasks and Mr Wrexham did not choose to reinstate my privilege of waiting at the dinner table. But on Saturday morning, as I cleaned the sitting room windows, I glimpsed Kit pacing on the lawns with his father, their heads bowed in earnest conversation. Deliberately ignoring Mrs Ellsworth’s instructions to withdraw from view, I watched the two men. Mr Rivers’ face was grey and he looked tired and unhappy. Kit turned away from his father, his expression blank and unreadable. He saw me watching from the window and met my gaze for a second, before walking back towards the house. I continued to stare, cleaning forgotten, as Mr Rivers paced upon the grass, and then disappeared down the path leading to the sea. It occurred to me that Mr Rivers was the only member of the household apparently unmoved by Kit’s arrival. The porch door banged, and a second later Kit himself appeared in the sitting room, treading damp footprints across the polished floor. I frowned, ready to reproach him and then remembering my place, bit my lip, but he must have seen my look of displeasure. ‘Sorry. I’ll take them off.’

I stared at him, saying nothing as he sat down in the middle of the floor and removed his shoes. He padded across the room in his socks to where I stood beside the windows clutching my rag and, opening the glass wide, threw out his shoes so that they sailed through the air, landing on the lawn with a thud-thud. He slammed shut the casement.

‘There. I’m sorry.’

He smiled warmly, eyes blue and beseeching. ‘Did you meet the Forsytes?’

It took me a moment to realise that he meant the paperback novel hidden beneath my pillow.