The Novel in the Viola (20 page)

‘Come on,’ said Kit, taking my hand and leading me into the throng.

I had never danced with Kit before, never would again. I stiffened as he clasped my waist with his left hand, and pulled me into a firm hold. He smiled down at me.

‘Thought I’d lead? That all right with you?’

I was not an excellent dancer, but every Viennese girl can waltz just as sparrows can fly. I ignored the other dancers and moved with Kit. Rise and fall. Rise and fall. Glide and turn. Whispers behind me. The other couples began to notice that two men were dancing together. The girl in blue missed a beat. Her partner slowed. Only look at Kit. Rise and fall. And turn. He swept me round. Where was Diana? She needed to see. Couples fell back against the wall and watched us with a hiss of disapproval.
That’s not a man, it’s a girl.
And turn. Glide and sweep.
Isn’t that the maid?
Kit dipped me in his arms.
I hear she’s from Vienna.
Rise and fall.
Maid or Jew whore?
He held me close.

‘It was called the “wicked dance”, you know,’ he whispered.

‘And was banned in London.’

‘Indeed. A waltz is supposed to be shocking.’

I saw our reflection in the long hall mirror as we sashayed past, two slim figures in black and white: Kit tall, golden head shining in the candlelight and me, small beside him, with dark hair and darker eyes. I glimpsed Diana standing at the foot of the stairs in a clean taffeta gown. She stared at us, lip curled in revulsion. I smiled at her, warm in Kit’s arms. I heard the crack of breaking glass, as Kit stepped on a discarded champagne flute. It shattered and I skidded, the sole of my shoe sliding over the shards. Broken glass in the temple. Sorrow. Always remember the sadness. No joy without sorrow
.
We surged forwards on the music. I closed my eyes. Breaking glass. Kit’s birthday and the temples are burning.
Kit was speaking softly in my ear, but I had not heard him. Instead I listened to the echo of breaking glass.

‘I think we should shock them a little more,’ he said, loudly this time.

He dipped me again and as I leant back in his arms, he kissed me. For a moment I forgot Diana, the murmurs of disapproval and let him kiss me. He tasted of brandy and cigarettes.

‘Let her go.’

I felt a hand on my shoulder. I opened my eyes. Mr Rivers stood beside us, eyes black with anger.

‘What have you done?’

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The end of us all

We stood in the library before Mr Rivers. From the other side of the door came the swell of chatter, a collective murmur of disapproval. The curtains were open and I could see the reflection of our pale faces in the windowpane. Outside, the last of the candles on the lawn puffed out and the garden vanished into darkness.

‘You can’t speak to me like that anymore. I’m twenty-one,’ said Kit, angrier than I had ever seen him.

‘Only a boy would do something so foolish.’

Mr Rivers paced up and down before the window, hands folded behind his back.

‘You can’t dress up the housemaid in men’s clothes in front of half the girls in the county set. This isn’t some cabaret or a pansy club. You’ve made a fool out of yourself.’

‘It was fun. A piece of fun,’ said Kit, shouting.

‘No. You wanted to poke fun at them. Shock them. Make them think that you were “one of those”. You invited half of the county to a party and then insulted them.’

Mr Rivers turned to me, his voice cold. ‘I don’t know what it is like in Vienna but in England amongst polite society young ladies do not dress up as boys outside of the pantomime.’

I thought of Anna dressed in breeches as Cherubino, her hair looped up in a boyish bob. But that was Mozart, not real life. Julian always said that Mozart was music hall for intellectuals.

Mr Rivers shook his head, words faltering in disbelief and looked back at Kit. ‘Why did you kiss her? And in front of all the society girls.’

Kit met his father’s eye, defiant. ‘Because I wanted to.’

I was not sure which made Mr Rivers angrier: the fact that Kit had kissed me or that he had done it before the county. He paced up and down on the worn Persian rug, pausing beside me.

‘How can I possibly fail to dismiss you after this?’

I shook my head and sat down on the wooden steps propped against the bookcase. The black tie choked me and I felt ridiculous. I wanted nothing more than to change back into my itchy maid’s uniform. Even the white cap and apron would be a relief.

‘No. It’s my fault. I asked her to do it,’ said Kit.

‘She can’t stay,’ replied his father. ‘Mr Wrexham and Mrs Ellsworth will demand her dismissal.’

‘Whose house is it? Yours or theirs?’

Kit was so angry that bright red marks appeared on each cheek.

‘My house, Kit. Until I die, it’s my house.’ Mr Rivers took a breath, trying to calm himself. ‘I have to think of the good of the household. What’s best for you. Your reputation.’

‘Don’t bother about me. What about Elise?’

‘I can find her a suitable position elsewhere.’

Despite all Mr Rivers’ kindness and attentions, I was still just the maid – whatever I used to be. My head throbbed. Sharp fingers of pain jabbed in my temples. As I remembered the brandy and the wine and the champagne, a sick feeling churned in my stomach. What had I done? Above Mr Rivers was a row of books with
Julian Landau
inscribed in gold letters along the spine. I felt that it was my father himself gazing down upon me, his face sagging with disappointment.

‘Please. I shall go. I knew it was wrong. I leave.’ Under the stress my English disintegrated. My voice choked and I swallowed a sob. Kit crouched beside me, and tried to take my hand.

‘No. No.’

I shook him off, refusing to look at him. ‘Don’t do this,’ said Kit, his face contorting with unhappiness.

I looked past him to his father. Mr Rivers stood with his back to me, his shoulders stiff with fury. He said nothing.

‘Good night, Kit. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, Mr Rivers. I told you I was a terrible maid. I really am very sorry.’

The French doors were open to the night, and I slipped outside and into the darkness.

Tears streaking my cheeks, I sprinted across the black lawns and down the steps leading to the cliff path. As I drew closer to the water, my sobs were drowned out by the smash of the sea. Why hadn’t Kit followed me? He was supposed to pursue me into the night and plead with me to stay. Instead, I was alone. I shuddered and slowed as I reached the edge of the cliff. Beneath, the sea boomed and foamed, flecks of salt spray pounding against the chalk. A few hundred yards away a yellow light winked in the dark. The bungalow above the cliff. Poppy. I would go to Poppy. I started to run.

On reaching the house, I banged on the door, hoping that she would answer and not one of her aunts. There was a flicker of light and then a girlish figure in a white dressing gown appeared on the porch. I licked saltwater from my lips.

‘I saw what you did. Oh, Elise.’

I scowled and dug the tip of my nail into the fleshy part of my thumb; I would not let her see me cry. ‘May I stay here, tonight?’

‘Of course.’

Inside, she ushered me to a small bedroom overlooking the beach and handed me a clean nightdress and a bar of soap.

‘Try to sleep. We can talk in the morning.’

I remember that after she left, I stood for a while in the darkness clutching the bundle she’d given me. Eventually, I curled up on the bed, closed my eyes and listened to the rhythmic sound of the waves rumbling on the beach below. Now writing so many years later, I am tempted to ease into a different story. I take a sip of coffee and imagine a story where instead of lying hot and sleepless, I run down to the shore. I take out
The
Lugger,
haul her along the pebbled shore and into the surf. I know how to raise the sail and use the oar to push off the beach. Under the light of the moon, I sail across the wide sea. Sail to France. Sail to Anna and Julian. I arrive in Vienna in the silent dark, drifting up the Danube, a ribbon of black silk. They are waiting on the shore, called down to the river by their dreams, and together we sail away. We float across the ocean to New York – and Margot – and arrive at the Statue of Liberty in our handkerchief sailboat in the rose-red dawn and no one turns us away. It is the storyteller’s prerogative to try to write, every now and then, the ending she might wish for. Even if it exists only on the white page.

I awoke to knocking on the window. The curtains were open and in the half-light of daybreak I saw Kit. I threw off the covers and waving at him to be quiet, slipped out of the bedroom. Doing my best not to disturb Poppy or her aunts, I crept out of the front door. He was waiting for me in the patch of scrub that passed for the garden of the bungalow.

‘I’ve come to—’ he said.

I put my finger to his lips and led him further from the house. In the midst of my disgrace, I did not wish to wake the others. I wore only Poppy’s white nightgown, and the sand was cold beneath my bare toes. I wrapped my arms around myself and shivered.

‘Everything’s all right. You can go back,’ said Kit. ‘I’ve spoken to Father and you can go back.’

I shook my head. ‘No. I can’t. I have to leave.’

Kit looked exhausted. There were blue shadows beneath his eyes. He had changed into pale brown slacks and a navy sweater but I suspected he had not been to bed.

‘After lunch I’m going to hitch a lift up to Cambridge,’ he said, trying to make me look at him.

I said nothing, and traced patterns in the sand with my toe.

‘I’ve spoken with Father. You can go back. When I’m gone,’ he added.

‘It’s not fair, Kit. It’s my fault. You shouldn’t have to go.’

He chuckled. ‘It was my idea. My birthday present.’

I swallowed and carried on making loops on the ground with my foot. I sighed. He needed to know the truth, even if he never spoke to me again. ‘That’s not why I did it, Kit. I did it because of Diana. She stole my mother’s dress and ruined it. And I was angry with her. And I did it to spite her. It wasn’t because of you at all.’

Kit ran a hand through his hair. It stuck up around his ears like strands of golden straw.

‘You let me kiss you because of Diana?’

‘Yes.’

He took a step closer. His eyes were angry now, pupils spreading into the iris like ink into blotting paper. He grabbed my shoulders, his hands warm on my bare skin.

‘You’re hurting me,’ I said.

I tried to wriggle away but he held me firm.

‘Because of Diana. Nothing else.’

‘I told you. Yes.’

Instead of letting me go, he bent down and kissed me. The coarse stubble on his chin grazed my cheek. His lips tasted of cigarettes and salt, like he’d been walking along the beach. His mouth was warm and soft and then I was kissing him and thinking of Margot and Robert always kissing in the corner of the drawing room at evening parties with me wondering why do they do that, it’s so very rude, and then I thought now I understand and then I wasn’t thinking anything at all except let him keep on kissing me oh keep on kissing me. He drew away and cupped my chin with both hands.

‘Just Diana, then,’ he said, smile twitching.

I touched my mouth with my fingertips and blinked, too surprised to speak.

‘Goodbye, Elise,’ he said, taking my hand. ‘I hope you hear good news from your parents.’

He leant forward and placed another kiss on my lips. Then he turned and walked away along the cliff path leading back to the big house.

I woke up several hours later, with Poppy sitting on the edge of my bed, holding out a cup of tea. I jolted upright, nearly knocking it from her hand, and stared at the streams of bright sunlight rushing in at the window.

‘What time is it?’ I asked, smoothing my rumpled hair.

‘Late. Past eleven.’

‘Oh.’

I settled back into the pillows, remembering my disgrace. My lie-in was ignominious rather than luxurious. And yet, Kit had said I was free to return after lunch. I gulped a mouthful of scalding tea, finally reconciled to the revolting English habit of drinking it with milk and sugar.

‘A message came from the house. You’re to see the senior staff at one thirty,’ said Poppy, taking the cup, which I had been dangling perilously over the white bedspread. She placed it firmly on the bedside table.

‘There is no use brooding till then. Get dressed and we’ll go down to the beach.’

Pulling on a pair of her slacks, and a red sweater that must have clashed horribly with her hair, I followed her down to the sea, racing along the cliff path. The aunts had already vanished for the day, and I experienced a pang of envy at the thought of her freedom. In Tyneford, every moment of my day was accounted for, but Poppy was at liberty to get up when she liked and do as she pleased. For me, today was an unexpected, disgraceful holiday. Poppy could sit and watch the waves whip across the shore every day if she liked. Her life seemed a veritable paradise.

The tide was out, and the beach lay bare, pebbles glistening under the cold November sky. We discarded our shoes and socks, raced down to the surf and skimmed flat, brown stones. I only managed three or four bounces before my pebble sank into the water, while Poppy, with a casual flick, sent them racing like frogs across lily pads, eight or nine jumps at a time. Growing bored, we wandered along the strand to Burt’s hut. The old man sat out on his upturned bucket, mending lobster pots again. He gave a friendly wave and we strolled over, loitering awkwardly amongst the spooled fishing-nets.

‘Mornin’,’ he called.

Poppy knelt beside him and grabbed a pot. She pulled out a small knife from her pocket and started to scrape barnacles from the metal.

‘Heard there was a spot o’ bother last night wi’ yoos and Mr Kit?’ said Burt.

I nodded dumbly.

‘In trouble wi’ Mr Rivers and Mr Wrexham?’

‘Yes.’

He gave a low chuckle. ‘Yer doesn’t want ter go, does yer?’

I leant against the wooden fencepost, and for the first time considered leaving Tyneford. Last night in anger and humiliation I had promised to leave, but I had not really thought what that would mean. I imagined Art attaching Mr Bobbin to the ramshackle cart and driving me to the station, jogging slowly across the green hills. And then sitting on the grey train chug-chugging its way back to the grey, smoke-filled city. Perhaps if I were very lucky, I might gain a position with two old spinsters, serving tea and buttered crumpets on paper doilies, as they sucked on their dentures. There would be no more nightjars calling from the heather in the June dark, or the wind whispering in the larch leaves or the sugar scent of jasmine after the rain. No more listening to the sea hurtle and smash into the rocks during a storm. And there would be no more Kit. Not exile for a month or two or three, but never again. I swallowed and rubbed damp palms along my slacks.