newspaper in morning room. I know. Times placed on side plate, headlines facing Mr. Rivers.”
“Yes. All right. Don’t crease it,” he said, handing me the paper with reverence.
I scurried out of his room before he could change his mind, slowing down to a forbidden dawdle as soon as I left the servants’ corridor, so that I had time to read the headlines.
Cabinet meet over refugee crisis . . . Unemployment fears . . .
There was insufficient time for me to do anything but scan the first few lines, and I wanted to search inside for any snippets about Vienna. I ambled into the morning room and placed the paper on the side plate of the single place setting. Since my first night serving in the dining room, Mr. Rivers had had no other guest. He appeared to live in the house in quiet solitude, save for the staff. He went into the study in the mornings and then walked out each afternoon. The only regular caller was Mr. Jeffreys, the estate manager, a gentleman invariably clad in muddy breeches and accompanied by a wagging red setter. I wondered why we scrubbed and polished the half dozen guest rooms each day, when no guest ever stayed.
I lifted the front page of the paper, peeking for any scraps of news. I’d had no letter from Vienna since Margot’s, and I was desperate for word. The brass clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour and I scurried out, not wanting to be found riffling through the newspaper by Mr. Rivers. It was a habit my father detested. “A man’s newspaper is his own. It’s a thing of sanctity.”
I exited through the back door into the yard, but for once I did not pause to pet Mr. Bobbin, even when he thudded his nose against the stable door to draw my attention. I hurried along the footpath leading off the beech grove and headed toward the village. The hedgerows trickled with rain, and my shoes were instantly sodden from the dripping grass, but I did not care. For the first time at Tyneford, I was free, even if it was just for an hour. The track was slippery with liquid mud, gnats slapped into my face and white butterflies flitted among the honeysuckle, which smelled sickly sweet in the damp air. I emerged in front of a cluster of houses and a neat row of stone shops: a bakery, a butcher’s and a post office–cum–general store, with a scarlet-painted letterbox set into the wall outside. Behind the shops lay a small church, built out of the same grey limestone, and in the distance the low bank of the Purbeck hills. The ancient roof and chimneystacks of the great house peeked out from above the beech copse like the masts of a command ship among the fleet of cottages.
From behind a netted window, an old woman sewed and stared. I smiled and she almost waved, before sealing the gap in the curtain. Several women in floral dresses, cardigans and galoshes walked past me and filed into the shop, the door clattering and brass bell jangling. Peeping through the glass frontage, I saw piles of boxes heaped on top of one another containing flour, polish, sugar, soap flakes, combs, chocolate, suet, envelopes, toilet tissue, bottles of rum and lemon cordial, paperback books, razor blades and balls of wool. I had never seen a shop so tightly packed; it appeared to sell everything, so that the customers were forced to clamber carefully over the stacked goods. In my pocket I clasped a whole shilling (a reward for having helped Art scrub the interior of the Wolseley) and, with only a slight twinge of guilt, I entered the shop. Five minutes later I rushed out, my pockets stuffed with three bars of chocolate.
The village nestled at the foot of the valley, the ring of hills enclosing it on three sides, and in front the grey sea stretched away into the horizon. I turned away from the clutch of houses and walked along the unmade road toward the beach. The tinkle of cowbells was carried on the wind and filled the air with an eerie music. On the sloping hillside, two men in shirtsleeves selected pieces of flint from a
“Yes. All right. Don’t crease it,” he said, handing me the paper with reverence.
I scurried out of his room before he could change his mind, slowing down to a forbidden dawdle as soon as I left the servants’ corridor, so that I had time to read the headlines.
Cabinet meet over refugee crisis . . . Unemployment fears . . .
There was insufficient time for me to do anything but scan the first few lines, and I wanted to search inside for any snippets about Vienna. I ambled into the morning room and placed the paper on the side plate of the single place setting. Since my first night serving in the dining room, Mr. Rivers had had no other guest. He appeared to live in the house in quiet solitude, save for the staff. He went into the study in the mornings and then walked out each afternoon. The only regular caller was Mr. Jeffreys, the estate manager, a gentleman invariably clad in muddy breeches and accompanied by a wagging red setter. I wondered why we scrubbed and polished the half dozen guest rooms each day, when no guest ever stayed.
I lifted the front page of the paper, peeking for any scraps of news. I’d had no letter from Vienna since Margot’s, and I was desperate for word. The brass clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour and I scurried out, not wanting to be found riffling through the newspaper by Mr. Rivers. It was a habit my father detested. “A man’s newspaper is his own. It’s a thing of sanctity.”
I exited through the back door into the yard, but for once I did not pause to pet Mr. Bobbin, even when he thudded his nose against the stable door to draw my attention. I hurried along the footpath leading off the beech grove and headed toward the village. The hedgerows trickled with rain, and my shoes were instantly sodden from the dripping grass, but I did not care. For the first time at Tyneford, I was free, even if it was just for an hour. The track was slippery with liquid mud, gnats slapped into my face and white butterflies flitted among the honeysuckle, which smelled sickly sweet in the damp air. I emerged in front of a cluster of houses and a neat row of stone shops: a bakery, a butcher’s and a post office–cum–general store, with a scarlet-painted letterbox set into the wall outside. Behind the shops lay a small church, built out of the same grey limestone, and in the distance the low bank of the Purbeck hills. The ancient roof and chimneystacks of the great house peeked out from above the beech copse like the masts of a command ship among the fleet of cottages.
From behind a netted window, an old woman sewed and stared. I smiled and she almost waved, before sealing the gap in the curtain. Several women in floral dresses, cardigans and galoshes walked past me and filed into the shop, the door clattering and brass bell jangling. Peeping through the glass frontage, I saw piles of boxes heaped on top of one another containing flour, polish, sugar, soap flakes, combs, chocolate, suet, envelopes, toilet tissue, bottles of rum and lemon cordial, paperback books, razor blades and balls of wool. I had never seen a shop so tightly packed; it appeared to sell everything, so that the customers were forced to clamber carefully over the stacked goods. In my pocket I clasped a whole shilling (a reward for having helped Art scrub the interior of the Wolseley) and, with only a slight twinge of guilt, I entered the shop. Five minutes later I rushed out, my pockets stuffed with three bars of chocolate.
The village nestled at the foot of the valley, the ring of hills enclosing it on three sides, and in front the grey sea stretched away into the horizon. I turned away from the clutch of houses and walked along the unmade road toward the beach. The tinkle of cowbells was carried on the wind and filled the air with an eerie music. On the sloping hillside, two men in shirtsleeves selected pieces of flint from a
Similar Books
