mind I heard a snort, as Julian shook his head.
‘I’d never write that sort of story. Not in a million years.’
I rattled the viola, listening to the stack of pages inside knock against the wood.
‘Pirates, then, Papa. I hope there are pirates and a tall ship.’
Julian laughed, a deep rumble. ‘Far too romantic.’
‘Give me a hint?’ I pleaded to the imaginary Julian, and tried in vain to shake a page loose from its hiding place and out through the f-holes. It was no use and I stashed the viola back in its case. I closed my eyes and pretended that I was at home in Vienna, listening to Hildegard fuss in the kitchen, while Anna and Julian slept across the hall. If I tried very hard, I could almost hear Julian snore.
I awoke in the middle of the night. I sat up in bed, listening to the unfamiliar creak and tick of the old house and feeling utterly alone. I needed comfort. In a daze I padded downstairs and into Mrs Ellsworth’s larder. I reached up to the top shelf and helped myself to the elderflower syllabub left over from the gentlemen’s desserts. Thinking back, I was lucky that no one caught me. Then, I did not consider my midnight snack as theft. I only wanted to gorge like I did at home, but the sweetness was sickly and unfamiliar. All this time later, the taste of syllabub is still the taste of homesickness and if, in early summer, I catch the scent of elderflower, I am nineteen again, sitting cross-legged on the larder floor, clasping a basin of creamy dessert, refusing to cry.
CHAPTER NINE
Kit
The next few days passed in a haze of polish. I dusted in my sleep and my clothes smelt of spilt vinegar. The only respite from loneliness was stolen minutes in the yard, feeding apple cores or lettuce scraps to Mr Bobbin. The yard was situated at the side of the house away from the sea, but I could hear the crash of the surf, while coarse marram grass sprouted at the edge of the cobbles. Each night I lay in bed listening to the water rush and smash on the rocks below, promising myself that in the morning I would walk down to the sea. Yet, when dawn came, I was always too tired, and wriggled under my blankets, desperate for another few minutes of sleep.
I had no free time. In the five minutes before dinner, when I was supposed to be washing my hands and face, I wandered into the yard. I fed the horse from my palm, feeling his warm breath upon my skin, and listened to the rhythmic grind of his large yellow teeth. He never made any noise but huffed out of his nostrils and bumped his stable door with his nose whenever he saw me. I realised that I was becoming like Art, my only friend having four legs, and decided it was imperative that I improve my English. Mr Wrexham was similarly determined although for a different motive: he had high hopes for me in the dining room. I must not speak, nor eavesdrop and yet I must be capable of impeccable English conversation. He thrust upon me The Shorter Oxford English Dictionary in Two Volumes ,as well as Debretts: Baronetage of England 1920. He attempted to add Mrs Beetonto my pile, and his lip twitched in approval when I explained I already owned a copy.
‘You would do well to study it, Elise. Devote one hour a day to the wisdom of Isabella Beeton. She writes for the lady of the house, but her insight is universal. Universal.’
I would have laughed at his familiarity with ‘Isabella’, whispering her name in the dreamy tones of an old lover, but I knew by now that Mr Wrexham was a man entirely without humour, who did not take kindly to the smiles of others. I stashed his books in the corner of my bedroom, resolving never to read them.
Early one morning in my second week, while cleaning the blue guest room, a sun-filled space with sky-coloured curtains, I encountered a stack of novels on the windowsill. They were clearly provided for the entertainment of female guests, set apart from the leather-bound volumes in Mr Rivers’ library. I perched on the
‘I’d never write that sort of story. Not in a million years.’
I rattled the viola, listening to the stack of pages inside knock against the wood.
‘Pirates, then, Papa. I hope there are pirates and a tall ship.’
Julian laughed, a deep rumble. ‘Far too romantic.’
‘Give me a hint?’ I pleaded to the imaginary Julian, and tried in vain to shake a page loose from its hiding place and out through the f-holes. It was no use and I stashed the viola back in its case. I closed my eyes and pretended that I was at home in Vienna, listening to Hildegard fuss in the kitchen, while Anna and Julian slept across the hall. If I tried very hard, I could almost hear Julian snore.
I awoke in the middle of the night. I sat up in bed, listening to the unfamiliar creak and tick of the old house and feeling utterly alone. I needed comfort. In a daze I padded downstairs and into Mrs Ellsworth’s larder. I reached up to the top shelf and helped myself to the elderflower syllabub left over from the gentlemen’s desserts. Thinking back, I was lucky that no one caught me. Then, I did not consider my midnight snack as theft. I only wanted to gorge like I did at home, but the sweetness was sickly and unfamiliar. All this time later, the taste of syllabub is still the taste of homesickness and if, in early summer, I catch the scent of elderflower, I am nineteen again, sitting cross-legged on the larder floor, clasping a basin of creamy dessert, refusing to cry.
CHAPTER NINE
Kit
The next few days passed in a haze of polish. I dusted in my sleep and my clothes smelt of spilt vinegar. The only respite from loneliness was stolen minutes in the yard, feeding apple cores or lettuce scraps to Mr Bobbin. The yard was situated at the side of the house away from the sea, but I could hear the crash of the surf, while coarse marram grass sprouted at the edge of the cobbles. Each night I lay in bed listening to the water rush and smash on the rocks below, promising myself that in the morning I would walk down to the sea. Yet, when dawn came, I was always too tired, and wriggled under my blankets, desperate for another few minutes of sleep.
I had no free time. In the five minutes before dinner, when I was supposed to be washing my hands and face, I wandered into the yard. I fed the horse from my palm, feeling his warm breath upon my skin, and listened to the rhythmic grind of his large yellow teeth. He never made any noise but huffed out of his nostrils and bumped his stable door with his nose whenever he saw me. I realised that I was becoming like Art, my only friend having four legs, and decided it was imperative that I improve my English. Mr Wrexham was similarly determined although for a different motive: he had high hopes for me in the dining room. I must not speak, nor eavesdrop and yet I must be capable of impeccable English conversation. He thrust upon me The Shorter Oxford English Dictionary in Two Volumes ,as well as Debretts: Baronetage of England 1920. He attempted to add Mrs Beetonto my pile, and his lip twitched in approval when I explained I already owned a copy.
‘You would do well to study it, Elise. Devote one hour a day to the wisdom of Isabella Beeton. She writes for the lady of the house, but her insight is universal. Universal.’
I would have laughed at his familiarity with ‘Isabella’, whispering her name in the dreamy tones of an old lover, but I knew by now that Mr Wrexham was a man entirely without humour, who did not take kindly to the smiles of others. I stashed his books in the corner of my bedroom, resolving never to read them.
Early one morning in my second week, while cleaning the blue guest room, a sun-filled space with sky-coloured curtains, I encountered a stack of novels on the windowsill. They were clearly provided for the entertainment of female guests, set apart from the leather-bound volumes in Mr Rivers’ library. I perched on the
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