The Novel in the Viola by Natasha Solomons Page B

window seat overlooking the rolling lawns. It had been pouring for hours, and the gardens were soaked, the snapdragons and hollyhocks lay stooped and battered in the beds, but now a streak of sun made the wet grass glisten, while the black storm clouds raced across the hills like smoke from a band of dragons. The sky drifting above the sea was empty and pale blue. I longed to walk down to the beach, sit on the rocks and breathe gulps of salt air. I’d been inside the house for days, and I felt caged and cross. Picking out a novel with a tattered orange cover, I determined to escape for a couple of hours. I concealed the filched book at the bottom of my cleaning box, and disappeared up to my room to collect a volume of the Oxford English, before returning to the service corridor. I paused outside Mr Wrexham’s open door. It was not yet eight o’clock, and he stood in his perfectly pressed tails, ironing Mr Rivers’ newspaper. I entered in silence, peering around his elbow as I tried to read the headlines. I needed to find a way of obtaining the discarded papers; I’d been in Tyneford for nearly a fortnight and I was starved of news. Mrs Ellsworth had a wireless in her parlour, and allowed May and me to listen as a treat some evenings, but she only liked the light programmes. The old papers were meticulously stored in the butler’s room, but I suspected that Mr Wrexham would class borrowing discarded newspapers from his room as theft. He did not approve of females taking any interest in politics; newspapers were the preserve of men, while only gentlemen were permitted opinions upon their contents.
    ‘Mr Wrexham?’
    He jumped, nearly dropping the iron.
    ‘Elise! You almost made me scald Mr Rivers’ Times. ’
    ‘I am most sorry, Mr Wrexham.’
    ‘No, it’s “I am very sorry”. You must learn.’
    ‘I am very sorry.’
    He set the iron beside the stove in the corner. ‘Almost. It’s “v-very”. Not a “w-wet wellington”. Ah. Good, I see you have the dictionary.’
    ‘Yes, I have the headache, Mr Wrexham. Please, I go and study English in fresh air?’
    He scowled. ‘But your duties?’
    ‘I have cleaned guest rooms. Fires are laid. With air I be better by lunchtime.’
    He hesitated, and then shrugged. ‘Very well. One hour. But this is not to become a habit, mind. You need to be strong in service, yes?’
    I nodded and gave a smile, which I hoped appeared sincere. ‘Yes, I am strong girl.’
    ‘Very well, then. Off you go.’ He returned to ironing the newspaper.
    I hesitated, and then cleared my throat. ‘Mr Wrexham? I can put 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