Silver, page 4
“And here’s another one come to get under my feet. If you ask me...”
Kate did not let her finish and interjected immediately.
“Your eggs are done, Mrs. Druce, and the milk is going to burn.”
Jane, shocked by the polite insolence with which this was delivered, quickly spun around to see Mrs. Druce’s reaction. Surely, as if it were her own children and not breakfast about to be ruined, Mrs. Druce, oblivious to the impropriety of Kate’s impertinence, set about rescuing the eggs and milk with flustered cries of, “Heavens!” and “Saints, preserve us!” Jane cast a shocked glance at Kate, indicating how narrowly she escaped a berating.
It was no secret that Jane and Mary-Ann were jealous of how Kate had risen to the position of ladies’ maid above them and how they thought Kate simple because of her accent. Mary-Ann and Jane had been with the Silvers longer and Avery himself had overheard Mary-Ann bemoaning her ill-fate to have been passed over to be his maid for the likes of Kate. Kate knew these things only too well and avoided eye contact as she loaded breakfast onto the waiting tray.
“I'll take those,” Mary-Ann had pushed in front of Kate and was now leaning to take the tray.
“As you wish,” Kate replied curtly.
Mary-Ann smiled smugly and walked out of the side door to change her pinafore for a cleaner one. Kate watched after her for a moment, smiling.
“And what are you so pleased with yourself about?”
Mrs. Druce had been watching Kate from the kitchen table, her eyebrows were arched in a permanent look of suspicion which cast shadows over her plump face. Breakfast out of the way, she had ordered Jane to the sink and was now settling herself with a cup of tea and a slice of cold meat before the next preparations must be made.
“I don’t know how you can stand to be idle, Katherine. I am sure there are any number of things to keep your hands from the devil.”
Kate took the hint and turned again to the sink beside Jane, washing out a jug and standing it on the wooden counter top. She turned to look for a cloth to wipe it and noticed Mrs. Druce’s still watching her.
“And how does the young Miss do this morning?”
“Very well I gather, Mrs. Druce. Miss Alice and I shall be going out for the day.”
“‘Where might you be going on such a fine day?”
Kate said nothing and avoided the narrowed gaze of Mrs. Druce as she walked to the sideboard and began untying her apron.
“I take it the master is aware of the young Miss’s plans?” Mrs. Druce added, with an unpleasant smile. Avery’s own stomach knotted. He knew that his father had not approved any such plans and he wondered what Kate would say,
“It is Miss Alice’s wish to take in the air at the park and then to take lunch in Kensington,” Kate advised. “I expect we shall return before tea. Have no fear, I shall make Arthur aware of our intentions, Mrs. Druce,” she added levelly. The old woman’s lips pursed with distaste and she muttered something that Avery could not catch. However, he was unable to miss the tongue which Kate poked at Mrs. Druce as she walked behind her to take down her coat from the back door.
Avery stifled a laugh and quickly retreated from the door as he heard the return of Mary-Ann to take up the breakfast platter. Taking the steps two at a time, he darted back up the stairs to the ground floor and slipped into the dining room. He was a few moments ahead of Mary-Ann and had just gathered his breath when the door swung open to reveal Mary-Ann’s sour face. Preferable though Kate’s presence may be, Avery was yet to compose himself from that morning’s exchange and he was grateful for some time to reflect on his dreams. Mary-Ann set the food down around him, scowling as she raised the coffee pot in anticipation.
“Yes, please, Mary-Ann.” Avery watched her pour a careful stream of hot coffee into his cup. Her hands were steady and Avery could not help but think that she would have made a far more prudent choice as ladies’ maid than Kate. As he watched Mary-Ann bustle competently about the dining room, he remembered how clumsy Kate had been that morning helping him dress. What a fuss it had been! For his part, he had been nervous around her, guiltily shying away from her touch as if her skin were aflame. As he had stepped into the grey dress, he had felt foolish in his underclothes and he had tried to hurry her along. Kate’s inept and heavy handed buttoning and hooking was preferable to her delicate and light touch, which teased his senses. His hurrying her had made her more fingers and thumbs than usual. It had been her hands about his shoulders and neck, roughly tugging at the collar hooks, that called to mind the most vivid memory of that morning’s dream, her arms flung about him in a fit of passion not duty, and he had snapped at Kate rather than disgrace himself.
“Thank you, Mary-Ann.”
“Yes, Miss,” and with a simple bob, Mary-Ann retreated to the hallway whereupon the tall figure of Jamieson stepped forward to take her place.
“Arthur? When do you expect my father home?” Avery enquired of the butler.
“I believe he is expected back for supper, Miss Silver.”
“Thank you, Arthur. That will be all.”
“Very good, Miss.” With a practiced hand, the door closed behind Arthur Jamieson with a delicate click and Avery was left alone to his breakfast, yet found himself without an appetite. Insatiable though his hunger was, there was nothing before him that would satisfy it. In a week’s time, Avery would be twenty and life so far, was not unfolding the way he had expected. He pushed his chair away from the table and walked to the fireplace. Above it, an ornate mirror was hung, he stood before it and tried to see anything of himself in the girl staring back at him. Her hair had been pinned up and pulled back, making her neck look long and her ears more prominent. Eschewing any make-up, the girl had a tired and much older look about her than she should; to Avery, the girl did not look very happy and he could sympathise fully with her. Neither of them could bear to spend another minute with the other.
“Damn!” Avery’s quiet curse was swallowed by the silence of the room and he bowed his head, his fists balled against the mantelpiece. His eyes burnt with angry tears. His heart and his head were of one accord but his body was not. He was no fool, but since he could remember, he always imagined that at some point in the future, as part of his passing into adulthood, as a rite of passage or puberty, he would become a man. As time had gone on and he had grown older, he had always known that this could never happen. Standing in the family dining room, an uneaten breakfast for two on the table, dressed in a grey silk dress stained with his own tears, Avery realised his own folly. His dreams of Kate were not foolishness; his dreams of himself were. Furious at himself he wiped hard at his eyes with his knuckles and he peered again at the girl in the mirror. Eyes fixed on each other, Avery stared her down. Unblinkingly, he leant in to whisper, “If the wind will not serve, take to the oars.”
Chapter Three - Imogen, 1911
I recall vividly that first evening spent under my father’s roof after his death. I didn’t sleep at all but lay curled under the eiderdown upon my childhood bed. The room was chill from the January air seeping around the ill-fitting frames. With the draft behind them, the heavy curtains seemed to breathe on their own, like great velvet bellows moving in time with my own deep breathing.
My face was dry; I was quite unable to call to mind any grief at my loss. The opposite was true as I could not lay claim on any one emotion for long. Confusion tried to wash over me but its cold fingers were at once met by the scorching edge of fury. I lay stunned like a small bird who had flown, unknowingly, into a dazzling window.
John had stayed at the door for only a few moments. I imagine he was in a state of shock of his own and did not stay to try to talk me from my room. I had heard the muffled sounds of his voice and another man’s in the hall below. Heston’s? The Inspector’s? Then I heard the front door slam and the distant sound of those ghastly men outside rose to greet him and then the house fell silent.
I stayed in the same position all night, my body seemingly frozen both by the cold and the shock of what had come to pass. My mind, however, was feverish. Images of my father loomed out of the black of night.
… Christmas just gone, my father, the attentive grandparent; his hair, once dark, now silvery in the wintry light from the window. He was listening intently, the hint of a smile playing across his face as Sebastian questioned why the three wise men brought the baby Jesus Gold, Myrrh and Frank Insects…
… Green Park, a picnic is laid out on the velvet grass. My mother seated on one corner of the blanket, a parasol shielding her pale skin from the summer sun. Her eyes were twinkling as she watched her husband with pride. I am smiling too as I follow her gaze. His summer suit is crisp and well fitting; his hair is well oiled and he is making a play of being a waiter as he un-packs the basket across the blanket. He is laughing…
…I am in the nursery with one of my nannies; she is berating me for spilling my milk again. I am crestfallen and on the verge of tears when the door opens and my Father’s face appears. He is pulling a sullen face, as long as, I suppose, my own must have been.
‘What’s this?’ he enquires before kneeling down, his arms outstretched. Nanny Owen sighs and rolls her eyes as my indulgent father sweeps me up and dries my eyes…
…I am waiting in the parlour with my mother; John is in my father’s study asking for my hand in marriage. They have both suspected for a while and Mother has been stitching the same row on the hem of an old skirt for the past half an hour. The door opens and my father has his hand upon John’s shoulder, ushering him in to the room. There is little between them in height and whenever I see them together, I marvel at the similarity in features. John’s own darkly oiled hair, the same set of the jaw and the tall, slim build even heir eyes are cast from the same mould: a steely grey, shot with blue. Only, John has a moustache in the new style and my father’s face, as always, is clean-shaven. They are both looking dour and my heart falls into my stomach like a cherry stone. Mother stands, her eyebrows raised.
“It seems we are to have a son at last.”
My father’s face breaks into an almighty smile and he slaps John on the back. I am the happiest I have ever been…
In all the scenes that play out, I am watching him, him and my mother with an enormous sense of pride. “That is my Father.” I seem to be saying, “That man is my Papa and he is my rock.”
Tired and confused, I lay upon the bed trying to push out the image of my father’s dead body and the more I tried, the more it seemed possible I had imagined the previous night’s events.
I could sense the dawn approaching beyond the curtains and I was filled with a longing to return home, to see my children and to get away from that house. I felt quite sure that if I could put some distance between myself and that room then I could pretend, for a while at least, that it was not happening. My limbs were stiff and I shivered as I became sensible to the cold of the room. Padding quietly across the carpet, I unlocked the door and slipped out on to the landing. I was not surprised to see Heston asleep on a chair beside the door. I suppose John may have asked him to keep a vigil but such was his nature, I half expected he would have done so anyway.
Quiet as I had tried to be, he roused instantly and stood to attention. In the gloom of the landing, his expression was hard to make out and I sensed, rather than noticed, his look of great sorrow. For his part, he had served my father above and beyond the call of his duty over the years, often forgoing personal engagements to better meet the needs of my father. In this new age, Heston seemed more comfortable with the old traditions and placed his loyalty to my father above all others. His loss seemed comparable to my own. I forget how long Heston had been my father's man but I cannot remember a time without him. The grey haired man must have been a similar age to my father and I felt a pang of pity for his having slept in a corridor on my account. His eyes met mine for a brief moment before he composed himself; his sleep-crumpled clothes the only clue to the strangeness of the circumstance. I cleared my throat; the noise seemed loud in the silence of the house.
“I have to be home,” The words didn’t seem right and I felt a need to explain. “I have to be with my family.” The word sounded hollow as the realisation broke over us both that no such thing existed within these walls anymore. I opened my mouth to go on but Heston’s voice filled the void.
“Of course, Madam,” He stepped aside allowing me to pass before swiftly disappearing down the hall to use the back stairs.
When I descended the staircase several minutes later, somewhat more composed, Heston was waiting for me. He too was looking less disheveled having found the time to pull on a fresh jacket.
“Can I bring you some tea before you go Mrs. Bancroft?”
“No thank you Heston. I just want to get home.”
“Very good Madam. I will call for a cab.”
I stepped into the parlour and waited, the clock on the mantel had been stopped, its hands frozen at ten past ten. I wondered if the clock had simply not been wound or if it had been stopped to separate the now from then. After several minutes Heston returned.
“There is a cab waiting outside Mrs. Bancroft.”
I passed him into the hallway and allowed him to help me back into my coat and took my gloves without meeting his eyes.
“Are the....,” I started to say, gesturing towards the front door. “Have they gone?” I managed to finish.
“Yes, Madam. For now at least we are to be left in peace.”
“Thank you Heston.” Our eyes met and I managed a weak smile. “Look after him.”
The stiff butler nodded solemnly, bowing his head before opening the door to the cold January air. As the cabbie ushered me into his waiting carriage, I glanced back towards my father’s house, the curtains drawn at the master bedroom window and allowed myself a moment to imagine the respectable man that lay within.
As the cab tumbled along the uneven roads across the fringe of the city, my gaze was jolted with it as I stared from the window. It was early, yet all manner of life was unfolding beyond the dusty pane. A man was out walking two large dogs, one pulling him in haste, the other dawdling to sniff at some delicious scent along a wall. The man looked about to be drawn in two. His eyes were heavily lidded as if caught in moment of deep slumber. It occurred to me as I took him in that if my father could be a woman, then so could he. I frowned, closing my eyes, my head swaying with the tilt of the carriage. I tried to summon an image of my father but try as I might I could not repress the vision of him as last I had seen him. I rubbed my eyes before alighting on the next scene as the cab slowed down at a junction. A girl of about sixteen was stood in the shade of a tree blowing her hands and jigging, to keep her feet from absorbing the ice cold from the flagstones beneath. Her clothes were dull and worn and she blended in very well with the streets behind her. I caught myself leaning forward, taking a grip of the window ledge as the cab began to move and with it my view of the girl. I stared hard. Could there be any doubting that she was female? Had she not wide hips and a narrow waist evident even in her heavy winter clothes? As the distance began to grow, I could no longer discern her features but instead I filled in my father’s face across her own plain one. I could not see how it could ever be so. Yet had I not seen it with my own eyes? My eyes could not rest upon anything for long as I looked around the shabby interior of the cab for some answers. Familiar as I was with John’s anatomy, could it be that all men were endowed equally? Mine was not a mind accustomed to such thoughts and I felt strange, imagining the naked form of my father, but perhaps there was a more satisfying answer to all of this than at first was thought. I began to fancy that perhaps a medical condition of age could cause such a change. I had not been aware of my shoulders having been drawn up tight but along with this thought, I had relaxed them and at once had grown weary. I imagined then that the matter could instead be a medical peculiarity rather than admit that my father, my own life, my own parents had been a lie.
At the moment that it dawned on me, a sudden emptiness washed over me. My mother had known! How could she not? The enormity of this realisation struck me cold across my cheek and I felt as if she herself had slapped me. The familiar sense of struggling to breathe inside a thick fog threatened to choke me. My mother had known and she had not shared it with me. I considered the ramifications of this latest revelation. She must have known everything! For some reason, this felt like an even bigger betrayal and such was the distance of my grief for my loss of her that it felt easier to be angrier at her all of a sudden. How could she have not known?
In my sleep-deprived state of shock, a jumble of images chased themselves across my mind; my mother waving from the bank of the lake as my father rowed me and a friend around the water in a lopsided circle. I must have been about 12 or so and the friend turned out to be a petty girl, Melanie, whom I would later fall out with rather spectacularly about John. I remember I rather sullenly chastised him for his idiocy but secretly, my heart was filled with pride as Melanie giggled at him. Her own father, I remember, was quite the bully and was permanently finding new ways to demean either one of his three daughters. Evidently, he had so wanted a son that he failed quite completely to take any pleasure in his children. Whilst I had often longed for a brother or a sister, I was glad at times not to have to share my father and this was one of those times. The images faded and another replaced it. My father sat at the breakfast table as I entered the dining room, my mother stood behind him as she leaned across to take some of his bread. She giggled as my father caught her wrist and pulled her bodily into the back of his chair. He was beaming broadly as he caught sight of me, and winked. When she saw me, she blushed and hurried to straighten her blouse.
“Your father is a devil, is he not Imogen?”
They were always so affectionate and they were how I had imagined my own life with John to be. That it was not thus was surely my own fault and not John’s. The more I knew of his family, the more I knew my own to be unusual with their warmth. As the image faded, I wonder to whom I owed the trait and then it hit me. The thought that had been hovering for the whole journey home, had now settled on my mind. My father was not only a woman but, of course, how could he be related to me? I had lost him entirely. Far from being the only terrible thought, I wondered whether my mother had really been my mother. I groaned aloud and balled my fists up tight to my eyes. I had been set adrift from my family and as the cab finally rumbled to a halt outside my home, I felt certain that stormy weather was still to come.
