Eva Ibbotson - Magic Flutes

‘Yes.’

She sighed, like a child reprieved from punishment. ‘I knew,’ she said. ‘I don’t believe in astrology, of course. It has to be nonsense. But all the same, I knew.’

They had been together longer than they realized. It was dusk now and a very young moon had climbed between the trees, cradling the evening star.

‘I must go — the aunts will be worried. Guy, I don’t know if we will meet again, but—’ Her voice broke and she tried again. ‘Sometimes, when you’re alone and you look up at—’ Once more, she had to stop. Then she managed, ‘If I cannot be anything else… could I be your Star Sister? Could I at least be that?’

Guy dug his nails into his palms. Everything in him rose in protest at the fey, romantic conceit. He did not want her in the heavens, linked to him by some celestial whimsy, but here and now in the flesh and after the death of the flesh, her hand in his as they rose from graves like these when the last trump sounded.

‘Yes,’ he managed to say. ‘You can be my Star Sister. You can at least be that.’

He felt something on his wrist — a breath more than a touch — and looking down saw that she was laying the beech leaf, like a most precious gift, into his hands.

Then she walked lightly away, pulling her shawl closer, and vanished like Giselle into the mist between the tombstones.

‘Did you find her, sir?’ asked David when Guy, with absolutely no recollection of the journey, reached Sachers.

‘Yes. But she won’t let me help her. God knows what will become of her. Unless—’ But the word ‘unless’ was more than he could bear. He turned away, then swung round once more to look intently into David’s eyes. ‘I never thought of that,’ he said slowly. ‘Would you have… David?’

David flushed. But when he answered it was without prevarication, his head held high.

‘No, sir. I wouldn’t even have asked her. She never had eyes for anyone but you.’

Guy arrived at Pfaffenstein the following evening and setting aside the servants’ efforts to announce him, found Nerine and her relatives at dinner in the Spanish dining-room.

Though a small party, they were dining in style. Light from two rows of candlesticks glowed on the walls of Morocco leather, the Goya portraits. An enormous silver epergne of writhing horsemen, which it took two footmen to lift, adorned the centre of the elaborately set table.

‘Guy, dear! We weren’t expecting you!’ Nerine was in white, diamond combs in her hair, one curl dancing on her throat in the way that had always enchanted him.

‘Let me introduce my family. This —’ Nerine’s voice took on an awed tone — ‘is my Aunt Dorothy. Mother you know, of course, but this is my Uncle Victor, my Uncle Edgar, my Cousin Clarence…’

The men half-rose, the women inclined their heads. Guy bowed punctiliously and shook hands.

His future in-laws at meat were an awesome sight and a disquieting one, for here and there on the dull and staring faces he could make out a curve of the lips, a line of the eyebrows which proclaimed unmistakably their kinship to Nerine. In sudden need of solace, he looked round and said, ‘Where’s Martha?’

Silence. Nerine’s eyes slid away from his and she began to fiddle with her napkin ring.

‘Is she ill?’ Guy’s voice had sharpened. ‘Has something happened? Has there been an accident?’

‘No, no, nothing like that. Guy, you must be starving.’ She motioned to a footman. ‘Hans, another set of covers, please.’

The digression was unsuccessful. ‘I asked you a question, Nerine. Be so kind as to answer it. Where is Martha?’

It was Aunt Dorothy, throwing a glance of reproach at her dithering niece, who now replied.

‘Mrs Hodge is dining elsewhere. It was felt that she would prefer it.’

‘Where?’

The question was put quietly. Guy had not moved and his hand did not even tighten on the chair-back where it lay. Yet both footmen drew back, seeking the shelter of the sideboard, and Uncle Victor looked over his shoulder at the door.

‘In the place to which her station in society naturally calls her,’ said Aunt Dorothy. ‘And where she herself is most at home.’

‘And where is that?’ Guy’s voice was still gentle, reasonable, quiet.

‘In the kitchen, Guy.’ Nerine was holding his eyes, appealing to him. ‘She has made such friends with the servants and — Guy! Guy! What are you doing? Don’t, don’t—’

Moving softly and seemingly quite relaxed, Guy had bent over and gripped the handles of the great silver epergne with its rearing horsemen. Then he slowly and steadily lifted it up and held it — to the incredulous gasps of the footmen — for a long moment above his head, before hurling it with demonic force against the window.

‘I thought you would prefer me not to hit you,’ he said pleasantly to Nerine.

And without a backwards glance at the screaming women and the shattered glass, he left the room.

A few minutes later he entered the castle kitchens.

The spectacle which greeted him was not a particularly pitiful one. A long, scrubbed table ran the length of the room. Hams and salamis hung from the rafters; bright copper pans gleamed in the light of the roaring fire; the smell of onions, fresh bread and schweinebraten floated deliciously in the air. Rows of cheerful-looking men in white caps and apple-cheeked girls in snowy aprons were busy eating and cracking jokes. And in what was clearly the place of honour between the chef, Rudi, and old Otto who kept the wine cellar, sat Martha Hodge.

‘Aufstehen!’

Guy’s barked order was superfluous. One glimpse of the Englishman as he stood in the doorway, and every person present had risen to their feet.

‘Not you, Martha,’ said Guy softly. ‘It is not necessary for you to rise.’

But she was already standing and as she faced him he saw, unmistakably, the hurt and distress clouding her gentle eyes.

‘Fetch the head steward.’

‘Jawohl, gnädiger Herr!’ Rudi almost ran out through the vaulted doors and reappeared seconds later with the castle’s most senior domestic servant.

‘I am at your disposal, Herr Farne,’ said the old man, bowing his head.

‘Who gave the order that Frau Hodge was to eat with the servants?’ And as the man hesitated, ‘I asked you a simple question. Answer it!’

‘The order was given by Frau Hurlingham, gnädiger Herr. She came with the other lady, the one who is her aunt, but the order came from her.’

‘Thank you. You may go.’

In goggle-eyed silence, the servants waited for further explosions. But Guy now smiled charmingly and addressing the chef said, ‘You will have to move over, Rudi, and lay another place. I shall be dining here today.’ He wandered over, lifted the lid of the soup tureen and sniffed. ‘Erbsen suppe!’ he said appreciatively — and settling himself comfortably beside Martha, took the bowl and spoon proffered by an awed kitchen-maid, ladled out an enormous helping and began to eat.

That night, Guy slept little. It had become necessary to take certain decisions. Hitherto, his chivalry had been directed towards Nerine, whom it was necessary to protect from the consequences of his own disillusionment. Now it turned to the protection of Martha Hodge.

That Martha’s own humility was such as to make it impossible for Nerine to wound her, that she regarded her banishment to the kitchens as not of the slightest consequence was something Guy was temperamentally incapable of perceiving. He had seen her hurt. Unaware that her pain was entirely for him and his unhappiness, he decided to act.

But how? Outside an owl hooted, a clock struck two, and still he sat sprawled in a carved chair, frowning in thought. Every so often, he irritably flicked away, like the ash from his cigar, an image which nevertheless continued to recur: that of Witzler’s little brat emerging from under his father’s desk to lift a tear-stained face to Guy.