Виктория Холт - Seven for a Secret

Very soon after I went to live with my Aunt Sophie, I became acquainted with the strange sisters, Lucy and Flora Lane, and because of what I discovered, for ever after I called their cottage The House of the Seven Magpies.

I often marvel that I might never have known the place but for the trouble over the decoration of the church that long-ago Easter. But perhaps that is not exactly true and it was not entirely due to the flowers they just brought it to a head.

Aunt Sophie had been a rare visitor to our house till then, and there was never a mention of the rift between her and my mother. She lived in Wiltshire, which was a longish journey by train from London and then she would have to get from the capital to Middlemore in Surrey. I imagined she did not feel it worth the effort to come and see us, and my mother certainly thought the journey to Wiltshire too arduous for her, particularly when the result would be a none-too-felicitous encounter with Aunt Sophie.

Aunt Sophie was almost a stranger to me in those early days.

My mother and Aunt Sophie, though sisters, were as unlike each other as any two people could be.

My mother was tall and slim, beautiful too; her features looked as though they had been cut out of marble; her eyes were light blue and could be quite icy at times; her eyelashes were long, her eyebrows perfectly marked and her fine hair was always neatly coiled about her head. She was constantly letting everyone know even those in the household who were very well aware of it that she had not been brought up to live as she did, and it was only due to ‘circumstances’ that we were obliged to do so now.

Aunt Sophie was my mother’s elder sister. I think it was two years which separated them. She was of medium height, but plump, which made her look shorter; she had a round rosy face and little sharp brown eyes which looked rather like currants, and when she laughed they almost disappeared: it was a rather loud laugh which my mother said ‘grated’ on her nerves.

It was small wonder that they kept apart. On the rare occasions when my mother spoke of her, she invariably said that it was amazing that they had been brought up together.

We lived in what is known as ‘genteel poverty’ my mother, myself and two maids: Meg, a relic from those ‘better days’, and Amy, who was in her early teens, a Middlemore girl, from one of the cottages on the other side of the Common.

My mother was much occupied with keeping up appearances She had been brought up at Cedar Hall and I always thought it was unfortunate that this mansion was close enough to be perpetually in view.

There it stood, in all its grandeur, which seemed the greater when compared with Lavender House, our humble abode. Cedar Hall was the house in Middlemore. Church fetes were held on its lawn and one of its rooms was always made available for ecclesiastical meetings when necessary; and the carol singers assembled in the courtyard every Christmas Eve for mulled wine and mince pies when they gave their performance. There were many servants and it dominated the village.

My mother had two tragedies to suffer. Not only had she lost her old home, which had had to be sold when her father died and the extent of his debts had been revealed, but it had been bought by the Carters, who had amassed a fortune from selling sweets and tobacco in every town in England. They were undesirable on two counts they were vulgar and they were rich.

Every time she looked in the direction of Cedar Hall, my mother’s face would harden and her lips tighten, and the deep anger she felt was obvious; and of course that happened when she looked out of her bedroom window. We were all accustomed to the daily lament. It dominated our lives as well as hers.

Meg said: “It would have been better if we’d got right away. Looking at the old place all day don’t help much.”

One day I said to my mother: “Why don’t we move away? Somewhere where you don’t have to look at it all the time.”

I saw the horror in her face and, young as I was, I thought: She wants to be there. She couldn’t bear not to be. I could not understand then but I did later that she enjoyed her misery and resentment.

She wanted to continue as she had in the old days in Cedar Hall. She liked to participate in church matters taking a leading part in organizing bazaars and that sort of thing. It irritated her that the summer fete could not be held on our lawn.

Meg laughed at that and commented to Amy: “What! On six feet of grass!

Don’t make me laugh! “

There was a governess for me. In our position it was essential, said my mother. She could not afford to send me away to school and the idea of my attending the one in the village was quite out of the question.

There was only one alternative, so the governesses came. They did not stay long. References to past grandeur were no substitute for the lack of it in Lavender House. It had been Cottage when we came, Meg told me.

“Yes, for years it was Lavender Cottage, and painting ” House” over ” Cottage” did nothing more than that.”

My mother was not a very communicative person and although I heard a great deal about the glories of the past, she said very little about the subject which interested me most: that of my father.

When I asked her about him her lips tightened and she seemed more like a statue than ever just as I saw her look when she spoke of the Carters of Cedar Hall.

She said: “You have no father … now.”

There was something significant about the ‘now’ and the pause before it, so I protested: “But I had once.”

“Don’t be absurd, Frederica. Of course everyone had a father once.”

I had been called Frederica because there had been many Fredericks in the family of Cedar Hall. My mother had told me that there were six of them in the picture gallery there. I had heard of Sir Frederick, knighted on Bosworth Field; one who had distinguished himself at Waterloo; and another who had shone in the Royalist cause during the Civil War. Had I been a boy, I should have been Frederick. As it was, I must be Frederica, which I found inconvenient and inclined to be shortened to Freddie or even Fred, which had on more than one occasion led to obvious confusion.

“Did he die?” I asked.

“I have told you. You have no father now. That is an end of the matter.”

After that I knew there was some secret about him.

I did not remember ever seeing him. In fact, I could not remember living anywhere but in this house. The Common, the cottages, the church, all in the shadow of Cedar Hall, were part of my life till then.

I spent a great deal of time in the kitchen with Meg and Amy. They were more friendly than anyone else.

I was not allowed to make friends with the village people and as far as the Carters up at the hall were concerned, my mother was distantly polite with them.

I soon learned that my mother was a very unhappy woman. Now that I was getting older, Meg used to talk to me a good deal.

This life,” she said on one occasion, ‘is no life at all. Lavender House, my foot. Everyone knows it was Lavender Cottage. You can’t make a house grand by changing its name. I’ll tell you what. Miss Fred .. ” Although I was Miss Frederica in my mother’s hearing, when we were alone-Meg and I — I was plain Miss Fred or sometimes Miss Freddie.

Frederica, being one of those ‘outlandish’ names which Meg did not think much of, she could not be expected to use it more than was necessary.

“I’ll tell you what. Miss Fred. A spade’s a spade, no matter what fancy name you give it, and I reckon we’d be better off in a nice little house in Clapham … being just what we was and not what we’re pretending to be. There’d have been a little bit of life up there, too.”