Anita Frank - The Lost Ones

But it was the tasteless opulence of the salon Madeleine ushered me into that shocked me the most. My jaw gaped in horrified wonder at the gaudy wallpaper and the vast, overstated swags of material draped around the French windows lining the outside wall. Gilt-legged sofas flanked the monstrous marble fireplace, while Chinoiserie cabinets stood like exotic guards either side of the doorway, with even more oriental pieces gamely distributed about the room. It was a far cry from the tired but gentle splendour that reigned at home. At least, I found myself ruefully appreciating, it was light.

‘Goodness,’ I muttered.

‘Oh, I know, it’s hideously crass, isn’t it? It’s all right, Lady Brightwell and Miss Scott are out visiting. We are free to say what we want.’ Madeleine dropped down onto one of the uninviting sofas, indicating for me to join her. ‘Hector’s parents were rather nouveaux – the house was just another attempt to assert their acquired wealth and position.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Does that make me sound horribly stuck-up?’

‘Not at all.’ I stared up at the varnished oil painting that hung above the fireplace. ‘Is this Sir Arthur Brightwell himself?’ Hector’s father had died in a motor accident just before the war, so I had never met him. I studied the portrait with open curiosity.

‘It is indeed. It’s the only one of him left on display – Lady Brightwell ordered all the others to be taken down when he died. She said she couldn’t stand him staring down at her, watching her every move. Hector insisted this one remain. It is only fitting, after all.’

The image portrayed was that of a self-assured middle-aged man, dressed in a red hunting coat, buckskin breeches and gleaming riding boots, his knighthood medal proudly displayed on his chest. In his heavy features I could detect traces of Hector, but his eyes, in the portrait at least, lacked the warmth that was always evident in his son’s. His fingers gripped the handle of a pickaxe, the scooped metal head resting on the ground by his feet along with a few lumps of gleaming coal, the black gold from which he had derived his fortune. I took another step forward and peered into the background. Brightwell stood on the crest of a hill, and in the valley below him I could see Greyswick, or that is, I could see part of it. In the detail, the house beyond the clock tower was overlaid by a crisscross of scaffolding, and an army of workers the size of tiny ants could be seen labouring around it. I expressed my surprise.

‘Greyswick wasn’t actually finished when the portrait was done,’ Madeleine explained. ‘Obviously the artist has taken some licence with the landscape, but I believe the representation of the house at that time to be accurate. It was his wedding present to Lady Brightwell, but it wasn’t completed until a year or so after Hector was born. No expense spared, and little taste engaged. But don’t you dare tell her I said that,’ Madeleine concluded.

I laughed and settled myself down opposite her, just as she was responding to a gentle tap on the door. A young maid sporting a mischievous twinkle in her eye and bearing a laden tray slipped into the room.

‘Thank you, Maisie, we’ll take it here.’

The girl’s inquisitive gaze stole my way several times as she set the tea things out upon an occasional table beside Madeleine. She stood back as she finished and dropped a curtsy, before scooting from the room.

‘How many servants do you have?’ I asked.

‘Not many. It’s like at home, they’ve all left since the war. Hector has the butler in town with him, so there’s just Cook, Maisie and Mrs Henge here now.’ She handed me a cup of tea. ‘There’s Miss Scott as well, of course, but I can hardly call her a servant. Do you remember her? She came to the wedding. Lady Brightwell always refers to her as her “companion” now.’

I did remember Miss Scott, a neat, birdlike woman, fine featured and rather jittery. Hector had introduced her as his nanny, and his affection for the old woman had been clear to see, as had her adoration of him. She had not been a conspicuous guest at the modest gathering, Lady Brightwell had very much played the dominant role, but she had struck me as kind and tolerant, characteristics which I suspected were essential for anyone fashioned as Lady Brightwell’s aide.

‘So how are you finding it here? It must be so different from London.’ I set my tea down on the hearth while I used the poker to stoke some life back into the dwindling fire. The sun that had lent a pleasant air to the day was receding as evening advanced, and a distinct chill bit into the room. Madeleine gazed off into the mid-distance, her brow creased. She rallied as I sat back in my seat.

‘Oh, you know …’ she said, but the insipid smile that flickered on her lips didn’t last long. She sipped her tea, I suspected, to cover a sudden pallor of unhappiness. I felt a twinge of disquiet. ‘I wish I were back in London. With Hector. Being here is so – it’s just not as I imagined.’

‘Oh, Madeleine. Well, I am here now, and I intend to stay for as long as you will let me.’ I was cheered to see her spirits restored by this promise. ‘How have you been, anyway?’

‘Well, the horrid morning sickness has passed,’ she said, an attractive glow finally brightening her cheeks. ‘I’ve been tired, but then I haven’t been sleeping well, I suppose.’ That nagging furrow reappeared between her brows, but she banished it with a shy smile. ‘I think I felt it move, you know, the other day. It was a funny squiggly feeling. Mother said it was a good sign.’

‘I should think it’s a wonderful sign!’

‘And how have you been, Stella?’

She didn’t need to elaborate. We both knew she was prodding at the fresh scab on my tender wound, conscious that over-investigation would split the delicate surface and expose the vulnerable flesh beneath. I didn’t want to disappoint her as she looked for signs of healing.

‘Better. I cry a little less, I manage a little more.’ There was a sober pause. ‘I couldn’t have done without you, Madeleine. I do hope you will let me return the favour now.’

Her eyes glistened. ‘Oh, darling, I will take your help now. I am so glad you have come.’

Both of us laughed at our mawkish sentimentality. I poured some more tea and as we moved onto less emotive topics, our good humour was soon recovered.

I was very keen to see more of my surroundings, but Madeleine seemed strangely averse to leading me on an exploration of the property. After much wheedling and cajoling, however, she finally acquiesced and agreed to give me a complete tour of what she referred to as ‘the dratted house’.

As we moved from one excessive room to the next, I realised that her earlier summation had been most apt. It was impossible to deny Greyswick’s luxurious finish and yet it lacked a quality to its splendour found in more established houses like our own. The calculated effort put into its grandeur had reduced it to a caricature of the very thing it aspired to be. Many of the rooms now lay dormant, particularly those in the ‘new wing’ – a garishly gilded ballroom, the smoking room, the study – none of which had been utilised since Sir Arthur’s death – and a lady’s parlour, neglected by Lady Brightwell in favour of the morning room, which lay at the other end of the house.

Once our tour of the ground floor had been completed, Madeleine led me upstairs. The bedrooms occupied by Lady Brightwell and Miss Scott were located in the new wing, whilst our rooms were to be found in the original part of the house. The upper corridor was only half-panelled, with claret-flocked wallpaper stretching up to the stuccoed ceiling, while a blood-red runner was centred over the treacle-coloured floorboards. Once again, the only natural light came from the arched window in the end wall, and it failed to pierce the blighted dimness of the landing.