Anita Frank - The Lost Ones

‘Our rooms are here. I had Mrs Henge put you in the one next to mine,’ Madeleine announced. ‘I did so want you close by.’

I expressed my pleasure at the arrangement and Madeleine was about to open the bedroom door when I stopped her, my curiosity having been aroused by the straight flight of stairs beside the arched window. As I carried on towards them, I saw they connected to a short galleried landing above.

‘What rooms are up there?’ I asked, turning back to her.

Madeleine clutched the door handle.

‘Just disused rooms,’ she said at last. ‘I have no need to go up there.’ The words tripped over themselves in their haste to be out. She pushed open the door, entreating me to come. ‘It’s getting late, you should dress for dinner. The bell-pull is by the bed, you can ring for Annie. I hope you like the room – it has its own adjoining bathroom, you know. Do try to hurry, Stella – it’s best not to be late down.’

I had to fish behind the swag of frilled curtain that hung from the canopy of my bed to find the bell cord. When Annie appeared a few minutes later I thought her rather subdued, but I dismissed her reserve as nerves.

She remained silent as she helped me into my black evening dress. I hung my locket from the hinge of the dressing table’s triptych mirror for safe keeping while she fastened strings of pearls about my neck. I decided to make an effort and engage her in conversation. We were, after all, to be thrust into each other’s company and I wanted the situation to be as tolerable as possible.

‘Are you settling in all right?’ I winced as she grazed my scalp with one of the pearl-headed pins she was using to dress my hair. She made no apology and I couldn’t tell whether she was unaware of her carelessness or simply choosing ignore it. Her cool gaze met mine in the mirror as she finished and it crossed my mind that it might not have been carelessness at all. I pushed aside my misgivings and decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. She stepped back as I got to my feet. ‘All of this must seem rather daunting,’ I said.

‘Everyone is being very kind to me, miss.’

‘Good.’ I began to squeeze my fingers into a tight-fitting evening glove, smoothing the satin up the length of my arm. ‘Do lend a hand when you can. I don’t want our visit to be a burden on anyone.’

‘Yes, miss.’

‘Is your room comfortable? I presume you’re up in the attic? I hope it’s not too ghastly up there.’

Annie hesitated for a minute, busying herself with hanging up my discarded day clothes for longer than I felt necessary.

‘It’s comfortable enough up there, miss.’

There was something in her tone that piqued my curiosity and I was about to question her further when there was a knock on the door. Madeleine stuck her head around its edge.

‘Are you ready to face them?’

I laughed, pulling my glove up the final inch so that it lay just below the crook of my elbow. ‘You make it sound like we’re going up against a hostile crowd!’

‘Yes, well … dinner here can sometimes feel like that – don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

I found her lack of humour to be rather disconcerting.

Lady Brightwell and her companion, Miss Scott, were awaiting us in the drawing room, both sipping sherry from cut crystal glasses, as they warmed themselves by the roaring fire.

‘Visiting is so exhausting!’

I was unsure whether Lady Brightwell’s exclamation as she rose to greet me was in reference to her busy day, a declaration of sympathy, or a complaint aimed at my very presence. I bent to kiss her creped cheek. She was small in stature, though she gained an extra inch or two from the artistic arrangement of her abundant grey hair, but what she lacked in height she more than made up for with her forceful persona. Large blue eyes ringed with gold inspected me thoroughly from under their broad arches as we exchanged the usual pleasantries, her thin lips barely breaking into a smile.

It was left to her companion, Miss Scott, to make me feel welcome.

‘So nice to see you again, Miss Marcham!’ She was a few years older than her employer, finer-boned and far sprightlier. Her eyes glowed with kindness from behind her round, wire-framed glasses as she warmly clasped my hand. I found I breathed a little easier in her company.

Mrs Henge’s appearance cast a dark shadow into the room, as she informed us that dinner was served. Lady Brightwell led us out into the draughty corridor to the dining room, leaning heavily on her silver-capped cane, a necessity since the stroke that had afflicted her twelve months previously.

Our steps echoed off the wooden floorboards as we took our places at the enormous rosewood table. I thought we looked rather absurd, the four of us clustered at the one end while its gleaming top stretched into the distance. Every cough, chink of cutlery and ting of wineglass seemed to reverberate off the barrel ceiling above us, which was itself an extraordinary sight – a dazzling collection of hand-painted panels, all executed in the Italianate style and excessively trimmed with gilt. The room was lit by four huge chandeliers boasting tier upon tier of crystal drops the size of my fist, their brilliance rendering the flickering flames of the candelabras before us obsolete. Yet none of this opulence served to make the room more comfortable, and though the fire was lit, it was not enough to take the edge off the cold that had my skin stippling in protest.

As Maisie placed soup bowls before us, Lady Brightwell launched into complaint after complaint about her day spent with friends, which had been soured by dull conversation, chipped china and over-cooked asparagus. I tried to offer sympathy where appropriate, but she would not permit any interruption, so in the end I kept quiet, relying on the contents of my wineglass to see me through the ordeal.

There was a brief respite as the table was cleared, with Lady Brightwell making a few curt enquiries into my parents’ health and my own present occupation, the latter of which I deftly side-stepped. Unfortunately, the arrival of the main course brought to mind yet another unsatisfactory element of her day, and her disgruntled diatribe was reignited, quite spoiling my enjoyment of the sweet Dover sole and later the wonderful gateau the cook had prepared.

There were several times during this extraordinary monologue of misery that I attempted to catch Madeleine’s eye, desperate to share with her the absurdity of it all, but she fixed her gaze firmly on the table. She appeared completely withdrawn as she played with the stem of her wineglass, from which she sipped sparingly.

It was whilst Lady Brightwell was midway through a comprehensive character assassination of the ‘dear friend’ she had visited, that the heavy dining-room door suddenly slammed shut. The sound thundered through the air, surprising everyone. Madeleine jumped so violently she toppled her glass, spilling her wine over the table. She pushed her chair back, aghast, and I feared she was about to burst into tears.

‘Oh Madeleine! How careless of you,’ Lady Brightwell cried as I sprang to mop up the spillage with my napkin. Miss Scott got up to help me. She righted the glass and assured Madeleine no harm had resulted. I was shocked to see my sister visibly trembling as she stared at the closed door.

‘There really has been no damage done,’ I said, echoing Miss Scott’s reassurance. I spotted one of the curtains lift and immediately deduced the cause of the door’s sudden movement. ‘It was probably just a through draught.’ I excused myself from the table and pulled back the offending curtain, the rings raking sharply against the brass pole. ‘Yes, look! The window has been left open – no wonder it was so cold in here.’ The sash clattered against the frame as I pushed it down.