Anita Frank - The Lost Ones

I had just concluded my rather devastating assessment when the front door was yanked open, and my name came squealing through the air. Madeleine charged down the steps in a most undignified manner and threw herself into my awaiting arms, knocking my hat quite askew.

We clung to each other, giggling like school girls. I relished being with my younger sister again – she was my superior in every way. Whereas I was argumentative, quick-tempered and cutting, she was charm and grace and kindness personified. She was also beautiful in that classic Grecian goddess way. Her golden tresses could be effortlessly curled and arranged, while my coarse brown muss had to be teased and heated and twisted to destruction – only to resemble an ill-formed bird’s nest when done. And yet, despite her obvious advantages, I had never been jealous of her – I simply adored her. Undoubtedly, the fire had drawn us closer together. We came to depend on one another as never before, comforting each other as we mourned our sister. The tragedy made us appreciate from an early age that the sibling bond was a precious one, to be nurtured and cherished at every opportunity. We had never taken each other for granted from that moment on.

As I broke away, a cold vein of concern tempered my happiness. Studying her properly I was shocked to see the transformation in her. Always the personification of an English rose, the face before me now was deathly pale. Madeleine’s skin was drawn tight over her high cheekbones; her eyes were sunken and shrouded with grey. She hardly resembled a young woman in the bloom of pregnancy, though the swelling about her girth reassured me all was still well.

‘My dear,’ I collected myself at last, ‘you look so pale.’

A hint of colour crept across her hollowed cheeks. ‘I have not been sleeping so well of late,’ she admitted, ‘but I am quite well.’ She squeezed my hand. ‘Oh, Stella, I am so glad you have come.’ She made no attempt to hide the relief in her voice, but neither did she attempt to explain it. ‘Now come in, you must be exhausted!’

Arm in arm we mounted the steps to the front door.

‘I am so pleased to have you here,’ she said again, drawing me still tighter to her side.

‘I thought you might be finding life in the country strange after London.’

Her steps faltered. ‘Yes … yes … it is a little strange here.’

We crossed an unlit vestibule, before passing through stately double doors into a grand hall. It was an impressive room, with dark wood panelling and a chequerboard floor of marble tiles, its ceiling intricately decorated with plaster mouldings. To my left and right broad archways supported by alabaster pillars acted as gateways to dark corridors beyond, while before me, spilling out across the floor, were the sweeping steps of a heavy oak staircase, its massive timbers carved with fruits and flowers. It wrapped itself around the back wall, gently ascending to the floor above, crossing below a magnificent stained-glass window that stretched upwards out of sight. This patchwork of glass was the only avenue for natural light to enter the hall, and the sun’s penetrating rays cast a myriad of coloured shards upon the polished flight of stairs but failed to dispel the gloom that pooled at the edges of the room.

‘Goodness,’ I murmured, gazing about me.

Before Madeleine could comment we were startled by rustling from within the umbra. A woman materialised from the shadows, the full skirts of her stark black dress swishing as she drew near. I was struck by her unusual stature and sturdy build – and by the set of keys strung upon a gaoler’s ring which hung from the belt about her thick waist.

Madeleine stepped closer to me.

‘Mrs Henge.’ There was an uncharacteristic tremor in her voice. ‘This is my sister, Miss Marcham. Mrs Henge is the housekeeper here, Stella.’

‘Welcome to Greyswick, Miss Marcham. I hope you will enjoy your stay.’

It was a low-pitched voice, staid and unobtrusive. Yet there was a perfunctory iciness to her demeanour that I found rather unnerving.

‘Thank you, Mrs Henge. I’m sure I shall.’

‘If there is anything you need, please do not hesitate to ask.’ She marshalled her features into a contrived look of apology. ‘We are, of course, short staffed, but I will endeavour to make sure that you have everything you need in as timely a fashion as possible.’ There was something in her tone that conveyed the impression I was a personal inconvenience. I found myself prickling with indignation.

‘I have brought my own maid with me, Mrs Henge. I trust, therefore, that my presence here will not prove too burdensome.’

She must have detected the underlying resentment in my clipped voice, for she responded with a subtle hike in one of her steely grey brows.

‘Not at all, Miss Marcham.’ Her eyes flickered over my shoulder and narrowed. ‘Do I take it that this is your maid, miss?’

My heart sank with misgiving as I turned to follow her supercilious gaze. Annie Burrows stood silhouetted in the doorway behind us, staring at the imposing staircase rising majestically before her.

‘Maids don’t usually enter by the front door, Annie,’ I said, exasperated by her faux pas.

I was struck by how pale she looked, and hoped she wasn’t ailing. She would become a burden if she fell ill, but I knew how easy it was to succumb to a chill in these cavernous houses. There was indeed a rather nippy draught blowing down the staircase. It had filtered through the fine weave of my blouse and my skin was bristling against it. For all its splendour, I suspected the intricate framework of the stained-glass window did little to keep invasive breezes at bay.

Stifling my irritation, I turned to the housekeeper. ‘Please understand, Mrs Henge, Annie has never been away before. It seems she’s rather overwhelmed.’

‘Good staff these days are proving difficult to find, Miss Marcham,’ Mrs Henge observed, before issuing Annie brusque instructions to go below stairs via the green baize door located in the far corner of the hall.

The maid dipped a curtsy. I saw her sneak a further glance at the staircase as she scuttled away.

‘I’ll make sure the girl settles in, miss – without delay,’ the housekeeper assured me in a rather forbidding manner.

‘Mrs Henge, might we have some tea brought to the drawing room?’ Madeleine asked, bringing a welcome conclusion to the awkward episode.

‘Of course, Mrs Brightwell. I shall have Maisie bring it directly.’ With a curt dip of her head, the housekeeper melded back into the shadows. We heard the baize door close behind her.

‘Did you have to bring that girl here?’

Madeleine’s quiet question took me by surprise.

‘Annie is one of the few servants we have left,’ I laughed. To my consternation, she looked away, biting her lip. ‘There was no one else, Madeleine. God knows she would not be my first choice, but all the others have gone.’

She mustered a smile. ‘No matter … it’s just …’ She shook her head, mocking her own foolishness. ‘It really doesn’t matter, I’m being silly. She’s such a bit peculiar, that’s all.’

‘Your Mrs Henge seems like an old stalwart – I’m sure she’ll brook no nonsense. You watch, she’ll keep Annie in line.’

She forced a laugh. ‘Mrs Henge has been with the family for so long she’s practically part of the furniture.’

‘I didn’t even see her standing in the shadows there when we came in. She gave me quite a fright.’

‘There are lots of shadows in Greyswick. Mrs Henge seems to occupy most of them.’

To my relief, she shrugged off her odd humour and returned to sorts, taking my hand to lead me under the left arch into the panelled corridor beyond. Doors were set opposite each other along its length, and at the end was a single sash window. There was something bleak and institutional about the design of the house and its failure to incorporate much natural light. I found the enclosed corridor dismal and claustrophobic, and I felt I was navigating the bowels of the building, not the communication passage to its principal rooms.