A Stairs - Eva Ibbotson

On the second floor landing she stopped abruptly. Here the back staircase crossed a panelled corridor on which were a series of small guest rooms used for visitors who came for shooting parties: simple, bachelor rooms that she had hardly seen.

And from behind the door of one of these had come the sound of someone moaning, as though in pain.

But who? Surely the rooms were empty? And then she remembered. The earl had moved into the end one temporarily while the grand master suite was being spring-cleaned for the wedding.

The sound came again: a low cry, followed by a spate of indistinguishable words. And, hesitating no longer, Anna pushed open the door.

By a shaft of moonlight coming from the uncurtained window, she could make out a tousled head on the pillow. The Earl of Westerholme was groaning. He was also fast asleep. In familiar country now, Anna moved

over to the bed and switched on the lamp. Then she leant over and shook her employer’s shoulders.

‘Wake up,’ she said. ‘Please wake up. Completely.’

Rupert opened his eyes, but the slim figure in white with the heavy braids of hair made no sense to him.

‘It is very foolish to sleep on your back,’ Anna said firmly. ‘It is always foolish, but when you have been in a war it is foolish beyond belief.’

The earl looked at her with unfocused eyes. He put out a hand and as he found hers, small-boned, infinitely flexible and rough as sandpaper, recognition came.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You. Of course.’ Then, suddenly ashamed, ‘I’m sorry. A nightmar ‘What was it about?’

The earl shook his head.

‘Yes,’ said Anna firmly. ‘You must tell me. I always made Petya tell me his dreams and then he was better.’

‘Who is Petya?’

‘My brother. He used to see anarchists on the ceiling. There was an icon lamp in his nursery which threw shadows. Tell me about your dream.’

‘It’s always the same. It’s after the crash … I was a pilot in the war, you see.’

She nodded. ‘I know.’

‘I’m in the tree … hanging,’ Rupert went on, speaking with difficulty, ‘and he’s down there on the grass, dry grass like Africa, and the flames are crackling. He’s on fire, burning like a rick. I try to get to him. I have to.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Johnny Peters. My navigator. I’m responsible for him.’

‘And then?’

‘I struggle and struggle, but the cords of the parachute are tangled round my neck and I know if I cry out…If I warn him, the flames will go out and I try to call but nothing comes.’

Anna’s work-roughened hand still rested in his. ‘Was it really like that?’

‘Yes … No … A little. He was burnt earlier, in the plane. The flames weren’t like that. It was muddy… a turnip field. The flames are a pyre.’

‘Yes, I see. All men dream like that, I suppose tafter a war. Women, too,’ she added ruefully. ‘It will be better when you are married.’ Suddenly she freed her hand and said eagerly: ‘Of course! How stupid I am! I will fetch Miss Hardwicke — she will want to be with you.’

‘No!’ Rupert was wide awake now, sitting up. ‘Good heavens, no! It would be most improper.’

‘Improper?’ said Anna, shocked. ‘She will not think of that when you are troubled.’

‘Anna, I forbid it,’ said the earl. ‘I’m all right now. I’m fine.’ But as she made as if to go he said pleadingly, like a child, ‘Stay a little longer. Tell me about your father.’

She smiled, her face tender in the lamplight. ‘I wish you had known him. He could make just being alive seem like an act of triumph. People used to smile when they saw him coming … he made everything all right.’ She swallowed. ‘He was in the Chevalier Guards,’ she went on, letting pride overcome caution. ‘It was one of the tsar’s crack regiments. When the revolution came the men mutinied and killed their own officers, so we tried to be glad that… he died when he did.’

‘What was his name?’

‘Peter Grazinsky. He was a good man and he hated war.’ She jumped up. ‘And now I’ll make you a hot drink and then—’

‘No, please. I don’t want a drink. Just stay a little longer.’ One of her thick braids had come unplaited at the ends and he was reminded, foolishly, of the fronded bracken he had uncurled with his fingers as a boy. ‘Tell me about yourself. Where were you bom?’

Relieved by the impersonality of the question, sh said, ‘In St Petersburg. I can never think of it as Petrograd.’

‘Ah, yes. The city built on the bones of a thousand serfs.’

‘Yes, it was built by Peter’s dream and many people suffered for it. But it is not a sad city. The streets are so wide and the houses are such lovely colours: apricot and moss green and that colour that is like coffee with cream in it, you know? And everywhere there is water. The Neva, of course, and the canals, the Moika, the Fontanka … so that it’s as if there were mirrors everywhere and one can see two cities with golden domes, one floating over the other.’

‘Go on. Tell me about the snow.’

She smiled. ‘Ah, yes, the snow … We were always happy when the snow came, isn’t that ridiculous? But it made everything so smooth and quiet and … joined together. The whole city became one thing and the sledges were so swift and silent after the rattling of the droshkies. And in the country it was even better. We used to wait for the cranes to fly south and then we knew that in a very few days the snow would come. It has to fell three times before it lies, did you know that? The first fall melts and the second - but the third, that stays.’

She fell silent, her eyes full of memories, and Rupert, setting a trap for her, said quietly: ‘Qu’est-ce qui vous manque le plus ?’

She frowned, thinking. Then, in a French more fluent and better accented than his own, she answered: ‘La sensation d’immensité, probablement. La Russie est si enorme que cela change tout.’

‘Yes.’ He could see that she might miss just those things: the sheer size of a land, its limitless skies, and the breadth of vision that such size might bring. And she had not even noticed the change of language!

Prompted by some demon to destroy the confidenc he had carefully built up, he look hold of her wrist and said: ‘Do you realize if this were two hundred years ago I couid keep you here? Exercise my droit de seigneur. What would you do then?’

‘I should scream,’ said Anna, disengaging her wrist. She got up and went lightly to the door, then she turned and said, grinning, ‘I ‘ope!’ - and was gone.

- - - -*

The following day was a Sunday and the family had the pleasure of hearing Mr Morland read the banns and of introducing Muriel to those members of the congregation who had not managed to get a glimpse of her as she drove from the station. The future countess, in a Nile green satin suit and pearls, seemed relaxed and serene and bowed most graciously to her parishioners as she walked down the aisle. The earl, on the other hand, looked tired - but then he hadn’t been long out of hospital and men were always nervous about weddings.

It was also noted that very few Mersham servants were present. The dowager, unlike many employers, was not in the habit of marshalling her staff on a compulsory church parade. Today, most of the regulars had decided they could serve God best by staying at home and succouring Mrs Park.

The gentle cook had had a sleepless night and now sat like a broken-stemmed flower reproaching herself while Win, devoted and uncomprehending, tried to ply her with cups of tea.

‘It’s my fault; I should have found out,’ said Mrs Park. ‘Signor Manotti wouldn’t have done a thing like that.’