A Stairs - Eva Ibbotson

‘Give over, Jean, do,’ said James, abandoning protocol to use, for once, her Christian name. ‘Why, you know Signor Manotti had the brandy uncorked and half a pint in the bowl before ‘e even thought what he was going to cook.’

‘I just don’t know what to do,’ said Mrs Park in a low voice. ‘It’s everything, you see. No syllabub ‘cos of the sherry, no jugged hare ‘cos of the wine. No trifle, no crepes Suzettes . . . No beef stews, no coq au vin … Why, even Welsh Rarebit’s got ale in it.’

And as she sat there, seeing the whole rich vocabulary of dishes she had striven so hard to learn brought suddenly to nought, a large tear gathered in Mrs Park’s round, blue eyes and rolled slowly, unheeded, down her cheek.

It was too much for the others. ‘But she will not want you not to cook most beautifully for everyone else!’ cried Anna. ‘It is impossible that she does not want others to eat as they wish. It will only be necessary to prepare something extra that has no alcohol in it for her, and as she is very rich and there are many more people to help you, this will not matter.’

‘Anna’s right,’ said James. ‘Don’t you remember old Lady Byrne? She was a Quaker, never touched a drop herself but kept one of the best tables in the country.’

But Mrs Park was not to be consoled. Though trained by a great international chef, she belonged to the old-fashioned country tradition which bound a good cook, by a thread of skill and understanding, to the mistress of the house. Muriel’s rejection had left her desolate.

‘I’ll have to give in my notice, Mr Proom,’ she said. But even as she spoke, she looked at Win standing hunched and bewildered by the range. At the orphanage they had said Win was unemployable. ‘Defective’ was the word they used - a word that made no sense to Mrs Park, whose patient, loving kindness had turned the girl into a second pair of hands. But would a newcomer be able to take her on? If she herself left Mersham, what would become of Win?

And worn out by strain and sleeplessness and disappointment, Mrs Park let her head fall on her arms, and sobbed.

- - - -*

‘So these are your ancestors?’ said Muriel, looking with pleasure and interest at the serried ranks of Westerholmes in the long gallery.

Returning from church, she had found laid out for her a simple dress of blue linen which matched the colour of her eyes. She had taken the hint and also allowed Anna to arrange her golden hair in a low chignon. Steering her through the armoury, the library and the music room, Rupert thought he had never seen her look fresher or more beautiful and his misgivings of the previous night vanished in the sunlight. Of course Muriel would fit in at Mersham, of course she would love his people and his home.

‘Yes, those are the Westerholmes and the women fool enough to marry them,’ he said, smiling. ‘That’s Timothy Frayne who founded the family fortune in all sorts of disreputable ways. And that’s his son, James -he was the first earl. James was one of the fair, roistering Fraynes, always in trouble! Then this one’s William - he’s one of the other kind, dark and dreamy. William landscaped the park and furnished the music room - music was his passion. And George here is a throwback to James - a devil with the women and always getting into scrapes. My brother was like him, they said.’

‘And you’re like William,’ said Muriel, looking at the scholarly face above the lace collar. ‘Goodness, who’s this one? He looks very strange!’

Rupert grinned. ‘That’s our black sheep. Sir Montague Frayne. He was a cousin of the fourth earl’s. He’s the only one of my ancestor’s who’s had the distinction of becoming a fully-fledged ghost.’

‘Really?’ Muriel’s tone was not encouraging. ‘What did he do?’

‘He murdered his wife’s lover,’ said Rupert, looking at the wild-eyed young courtier nonchalantly posed with one hand on his hip. ‘Or the man he believed to be his wife’s lover: a young architect who built the Temple of Flora and the gothic folly in the woods.’

‘And where does he do his haunting?’ said Muriel, humouring her fiancé for she did not, naturally, believe in ghosts.

‘Oh, not in the house. Out in the folly where the dark deed was done. It’s quite a big place, a sort of tower with three rooms one on top of the other with a dome on the top. No one uses it now and it’s kept padlocked. The servants swear he howls and wails in repentance, and of course no one will go near it in the dark.’

‘One must allow for foolishness and superstition in the uneducated classes,’ said Muriel.

‘Yes, I suppose one must,’ said Rupert, a little bleakly.

He looked at his watch. In an hour. Potter would be back with the mare. The excitement in the groom’s voice on the telephone had told Rupert all he wanted to know and, at the thought of the gift he was giving Muriel, his spirits soared. He had taken so much from her already, was so greatly in her debt, but the bridegroom’s present to the bride would at least be a worthy one!

‘Shall we go outside?’ he suggested. ‘You must have seen enough of my ancestors to last you a lifetime.’

‘Not at all, dear,’ said Muriel, who was peering intently at the portraits, ‘I find them very handsome.’ She turned to smile coquettishly at him. ‘Just like you. And there don’t seem to be any taints or blemishes which is unusual in so old a family.’

‘Taints?’ said Rupert, puzzled. ‘What exactly do you mean?’

‘Well, you know… deformities, inherited diseases,’ said Muriel, drawing her skirt away from Baskerville. ‘Hare lips and so on,’ she continued. ‘Or mental illness. Though that would hardly show up in a painting, I suppose.’

Rupert was looking at her in rather an odd manner. ‘I don’t know of any; they were a very ordinary lot as far as I know. But if there were, Muriel, would it really matter to you?’

Muriel smiled and patted his arm with her plump, soft hand. ‘You must remember my great interest in eugenics. And once you have met Dr Lightbody, which I hope will be very soon, I know you will become as interested as I am.’

As they walked towards the garden door they met Pearl, carrying coals to Uncle Sebastien’s room.

‘That reminds me,’ said Rupert, as she bobbed a curtsy and scuttled respectfully away. ‘How is Anna making out? It’s early, I know, but are you satisfied with her?’

Muriel frowned, a neat and parallel gesture. ‘Yes,’ she said doubtfully. ‘She is deft and painstaking but I confess, dear, that I don’t really care for her. There is something not quite right about the girl.’

‘You don’t find her disrespectful or anything of the sort? Because I don’t think she means—’

‘No, I can’t say she’s disrespectful,’ said Muriel, who prided herself on her fairness, ‘but for a servant she is too interested. A good maid should be like a piece of furniture: there, but unnoticed.’

‘Yes,’ said Rupert, who saw exactly what Muriel meant. You could say a lot about Anna, but not that she was like a piece of furniture. ‘She’s only temporary, you know; part of the intake to prepare for the wedding. I’m looking to you to engage what servants you will afterwards.’

‘I’m glad to hear you say that,’ answered Muriel as they prepared to cross the stableyard, ‘because I do think quite a lot of changes will be needed. For example, I really think we should have matched footmen. In a house of this quality, to have footmen of different sizes gives a very untidy appearance. I should like them about six foot two, but I daresay we had better content ourselves with six foot, so many people having been killed in the war.’