Burnt Norton (16 page)

Eleven months after returning, Molly made her decision: she would become the mistress of Sir William Keyt. Emptying a jug of hot water into the blue and white china basin, she opened the stopper on a jar of fragrant oil. Trailing her hand in the scented water, she washed herself slowly, caressing her breasts, running her fingers along the outline of her hips, and touching the most intimate parts of her body, and all the while she thought of William.

She would wear the nightgown painstakingly made from his gift of silk. She slipped it over her head, a voluptuous glide that rippled to the floor. She snuffed the candle and walked to his bedroom.

He was lying in bed when she entered. He rose onto his elbow and stared. She put up her hand. ‘Stay there,’ she said. ‘Do not move.’

She pushed the thin straps from her shoulders, letting the silk fall, until it lay in a pool on the wooden boards. She stood before him, her bare skin white in the moonlight. She motioned for him to come to her, and when he stood before her, looking questioningly into her eyes, she picked up his hand and cupped it to her breast. Slowly he began to touch her, reverently as if she were a goddess. Her body responded as he stroked her breasts. Her nipples hardened at his touch, cool on her skin, his mouth covering her and teasing. Then his kisses were on her neck, his body straining against hers, his arms pulling them together. She felt his strength, but still he caressed her gently while he whispered her name over and over again. When she could bear the waiting no longer she took his hand in her own and pushed it down, between her legs.

This time, she did not resist. Greedily she relished this strange new passion.

If Elizabeth knew what had happened, she remained diplomatic, and it was not discussed; and if Sir William tried to be discreet he was not entirely successful. ‘Molly, let me carry your work. It must be heavy.’

‘Sir, my mending is really of insignificant weight. I assure you, years of carrying buckets up and down my mother’s house have made me strong and workmanlike.’

‘Strong maybe, but workmanlike? I think not.’

For Molly, it was a time of fulfilment and peace. She found pleasure in being his mistress and enjoyed feeling needed.

1737

One August afternoon, while Molly read to Elizabeth on the terrace, William approached with a handsome stranger at his side.

‘Lizzie, my darling, and Miss Johnson, may I introduce Mr Cartwright?’

Perhaps it was the hint of colour in Elizabeth’s cheeks, or the flattering scatter of freckles on her nose that flustered Mr Cartwright.

‘Ah, yes . . . ahm, good afternoon,’ he stammered. ‘I see you are enjoying the weather?’

‘We are indeed,’ Elizabeth replied.

Mr Cartwright nodded, staring at the ground.

‘We will see you shortly, my dears,’ William said, leading poor Cartwright away.

When the two men had safely disappeared into the house, Molly and Elizabeth started to laugh.

‘He was so overcome! What nonsense he spoke.’

‘Oh,’ Elizabeth said, wiping the tears from her eyes, ‘how glad I am indeed that it is not raining.’

Despite his embarrassment, Mr Cartwright accepted an invitation for dinner, and with considerable feminine delight, preparations began. After an excessive amount of time and indecision, Elizabeth selected the pale blue organza, set off by the Tracy pearls.

‘Beautiful,’ Molly said, when Elizabeth’s hair was dressed to her satisfaction. ‘Absolutely lovely.’

Fortunately Mr Cartwright found his voice that night, and throughout dinner, the party made animated conversation. When they had finished their meal, William picked up his daughter and carried her into the drawing room. It was the only outward sign of her misfortune.

‘Well, Lizzie, it seems you were also a little taken,’ Molly teased when Mr Cartwright had left.

‘Certainly not,’ she replied, but her eyes shone.

Three weeks later, William, Elizabeth and Molly were finishing breakfast when William rang the bell. George Heron immediately appeared.

‘Heron, please remove the plates. I need the table to be clear.’

‘Yes, sir,’ he replied, deftly removing the coffee cups and saucers, the plates of muffins and toast. ‘If you will allow me, I will get one of the housemaids to sweep away the crumbs.’

Molly was heading towards the door when Sir William called her back.

‘Miss Johnson, could you spare a moment and stay behind with Miss Elizabeth? I have something to show you both; I will fetch it from the library.’

He returned carrying a long tube. Pulling out a sheet of paper he spread it on the table in front of him. It was the plan for an impressive four-storey mansion with seven bays. An ornate balustrade ran along the roof line, and pediments and pilasters adorned every inch of the masonry. The inscription read
Over Norton House.

‘Well, what do you think?’

It was a moment before Elizabeth replied. ‘It’s lovely, but what is it for? We are not moving, are we, Papa? I should hate to move.’

‘No, of course not, but I am going to build you the finest house in Gloucestershire. It will be here on the top lawn, and Mr Cartwright will be overseeing the work as our architect. You will see from the plan that I have devised a passageway from one house to the other. It will be at first-floor level. Think of this as an additional wing and nothing more.’

He turned to Molly. ‘Do you like it?’ he asked.

‘It is handsome, but hardly a single wing. Surely, this house is big enough?’

‘How practical you are, but what is practicality, my dear, when I wish to do something for the two women in my life?’

It was the first time that William had aired his affection for Molly in front of his daughter, and in front of the servants. Molly noted George Heron’s look of surprise.

It flustered her. ‘I don’t know what to say, sir. Please don’t take any notice of my opinion.’

William held up his hands. ‘Enough. Consider it a gift to you both.’

‘Please forgive me, I feel a little unwell.’ She ran from the room.

For Elizabeth’s sake, Molly had prudently kept her own bedroom in the attic. Her dresses still hung in the wardrobe, the little vase beside the washstand was always filled with flowers; when she attended the dining room it was as Elizabeth’s companion. She had worked hard to regain her friendship and feared Sir William’s indiscretion had ruined it.

Walking downstairs the next morning, Molly found Elizabeth on the landing, working intently on a drawing. She closed the pad and looked up, her fingers covered with black charcoal. ‘Do you think so little of me, Molly?’ she frowned.

Molly was flustered. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘You should know me better, so please don’t ever judge me again.’

It was the same with Ruth.

‘It’s all right, love; we won’t hate you just because you’ve got lucky. As long as you don’t act like a spoilt duchess, I’ll still love you.’

It was not long before the building work started. Teams of craftsmen hired by the director of works appeared. Stonemasons, bricklayers, carpenters and plasterers filled the site. On the first Monday of every month, Mr Cartwright came to inspect the progress. Molly, at Sir William’s insistence, was usually at his side. She was flattered, but though she did her best to limit his extravagance, on these occasions he ignored her, so determined was he to create a house that would outstrip all others. As the end of the first stage approached, it became evident that the building lacked sophistication and refinement.

‘Something seems wrong with the proportions, Papa, though of course the design is excellent,’ Elizabeth observed.

‘I agree with you,’ Mr Cartwright said apologetically. ‘My efforts appear cumbersome and top-heavy. I have failed you.’

‘Of course you haven’t,’ she replied. ‘I’m sure you’ll find a solution.’

In the end Elizabeth came up with the solution. She asked her father to contact the architect, and only a week after their previous meeting, she arranged to join them on the building site. George Heron pushed the chair over the uneven gound and stopped at the small group assembled in front of the house.

‘Thank you, Mr Heron,’ Elizabeth said, re-arranging her skirts. ‘Not an easy task I know.’ She watched for a moment as he picked his way back through the mud, then turned to Mr Cartwright and smiled apologetically. ‘I would be grateful if you would cast your eye over my drawing.’ She opened her notebook. The central portion of the house remained the same, but the two new wings added balance and symmetry, and the intricate railings and elaborate iron gates gave the desired elegance.

‘It’s merely a suggestion,’ she said.

George Cartwright took the pad from Elizabeth.

‘I believe you would make an accomplished architect,’ he said, beaming at her. Elizabeth blushed and turned away, but not before Molly had noticed.

When the group returned for tea in the library, Molly voiced her concerns again. ‘The mansion is already magnificent and there are only three of us to live in it. Do we really need the extra space?’

‘Just think of ways to furnish it and leave the worrying to me,’ Sir William said flippantly.

‘You see, Mr Cartwright,’ she said, defeated, ‘I have little influence. Sir William will not be outdone. After all, what is a Kite without wings?’

During the following months the building work continued, and as the two extra wings rose steadily from the ground, rumours began to filter Molly’s way. Then she heard it straight from the foreman: he walked up to her while she was picking rosemary in the herb garden, and spat ungraciously into the ground. ‘The carpenters weren’t paid last month, and the plasterers the month before.’

‘I will talk to Sir William and Miss Elizabeth,’ she mumbled lamely, retrieving her basket. She knew her excuse was inadequate, for while William ignored any financial implications, Elizabeth was unaware of them. She had never dealt with bills, and throughout her life money had always been available. Why should that change?

As the house grew, so did the garden. Henry Clark, the steward, began a scheme as elaborate as the house itself. Several hundred trees were planted, and above the yew walk, two large parterres were established, their central feature being a round stone table. When Molly asked about this, Sir William smiled. ‘I admit to an obsession: we have Merlin’s grove, and now we have Arthur’s table.’

It seemed to Molly that a new project was undertaken every week.

‘Molly, will you accompany me to the new plantation?’ Elizabeth asked. ‘Lorenzo will come for us at nine.’

As the cart drew up beside the young woodland, Elizabeth clasped her arm. ‘These trees will outlive us all. Think of it: they will be here for hundreds of years, long after you and I have been forgotten.’

While Molly worried about the immediate future, Elizabeth looked beyond. She imagined the children from many future generations running beneath the trees; children from a new and altered world.

In early spring, William asked Molly and Elizabeth to join him in the garden.

‘Don’t look so stern, Molly. After this we will tighten the reins.’ He gathered his daughter into his arms and carried her, urging her to close her eyes. Molly followed. They had left the garden long behind them when William stopped in front of a grove of trees.

‘Open your eyes, Lizzie. Look what I have built for you. I have called it “The Temple”.’

Before them, light flickered intermittently through the dark canopy of branches. Hidden amongst the foliage was a small version of the new mansion.

‘Papa, it’s beautiful!’ she cried. ‘Molly, do you see the bust in the niche above the entrance? I’m sure it looks like me!’

‘It is you.’ Molly laughed.

‘And what do you think, Molly?’ William asked.

‘It is very beautiful, but—’

Molly pushed all thoughts of escalating costs and financial ruin aside, and surrendered to the spirit of the occasion. ‘And yes, of course I like it very much.’

Less than a week had passed when these same doubts were brought severely home. Sir William was in his study; Molly resisted the urge to knock and opened the door.

‘Come to bed,’ she said softly. ‘It’s late and you’ll make yourself ill.’

‘Go away!’ he snapped, putting his hand over the ledger in front of him. ‘If I don’t sort these figures, I really will be ill.’ William avoided her eyes, refusing to see the hurt he had caused. When the door closed behind her, he returned to his books. He tried to concentrate. He licked his lips, running his tongue around his dry mouth. The expenditure columns were filled with black numbers, row upon row of jumbled figures. They made no sense. He pushed the ledgers away from him and groaned. Shaking his head, he accepted that his desire to be known as a man of wealth and culture would come to nothing. Unlike so many of his class, who had built upon their family’s good name and their fortunes, he would have destroyed a name revered for centuries, and squandered a fortune accumulated with prudence and sense. While there was no doubt that some of his sentiments had come from generosity to his daughter and mistress, a large part of this enormous folly had appealed to his own vanity.

‘I shall be remembered only as a fool,’ he said, hysteria creeping into his voice, ‘a stupid, bloody fool.’

Molly returned to her room and sat down at her dressing table. She stared into the mirror, flinching at the pained face that stared back at her. She knew the Keyt coffers were emptying fast. William’s demeanour, the rumours, the unpaid workmen all told the story. As William continued to spend, and as the money dwindled away, so too would his interest in his mistress.

Molly’s dread escalated when he insisted on her presence only days later.

‘Come now, Molly, and don’t be cross.’

‘Why should I be? I’m hardly ever cross.’

‘You look at me with disapproval, and that is just as bad. I know you’ll think this an unnecessary extravagance, but I wish to build a theatre arranged around a circular pool. It will be a permanent open-air setting for concerts and plays. We must, after all, have somewhere to open our celebrations.’

‘What celebrations?’ she asked.