Burnt Norton (17 page)

‘The county will wish to see all of this,’ he said. ‘We can’t let them down. It’s my last indulgence, the very last, I give you my word.’

While William described his vision, she tried to listen, but she remained suspicious of an auditorium carved from the hillside, a column of limes and a circular pool. She could only see it all crumbling around her.

Fifteen months after the first stone was laid, the building of the mansion was nearing completion and only the final details were left.

‘Do you like it?’ Elizabeth asked, as Molly pushed her around the hall.

‘Of course I do,’ Molly replied, choosing her words carefully. ‘It’s magnificent, it would be impossible not to like it.’

They stopped in front of the chimney breast. ‘Mr Cartwright commissioned this in London,’ Elizabeth murmured, admiringly. Molly looked closely. Amongst the carvings of fruit and flowers, a violin rested on its side, the fineness of the strings demonstrating the supreme artistry of the wood carver. She was about to turn away when she noticed a skull buried amongst the foliage. She recoiled and Elizabeth laughed.

‘Papa thinks the skull a little morbid; I can see that you agree.’

‘Morbid? Whatever gave you that idea?’ Molly laughed also, but it was a feeble laugh. She took hold of the chair and pushed it towards the door.

‘I don’t feel like going to The College today – would you mind if my sister came here?’ Elizabeth asked, when Molly had manoeuvred her down the steps.

‘Of course I don’t mind. I will be out of the way, I promise you – I have several errands to run locally.’ She squeezed her friend’s shoulder. Sharp bones protruded through the flimsy material.

A maid was dressing Dorothy’s hair when she heard the coach. She stood up, brushing the girl’s hand impatiently aside, and rushed to the window. The Keyt horses were trotting down the short drive towards The College. She could see the coach clearly: Lorenzo was on the box, his face in profile; her eyes fixed on him, but when she realized the coach was empty, her excitement changed to concern. Without waiting, she ran onto the landing and down the polished stairs.

‘Where’s my sister?’ she cried, nearly colliding with Lorenzo as he entered the door.

‘Your sister’s a little unwell but in good spirits,’ he reassured her. ‘She wishes to see you. I have a note from your father.’ Dorothy took the note, and after quickly reading it, she ran to fetch her coat.

‘I will tell my mother and come with you at once,’ she said.

Lorenzo helped her up the steps and into the carriage. For months Dorothy had thought about him, and though she had seen him briefly, on the occasions he arrived with her sister, they were never alone. Now, with his face only inches from her own, she could see the attraction in his eyes. Throughout the journey she remained silent but all the time she was aware of his presence, she was aware of the smell of soap, and sweet molasses, and dry winter hay. When she stepped down at the journey’s end, he held her hand longer than necessary, and the pressure of his fingers remained with her all day.

It was strange for Dorothy to be back at Norton; and though she didn’t see Molly, her presence was everywhere. She walked from room to room; the atmosphere was calm and tranquil. Staff greeted her, but to some she was a stranger. Everything was the same and yet it felt different. She sat down to lunch with her sister, but though she talked and laughed and feigned interest, her mind was elsewhere. Outside, the building of a mansion continued unchecked, while she, Dorothy Ann Keyt, had no part in it.

On her journey back to Stratford, Dorothy seethed at the injustice of it. This woman had stolen her father’s and her brother’s hearts, she had regained her sister’s friendship, and now she was having a house built for her. It was more than Dorothy could bear.

When they arrived back at The College, Lorenzo took her hands as he helped her down.

‘I know how difficult this is for you,’ he said, ‘but Miss Johnson will learn that in this world you cannot have what is not yours by right.’

Dear Lorenzo! He was a good man. She longed to forget about propriety and formality.

She looked into his eyes. ‘Please, will you come for me on Monday? My sister won’t be well enough to return to Stratford, but I wish to see her. I will ride with you to Norton.’

When Monday arrived Dorothy woke early. After putting on her riding habit she checked herself in the mirror; the dark blue cloth suited her. She pushed a strand of escaping hair behind the veil of her new velvet hat, applied rose water liberally to her face and neck, and went down to breakfast. Her stomach fluttered with nerves.

‘Are you all right?’ her mother asked, looking at the untouched roll on her plate.

‘I am well, thank you, I’m just not hungry.’

‘Give my love to Lizzie. I long to see her, but you know how it is.’

‘I know, Mama, Lizzie understands.’ She kissed her mother quickly and went to the hall. Once again she glanced in the mirror. After adjusting the veil to cover her face, she collected her favourite whip from the umbrella stand and went out through the side door and down the passage to the mews. Fidelia whinnied before she saw her. Dorothy smiled and slid the bolt to her stall.

‘She’s all done, miss.’ A stable lad looked in on her. ‘I’ve tightened your girth. She’s too bright, that one, she always knows when you’re going to ride her, and she has better hearing than any horse I know.’ By the time Lorenzo’s horse had clattered over the cobbles, Fidelia was stamping the ground with impatience. Lorenzo jumped down, handed his horse to the stable lad, and helped Dorothy up. For an instant she relaxed against him, but then with a small laugh she dug her heel into the horse’s side. Fidelia leapt forward and they were gone, galloping down the drive and out into the lane. Lorenzo soon caught up with her, and together they rode towards Norton. Throughout the ride she admired his hands, the long slim fingers that slipped expertly through the reins. When their legs touched, brushing imperceptibly against each other, she could hardly breathe.

‘How is your family?’ she managed.

‘They are all well. My sister married last year and her first child is on the way. Massimo now has four.’

‘You must miss them.’

‘Of course, but my life is here, not in Italy.’ He looked at her intently, and she blushed.

When they arrived at Norton, Dorothy found her sister lying on the sofa in the drawing room with Letitia curled beside her. She bent down and kissed her.

‘Don’t look anxious, Dotty; it’s all right, I’m better now,’ Elizabeth promised. ‘Read to me, will you?’

Dorothy sat down in a high-backed chair, picked the book up from the table beside her and opened the cover.

‘I love you reading to me,’ Elizabeth said, when Dorothy had finished a chapter. ‘It reminds me of our childhood, but then, of course, it was the other way round.’

‘Well, now it’s my turn,’ Dorothy said gently. She started on the next chapter but Elizabeth was asleep before she had finished it. Getting up, Dorothy rearranged the rug over her sister’s shoulders, and quietly left the room.

Letitia ran after her and together they set off towards the mansion. She could see the house was nearly finished and as Dorothy entered the light and spacious hallway, and looked up the elegant staircase to the landing above, she thought she would be sick at the extravagance of it all. The ornate plasterwork was the obvious work of a master craftsman, and the curtains that even now were being hung at the tall windows were made of the finest silks. Flemish hangings adorned the walls and French chandeliers hung from the ceilings. Nothing had been spared in the lavish display.

Upstairs, one of the exquisite panelled bedrooms would be
her
bedroom, where
she
would sleep with Dorothy’s father. It was too much. She had to escape.

She called Letitia to her side, and going through the French doors at the back, they descended the recently laid steps towards the pool garden. Today even the garden annoyed her. The elaborate stone balustrade was new, as was the statue of Diana, the huntress. With the spaniel at her heels she returned to the old house, more wounded than before. When Letitia barked and ran to the winter sitting room, Dorothy followed her. Molly Johnson was reading there. She looked up from her book and stood uncertainly, but Dorothy made no move. Her pulse pounded in her head and she feared she would faint.

‘Miss Dorothy.’ Molly nodded, struggling to maintain her composure against the forceful hatred in the other woman’s eyes.

‘It’s you.’ They stared at each other a long moment before Dorothy fled through the door, clutching the collar of her dress as if it were choking her.

She found Lorenzo in the coach house brushing Fidelia.

‘It’s too much,’ she sobbed, running towards him, and when he opened his arms to receive her, she fell into them, clinging to him for support.

He kissed her hair, inhaling the delicate scent of rose water, and when she turned her face towards him, he kissed her lips. For a moment they were locked together until she pulled away, her hair falling around her shoulders.

‘Can we go home?’ she said in a small voice, and he held her in his arms while her tears came.

They rode together in silence, each aware of the proximity of the other. But in coming face to face with Molly, Dorothy had recognized the parallels between her father’s love of a servant and her own. It could never be.

As they neared Stratford, she slowed to a halt. ‘Goodbye, Lorenzo.’ She leant towards him, lifting the veil from her face, and she brushed his lips with her own.

He looked at her for a moment and drew her towards him. ‘Please, Dorothy. I love you.’

‘It can never be,’ she said gently. ‘Don’t you see it’s impossible?’ She could feel the rough wool of his open coat, his warm chest beneath the coarse shirt. The temptation was strong, but she would not become her father.

‘You go back,’ she said as she pulled away, her face stained with tears. ‘I’ll ride the rest of the way on my own.’ She cantered off, leaving Lorenzo staring after her, his face a mixture of pain and confusion.

That night in bed, she accepted her love for him as a cross she would have to bear. She longed to give herself to him, but she knew that she could not.

Dorothy dreamt of Lorenzo. She wrote his name on small scraps of paper which she later burnt, but when she heard the Keyt carriage in the courtyard she hid upstairs.

She was distracted from her misery by a young man who came to visit her brother.

‘There is a gentleman at the door,’ Thomas Whitstone announced, entering the breakfast room early one morning. ‘He is here, I believe, at Master Thomas’s invitation. His name is Mr Gilbert Paxton-Hooper. Shall I show him in, Miss Dorothy?’

‘I’ll come out,’ she said, putting down her newspaper. She entered the hall, intrigued to see the friend her brother had spoken of so often.

‘Forgive me; I hope I’m not too early,’ the young man said, bowing.

‘Of course not,’ she said, looking into his playful eyes. ‘My brother has told me all about you. He’ll be down in a minute.’

The arrival of Gilbert was just the distraction the household deserved. He was bright and, in the words of her mother, pleasing to the eye. Dorothy liked him; in fact when Gilbert was around, the house changed. There was something appealing in his pale sensitive face. Dorothy liked his smile and the vulnerable expressions that passed fleetingly and were gone. She liked the brown wavy hair, which flopped over the collar of his velvet coat, and though her heart didn’t race with anticipation when she saw him, he made her laugh. It was just what she needed.

The first social occasion they attended, a few weeks later, was for Dorothy a thrilling affair. The Lucys were old family friends, and at Thomas’s suggestion, Gilbert was included in the invitation. When the coach drew up at Charlecote Park, Dorothy stepped down eagerly; she had a partner socially and intellectually her equal, and from the glances that came his way, he was far from unattractive.

The ball was opened by their host and hostess, who danced a minuet. As the harpsichord started to play, Dorothy gazed at them wistfully. She knew each movement, each pattern their intricate footwork made on the floor, and as they turned and circled, touched hands and separated, she danced each step in her mind. When it was over, Gilbert turned to Dorothy, his eyes amused.

‘I can see you’re impatient to show off your skills. Will you honour me with the first dance? I am poorly practised but can follow your lead.’

Dorothy laughed happily and allowed him to escort her onto the dance floor for the longways country dance. Thomas and the Lucys’ youngest daughter formed the next couple, and as the ten couples faced each other down the line, Dorothy felt the same excitement she always felt when about to dance. She curtsied to her partner, Gilbert bowed, and the dancing began. It started with a rond, a circle to the left and right. Gilbert moved gracefully, and as they worked their way to the top. His hands were precise and his footwork was elegant, and yes, Dorothy decided as she put her hand behind her back for the allemande turn, he was a delightful partner. When the music stopped, they left the dance floor and moved into the library. Thomas settled down to a hand of basset and Dorothy, who had never liked gambling, watched nervously. Fortunately the card game was interrupted by the announcement of supper, and Gilbert took her arm and led her through to the dining room. Thomas sat down on her other side. Throughout supper she was conscious of the magnificent surroundings: the vast table covered in a white damask cloth, the silver candelabra, the porcelain plates embossed with the Lucy crest. After the fish course of the lightest salmon dressed with cucumber and lemon, Thomas leant towards her.

‘Well, do you like him, Dotty?’ he whispered.

‘Of course I do,’ she giggled, ‘but what about the pretty Lucy girl?’ He winked conspiratorially. It would be so easy to marry Gilbert, she thought, as she helped herself to a sweetmeat from a dish in front of her; everyone liked him.

After they had finished, Gilbert took her hand once more. The laughter had gone from his eyes and he was serious. ‘Will you dance with me again, Miss Dorothy?’