Burnt Norton (2 page)

‘It’s only London,’ she’d said as she tucked the crisp white sheets around Dorothy. ‘And it’s only for a month. With Ophelia as lead horse, you can have no worries at all.’

But Dorothy didn’t want to leave Norton and the security of her routine. She pushed back the covers, letting her feet swing over the edge of the bed. The house seemed quiet, but somewhere in the attics, the first servants would be stirring.

Across the room, dresses like silver shrouds hung in the nursery cupboard. Moving them aside she found an old woollen cloak of her sister’s and pulled it around her shoulders. She fastened the hooks, put on her slippers and crept down the back stairs. On the half-landing she paused and opened the window. There was a new sharpness: the scent of autumn. Dorothy shivered. Something troubled her. She shut the window quickly, startling Annie, who looked at Dorothy from the courtyard below, her face luminous in the lamp light. The maid tripped, cursing angrily and stumbled on through the archway towards the ice house. Lorenzo opened the lodge door, pulled on his leather boots, and going in the opposite direction he disappeared into the darkness.

Dorothy decided to follow him. A fox barked in the distance, and above the line of the yew trees, blue-black clouds sailed across the emerging sky. The lawn was wet, and by the time she reached the coach house, the hem of her cloak was heavy with dew. Ophelia turned her head, whickering softly; Dorothy entered the stall and buried her face in the horse’s silken coat.

‘Does Lady Keyt know you are up?’ Lorenzo stood in the doorway.

Dorothy looked at him, her face colouring. ‘Please don’t tell her,’ she said.

‘Then come with me; you can help. There’s still a lot to do.’ She followed him to the harness room. The fire flickered in the grate, and the satisfying smells of soap and leather drifted towards her. She sat on a chair by the hearth, and when the flames rose up, they caught the hollows in Lorenzo’s face.

While Lorenzo polished the buckles and greased the leather, Dorothy worked on Ophelia’s bridle. They were disturbed by a clatter in the yard outside.

‘Mornin’, Lorenzo, morning, Miss Dorothy,’ Jim Smith, the wheelwright said, his wrinkled face creasing into a lopsided smile. ‘This here’s taken me nigh on a month to make. Precision, that’s what it takes. Precision and skill.’ The old man rolled the wheel towards the carriage. ‘I’ll be along to the back door with me ticket just as soon as I’ve tightened these bolts.’

‘Make sure you secure them well,’ Lorenzo said. ‘I can’t wait, I have four horses to prepare.’

Dorothy returned surreptitiously to her bed at precisely the moment her father, Sir William Keyt, Member of Parliament for Warwick and the owner of two considerable estates, stretched luxuriously in his own. He sat up and looked at his wife sleeping beside him. He traced the curve of her jawline with his finger and lifted a strand of hair from her forehead. She opened her eyes for a moment and smiled.

‘The opera,’ he said softly, with the pride of someone offering a great gift. ‘I shall take you to the opera.’

He settled back in bed, knowing that after twenty-one years of marriage and four children – not counting the poor departed baby – his dear wife deserved every indulgent day of the month they would spend in London. He had no great desire to stay with his mother-in-law, the indomitable Lady Tracy, but he owed it to his family, and though he had visited the Vatican in Rome, the duomo in Florence and St Mark’s Basilica in Venice, he regarded his education as incomplete: he had never been to the opera. On this day, the eighteenth of September, he resolved to address this oversight.

He put his arm around his wife’s waist and pulled her towards him. ‘We will have the best time,’ he murmured, before sleep claimed him once more.

An hour later, he woke to the sound of the butler knocking.

‘Come in, Whitstone.’

The butler opened the door and hovered discreetly in the entrance.

‘Your bath is ready, Sir William.’

‘Thank you. Please tell Hawkins I’ll be with him shortly, and get him to lay out my burgundy travelling coat and the buckskin breeches, and before we leave could you get my diamond fob from the safe. And clean this, will you?’ He pulled a small ring from his finger. ‘The ruby eye is barely discernible.’

‘It will be done, sir.’

Sir William would never have called himself vain, but if he was truthful, which he sometimes was, he was keenly aware of his appearance. He had a certain fondness for clothes and indeed for jewellery.

After he was bathed and dressed to his satisfaction, he went downstairs to his study. He sat at his desk, stretched his long legs and opened the drawer. Someone had been there; whoever it was had moved his diary. It did not take long to determine the culprit. For a moment he was angry, and then he smiled. If only Thomas had some of Dorothy’s spirit, he thought.

Miss Byrne found Thomas on the landing. ‘Put your book down, young man, and go and have breakfast. It’s hard enough to get your little brother’s nose into a book, and it’s hard enough to keep your nose out of one.’

Thomas laughed. ‘Is John awake?’

‘It’s been the devil’s own job to keep him away from your poor mother. He has been up since six, talking about a new telescope. It’s all he thinks about. Your father is filling his head with fanciful ideas; that’s the job of your old governess, so it is.’

Thomas felt a moment of jealousy. His father loved John the best.

‘Now don’t you be looking sad. Your father will buy you a present in London, I’m sure of it.’

Thomas smiled at Miss Byrne, though he doubted her words. He could never please his father.

The Keyt children were waiting in the carriage, with their mother and Miss Byrne, when Sir William came down the front steps, flanked by his dogs.

‘Letitia, Sophie, go inside – you’re not coming.’ He stroked the spaniels.

He approached Ophelia, patting her side, then ran his hand expertly down her legs, checking for any swelling that would signal an impending lameness. When he was satisfied, he climbed into the carriage. ‘Good morning, my dear, good morning, everyone.’

‘Good morning,’ they replied. He parted the tails on his burgundy coat, and after rearranging a ruffle on his shirt sleeve, he opened his journal, the
London Gazette
, took his glasses from his pocket and declared that they were ready. ‘John, you may tell Lorenzo to release the brake.’

The small boy clambered from his seat, banged on the partition with a chubby fist, and the coach moved off at a brisk trot. As the wheels clattered under the archway Dorothy turned to see the oak front door close behind them.

‘My darling, you were not in your bed this morning when Annie lit the fires.’ Lady Keyt turned to her daughter, but Dorothy dropped her eyes.

‘No, Mama, I was with Lizzie. I had a bad headache.’ She knew her sister would not betray her.

‘Well, have a care, or you will have to stay in your room to recover.’ Dorothy stared at the window, silent; her mother knew everything about her, even the things she didn’t want her to know.

They had just passed Moreton-in-Marsh when Thomas rose to his feet. ‘Mama, Father, please listen to me.’ Dorothy’s heart lurched, for it was the same voice he used when something was wrong. It was the voice that drove her father mad. She raised her head.

‘We need to turn the carriage,’ he said, his blue eyes intense in his pale face. ‘We need to go home while there is still time.’

‘Thomas, enough of your nonsense,’ her mother said quietly, her hands flying to her throat.

‘There’s going to be an accident. One of us will die.’

‘Thomas, my angel, do not frighten us.’ Her mother’s voice was firmer now. ‘You mustn’t let your thoughts run away with you.’

‘A still tongue makes a wise head!’ her father snapped. ‘Sit down and keep your ridiculous ideas to yourself!’

Thomas looked at Dorothy. ‘Please, Dotty,’ he mouthed, and though the words of support trembled on her lips, she turned away.

He sank onto the upholstered bench, pulled his knees to his chest and stared.

Lizzie tried her best to placate him. ‘Dear Thomas,’ she said, ‘you are an odd one! How could it be a dying day? You only have to look around you, the sun is shining, and it’s truly glorious.’

But Dorothy couldn’t look outside, for she saw danger in every tree and blade of grass. She buried her face into Hastings, her cloth rabbit, and prayed to all the saints in heaven to keep them from harm.

‘Dorothy, my darling, no harm will come to us, I assure you. It is only one of your brother’s little turns.’ Her mother leant towards her, touching her arm. Dorothy didn’t know why, but for the first time in her twelve years she did not believe her.

Two hours passed. Lizzie read stories to John, and Dorothy listened half-heartedly. Thomas remained silent. Just before the coach reached Chipping Norton, Lorenzo slowed the horses. Sir William stepped down.

‘Come on, boys,’ he said. ‘There are too many of us in the coach as it is. We need to walk; it’s too much for the horses to pull us up this hill.’

‘I’m coming too,’ Dorothy said, jumping down. Soon everyone except Lady Keyt was trudging up the dusty track. Dorothy picked up her skirts and ran to the front. She held onto Ophelia’s harness, while John rode on her father’s shoulders. Thomas lagged behind, every now and then kicking up the dust with his new shoes. Lizzie joined him.

‘Come on, Thomas,’ she said. ‘Father will be cross if you make yourself dirty. I’ll give you a penny if you recite one of your poems.’ Distracted at last, Thomas put his arm through his sister’s and his clear voice carried up the hill towards the rest of the family. Dorothy, glad to be at the front, glanced up at Lorenzo; she always felt safe with the coachman.

When he noticed her looking at him, he gestured to the road ahead and laughed. ‘Look at these potholes. In Florence we have proper roads; here, we have dust in the summer and mud in the winter!’ Dorothy laughed too, the last of her anxiety disappearing.

As they pulled away from the village of Enstone, church bells rang. On the third chime, the carriage began to sway. ‘What’s happening?’ Dorothy cried. ‘What’s happening, Miss Byrne?’

The governess’s comforting hand was wrenched from her as the carriage pitched sideways. With her face pressed against the window, Dorothy watched helplessly as a wheel rolled unsteadily towards the ditch. Grabbing the leather strap, she pulled down the window. Ophelia was frightened and picking up speed. Dorothy cried out her name. There was a second of uncertainty, an instant of hope, but as the bit tore at Ophelia’s mouth, cutting her delicate flesh, the horse threw up her head, and panic coursed through the team. They raced forwards. Lorenzo struggled to control them, his body straining, but the horses only went faster, the carriage vibrating as it dragged along the ground.

When Dorothy later relived the scene, she would remember the noise: the screams of terror and the pounding of hooves as they tried to escape the monster behind them; the splintering of wood and the grinding of metal. A bend in the road flung her backwards into the carriage. Her head hit the ceiling, and she was tossed upon the floor. The curtains fell across the windows and they were separated from the ordinary world, to enter a dark and terrible abyss. It was as if time stopped and then gathered momentum once more.

She cried as her father fell heavily onto her, pinning her to the floor. She tried to push him from her chest. ‘Get off me, Papa; I can’t breathe. Please get off me.’ She struggled beneath his weight until the carriage tipped over and her father fell clear. Dorothy lost consciousness. When she finally opened her eyes, everything was quiet. The curtains had fallen back once more, and light flooded the carriage. She put her hand to her head; a sticky substance oozed through her tangled hair. ‘Mama! I’m bleeding! Help me!’

‘It’s all right, darling. I’m coming, I’m here.’ Lady Keyt struggled towards her daughter. Her dress was torn, and hairpins scattered around her. ‘William, poor William.’ Her father was sprawled in the doorway. ‘Oh Dotty, his buttons have burst. It’s his favourite coat.’

Dorothy heard her little brother whimpering, but it was the sight of her beautiful sister that horrified her. Elizabeth moaned softly, her head bent backwards. A shard of glass from the broken window was embedded in her cheek. Blood trickled slowly from the wound, a ribbon of red on her white skin. Her eyes stared ahead. She looked like a discarded and broken doll, with her skirts fanned about her body and her legs bent at a strange angle. Dorothy knelt beside her. ‘Lizzie, your hand is cold,’ she said, bringing the pale fingers to her lips.

‘I’m frightened,’ she replied, her grey-green eyes fixed on her sister’s face. ‘I can’t feel my legs, and I want to be sick.’ Miss Byrne arrived at their side. Apart from a small cut on her lip, she appeared unhurt. She took Dorothy’s hand.

‘Come with me, my pet, I’ll take you outside. The coach is unstable, it could move at any moment.’

‘I must be with Lizzie. She’s hurt.’

‘I know, my love, but your mother will look after your sister, and I need to know that you are safe.’

She pulled the bewildered child into the sunshine.

‘There now, you stay right there. I’m going to the village for help and I’ll be back before the blink of an eye.’ As Dorothy sat on the ground, her father regained consciousness. She was vaguely aware that he was searching for John. He started with the travelling boxes that had fallen from the overhead locker. He scrabbled on the floor of the carriage, hurling the boxes through the broken windows, spilling the contents onto the rough grass. Dorothy watched as his movements became more frantic, and then she noticed her little brother. He seemed to be sleeping; her father picked him up and held him tenderly in his arms.

‘He can sleep next to me, Papa. I will look after him,’ she said, but he ignored her. He stumbled across the grass and fell to his knees, crying out her brother’s name.

Dorothy lay on the grass, tired, separated once more from reality. She could see birds flying above her in the clear blue sky, and she could hear their tranquil song. It seemed strange that in the midst of chaos, ordinary life carried on.