Burnt Norton (23 page)

At the mention of the mint-green dress Molly sat down heavily.

‘Mrs Johnson, are you unwell?’

‘I am known to Miss Dorothy Keyt and her mother,’ she said at last. ‘They would not appreciate my involvement.’ With the sisters’ usual discretion no further questions were asked, and it was agreed that while they fitted the dress and cut the patterns, Molly would do the more delicate work.

When the fitting date arrived, Miss Mary Hogarth tended to Dorothy. Against the familiar voices drifting through the door, Molly fought to maintain composure.

‘My daughter wishes for organza. Would you consider organza fashionable, Miss Hogarth?’

She caught Dorothy’s voice, confident and unchanged. ‘My brother will give me away. He has just come down from Oxford with a first-class degree. We are very proud.’

‘What a clever young man,’ Miss Hogarth said.

‘Absolutely,’ Dorothy replied, ‘and we are keeping our fingers crossed that he too will be married before the year is out.’

That evening Molly left work early, absorbed in her misery. Thomas to marry. It was another punishment. She took her usual route past the Shakespeare’s Head, hurrying past the pimps and the prostitutes, past the church of St Paul’s, where they gathered at night. While she waited to cross the Strand, a little boy darted into the road in front of her.

‘Stop! There’s a child!’ she screamed at the driver, but the carriage rolled on, crushing the boy beneath the relentless wheels. When she called for help, no one came, and as she held the limp body in her arms, no one faltered in their stride.

September 1741

Though Dorothy and her mother saw few outsiders, it was impossible to escape the rumours within the village of Hidcote.

‘He’s mad,’ Thomas said, banging his fist upon the table. ‘Is it not enough to empty the family coffers? Now he will ruin our reputation. I refuse to join him for dinner tomorrow.’

‘Of course you must,’ Lady Keyt said gently. ‘He is still your father. The women, the gaming – I believe it is caused by his melancholy. Poor William has never recovered from the deaths of John and Elizabeth.’

‘Mother, how can you be so forgiving?’ Dorothy cried. ‘He has destroyed your life; he has destroyed everything he has touched.’

‘It’s not just about forgiveness, it’s about understanding. Circumstances beyond our control caused our downfall.’

Dorothy could see there was no use arguing. Her mother refused to accept the truth.

Her brother took her hand. ‘Poor Dotty. You will have your wedding, and your beautiful dress. Fortunately Gilbert gives not a fig for money or dowry. Don’t worry, I’ll go to Father and try to reason with him. He will stop this excess, I assure you.’

The next evening Thomas rode to Norton. A few hours later Dorothy heard him return. She put down her book and ran outside to meet him.

‘He was most odd,’ Thomas reported, passing the reins to the waiting groom. ‘He’d forgotten that he’d sent for me. He asked me if I had come for the “Last Supper”. He even apologized for his conduct, for The College, for everything. It seemed quite out of character. I think I should ride back, don’t you?’

‘Don’t be alarmed. It will just be one of his drunken fantasies.’

‘Dotty, that’s the problem: he was sober. Maudlin, but certainly not drunk. I’ve a bad feeling.’

‘Go to bed, Thomas. I’m going to see him tomorrow. And I’m quite prepared to stand up to him.’

Thomas smiled. ‘Always my fiery sister. But please be careful, he seems a little disturbed.’

When Thomas had gone to bed, Dorothy tried to read but found it impossible to concentrate. She was fearful of the dark, of the shadows from the past, and of her imagination.

In the morning she fetched Fidelia and rode towards Norton. It was a fine day, and she decided to take the long route through the woods. She turned Fidelia’s head and cantered towards the larch fence, and as the horse jumped cleanly through the air, Dorothy felt a surge of elation.

Her skill as a horsewoman had come from her father. He had taught her to ride, and he had given her Peter, Ophelia and Fidelia. All desire for confrontation disappeared. By the time she arrived at the house, she had decided to treat him with understanding and forgiveness, just as Elizabeth would have wanted. She would encourage reconciliation with him, perhaps not immediately, but in time.

Lorenzo walked across the courtyard to meet her, his face betraying only professional intent. ‘Hello, Miss Dorothy. Do you wish to see your father?’ he asked.

The study curtains twitched behind him. Without warning, all her previous goodwill disappeared.

‘No, thank you, Lorenzo,’ she said, for suddenly she wanted to run, away from the indifference in Lorenzo’s eyes, away from her desperate father. ‘Will you tell him that I called, and tell him that I’ll come tomorrow?’ Turning Fidelia’s head, she cantered back through the archway, shame spreading through her chest.

Only five members of the indoor staff remained at Norton: George Heron, who felt an instinctive loyalty towards his self-destructive master; three housemaids, all daughters of a tenant farmer; and a cook.

Outside, Lorenzo carried out his duties with a sick heart. It was a thankless job, for with only five horses, one carriage, and a master who never ventured out, there was little to do. Even Lorenzo couldn’t explain why he stayed; perhaps it was his affection for Apollo, or his grateful devotion to Sir William, or perhaps it was because he held onto a dream.

Sir William lived in private misery, emerging only to host the occasional dinner or an evening of gambling. His guests were usually women of dubious reputation and any dissolute members of the gentry who wished to take advantage of his generous cellar – or, indeed, of Sir William himself.

After these debauched evenings, he would wake to a few hours of sobriety before the reality of his situation hit him with painful clarity. Memories of life before the accident haunted him: recollections of Ann, laughing with his four children; of Elizabeth resting in the garden, her features tranquil in the dappled light, and John running towards him with his arms outstretched.

Everyone he loved had either left him or died. He raged at Molly, but in rational moments he realized the fault was his own. His words had sent her away. He tormented himself, imagining her beautiful body entwined with his son’s.

Only when entertaining on a lavish scale did he take to the new mansion. At other times, he would wander through the vast, empty rooms, marvelling at his foolishness.

William was sitting in his study when Dorothy entered the courtyard. He heard Fidelia’s hooves before he saw his daughter. Inching back the curtains he looked outside. She was standing next to Lorenzo. The body language between them was unmistakable.

He smiled for a moment. ‘So that’s how it is,’ he said. ‘How alike we are. Have courage, Dorothy. Take life with both hands.’

He let the curtains fall back into place. ‘Come to me and I’ll tell you so. Come to me and I’ll beg your forgiveness.’

He waited, willing her to enter his study. ‘If she comes,’ he whispered, ‘I can start again. Please God, let her come.’

He heard the hooves ring on the cobbles once more. ‘Well then,’ he said, ‘it’s done.’

Taking a sheet of paper from the top drawer he refreshed his pen and started to write.

When he came to the end he thought for a moment and signed it.

Be happy, my child, and forgive me.

Your loving father, always.

He smiled, a wry smile. Dorothy would rummage through his drawers, as she always had. She would find the letter; she would find the ring. He looked at its ruby eye for a moment before gently removing it and putting it in a small box which he perched on top of the telescope. It seemed the fitting place. ‘Oh Dorothy, how well I know you,’ he sighed.

He looked carefully around his study, patted Sophie and went upstairs.

Her brother’s voice woke Dorothy.

‘Mama, I’m going to Norton. Something is wrong, I can sense it.’

Dorothy ran downstairs. Her mother and Thomas were in the hallway. She was trying her best to pacify him.

‘Nothing is wrong, my love.’ She pulled back the curtains. A pink tinge lit the sky. ‘It’s a beautiful night and all is well. I will pour you a brandy, and we will return to bed.’

Lady Keyt had just picked up the decanter when hooves rang on the cobbles – galloping hooves, clattering into the courtyard. Dorothy’s heart hammered against the walls of her chest. Shouting followed as someone banged on the door. It was a stable lad.

‘Mister Thomas, come quickly!’ he yelled. ‘Norton is on fire! We need help.’

Her mother dropped the decanter. It shattered, spreading its amber contents across the floor.

‘Mama, be brave. Everything will be fine, I promise you. Get Pike to harness the cart and bring the water butts. I will ride on first, but you must stay with Dorothy.’

‘I will not stay here!’ Dorothy cried, images of her father and Lorenzo vivid in her mind. ‘I’m coming. You can’t stop me.’

‘And William? What of William?’

Thomas put his hands on his mother’s shoulders. ‘I will do my best, but you must promise not to come.’

Thomas and Dorothy galloped along the track towards Norton. At the end of the drive, they jumped down.

‘Go home,’ Dorothy yelled, smacking Fidelia’s rump. With little encouragement the horses galloped back towards Hidcote.

Taking Dorothy’s hand, Thomas led her through the yard, past the hay cart and the feed store, past the stable lads trying to soothe the terrified horses. They were barely through the garden door before a suffocating heat hit them like a wall, burning their throats and stinging their eyes.

Estate workers, servants, men and women formed a chain of black silhouettes against the red sky, passing buckets of water from hand to hand, but it was too late. The magnificent new mansion had blossomed into an inferno. Flames leapt through the roof, and one by one the windows shattered and the columns crashed to the ground. Thomas ran towards the front door.

‘Come back!’ Dorothy screamed, but he ignored her, pushing his shoulder against the smoking wood.

The door burst open, and the flames exploded, forcing him out.

George Heron ran from the house into Thomas’s arms. ‘I tried to stop him! I did, sir, but he bolted the door from the inside! We managed to remove a few of the pictures and some small pieces of furniture, but that is all. Come, we must get away, there is nothing we can do.’

Dorothy looked beyond the pictures and the items of furniture discarded on the lawn towards her father’s window. There he stood, dark against the fire, his arms raised in supplication as the flames licked around him. She would never forget his face, that mask of agony; she would never blot out his screams as they carried on the smoky air.

Her brother ran forward once more, but Heron blocked his way. ‘Sir, I told you, it’s too late.’

They stopped at the sound of Sir William’s final cry: ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.’

For minutes Dorothy remained immobile, transfixed by the unspeakable horror in front of her. She wanted to turn away, but she couldn’t move. She could only stare at the window above her.

When at last her father had vanished into the flames, Dorothy fled back across the lawn, past the villagers, gawping in shock and amazement, and the estate workers, standing bowed and defeated, until she reached the garden door. She pushed against it and fell into the stable yard beyond. The horses, wide-eyed and restless, snorted and stamped as Dorothy entered. She went to each one, soothing and comforting them as she tried to quell her own rising hysteria. Her father, who had loved her and spoilt her, and who had caused her so much anger and confusion, was dead. Now, when it was too late, she was filled with unbearable sadness.

Finally she entered Apollo’s stall. He turned his head and looked at her, bewilderment in his clouded eyes. Did he know? she wondered, wrapping her arms around the horse’s neck, her sobs growing as the full horror of her father’s death overwhelmed her.

She hadn’t realized that Lorenzo had entered the stable until he touched her shoulder. She spun round.

‘Lorenzo! You are safe,’ she cried. ‘Thank God, you are safe.’

‘I will take you home, Miss Dorothy; there is nothing you can do here.’

‘But I can’t leave my brother – I must find Thomas.’

‘He is looking for the dog. He’ll be fine, I promise you.’ She let him lead her away, and as he guided her into the cart she turned to look back; behind her a pall of smoke hung in the night air.

They travelled to Hidcote, the wheels bumping along the rutted track. When they arrived, he helped her down and she leant against his scorched coat.

‘Why did he do it, Lorenzo?’

‘He died because he wanted to. There was no peace for him in this world; perhaps he hoped to find it in the next. I am so sorry.’ He took her by the shoulders. ‘You’ll be all right?’

She would have fallen into his embrace but her mother ran out of the front door. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ she cried. Dorothy nodded silently, her head bowed.

‘What will I do without him, Dotty? I love him. I never stopped loving him. If only I had known the depth of his despair, I would have gone to him. Now it’s too late.’

Dorothy slept an hour in her mother’s bed, and as the early morning sun rose in the sky they drove to Norton together. She held her mother’s hand as they entered the courtyard. The new mansion had been reduced to a jagged, smouldering ruin: the elegant windows, the fine stonework, the statues. It was a scene from hell. The passage between the two houses had also been destroyed, but apart from some charring on the external walls, the original house remained unscathed.

‘I must look for Thomas,’ her mother said at last. ‘Where is the poor boy?’ They found him beneath the cedar tree with Sophie at his feet.

‘She was hiding in the bushes,’ he said. ‘Thank God she’s alive. You know he torched it, Mama? He used the candelabra from the hall table. He piled the curtains into the centre of the room. Heron tried to stop him, but he broke away and locked the bedroom door. I should have gone back with Dorothy. I could have prevented this. He tried to tell me when I went to dinner, but I didn’t listen.’