Burnt Norton (9 page)

‘Perhaps you have your own motives for getting rid of me.’

‘How dare you, Thomas! You have no respect, and no manners. Perhaps Eton can make something of you, for it seems you have learnt nothing here. You will leave on the tenth of the month, so you had better start packing!’

She heard the door slam and waited for her brother at the top of the stairs.

‘He’s sending me to Eton,’ he said. ‘I’ll be a target for every bully in the school.’

‘Why do you say that? Of course you won’t be.’

‘Look at me, Dotty. I hate shooting, I hate sport, and Father says I act like a girl.’

She put her arms around her precious brother. She remembered the entry in her father’s diary and realized that this was no idle threat. ‘It will be all right. He can’t have meant it. If you don’t want to go, he won’t make you. Even Father can’t be that vile.’

Thomas held her at arm’s length and looked into her eyes. ‘Believe me, Dorothy. If he thinks I’m a threat, he will send me away for ever.’

Dorothy didn’t understand the implication of his words, but she knew that her father would be responsible for yet another loved one leaving her.

It was not long before the gossip had reached the servants’ quarters.

‘He’s been sent away to school, poor boy.’ Annie’s face was long and disapproving.

‘Perhaps it’s better for him. Too many girls in the house,’ Ruth said.

Molly folded the petticoats away in the cupboard for the third time. She rearranged the vests and the camisoles, the stockings and the bodices. Keeping busy was the only way to get through the morning.

As Thomas’s departure drew near, Molly’s anxiety increased. She had been hanging a dress in Lady Keyt’s wardrobe when he walked through the bedroom door.

‘I have come to say goodbye.’

‘It’s true, you are going, then?’

‘Father’s packed me off to school.’ He picked up a hairbrush distractedly and put it down in the wrong place. He walked towards her, then turned back to the dressing table.

‘Stand still, sir, or you’ll wear out the carpet.’

He smiled. ‘Molly Johnson, you are quite unique. I have never met anyone like you before.’

‘You can’t have met many people, then. I believe I’m quite ordinary.’

He laughed and took her hand. ‘I’ll write if you would like me to.’

She nodded, too flustered by his touch to tell him she couldn’t read.

‘Goodbye, Molly. I must go.’

‘Goodbye, Master Thomas, and good luck.’

‘Molly, may I kiss you?’ She looked at him in assent, and he lowered his head to hers. It was a fleeting, feather-light kiss, but it bound her to him.

‘This is a poem especially for you.’ He tucked a folded piece of paper into her fingers and pressed them to his lips. No one had written her a poem before. No one had made her heart pound in her chest. When the time came for him to leave, it took all her will not to run down from her attic bedroom and throw her arms around him. Instead she watched helplessly as the footmen carried the trunks to the awaiting coach.

‘Cheer up, Miss Dorothy,’ Lorenzo said kindly. ‘He’ll be back before you know it.’

‘He won’t,’ she wailed. ‘I know he’ll be gone for ever.’

When the family assembled for the last time, she ran to Thomas and hugged him, burying her face in his shoulder.

‘These are for you.’ She pressed a small bunch of violets into his hand. ‘I picked them this morning. They will remind you of home.’

He pulled his prayer book from his inside pocket, and placed the tiny flowers inside.

‘I shall keep these for ever, Dotty. Not only will they remind me of home, but they will be a constant reminder of my little sister.’

‘Don’t be frightened,’ she replied. ‘I shall pray for you every single day.’

‘Thank you. Please do keep me in your prayers, for you shall always be in mine.’ He gently unhooked her hands. ‘Mother,’ he said. ‘I shall miss you so much.’

‘And you, my beloved son.’

‘Goodbye, Lizzie, I shall think of you.’ When Elizabeth lifted his hand and held it to her cheek, her eyes welled with tears. Thomas kissed her forehead. ‘Write to me. Send me drawings of home.’

Their father stood apart from the family, his arms steady at his sides. ‘Make good use of your time, Thomas.’

Thomas did not reply.

As the coach pulled away, he turned towards the house and waved, but this last gesture made Dorothy gasp with disappointment: it was directed to an attic window, far above her.

For the next few weeks, Molly buried herself in her work. She soon settled and mastered her new duties. Here she mended silks and satins instead of cottons and coarse wool. The company of her boisterous family was exchanged for that of aristocrats, who viewed the world from a different perspective. Her mistress expected obedience, but she was also kind and generous.

‘You’re doing well, Molly. Your mending is faultless, your care of my wardrobe impeccable, and Miss Elizabeth has become attached to you. I’m sure you’ll be with us for a long time.’

Molly felt proud. Life at Norton was getting better.

One morning, when Molly’s work was all but done, Lady Keyt went to the wardrobe. She pushed aside the dresses to pull out a gown. ‘This no longer fits me,’ she said. ‘Would you like to have it? It has a rip in the seam, but that should be easy enough to repair.’

Molly was lost for words.

‘Don’t you like it?’

‘Thank you, my lady. I never expected I would own dress like this.’ She held the mint-green silk in her arms, cradling it like a child. She touched the lace on the bodice, the delicate pin tucks on the sleeves, the silk sash. ‘Thank you, my lady. It is the most beautiful gown in the world.’

Later, standing in front of the cracked mirror in the small bedroom at the top of the house, turning this way and that, her cheeks flushed, it was easy to dream. When she put on the dress, its bodice cut very low, it was easy to imagine hands caressing her body, and lips on her neck.

In Dorothy’s eyes, Molly Johnson had one purpose in life: to ingratiate herself within the Keyt household. Dorothy eavesdropped, learning everything she could about the landlord’s daughter. Elizabeth liked her, and as Lady Keyt’s distrust evaporated, she heaped privileges upon her new maid. The servants, particularly the men, openly admired her.

Mrs Wright was an exception, hardly bothering to conceal her dislike. ‘Airs above her station, that one! She’ll learn the hard way, she will.’

Her father’s feelings were more difficult to discern, for though he had employed Miss Johnson, he seemed indifferent to the sound of her name.

Early one morning, Ruth knocked on Dorothy’s door. ‘Are you dressed, miss? Your father is asking for you in the hall.’

Dorothy went downstairs and found her father in his riding clothes. ‘Dorothy, will you come with me to the coach house? I have something to show you.’

Lorenzo appeared leading a bright bay mare.

‘This is Ophelia’s half-sister. I thought you might want her. She’s rather like Ophelia, don’t you think?’ Her father sounded uncomfortable, but when Dorothy saw the mare nothing else mattered. She put out her hand and the filly pushed her nose towards her.

‘Thank you, Father, thank you,’ she said, her arms already clasped around the horse’s neck.

‘Ride again. It’ll do you good,’ he said. ‘Now, I have to be at my constituency this afternoon. I must be off.’

Dorothy watched him canter away. She wanted to trust him, to give him affection, but she remained wary. Her father was too unpredictable.

She named the mare Fidelia, and from that day, a happy new ritual began. At eleven o’clock each morning, her unruly hair tied beneath her veil, she would wait impatiently at the mounting block. When Lorenzo arrived with the horses, his handsome face smiling, her heart lifted. As they cantered through the pasture, she would laugh in exhilaration, for Fidelia proved a worthy successor to Ophelia. As they ambled through the woods, letting the horses cool, she felt contented. She learnt of Lorenzo’s background: of his mother, an idealistic Italian girl, who was romanced by an English valet on Sir William’s grand tour of Italy. He told her stories of his mother’s journey to England with the Keyt entourage, her subsequent misery and return to her own country, taking her young son with her. She heard of the sixteen-year-old boy’s courageous decision to return to England, his love of horses, and his apprenticeship as the Keyt coachman. She learnt of his unfailing loyalty to her father and his sense of accountability.

‘I should have checked the bolts,’ he said. ‘Your father has never blamed me for the accident, but if only I had checked the bolts . . .’

He told her of his half-brothers and sister and his cousins, all living and working on the farm near Florence, and his dreams of one day returning there. ‘In September, when the grapes are picked,’ Lorenzo said, his voice soft with memories, ‘we celebrate the
vendemmia
, the harvest. In October, the olives are gathered and the world is good.’ Dorothy imagined him at ease amongst his own people. Occasionally her imagination went further.

The seasons moved on, and Dorothy’s life gained equilibrium. She rode with Lorenzo (the hour she most looked forward to), took dancing lessons once a week, and continued with her schooling. She made a conscious endeavour to control her emotions. With considerable personal effort, a tactical understanding formed between herself and Miss Johnson: they avoided each other.

One morning, running to the landing with a feather she had found, Dorothy noticed Lizzie hiding her sketch book beneath her blanket. ‘Lizzie, I found this in the woods and thought you would like it. Why have you put your pad away? I want to see.’

‘You can’t,’ her sister said, a little abruptly, ‘but thank you, it’s a gorgeous feather. I shall use it for my painting tomorrow.’

Although Elizabeth smiled, her tone concerned Dorothy. She found her mother in her sitting room writing letters. ‘There’s something wrong with Lizzie,’ Dorothy said anxiously.

‘Of course there is, Dotty,’ her mother said, putting down her pen. ‘She can’t do any of the things you can. We all think Lizzie is all right because we believe she accepts her fate, but her heart is more troubled than you think.’

Dorothy left the room, chiding herself for her blindness. She vowed to be a better sister, and for a good while, she was.

Thomas had been away for four months when the post boy arrived at Norton, carrying a packet of letters. ‘I’ve brought these myself, miss. The postmistress is busy, and it’s on my way home.’

Dorothy thanked the boy and gave him a generous tip, taking the packet into the house. Two letters were for her father, but at the bottom of the pile were three letters tied together with string. She recognized the script instantly. After delivering her father’s post she ran upstairs to her room and untied them. On top there was a letter from Thomas to her mother, then one to herself. The last was a letter to Molly. With shaking hands Dorothy looked at the envelope. After a moment’s hesitation she broke the seal.

Dearest Molly,

I hope I may call you that.

Firstly, may I say that you have occupied my mind. I thought of you on the long journey to Windsor, that last look
– your dear face smiling in the window – and I continue to think of you at the most odd moments. I will hear your laughter whilst translating Latin texts, or in the college chapel in the middle of the Nunc Dimittis. I believe there must be a name for my foolish fantasies.

My first few weeks here were lonely and frightening, but at least the worst is over. They have a ritual here called ‘Tossing the Blanket’. Its sole purpose is to terrify and torture the new boys. I survived it, but only just, and indeed, I have survived my housemaster, Mr Kirkpatrick, who is as cruel as any man can be. There are ten boys in my dormitory, and each evening at eight o’clock we are locked into this bleak comfortless place, and left in the merciless hands of our tormentors
– boys not much older than ourselves.

The misery may sound relentless, but that would be wrong. I have made my first friend: his name is Gilbert Paxton-Hooper. He passed me a note in our first lesson together. ‘We will be friends, ignore the bullies.’ You can imagine what that meant to me. He is bright and artistic, with exuberant dark curls.

My personal tutor is as kind as Kirkpatrick is cruel, so it isn’t all bad. One day I shall inscribe my name in the ancient desks as others have done before me, and I shall come home.

I hope you will wait for me, Molly, and that these simple words haven’t been too tedious.

Always,

Thomas

Dorothy balled the letter within her fist. She clutched her sides, all of her resentment and frustration welling over. She sank to the floor, panting in fury. Never in her life had she known such jealousy. Molly Johnson had stolen her brother.

When she felt she could stand she walked to the fire. She smoothed the creases in the letter and held it over the grate. The edges curled, slowly smouldering, until at last the flames consumed it. It gave her satisfaction to watch the words turn to ash and fall.

Calling for the dogs she ran outside. They trotted after her through the gate and into the wilderness beyond. A blustery wind pulled at the trees around her, and as the branches creaked and groaned above her, she drove herself up the hill, the dogs barking in excitement. The exertion calmed her, and her anger dissipated. By the time she reached home and returned to her bedroom, only despair remained. She sank into the armchair and with great difficulty read her letter.

Darling Dorothy,

I know it has been a while since I said goodbye. Forgive me. Your letters have kept me going when school has been intolerable. You have a talent for bringing Norton to life.

Lizzie tells me you have a new horse, a gift from our father? I am glad, for you must have resolved your differences. Do you think he will ever tolerate his unconventional son?