The Last Dance (21 page)

Yes, you leave soon
, she wanted to tell her.

‘Apparently we leave in a few days. A few days!’ Beatrice exclaimed with as much shock in her tone as though she’d been told the trip was leaving for the moon.

‘And much as I don’t wish to be travelling right now, I admit that escaping drizzling England feels tempting. Besides, he’s not leaving me much of an excuse.’

Stella was waiting for the axe to fall. Something along the lines of: ‘Sorry to change the plans; can’t be helped; we’ll give you a good severance pay and all that.’ Her thoughts must have reflected in her expression because Beatrice sighed away her selfish concerns and became more focused on Stella. ‘Anyway, Doug has instructed that you are coming with us.’

She gasped, uncertain she’d heard correctly. ‘Abroad?’ She was aware her tone sounded appalled.

‘Yes, Stella.’

‘Where to?’ It was an instinctive response.

‘Oh, heavens. How should I know? Port Said, or something, although Doug is notoriously vague about these things. As you know, he’s got it into his head to take us all on a grand voyage and given yesterday’s words I feel I should just bear up and go along. Doug says I won’t be pressed to do any touring even if he leaps off to do his butterflies and birds and plant stuff. I know he won’t be able to resist Morocco . . . Rabat, Tangiers.’

‘Why is that?’ Her mind was swimming. The ‘peacock’ rendezvous was in Africa . . .

‘His father was some sort of diplomat who roamed that whole region – I’ve never paid enough attention so don’t ask me in what capacity. Mother very beautiful like her son – an artist, I think. Loved the colours of the desert and of the souks.’ She sighed. ‘They moved around like gypsies . . . what do they call the locals who travel on camels?’

Stella wasn’t sure that Beatrice really wanted an answer. ‘Bedouin,’ she murmured all the same.

Beatrice inhaled deeply again from her cigarette and nodded silently. She blew out, lifting her pointed chin towards the ceiling. ‘Probably erected huge and colourful tents too, I’m sure, because the family hated being parted. He speaks of exotic places like Fez and Casablanca – I barely know where those places are. The Levant, do you suppose?’

‘North Africa, I believe,’ Stella mumbled.

Beatrice tinkled a laugh and noticed Stella’s perplexed expression. ‘Well, you know your geography.’ She smiled a false brightness. ‘Anyway, the fact is, my husband seems to prefer biblical destinations than the more run-of-the-mill ones that suits the everyday person, like Paris or Rome.’

Or, Blackpool, or the Isle of Wight, even
, Stella thought, betraying no sulkiness in her expression; what would Beatrice know about the everyday person?

‘Plus he likes to practise his language skills. Why he can’t just sail to France and use his French, or ride the banks of the Danube and speak German is beyond me. No, it has to be far-flung places like Palestine. Somewhere near the Holy Land, is it?’

Stella’s thoughts snapped to attention. ‘Mr Ainsworth can speak Arabic?’

‘Oh, he speaks several languages,’ Beatrice replied, taking a final drag, her lips wrinkling in the effort like a prune and then relaxing again with a sigh as she blew out the final drift of smoke. She stubbed the cigarette out on a flat tin ashtray she’d had beside her on Grace’s bed. ‘I’ve never taken much interest and only hear him mutter some French when we find ourselves in Paris together. So long as he can order a gin and tonic wherever we happen to be, then I’m impressed.’

Stella frowned, feeling lost.

‘Anyway, apparently he now has an even more urgent need of your cataloguing services for this special new job he has for Kew Gardens. So, you’re to accompany us, I’m to instruct. Open a window, Stella. If Dougie smells tobacco in Grace’s room, he’ll bleat at me.’

Stella obliged. ‘What about my family?’ she asked over her shoulder.

‘What about it? You intended to be away from them for a month, anyway. You may be a week or two late returning. I’m sure you can explain. There’ll be extra wages, of course.’

Beatrice was consistent with her careless attitude and Stella couldn’t bother finding the energy to show her offence.

Beatrice gave a melodramatic sigh. ‘This is so typical of my husband. He hasn’t even given me a date.’

‘It’s all rather sudden, isn’t it?’ She prolonged the enquiry in case Rafe had told his wife more.

‘Inconvenient, but that’s Doug,’ Beatrice said, unhelpfully. Apparently his wife knew less than she. Beatrice glanced at her watch and on cue Mrs Boyd arrived with her set of keys. ‘Ah, Boyd, you’ll show Stella up to Mr Ainsworth’s studio, please.’

‘Is it right that I’m to give Miss Myles this key?’ Mrs Boyd said, sounding incredulous.

‘It’s what my husband instructed.’

‘Mrs Ainsworth, I —’

‘Not now, Boyd. I gave him my word.’

Mrs Boyd’s lips tightened as though she had just smelled something especially unpleasant. ‘Follow me, Miss Myles.’

Wordlessly, Stella left the room, following the housekeeper. Mrs Boyd’s disgust trailed alongside Stella like a passenger on her shoulder as they climbed the stairs to the next level and finally to the locked door outside her room.

‘I don’t know what this is all about, Miss Myles, really I don’t.’

‘And I am just following instructions like everyone else,’ Stella admitted in a neutral tone.

The door was unlocked briskly, the key wrenched off the large ring. ‘And so I’m supposed to give you this.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Should you lose it —’

‘I won’t. Thank you, Mrs Boyd.’

‘I’ll just come up and —’

‘That will not be necessary,’ she replied, knowing Rafe would not want Boyd of all people even glancing around his personal space. ‘You can leave me to my work now.’

The housekeeper’s face couldn’t have pinched itself more sourly even if she’d just sucked hard on a lemon. ‘See you for luncheon, then.’

Stella didn’t respond and made a point of locking the door noisily behind her. She allowed herself a small grin as she twisted the key in the lock and listened at the door as the woman stomped away down the stairs.

Stella slipped the key into her pocket and exhaled, only now realising there was another, still more private flight of stairs ahead that felt as though she’d entered a secret cocoon. Her heartbeat had escalated to a persistent percussion she could feel; it was pounding as though sitting high in her throat. It felt like she was under attack from all quarters. What was happening? A few days ago she thought her world could never feel under more pressure as a grieving daughter whose major concern was the responsibility of putting a roof over their heads and food on the table for her young siblings. That suddenly felt wrongly pushed beneath a heavier – no, crushing – responsibility of not only adultery but what seemed to point to state secrets. Even thinking that made her catch her breath. Was Rafe a spy? A government man leading a double . . . perhaps triple life? He had guided her to his lair and whether she was deliberately part of his intrigue, there was no doubting she was now not only helplessly part of his web in what she’d overheard on the telephone but it appeared that he was intently bringing her into his secretive world by allowing her here, into his sanctum.

Fear fluttered through her like a disturbed butterfly as she grasped that she was being helplessly drawn into a world of secrets and espionage. Life was moving quickly and she felt as though she was caught in a hurricane. She climbed the small flight of private stairs that led her up to the attic with a sense of awe; now the fear of only moments ago was being shouldered aside by helpless intrigue as much as desire. She could smell Rafe here. Traces of lavender from his expensive pomade scented the slighty musty, woody atmosphere of this loft room that was alive with the dust motes she’d stirred with her arrival, which now danced in the muted morning light that seeped through the dormer windows. And as she crested the final stair she was struck by how simple and yet elegant this huge room was that must have spanned two or three chambers below.

Even though he wished no one to share his private place, it nevertheless was painted a soft and welcoming chalky white and like his favourite room downstairs it was crammed with oddities. However, whereas the nursery held his and the family’s memorabilia of childhood, this space was all about Rafe’s personal items. Here she took in a signed cricket bat, a battered old pith helmet, various photographs, sketches, piles and more dusty piles of books, but it was to his desk that she was drawn, where Stella was sure in this intensely private place she would unlock the secret that was Rafe.

She had already decided in the last few moments to let go of the rising hysteria and to trust him. What else could she do? She was now his accomplice, mistress, soulmate . . .

It was waiting for her as though he knew what she would be thinking. A thick, oblong envelope of heavy stationery with his family crest was leaning against a sculpture of a camel, carved out of a wood with bright whorls and bands of light and dark timber. She couldn’t imagine which wood it was but the camel’s expression was so lifelike she felt like stroking the statue’s bent head.

Carelessly scrawled in black ink across the envelope was her single name. She half expected it not to be sealed but then she knew how carefully he protected his true self. She pulled at the flap and the seal gave up its hold with a tight snap and Stella touched the glue where Rafe’s tongue had presumably moistened it. She was annoyed by her vulnerability at the thrill of pleasure that passed through her like a shiver. And her heartbeat seemed to falter at the sight of his handwriting, which curiously appeared on the front of the letter before she could unfold it. She’d anticipated it would be flamboyant but it was neatly penned and spaced in a measured way that made reading the words easy. The only nod to his stylish alter ego, or rather the real Mr Ainsworth, were the tiny hooks and curlicues on the ends of certain letters that seemed to make the overall effect of the handwriting feel artistic rather than workmanlike.
Do not read this in the house. Be patient. Read it in Brighton
.

‘Brighton?’ she murmured and as she did so there was a knock at the door.

‘Miss Myles?’

‘Er, yes? Who is it?’

‘It’s Hilly, Miss Myles. Mrs Ainsworth needs you.’

She closed her eyes with frustration and then quickly opened the letter a fraction.

My dearest Stella
, it began and she took a slow, deep breath at how affectionate those three words felt as she read them.

I’ll be gone by the time you’re reading this. I’ll bet the mean-spirited Mrs Boyd’s expression must have all but collapsed in on itself at the notion of handing you the only other key to the attic room. How do you like my secret space? Not nearly as exciting or intriguing as everyone imagines, I’m sure.

‘Miss Myles?’ Another more urgent knock filtered upstairs.

‘I’m coming,’ she called down, filled with annoyance. She refolded the letter, slipped it back into its crisp envelope and then hid it in a deep pocket of her cardigan. She looked around longingly, wanting to sit here through the day, touch his belongings, get to know the work she was meant to be doing. Instead she stomped back down the stairs and pulled open the door. Hilly flinched on the other side.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘So am I. Mr Ainsworth wants me to do some tasks for him,’ she lied with little effort, driven by the burn to read his words. ‘What is the problem?’

The girl shrugged. ‘I was asked to fetch you.’

‘Is it Grace?’ she asked, alarmed.

Hilly frowned. ‘I don’t think so.’

Her shoulders relaxed. ‘Well, I have to collect something from my room first. Give me a moment.’ Hilly didn’t object and Stella didn’t give her time to. She opened and shut her door, slipping inside to hide the envelope in her pillowcase. Quickly, she changed her cardigan to something lighter simply to prove that she had done something on the other side of the door that she now opened and locked shut with a key. As they walked, she attached Rafe’s study key to her door key and dropped it into a pocket. She felt the keys chinking together comfortably and the world, just in that moment, felt right . . . as though their lips were touching.

She was led straight back to Grace’s room, hoping Hilly’s assessment was still correct that the little girl hadn’t taken a turn for the worse.

She hurried in. ‘Is everything all right, Mrs Ainsworth?’

‘Ah, Stella, sorry to interrupt you,’ Beatrice said, standing from her child’s bed and waving a wearied hand to anyone in close proximity. ‘I am headed up to London because I do have to make sure about wardrobe needs; no man understands, least of all my man.’ Stella frowned, unable to detect any matter of great urgency. Beatrice continued talking. ‘However, I failed to mention that Doug has suggested we advance you some money so you can get yourself some outfits.’

She had been dragged downstairs for this? ‘But I don’t need any new outfits, Mrs Ainsworth.’

‘You most certainly do. You can’t possibly take a voyage to the tropics and not have linens and cottons. So far I’ve noted only woollens and sensible winter clothes. It just won’t do. Anyway, take your pick: London, Brighton or Eastbourne are your best options. I suggest you take a train in today, stay over if you wish. We shall pay for your accommodation. Let Mrs Boyd know your requirements.’

Stella stared back, baffled, and her glance moved to Grace, who was mumbling yet seemingly asleep. She hoped they had permission from the doctor to whisk her off abroad.

‘Anyway, hurry up and make your decision about where you’re headed. I shall no doubt see you on the docks at Tilbury.’

It occurred to her that if she sent a telegram ahead, Aunt Dilys might be able to bring the children down to London overnight. ‘Do you think if I chose London I might have a chance to see my family?’

‘I doubt it, Stella, so now do buck up, please. I’m sure we can arrange for you to call to wish them farewell.’

Stella shook her head mutely to answer that there was no phone at her aunt’s place.

‘Oh, well, it’s only a few weeks, for heaven’s sake!’ She sounded so heartless that Stella didn’t bother responding. ‘Right, I have to go,’ she continued, barely looking again at her child although she was certainly doing her best to say the right things. ‘Can you sit with Grace, Stella, until Miss Hailsham arrives, please? She seems to be stirring every now and then to mutter but almost immediately drifting off again. I don’t know what’s best for her. The doctor did say rest so I’m letting nature decide. I suspect she’ll wake properly soon but I have to go.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘She’s due any minute and Mrs Boyd has her duties.’ Beatrice reached for a cape dangling over a chair.