The Legacy (51 page)

“What do you mean? Peter said—”

“I was going to tell you downstairs, but you stomped off.”

“Well, what is it?”

“Have dinner with me tonight and I’ll show you,” he said.

“Why not just tell me now?” she suggested cautiously.

“Dinner would be far more fun.”

“No. Look, Ryan, I don’t think you and I should be . . . spending too much time together. Not like that.”

“Oh, come on, Leah. Where’s the harm in it? We’ve known each other long enough . . .”

“Apparently, we didn’t know each other quite as well as we thought,” she said, glancing up. Anger sharpened her gaze, and she saw him flinch.

“Just . . . have dinner with me tonight,” he said, more softly.

Leah swigged the last of her coffee, grimacing at the wan, bitter taste.

“ ’Bye, Ryan. I wish I could say it was good to see you again.” She got up to go.

“Wait, Leah! Don’t you even want to know what it is that we found on him? I’ll tell you—then you can decide whether or not to stay. Leah! He had letters on him—they’ve survived ninety-five years in the ground! Can you imagine? And these are no ordinary letters either,” Ryan called after her. Leah stopped. There it was, that tiny sparkle; the shimmer of curiosity she felt before she began to chase down a story. Slowly, she turned back towards him.

1911

C
at is so completely mesmerized by the rushing blur of the world outside the window that the journey passes quickly—all too quickly. With her head tipped against the glass, staring into the chalky sky with the green blur of fields pouring beneath it like a river, she fancies to herself that she is running faster than anyone ever has before, or perhaps even flying like a bird. The train carries on, she knows, all the way into the west, further west than she has ever been. It will carry on without her to Devon, and Cornwall, and the sea. She longs to see the sea again. The thought makes her ache with need. She’s seen it only once before, when she was eight years old and her mother was still alive, and the whole household upped sticks for the day and went to Whitstable. It had been a blousy summer day; all diaphanous clouds, with a curling breeze that had caught the donkeys’ tails, made them stream out behind them, and made the empty deckchairs billow. The Gentleman had bought her an oyster in its shell to eat, and a strawberry ice cream cone, and she had been sick all down her best dress. Stringy little gobbets of oyster flesh in a clinging pink sauce. But it had still been the happiest day of her life. She kept the oyster shell; had it for years in a cardboard box of everyday treasures.

As the train slows, the notion of flying evaporates, and Cat feels herself grow into flesh again, feet tied to the earth. The temptation to not alight is powerful. She could sink down in the clammy seat and keep on, keep on, until she saw the sea through the dusty window. But the train squeals to a halt, and she curls her fingers tightly, squeezes until her nails bite the palms of her hands. She’d hoped to draw strength from the gesture, but can’t quite manage it. The station at Thatcham is small and simple. She and one other person, a thin man scowling above his moustache, alight; and there is a busy scene at a freight car where several huge wooden crates are maneuvered onto a trolley. Tall banks of young nettles and buddleia lean over the wooden fence, whispering softly. Cat draws in a steady breath. She would rather be anywhere else in the world, but at the same time she feels numb, devoid of all feeling as though it has been shaken out of her in the pain and violence of the past few months. At the far end of the platform stands a vastly fat woman. Cat pauses, seeks an alternative, and then walks slowly towards her.

The woman is quite as wide as she is high. Her cheeks crowd her eyes, narrowing them to creases. Her chins crowd her chest, so that the line from jaw to bosom flows quite uninterrupted. A skirt of flesh hangs down from her middle, swinging slightly beneath the light cotton of her dress, bumping her thighs. Cat feels sharp gray eyes sweep her up and down. She stares back, and does not flinch.

“Are you Sophie Bell?” she asks the woman. Sophie Bell. Such a pretty, tinkling name. Cat had envisaged a tall, soft woman with cornflower eyes and amber freckles.

“That’s Mrs. Bell, to you. And you’ll be Cat Morley, I take it?” the woman replies, curtly.

“I am.”

“God help me then, for you’ll be no use whatsoever,” says Sophie Bell. “Six months I’ve been asking for help in the house and now I get this wraith, who looks fit to drop dead by Friday,” she mutters, turning from Cat and walking away with surprising speed. Her legs swing in wide arcs, her feet strike the ground flat. Cat blinks once, grips the handles of her carry-all, and then follows her.

Outside the station, a pony and trap is waiting. The little cart leans wildly to one side as Sophie Bell heaves herself onto the seat alongside the driver. Cat looks up at him, half thinking to proffer her bag, but the man gives her the briefest of glances before turning his attention back to a motor car, all glossy and black, that has pulled up on the other side of the road.

“Well, don’t just stand there like a dolt! Get in. I haven’t got all day,” Mrs. Bell tells her, exasperated. Awkwardly, Cat throws her bag onto the back seat and climbs up after it. Barely settled, the driver flicks the reins and the pony throws itself into the harness, pulling them away with a jolt. So it is facing backwards, with a view of the road just travelled, that Cat is towed into her new role, her new life. Something in her rejects this so strongly that her throat knots up and makes it hard to breathe.

T
he village of Cold Ash Holt lies about two miles outside Thatcham, the lane winding south and east through a tangle of lakes and reed beds, water meadows so bright with spring growth they hardly look real. Young leaves flash silver where the breeze turns them, and even the air seems to carry a green scent; one of moisture and the headiness of flowers. They startle a heron, which erupts up through the rushes and seems too slow, too weighty for flight. The sun gets caught up in its greasy gray feathers, glints on the beads of water falling from its feet. Cat stares. She does not know its name. She has never seen a bird as big before, has barely ever seen birds, other than sparrows and the uniform London pigeons that scratch a living from the dirt. She thinks of the Gentleman’s canary, on its little gilded swing; the way he whistled at it, crooning, coaxing it to sing. She had watched, paused with duster in hand, and admired it for refusing. Mrs. Bell chats to the driver all the while, a low commentary that barely lets up, leaving the shortest of pauses from time to time in which the man grunts. Most of what she says is lost beneath the clatter of the pony’s hooves, but Cat catches odd words and phrases. “She’ll be back again before the summer’s out, just you mark my words” . . . “had the nerve to suggest it wasn’t done proper” . . . “her son’s gone off again, and with little more than a child” . . . “short shrift for those that show criminal urges.” Cat glances over her shoulder, catches Mrs. Bell’s narrow eye upon her.

The vicarage is built of faded red brick, three stories high and almost square in shape. Symmetrical rows of windows with bright white frames gaze out onto the world, the glass reflecting the bright sky. The surrounding gardens overflow with early flowers, sprays of color rising from tidy beds that curve through stretches of short, neat lawn. Budding wisteria and honeysuckle scale the walls and window sills, and tall tulips march the path to the wide front door, painted bright blue and sporting a gleaming brass knocker. The house sits on the outskirts of the small village, its gardens adjoining the water meadows. In the distance a stream carves a winding path, like a silver ribbon. The driver pulls up at the far side of the house, across the gravel driveway, where mossy steps lead down to a more modest door.

“You use this door, none other,” Mrs. Bell tells her curtly, as they make their way inside.

“Of course,” Cat replies, nettled. Did the woman think she had never worked before?

“Now, pay attention while I show you around. I’ve not got time to keep repeating myself, and I need to get on with the tea. The mistress, Mrs. Canning, wants to see you as soon as you’ve had a chance to tidy yourself up and get changed—”

“Get changed?”

“Yes, get changed! Or did you plan to meet her in that tatty skirt, with dirty cuffs on your blouse and your bootlaces frayed?” Mrs. Bell’s gray eyes are sharp indeed.

“I’ve a spare blouse, my best, and I can put it on, but this skirt is the only one I have,” Cat says.

“I’ll not believe they let you about the place looking like that in London!”

“I had a uniform. I . . . had to give it back when I left.”

Mrs. Bell puts her hands where her hips might have been. Cat gazes steadily at her, refusing to be cowed. The older woman’s knuckles are cracked and red. They sink into her flesh, wedge themselves there. Her feet rock inwards, the arches long ago surrendered to the weight they carry. Her ankles look like suet dough, dimpled beneath her stockings. Cat grips her own two hands together in front of her, feeling the reassuring hardness of her bones.

“Well,” Mrs. Bell says at last, “it’ll be up to the mistress whether she’ll provide you with clothing. Otherwise you’ll have to make do. You’ll need a gray or brown dress for the morning, a black one for the evening; and something to wear to church. There’s a rag sale next week in Thatcham. You might find something there that you can alter.”

C
at’s room is in the attic. There are three rooms side by side, all with views north through small dormer windows, and accessed off a bright, south-facing corridor. As if the architect had thought the corridor more deserving of sunlight than the servants. Cat puts her bag down at the foot of the bed, surveys her new home. Plain, whitewashed walls, a small iron bed with a brass crucifix hanging above it; a Bible on a woven straw chair; wash stand; threadbare curtains. There’s a narrow cupboard for clothes, and a patchwork quilt folded at the foot of the bed. With quick steps, Cat crosses the room, takes the crucifix from the wall and flings it out of sight beneath the bed. It hits the pot with a musical clang. Where they touched the smooth limbs of the metal cross, Cat’s fingers seem to sting. Rubbing her hands on her skirt in agitation, she shuts her eyes and fights off memories of an object so similar; of Jesus watching her solemnly from a high wall, oblivious to her torment. Then she stands at the window, looking out at the lane and a field of ginger cattle beyond. Such a wide empty space. She thinks of her friends in London, of Tess with her eager green eyes, always excited about something. The thought makes her ache. She has no address she can write to, no idea where Tess will end up. Tess might not be as fortunate as she, in finding another position. I am lucky, Cat tells herself, bitterly. She has been told it enough times, of late.

Behind her, the door swings itself shut, nudged by some stray breeze. Cat freezes, every muscle pulling tight. She stands ramrod straight and tries to breathe when the air seems too thick all of a sudden. It’s not locked, she tells herself. Just shut. Not locked. She turns slowly to face the door, braced as if some horror waits there to be discovered. The small room’s walls bow inwards around her, clinging to her like wet cloth. Her knees shake, and she totters to the door like an old woman, certain as she turns the handle that she won’t be able to get out. The metal knob rattles in her hand as she turns it, and as she pulls the door open a few precious inches, she knows that it is her shivering that makes the handle shake. Her heartbeat tumbles like a waterfall, and she leans her face against the pitted wood of the door, waiting to feel calm. Never again, she thinks.
Never, never, never.

H
ester arranges herself at the walnut desk in the front parlor, with the household ledger open in front of her. It’s the position she adopts for her weekly meeting with Mrs. Bell to discuss menus and household accounts and the arranging of chimney sweeps, grocery deliveries, and bicycle repair men. And she fancies it gives the right impression—feminine but businesslike; commanding yet approachable. The afternoon sun lies pooled and yellow on the oak floor, showing up the lazy dance of dust motes and houseflies. Hester flaps a hand irritably at a fly that comes too close. She finds their hairy bodies indecent, and hates the way they go dry and hard after death, lying down on the window sills in their final moments, crossing their bristly legs as if they expect to receive a last blessing. She is immensely relieved that she won’t have to sweep them up from now on. Mrs. Bell has been hard pushed to keep up with the cleaning and the cooking both—heaven knows the woman can hardly be expected to work at speed. She wishes Mrs. Bell wasn’t quite so very fat. The squeaking protest of the floor gave away her approach as soon as she left the more robust stones of the basement, and she is hardly an elegant sight. A woman should be soft, of course, her outline one of curves rather than angles, but one had to draw the line somewhere. There is little point in Mrs. Bell trying to keep it all in with a corset. Years ago she wore one, and it merely squeezed her flesh up and down from the middle, so that she could scarcely sit or turn her neck. Watching her maneuver had been both horrifying and impossible to resist.

Hester can hear her now—creaking and thumping her way from the kitchen. She sits straighter in her chair, and arranges her face into a mild, genteel smile. She worries momentarily that she will suffer in comparison with Cat Morley’s more cosmopolitan former employer. Then she remembers that the girl is a pariah and relaxes, slightly ashamed of her own anxiety when her role is to mother, and to correct.