Too Close to the Sun (18 page)

Billy, now giving a last smooth to the bedcover, said, ‘I saw Mrs Spencer yesterday.’

‘To talk to?’ As he kept more or less to the servants’ part of the house – not only at Grace’s suggestion, but also by his own wish – he rarely crossed the path of his benefactress.

‘Yes.’ He straightened. ‘I was sitting on the back step, cleaning Mrs Sandiston’s boots, when Mrs Spencer came by from the stable. She asked me how I was, and how I was enjoying school, and I told her that I liked it all very well. Then she asked me –’ He came to a stop here, and Grace prompted him. ‘And then what? What else did she ask you?’

‘ – She asked me about my leg again. How I came to fall.’

A little pause, then Grace said, ‘What did you tell her?’

‘I just told her that I fell …’ He picked up his books. ‘Then she gave me a penny,’ he added.

‘That was kind of her.’

‘That’s the third time she’s given me money.’

‘Very kind.’ Grace turned and glanced towards the window. ‘It’s going to be another lovely day. What lessons will you be having?’

He tapped his English primer. ‘First, English – and then we shall have arithmetic and English history. In history we’re learning about William the Conqueror and the Norman invasion.’

‘That’ll be interesting. Have you got your tuck?’

‘Mrs Sandiston gave me some bread and butter, a little ham, and an apple. Two apples.’

‘So you won’t starve. Since when could you eat two apples?’

‘I shall give one to Roland.’

‘Roland? Who is Roland?’

‘He’s my friend. He’s in my class. He lives in Culvercombe.’ He moved to the door. ‘Are you painting today?’

‘No, I’m going into Corster to get some things for Mrs Spencer – and maybe some items for Cook too. There’s to be a dinner party on Saturday.’

‘A party?’

‘A dinner party.’

‘Shall we be invited?’

She laughed. ‘No, of course not. The guest is a friend of Mr and Mrs Spencer. What would we be doing there?’

She bent, gave him a peck on the cheek and then he was gone, the sound of his feet echoing slightly on the back stairs.

Moving to the window, she stood looking down into the yard and a few moments later saw him emerge from the house. Halfway across the yard he looked up at the window and gave a wave. She waved back and watched till he had gone out of her sight.

Soon she must leave for the town to do the shopping for Mrs Spencer. She looked across the stable roof and the tall
elms to the morning sky. The day was so far bright, though a few clouds were drifting on the breeze from the west.

Her thoughts again returning to the time before she and Billy had moved to Asterleigh, she suddenly thought of Stephen, picturing him there in Bramble House, his body stiff and awkward as he had told her of his engagement to the young woman on the ship. She had heard nothing more of him since. He might well be married by now, she thought, though she had heard no murmur that he was. Would she ever see him again? she wondered. But no, it was unlikely that they would ever again meet. He was building a new life, a life in which she had no part; and as for her, she was building a new life too.

Turning, she looked around her at the room, taking it in. It had been Billy’s room since the day they had arrived at Asterleigh House with their few belongings. And he had really made the room his own, she thought. But there, a room of his very own was a luxury he had never known in his life before. She looked at his neatly made bed, his towel hanging on the washstand. She could see his pride in it all. And being given the room it had not taken long for him to put his stamp upon it. When Mrs Sandiston, following directions from Mrs Spencer, had shown them into it, saying: ‘And this, young William, is to be your room,’ he had hardly been able to believe his ears or his eyes. The room had been somewhat bare at that time, just holding a bed with a small dresser beside it and a taller one in which to hang his few clothes. Now, with permission, he had hung a number of pictures. One of them was a watercolour by Grace herself, a study of primroses growing on the heath that she had executed one spring. Two others were framed prints given to him by Mrs Spencer, one of a schooner under full sail, artist unknown, and the second of a Venetian canal scene, seemingly by Canaletto. On the small chest of drawers stood a little model sailing ship that he had
made from balsa wood and paper, its sails and figurehead painted in the most surprising detail. Also there was a large seashell, a present from Mr Spencer. It was a wonderful item, a thing of strange colours that gave the sound of the sea when held to the ear.

Grace picked up from the dresser a little sketchbook that she had bought for him some time ago, and flicked through its pages. All the pages were full, some with several smaller sketches to a page, others with a single page bearing one large, detailed drawing. Although she had seen the drawings before, nevertheless his artistry never ceased to amaze her. It was evident on every page. There were sketches of buildings, the house, the village church, a small cluster of cottages in Berron Wick; there were studies of flowers and plants, dog roses in the hedgerows; and there were living creatures, birds, rabbits, three or four of the horses in the stables; and there were people: there was Mrs Sandiston, the cook-housekeeper, and Annie, the kitchen maid. The latter were not posed portraits such as might have been produced had the subject sat for the likeness, but quick sketches, made from life, of the person moving about, caught in the act of living. And although they were drawings made by a boy of nine years old, all the budding talent was there, all the promise of a great ability to come. And Grace could only wonder at what he might achieve in time. She herself had a certain ability in draughtsmanship, but it paled into insignificance next to Billy’s.

And seeing his talent once again, becoming aware of it all over again, Grace was so glad. For she knew that it could be the saving of him. Several times since starting school he had spoken of drawing pictures for his classmates. His ability had set him apart, she could see. He might not be able to play football and cricket like the others, but he had a gift of his own, and they appreciated it, acknowledged it and admired it. His great talent it was,
Grace surmised, that brought him acceptance among his peers.

Grace let herself out of Billy’s room and moved along the landing to the door of her own room. There she went inside, closing the door behind her.

Like Billy’s room, and those of the house servants, the room was in the west wing on the second floor. Grace’s room was considerably larger than Billy’s, and although in no way could it be termed luxurious, it was not quite so simply furnished as his. She rather had the feeling that Mrs Spencer had chosen it and its furnishings: the wardrobe, chiffonier, the decorative Japanese screen, to her eyes they had been put there with some thought; and at least once a week the maid put flowers in her room.

Grace sat and did some mending for half an hour or so, then put her sewing basket away, put on her coat and hat and picked up her purse. Then, after looking out at the sky – were those clouds a little more threatening? – decided to take her umbrella. As she turned to leave the room the clock on the mantelpiece over the small fireplace showed the time to be just after 8.30. By arrangement made the previous day she went down to the breakfast room. She knocked on the door, and Mrs Spencer’s voice was heard, calling to her to enter, and she went inside.

Mrs Spencer sat at a small table near the window in the morning sun, eating her breakfast. She wore a lilac peignoir over her white nightdress, and a little cap on her braided hair.

Grace wished her good morning, then said, ‘I’ve come for your list, Mrs Spencer. I shall be leaving soon.’

Mrs Spencer nodded, took a swallow of coffee, put down her cup and picked up a small sheet of paper from the tablecloth beside her. As she handed it to Grace she said, ‘There are some silks – in the colours listed – to get from the haberdashers, and also a few tubes of oil paint from Mr
Lowmarsh. You’d best also get a small bottle of linseed oil as well. I think we’re almost out of it.’

As Grace went to put the paper into her purse Mrs Spencer added: ‘I tell you what, Grace, perhaps you could also get me a little drawing book. Nothing too large.’ She held up her hands, palms apart, to describe the required size. ‘Something so big …’

‘The kind you usually have, ma’am?’

‘Yes, but this is not for me.’

Grace nodded.

‘And,’ went on Mrs Spencer, ‘I’d like you to get an ounce of tobacco. Get it from Mr Hill, the tobacconist. Tell him it’s for my husband and he’ll know which brand. And also perhaps a little bottle of hair oil. Carman’s. Mr Spencer says he’ll have no truck with such things, but it won’t hurt him to pamper himself occasionally, don’t you agree?’

Grace nodded her head. ‘Oh, indeed, ma’am.’ Taking a small stub of pencil from her bag, she wrote on the list the additional items.

‘Here, this should be enough …’ Mrs Spencer held out some coins and Grace took them and dropped them into her change purse.

‘Oh, yes,’ Mrs Spencer went on, ‘perhaps you’d better have a word with Mrs Sandiston and see if there’s anything she needs. The deliveries will be made of course, but she might have forgotten something.’

‘Yes, I will.’

Mrs Spencer gave a little shake of her head, as if in wonder at events and said, ‘It’s so long since we had a guest for dinner. This guest is an old friend of Mr Spencer, so we’re looking forward to the meeting. He’s recently come down from London with his little girl, and they’re staying in Corster while he looks for a house. He’s an architect. It’ll be a quiet evening, just the three of us. I don’t think Mr Fairman is the type to go in for lavish, noisy, social soirées.’ She gave
a faint smile. ‘Mr Spencer is more fond than I of entertaining. I believe that before our time here there were fine dinner parties at the house. Guests would come for the weekend. The men coming for the shooting, the way they do. The women for the gossip. And all those maids and valets, all that coming and going. Not now, of course. We live without fuss here – which is the way it suits me. I’m sure my husband must sometimes find it very dull being married to such an unadventurous spirit.’ She sighed and smiled. ‘But we’re the way we are, and there’s no changing it. So of course Mr Spencer’s pleased that you’re staying here. At least it gets me out of the house. Our little excursions, our little jaunts. And it is better – and very different from the way it used to be, when I stayed indoors most of the day. I’m afraid the days go by and before you realize it another season, another year has passed. And you tell yourself, next year, next spring, next summer I’ll seize the day, and do something with my time – get out, see something. But then you find the time has flown by again, and you’ve done nothing.’ She smiled. ‘But now you’re here – and you’ll be good for me.’

‘Oh, I hope so, ma’am. If there’s anything at all that I can do, you only have to say …’

‘Yes, thank you.’ Mrs Spencer was silent in thought for a moment, then said, ‘So, it will be interesting – and pleasant, I hope – to have a guest for dinner. I shall have to think of what I shall wear.’ She put a hand up to her head. ‘And if you don’t mind, Grace, I’ll get you to do my hair for me. You always do it so well.’

‘Of course, ma’am.’ Grace had taken to dressing Mrs Spencer’s hair over the past weeks, albeit taking the job away from Jane, the parlour maid. Since the change, Grace thought perhaps she could sometimes detect a slight coolness in the maid’s manner towards her. Or could it be her imagination? Still, she told herself, real or not, it was up to Mrs Spencer to have things done as she wished.

Now Mrs Spencer took up her coffee cup again, took a sip and said, ‘Young Billy’s gone off to school, I suppose.’

‘Yes, he went just after eight.’

‘How d’you think he’s settled in? Has he? Settled in?’

‘Oh, yes, ma’am. And I think he’s liking his school. I would have heard otherwise. And I think he’s made a friend – going by what he said. So that’s a very good sign.’

‘I should think so. I spoke to him yesterday. He was doing Mrs Sandiston’s boots, out on the step, after he got back from school. He’s a very willing young lad, and makes himself useful in a variety of ways, I hear. Mrs Sandiston said so. He’s done the boots and shoes, and helped the maid with the knives.’ She smiled. ‘We shan’t need to employ an odd job boy if he continues like it.’ She paused briefly as if debating whether to continue, then said, ‘I asked him again about his leg. He’s sensitive about it. Understandably, of course. He didn’t want to talk about it.’

‘No, he doesn’t,’ Grace said.

‘Anyway,’ Mrs Spencer added, ‘you want to get off into the town, and I mustn’t keep you. How are you getting there?’

Grace shrugged; there was only one way. ‘I’ll walk to Berron Wick and get the train in.’

‘And coming back? You’ll have things to carry.’

‘Oh – nothing of any great weight.’

‘Well, you must get the station fly from Berron Wick on the way back. And you must certainly get Mr Johnson or Mr Rhind to drive you in. You’ll probably find Rhind around the stables or helping my husband. Mr Spencer got back from London last night.’ She paused. ‘Anyway, it’s up to you.’

‘Thank you, ma’am, but I think I’d prefer to walk to Berron Wick.’

‘As you wish.’

Grace had left her employer’s room and was moving
through the hall towards the rear of the house when a door from the conservatory opened and Mr Spencer appeared. He was in riding breeches and a cord Norfolk jacket and carried his hat in his hand. It had been almost two weeks since she had seen him. He was away from the house so much, she had learned, either travelling to London or Birmingham on business, or at the paper mill in Redbury or at the soap factory in Milan, Italy. In the pursuance of his business he believed in keeping a close eye on things.

‘Good morning, sir,’ Grace greeted him.

‘Good morning to you, Miss Grace.’

‘You’ve been away, sir. We haven’t seen you around in some days.’

‘Yes, I got back from London last night.’ He brushed a palm across the thigh of his riding breeches. ‘I’ve just been out now for a very nice morning ride – blowing the cobwebs away. And you’re off out, are you?’