Where Earth Meets Sky
| Where Earth Meets Sky | |
| Annie Murray | |
| Pan Macmillan (2010) | |
| Tags: | Fiction, Historical, Sagas |
Synopsis
Beautiful, dark-haired Lily has been abandoned in a Birmingham slum as a tiny child. With few clues as to her identity she endures a childhood of loneliness and loss. At eighteen she applies for a post as nanny with the family of a Captain Fairford, a soldier in Ambala, north India and his highly strung wife Susan. Lily is drawn into the emotional life of the Fairford family and adores her charge, two year old Cosmo. When, in 1907, Captain Fairford orders a new Daimler car, it is brought out by a young motor mechanic, Sam Ironside. Sam and Lily fall deeply in love, and it is only later that Lily learns that Sam is married and feels utterly betrayed. When Cosmo is later sent home to school, Lily finds another post with a Dr. McBride and his invalid wife, in a beautiful Himalayan hill station. The place is idyllic, and Lily settles for a quiet life. However, she is unprepared for the pain and misunderstandings that follow and force her to run from everything she has known . . . Where Earth Meets Sky takes us from Edwardian England and the British Raj, through the darkness of the Great War to the glamour of Brooklands Race Track in the 1920s. Spanning two continents, it is a story of enduring friendships and two hearts which cannot be kept apart.
NNIE
M
URRAY
Where Earth Meets Sky
PAN BOOKS
Birmingham, 1905
‘Don’t cry over me, Lily, my dear girl! I’ve had such a very good life – you mustn’t grieve.’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Chappell, I can’t help it,’ Lily sobbed, as she sat beside the dying woman whose motherly kindness she had known during these past, precious years. ‘You’ve been so very good to me!’
She had waited all evening, in an agony of pent-up emotion, for Mrs Chappell’s jealous son Horace to allow her to pay her last respects to the woman she loved so much.
‘You’ve been like a daughter, you know that . . .’ Mrs Chappell’s rasping whisper came to her. The lids flickered over her blue eyes. She was fading fast.
Lily sat in the candlelight beside the big comfortable bed with its silk drapes. She clung desperately to the shrunken hand of this woman into whose household she had arrived as a scullery maid when she was thirteen. In her own grief and loss Maud Chappell had, over the years, grown to depend on Lily as a companion. Mrs Chappell’s body had fast become frail with her illness. She did not look any more like the comforting figure who had dressed in pretty, floating clothes, who adored small children, beaming at them with her beautiful, loving eyes. The light of her life was failing and her sons were in the house, waiting. Lily told herself that they were full of pain at losing their mother, that it was their sorrow that made them so harsh, especially Horace, the older brother. They had kept her out of the room all evening, only reluctantly letting her in now it was so late.
‘Mother’s asking for you,’ Horace had said, stiff with resentment. ‘You’d better go up.’
Now she was here she sat in dread of them coming to tell her to go again.
‘Oh, Mrs Chappell,’ she whispered, looking down at the ravaged face, her own tears flowing again. She felt her heart was being torn in two. ‘What’s going to become of me without you?’
Mrs Chappell was a year off her seventieth birthday, and until her illness had looked younger than her years, with her soft, glowing complexion and cheerful ways. But she was much changed now, months of sickness taking their toll. She lay with her arms straight, outside the covers, her soft brown hair which had so fast turned grey brushed back from her face. She seemed to have slipped far away into sleep, so that Lily thought she might never wake again. But as if a sign had been given, just as the grandfather clock down in the hall was striking eleven with its gentle ‘bong’, the elderly lady opened her eyes, seeming quite alert, and tried to get up.
‘Lily?’
‘Yes, dear Mrs Chappell?’ Hope surged through her. Perhaps Mrs Chappell was not dying! She seemed so bright suddenly, as if she might sit up and take some broth.
‘I’m still at home, then?’
‘Yes, you are. You’re in your own bed.’
‘Bring me the picture, please, my dear. Of my Naomi.’
‘It’s here – right beside you.’
She lifted the silver-framed photograph from its position on the bedside table and turned it so that Mrs Chappell could see the face of her dead daughter. Naomi, a dark-eyed beauty, had died of a cruel brain fever when she was only seventeen. It was the last portrait taken of her, her shoulders wrapped in a lace shawl and the young face, never now to age, smiling radiantly from behind the glass as it had for over twenty years.
Mrs Chappell reached out as if to embrace the portrait, a gentle smile on her lips.
‘My darling . . .’ she murmured. And her arms dropped back. She had not the strength.
‘I think you’d better fetch my boys,’ she whispered. But she clutched at Lily’s hand to stop her.
‘You’ll get a good appointment. You’re so sweet, so beautiful. You be happy, my dear love. Bless you.’
By the time Lily had fetched Horace and John Chappell up to their mother’s room, she was lying on her pretty, embroidered pillows with her eyes closed and a look of utter peace. She had already left them.
‘My mother has left you a small bequest, according to our solicitor,’ Horace Chappell told her. His voice was icy cold.
Lily stood before him on the Persian rug in Mr Chappell’s old study. Horace had not invited her to sit down.
They’re kind really, she made herself believe. Mrs Chappell said so. Since Mr Chappell died only three years ago, Mrs Chappell had relied on her sons, Horace and John, for everything. After all, they have looked after their mother, Lily told herself. And don’t they both have wives and families who all look happy and well cared for?
These were the families who, at Mrs Chappell’s strict instructions that she should be included, she had followed to the funeral: Horace and his wife and three little girls, and John and his wife and twin sons, alike as two peas. None of them had said a word to her or even acknowledged her existence, but of course they were wrapped in grief and she was only a maid. Why would they have any time for her? It was a beautiful June morning with laburnum and lilac in bloom, just the right kind of day for Mrs Chappell’s funeral as she was such a sunny person who loved young life and flowers and pretty things around her. Once the funeral was over, though, they were fast making arrangements to clear and sell the house and seemed to be in a great rush to get it all done and dismiss all their mother’s employees.
‘Can’t get shot of us fast enough, can they?’ grumbled Cook, who had worked for Mrs Chappell for more than twenty years.
‘I suppose they have a lot of business to sort out – they’re very busy men,’ Lily replied, knowing it was the sort of thing Mrs Chappell would have said because she always tried to see the best in her sons.
‘They just want their hands on the money,’ Mary, one of the maids, retorted. ‘Since Mr C died she’s had no say in anything – not with those two vultures in charge. They couldn’t wait to get their father out of the way – no, it’s no good arguing, Lily. You’re just like Mrs C – you’ll see black as white to find the best in someone. You’re going to have to toughen up your ideas when you go away from here! They ain’t all like her, you know.’
Horace, the older brother, had called her into the study. He had his mother’s blue eyes, but instead of her embracing warmth, his looked cool and calculating. There were official-looking documents laid neatly across the desk.
‘My mother left us a number of instructions regarding you and your future,’ he said. He didn’t meet her eye. He had always seemed most uncomfortable in her presence. ‘Far too sultry, that’s your trouble,’ Cook once said. ‘You provoke him.’
‘You are very fortunate.’ He held out an envelope. ‘Firstly, this contains references to secure your future. You should be able to attain a very good position.’ He cleared his throat, grimacing, and, as if it pained him to speak, said, ‘My mother has not left you money. She did not think that would be the best thing for your welfare.’ Lily watched him, wondering, after what Mary had said, whether Mrs Chappell had had any money to call her own in any case. ‘But she has left you a number of items of jewellery, from her personal effects.’ He nodded at a small box, inlaid with ivory, on the desk, then looked sternly at her. ‘I believe them to be rather valuable. More than generous, I should say, Miss Horne. And this is where we draw a line. I should like to make clear that after this there is nothing else you can take from this family.’
Lily was stung to the core by this remark.
‘I never . . .’ she stuttered. ‘I never took anything that was wrong or out of place! She wanted me . . .’ The last utterance, the miraculous truth of it, brought her to tears.
‘That will be all, Miss Horne.’
With the envelope and box in her hands Lily fumbled her way from the room, hardly able to see through her tears. She was dreadfully hurt by his unjust, jealous remarks, and overcome by Mrs Chappell leaving her anything at all. Her heart ached with longing for her friend.