Miss Macintyre claimed that where she slept was a matter of complete indifference to her, as a woman of rational habits rather than a giddy girl, but when pressed again to choose, she selected a room that overlooked the water, which she said would remind her of her childhood home, and had as a bonus a great many solid-looking shelves built in on either side of the curiously carved fireplace. Her brass-bound leather trunk had all three girls staggering under its weight, and reflecting that Mr Fisk must be a great deal stronger and less decrepit than he appeared. It was, they knew, mostly full of books rather than clothing. The ex-governess had no time for the fripperies of fashion, and owned several gowns that were barely distinguishable one from the other, all of them being grey, or greyish, and made of sturdily practical fabrics that permitted the insertion of that most unfashionable of items: the pocket. She closed the door more or less in their faces, and they left her to some much-needed solitude.
The rest of the chambers on offer were all of a reasonable size, or had some other advantage to recommend them, and the girls ran from one to the other, remarking on their merits and arguing over them, half-seriously, half in jest.
In the end, without too much unseemly argument, Beatrice settled on a small room that led into a larger boudoir overlooking the overgrown gardens; the quaint old bed in the little room was built into a sort of cupboard with a tiny window inside, making it into almost a nest. Cecilia and Bianca decried the whole arrangement as horribly confining, but Bea declared that it was the cosiest thing in the world. ‘I shall think myself very grand,’ she said loftily, ‘having two rooms to my name. If you are fortunate, I shall invite you to visit me in my boudoir, strictly by appointment.’
Bianca’s choice lit on a large chamber that had a magnificent four-poster on a platform, which made her feel, she said, laughing at herself, like Sleeping Beauty. The room was an irregular shape – they all were, to some degree – and had a curious little space projecting off it, which had been filled with a padded seat surrounded by built-in shelves. In the midst of the shelves were set small, many-paned windows, giving tantalising views of the estuary and the road winding along beside it, which was not the way they had come but led off in an unknown direction. It was like something out of a fairy tale, and Bianca found it irresistible. There would be time to look at the rest of the first floor later, and judge the rooms that had not been made ready – Bianca, as the youngest of six, did not ever like to feel that she might be missing anything – but for now she was content.
Cecilia shut the heavy oak door behind her and surveyed the chamber she had picked out, next to Bianca’s, with Miss Macintyre on her other hand. It was a corner room, which had windows on both sides, and padded seats beneath. One of them looked out over the coast – a long, wide sandy beach stretching for what must be a couple of miles in each direction, with white-capped waves lapping at some distance – and the other faced inland like Bianca’s, over the winding silver estuary that led back through low wooded hills. It gave her a great sense of freedom, unlike anything she had ever experienced before, to be able to see so far merely by turning her head. She could imagine watching dramatic storms rolling in, even though it was sunny today, and great banks of cloud and beams of sunlight chasing each other across the ever-changing sky. Unless paying a visit on one of her wealthy older sisters, she’d shared a room with at least one other person all her life, usually Bianca; to have space of her own, and so much of it, was a unique experience for her, and one she relished.
The chamber had a half-tester bed, less grand and imposing than the four-poster in Bianca’s room, but newer. It might be cold in winter here, she supposed, especially as the situation of the room was somewhat more exposed than either of the ones her sisters had chosen. But it was not winter now, and the late-afternoon light was streaming in gloriously. She opened a window and drank in the heady sea air. Bea would see the sunset on her side, but here, Cecilia would see the dawn, and the moon over the water, and the wild sea-birds. There wasn’t another human being in sight – no, that wasn’t strictly true. There was someone walking along the beach, she saw, standing for a few moments, idly watching. They were making heavy going of it, judging by their slow pace – perhaps the sand was wet and slowed their progress – but he or she was too far away for any detail of their appearance to be discernible.
There was a large press built in on either side of the fireplace, and when she tried the doors of each, she found that one had hanging space for gowns, and the other shelves freshly lined with paper, which released the elusive scent of lavender as she began to unpack and put away her undergarments, shoes, boots and stockings. The wooden mantel had an old Venetian mirror over it, ornate and gilded, too spotted by age to offer a very clear reflection, but lovely in its tarnished elegance. There was a pot cupboard by the bed, a paisley-upholstered chaise longue opposite the fireplace, and little other furniture but a washstand furnished with soft, old towels. The colourful Turkey carpets on the floor were clean but worn, and the heavy green damask curtains faded by perhaps decades of sun. She was delighted by it all.
She was humming a gay tune as she set her few books and possessions in their places, stepping back to judge the effect. Who would not be happy, in such a fortunate situation?
8
The sisters and Miss Macintyre finished their unpacking and descended together, desperate for tea; Beatrice left them in the parlour and went off to find the kitchen, appearing a few minutes later with Lucy, who bore a tray of mismatched china cups and saucers, small plates, and a promisingly large teapot. There was also a bigger plate, which Bea carried with care, holding what Lucy told them was Mrs Pritty’s famous honey cake.
Miss Macintyre poured the tea, Beatrice sliced the cake with a generous hand, and silence fell. It was a very good cake, and they did it justice; they all felt that they deserved it after their exertions.
‘What’s the kitchen like?’ Cecilia asked after a little while, when there were only crumbs left on her plate and she felt more human again.
‘Not as bad as I thought. It’s only about thirty years out of date, rather than the three hundred I feared. Apparently, Mr Albery was very fond of modern contrivances, but he’s been dead for quite a while. It would be far more convenient with a new range in the latest style, but – of course – Mrs Albery wouldn’t countenance it. Mrs Pritty says that Mrs Bartrum has one, which she recommends in glowing terms, and can let us know how we can set about obtaining our own and having it installed. She was talking about water closets when I left her. There really is a great deal to do here. But she seems disposed to be friendly, and that counts for a lot, I think. She could so easily have been resentful of our arrival and made life most unpleasant for us rather than feeding us delicious baked goods.’
Her sisters agreed with enthusiasm. The parlour, which they understood had not been used for several years since their great-aunt had become frailer, had a substantial stone fireplace – currently empty – supported by mythical creatures, and elaborately carved panelling around the walls. It was another finely proportioned room, and felt cosy enough, but the sofas and chairs were upholstered in fabric so worn that it was fraying right through in places, and they could not be described as comfortable.
‘We’re going to need furniture,’ Bianca said. ‘More than we yet know, I daresay. Of course, we can move things about from rooms we don’t plan to use, but I didn’t see proper big sofas anywhere when we looked around, did you? I wonder if there is a warehouse in one of the nearby towns? If we have to choose and order things by correspondence and have them delivered from London, it will take an age.’
‘Maybe there’s an auction house,’ Cecilia said. ‘I’ve heard that bargains can be obtained there, if one keeps one’s head.’
Her sisters were laughing, probably at the idea of her keeping her head in the excitement of bidding, and she grinned, accepting the implied criticism as just.
‘I wouldn’t go alone. I’d take Miss Macintyre or even Bea with me. Someonesensible. I’m well aware I would likely get carried away and need restraining. Do ladies bid at auctions, or is that one more point on the endless list of things we aren’t allowed to do?’
‘They do in Scotland,’ the former governess told her firmly, and that seemed to settle matters.
The Constantines had all of them travelled in respectable dark gowns, ones that had been purchased a few years ago when their father died, but not their best. Their newest and finest mourning raiment had been saved for more suitable occasions, and the appearance of their rather tired and drab old muslins had not been improved by hours of travel, unpacking, and heaving trunks and boxes about. They’d all agreed it could not possibly matter if they were a little dishevelled and dusty this afternoon, since nobody was at all likely to call on them on the day of their arrival.
They were astonished, then, and not particularly pleased, to hear a clanging in the hall that must be the doorbell, followed by a confusion of voices. They looked at each other in astonishment, and had little warning to compose themselves before Lucy opened the door and announced, in a tone that barely concealed her own annoyance, ‘The Honourable Miss Pallant!’
Their unexpected caller was right on her heels, in defiance of all the conventions that controlled the paying of visits on strangers, and stood regarding the company, smiling on them all with impartial benevolence. She was tall, blonde, elegantly dressed, in her early twenties, and possibly the loveliest woman Cecilia – with four London Seasons under her belt – had ever laid eyes on in her life.
Bea set her cup down with a clink and choked a little over the last of her tea. They all rose hastily to greet her.
Miss Macintyre was the first to recover her composure, probably because she had lived longest in the world and had consequently had more time to experience the full range of human strangeness. That didn’t mean she had to like it, or even – at her age – pretend she liked it. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Pallant,’ she said collectedly. ‘Since there is nobody to introduce us, nor to decree who should be presented first to whom, I shall take on the task. This is Miss Constantine…’ She indicated a silent Beatrice. ‘And these ladies are Miss Cecilia and Miss Bianca Constantine.’
They all smiled weakly, and dropped small, ambiguous curtsies.
‘I am their companion, Miss Macintyre.’ The former governess plainly had no intention of curtsying on this occasion, to a person so lacking in manners that she had burst in upon them uninvited and not paid them that courtesy herself. ‘I am sure my charges are delighted – if a little surprised – to make your acquaintance.’
The vision moved forward with feline grace and said in a low, musical voice, ‘Oh, ma’am, you disapprove of my rash behaviour, and no wonder! I must beg your pardon, I think. But you know, or perhaps you don’t, that there are almost no young women of standing in the area, and I have been so starved of congenial company that I simply could not resist coming straight to meet you all as soon as I realised you had arrived. I have no mama or chaperon to tell me what to do, merely a pair of graceless brothers, so that must be my excuse. Welcome to Suffolk, ladies! It is very dull here, but perhaps I should not say that or you will go away again and leave me quite bereft before we have even had a chance to get to know each other.’
Beatrice came out of her trance and shook Miss Pallant’s hand. ‘We are indeed very glad to meet you,’ she said warmly. ‘Of course we have no acquaintance in the area, so formality can be set aside in the pleasure of being welcomed, I am sure.’
‘Am I to bring more tea, miss?’ Lucy put in.
‘Thank you, Lucy, yes,’ Cecilia told her.
