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“Are you sure?” she said, pointing at his hands, which he saw had reddened at the tightness of his grip.
He set his bag down before considering the girl, who he thought matched the description Mr. Edwards had related to him over the phone. Petite in size and reaching about four feet in height, she had messy locks that flowered into a bun piled atop her head, adding two inches and accentuating the bold features of her face. She wore an off-white tunic with bows at the shoulders, making her look almost like a ballerina.
“Are you Ada?”
“Oui, c’est moi. Are you Brontë? Vous êtes ma nouvelle tuteur? Papa m’a dit que vous vivrez avec nous et que vous allez m’enseigner beaucoup de choses.”
“Yes, that’s me—hello,” he said rather animatedly, overwhelmed by the clarity of her French and how much he struggledto piece together and translate the words. Curse his old ways: he should never have skipped over the foreign dialogues in books, and would download a language learning app immediately. “The cab dropped me off in the wrong place, and I just knocked on your neighbor’s door. The guy who answered wasn’t very nice and shut the door right in my face and …” He pointed behind him to the right, realizing quickly he’d come from the left, and that he was rambling. “Sorry, it’s just I didn’t know I had to parler français. I’m not very good at it.”
Soon emerged the form of a little girl, who pressed her body against the door to help it open.
“That was probably Mr. Graham, at number five. Don’t mind him—he’s the absolute worst. I swear I caught him picking his nose once and throwing it into the daffodils—really disgusting. Why don’t you come through, and I’ll call for Madame Clarence?”
Ada gestured for him to step further into the expanse of the hallway’s entrance. She shut a second door behind him, cutting off the natural light, and his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the space. He was conscious of his muddy shoes and careful not to tread the Persian rugs as he followed Ada, who skipped through the hallway into a large open foyer, where a grand staircase trailed up one end of the room. A chandelier glistened in the center of the ceiling, and pillars lurked in every corner. The clean, tiled floor sparkled, and the wooden-paneled walls were etched with cursive shapes and embellished with flowering patterns. He hadn’t noticed the woman, who’d been dusting the marble bust of some veiled figure—possibly the Virgin Mary—until Ada pointed her out. The woman perched the duster atop the bust, offering Mary a temporary hat, and brushed her hands on the fabric of her bosom, approaching then to shake his hand.
“Hello,” he said, confident in his addressing her. It was she of course, the housekeeper, who would be his confidante throughout his stay here, who was there to guide him through the things he didn’t know about the house, about the family. “It is very nice to meet you.”
She might have uttered something, but he didn’t catch it—she pointed to an armchair, where he eventually settled, in the cornerof the room, before flitting away with his bags. When he looked through the open doors beyond the staircase, he couldn’t quite tell if it led to another room or if the symmetry of everything was the work of mirrored glass. He was off the chair and back on his feet when he heard his name echoing through the foyer.
“Mr. Ellis?” said the voice. Bron struggled to locate the sound’s origin, peering into each of the room’s entrances, until he spotted the figure moving toward him. “Welcome, welcome.”
“Thank you, sir,” he said, presuming that this must be his employer, Mr. Edwards. “How are you, sir? That is … I mean, how do you do?”
“How do you do?” He chuckled, holding his hands to his large stomach, which strained against his intricately detailed waistcoat, dressed as he was in a two-piece tartan suit. “Did you hear that, Ada? ‘How do you do?’ I like him already. Some proper manners, here. What a gem.”
Mr. Edwards moved forward and gripped his shoulders. Bron hesitated, unsure how to respond to that showcasing of male solidarity, when the little girl coughed. “Papa,” she said, and shook her head. Mr. Edwards looked from him to Ada, back and forth, smiling as though he’d missed something.
“Ah, I’m so sorry, my boy,” said Mr. Edwards, his grin depressing into a single line. Bron could smell the alcohol on his breath and felt a slow downward turn of dread in the pit of his stomach. Mr. Edwards gesticulated for a firm handshake instead. “My children tell me I am too forward with people, too excitable, too …”
“Embarrassing, Papa. Too embarrassing.”
“Oh, hush now, hush. One can never say or do the right thing nowadays, no matter how hard one tries.” Mr. Edwards motioned for them to follow him through the archways, through the many beautifully decorated rooms. “This way, this way. I dare say you’d like some tea after your travels, or some whisky? We should have brunch now—how does that sound? Some nice smoked salmon—oh, and you must be shown the house and meetthe rest of our little family—where’s that son of mine?” he called into the void, then turned to the housekeeper. “Clarence?”
She reappeared in the corner of the room, where she was now wiping down the bust of a Greek face, which Bron guessed could be Apollo. Maybe Zeus. He had no idea. “I don’t know, sir,” she said.
“He’s gone to Marseille for the week. Have you forgotten, Papa?” Ada said. “He left last weekend.”
“Ah, that boy,” Mr. Edwards replied. “Always someplace or other, and such an extravagant life he leads at my expense. And always causing trouble! Very much a heartbreaker, my son is.” Bron wasn’t sure if Mr. Edwards winked at him or if it had actually been a twitch. “Don’t worry, Ada—it’ll be your turn to break hearts soon enough.”
“I’m nine,” she said.
“More than enough time to work on that particular skill! Worry not, Ada. Mr. Ellis is here to teach you all kinds of things. Then you’ll be the smartest girl in all of England.” He considered her a moment. “Or Cambridgeshire at the very least.”
“The smartest girl?” she said, pondering this. “But not the smartest person?”
“Perhaps if you triedreallyhard,” he said, to which Ada gave a little huff.
“Well, perhaps I’m not a girl at all.” She smiled.
Mr. Edwards gave a pompous laugh. “Well, if that’s what you decide … So open-minded, isn’t she?” And he turned his head toward Bron, spotting his rainbow-pinned lapel. “Nice badge! That’s exactly what we want here. To fit in with the times.” Bron was, for the moment, conflicted; at once comforted by their outward demonstration and acceptance of who he was, and yet feeling as though he’d been thrown into the spotlight. “Well, Ada, what have you decided? Boy, girl, friend, foe?”
“Well, I haven’t decided yet.”
“Plenty of time then, plenty of time …” said Mr. Edwards, petering off. “Clarence, it’ll be three for lunch. We need sandwiches, tea, salmon, eggs!”
Bron searched for a likeness in these two faces, compared Ada’s harsh but pretty nose to Mr. Edwards’s dome-shaped one—red, he guessed, from drink—and related her deep brown eyes to those of her father, which were a striking blue. Her complexion was a light honey tan, whereas Mr. Edwards’s was fairer and slightly freckled. Finding no resemblance there, Bron deduced they couldn’t be blood relations. Was Ada the ward of the house? How would she have come into their care?
“I do apologize,” she whispered as they moved toward the sitting room. “I know he talks a lot of rubbish, but he really is the best. He’s not like other daddies. He plays cards with me a lot and lets me do whatever I want. He’s like a mummy and a daddyanda friend, all wrapped in one!”
