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Mr. Edwards stumbled into an armchair and reached for a glass readily filled with drink.
“It’s just sometimes he gets really thirsty.”
“I understand,” Bron said.
A grand piano stood on the other side of the room, and Bron imagined the spirit of a lady, one of great importance, sitting at the stool and demonstrating her talents, fingers prodding, puffed sleeves beating, to the rhythm of the keys, beside the gramophone that glinted in the dark cabinet behind. He summoned two more women—they might have been three sisters, with varying levels of talent, battling to impress a certain somebody at a party … and thiswasthe room for it. Atop the piano’s belly rose a metallic, domed-shaped cage housing a white and blue budgie in its chest. It chirped, Disney-like, at the sight of Ada’s approach, and with a swipe of her hand, she opened the little door. The bird took instant flight, encircling the room once, twice, three times, before perching on her outstretched finger.
“This is Birdie,” she chortled. “Original, I know, but I felt I’d run out of options. Before her we had Sontag, named after the day he was brought here, isn’t that right, Papa?”
“Right as always, my dear.”
“I favored German as a language at the time. We suspect the old dog got a hold of him.”
“Yes, we might’ve had a rather minor incident with Captain. Birdie was meant to be a sly replacement, but nothing gets past this little one.”
“Well, first of all, Sontag was green,” she said.
“A minor detail.”
“And Birdie was brought on a Thursday—Donnerstag just doesn’t have quite the same ring to it. She’s been with us ever since.” She placed Birdie back into her cage before scampering to the Chesterfield settee and coffee table, where a three-tiered stand had been set.
The housekeeper brought in the tea with the china, and Bron nodded in acceptance when she offered to pour it, reaching afterward for the little tongs and bowl of sugar cubes. He dropped two into his cup and stirred while eyeing up the stand that offered egg mayonnaise, plain cheddar, and—notoriously—cucumber sandwiches! He thought immediately ofThe Importance of Being Earnest, and of Mr. Jack Worthing—J. P., as he was known in the country.
“Excuse the lack of variety, but we’ve gone vegetarian for the week, haven’t we, Papa?”
“Oh yes,” he said, words spoken between chews, though he appeared to swallow one of the triangles whole. “I was wondering where the salmon had got to. It was veganandgluten-free last month. Very bad. Couldn’t cope. Almost died.”
Ada tipped her cup, with its tiny print of blue hills, to her face, keeping her pinkie inward. Bron felt suddenly conscious of the way he sipped his tea, how he held the scalding cup not from its handle or saucer, but in the palm of his hand, fearful he would spill it. He set the cup down on the table before going in for one of the sandwiches.
Mr. Edwards soon produced a sheet from his blazer pocket and ran through his list of job responsibilities and the expectations that would be had of Bron, the specifications being much as he’d expected.
“It would be great if you could almost always be available between the hours of seven and eight in the evening, to wind Ada down for the night. Extra tuition can also be worked out between the two of you, around your own schedule, of course … you are welcome to a life outside this house.” Mr. Edwards scanned the paper again, squinting as though it were a complicated recipe he couldn’t understand. “Oh, and yes, discretion, of course … discretion. My word, why must it be in bold? Have we so much to hide?” He laughed. “The people we commission to write these things!”
He couldn’t believe he was here. Finally in Cambridge. And living in a house like this. “Everything sounds perfect, Mr. Edwards.”
“Splendid, that’s exactly what I like to hear.” Mr. Edwards downed the last of his tea before standing, and handed the paper to Bron. “Now, I will leave the two of you to better acquaint yourselves. Your room, Bron—may I call you Bron?—is ready for you. I’m sure Ada will be happy to escort you there. Ada?”
She mimicked Mr. Edwards by taking one last sip of her tea before jumping from the sofa to stand by his side—“Aye, aye, sir!”—and pulling at Bron’s arm. “Alright, let’s go.”
Ada raced down the hall. Bron wanted to say thank you again to Mr. Edwards for offering him this position, for allowing him into their home, for trusting him and believing in him, for giving him this opportunity. He wouldn’t let him down. Instead, he said nothing but left his own cup of tea to sit, undrunk and still steaming, on the low mahogany table, and hurried quickly after her.
Up the stairs she veered right and pointed to each door, identifying them as: “Guest bedroom, guest bedroom, guest bedroom with en suite, this one just a bathroom, guest bedroom again, and that there’s the library,” and before he had time to reach the end of the way, she spun round on her heels and ventured left, power-walking back. “Guest bedroom, a games room that’s really just a room with a billiards table that no one ever goes in, guestbedroom again, and now see here? This is my bedroom”—which he might have guessed from the purple neon sign that hung on the door and read “Stay out”—“and way, way down there is Daddy’s room.”
“I see.” He hesitated before asking, “And where will I be staying?”
“Oh yes, well, you’re right here.” She backtracked three steps and opened one of the doors she’d only a second ago claimed as a guest bedroom. Inside, the room was fragranced rose, and wallpapered aqua with a green and white flowered pattern. The big window overlooked a garden, offering a view from which the solution to the shrubbery labyrinth could be decoded, all the way to the black gate. When he touched the soft silk of the curtains, they dripped through his fingers like water. The four-poster bed and patterned eiderdown; the intricately detailed cornicing and ceiling rose from which a glassy pendant hung; the fluffy carpet and modern bedside table, where both theLRBandThe New Yorkerwere open to specific pages for his perusal, it felt more akin to a hotel suite or boutique bed and breakfast than a bedroom. There, too, was a writing desk and a corner sofa cozied up to an emerald-tiled fireplace. Another door led to a brightly lit en suite. Certainly a change of scene from the damp walls and hard bedsprings of St. Mary’s.
“So, do you like it?” Ada asked.
He held back from squealing out something overly flowery and sentimental. “Yes, very much so. I wasn’t expecting this at all.”
“So don’t worry about making your bed. Clarence will do that every morning.” With a thump, Ada hopped onto the mattress. She lay back, flapped her arms and legs three times like a snow angel, then stood back up to examine the barely there impression left on the taut sheets. “She’s truly a wonderful lady. I don’t know what we’d do without her. I hate making my bed. Isn’t it just the worst?” She tottered to a lower cabinet and opened its doors. “In here you’ll find all the different teas and a teacup or two, if you happen to break or lose one, as I always do.”She produced a little kettle, shaking it about in her hand as if to explain that this is how tea is made. “I don’t really like Earl Grey—tastes too much like Parma violets. I do like to dip my Nice biscuits into English Breakfast, though. Nice—is that how you say it? It’s something of a conflict in this house … But sorry, no coffee. We don’t drink coffee. Well, except for Darcy. He’s always espresso this and double macchiato that, and honestly”—she shook her entire body, as if ridding herself of the ick—“I’d rather drink dirt than coffee.”
Darcy?Bron thought.What a loaded name.Already he found himself projecting an idea of what this man would be like, who he might become. Mr. Darcy, the almighty lover.Arrogant. Handsome(depending on personal taste and the actor who played him—Bron much preferred Colin Firth, though he wouldn’t say no to Matthew Macfadyen, thank you very much).Unapproachable.“Is Darcy your brother?”
“That’s right. His bedroom is way at the other end of the house—you don’t have to worry about him. He’s never around, even when we beg for him to be. Papa’s awfully busy, and I’m quite the loner, or so they say. It’s hard not being a loner when I’ve always been alone. Are you a loner too? Because if you are, maybe we could be loners together. Oh, I bet you had loads of friends at that old school of yours. Did you?”
He thought instantly of Harry, who had once been his friend. His one and only. Until everything came crashing down. Seeing Ada standing there, his mind cast back to the first time he’d met Harry, around the same age as she was now. A dull and wintry afternoon in February, chillier than it was today but with the same sense of electricity in the air, where at any moment something could come to tilt him off his axis.
