for the painter, as he painstakingly preserved her for posterity. The expression on her face was arrogantly self-assured. This was a young woman confident of her looks, from the fine line of her nose, to her arched brows and sculpted cheekbones, a young woman who knew her mouth was the perfect shape even if her lips were a little too thin. She was aware her beauty was arresting, and her eyes shone with an unveiled challenge to the artist, daring him to record her otherwise.
‘She is a very beautiful woman, is she not, Miss Marcham?’
I whirled around at the intrusion. Miss Scott was standing at the open door. I hadn’t heard her enter and fumbled my apologies. She smiled as she drew near.
‘Please don’t apologise. She is very distracting.’
‘It’s a wonderful portrait.’
‘She was just eighteen when that was done. Oh! She made me do her hair four times before she was satisfied with it. She was quite determined to look perfect.’ She drank in the picture, her face rapt, as if relishing it for the first time. ‘And she did look perfect,’ she finished, her voice soft.
‘You’ve been with her for a very long time then, Miss Scott?’
‘Since she was seventeen, and I was not much older myself. She was headstrong and determined even then, and a much-toasted debutante. I’ve witnessed rooms fall silent by the mere act of her walking into them.’
I looked again at the portrait and had no doubt that the companion’s recollections were accurate.
‘She is quite a forceful character,’ I said without thinking. I saw a flicker of discomfort on the older woman’s face.
‘You mustn’t judge her too harshly, Miss Marcham. What you see above you is a carefully choreographed image. What lies beneath the surface is often too profound to be caught in oils and brush strokes. The events of a lifetime have moulded her into the woman she is today.’
The admonishment was gentle but left me feeling gauche. The affection Miss Scott felt for her employer was clearly deep-seated and genuine, however difficult that might be for me to understand – and she clearly had the patience of a saint to suffer the woman’s foibles.
We both turned when we heard a slight cough behind us. Mrs Henge stood framed by the doorway.
‘Forgive me for interrupting. I just wanted to check this morning’s tea things had been cleared.’ I was surprised to detect an uncharacteristically soft timbre to the housekeeper’s voice as she addressed us, Miss Scott her primary focus. One glance revealed the china was still very much in evidence – abandoned on a squat table. Mrs Henge’s lips pursed in displeasure and I pitied poor Maisie, who I suspected had overlooked the task amongst a multitude of other chores.
‘Oh dear, it’s a bit of a mess, isn’t it?’ Miss Scott declared without recrimination, as Mrs Henge advanced on the china. I explained then that I had come looking for a pen nib. ‘Oh, you’ll find one in the bureau, Lady Brightwell always keeps several spares, let me find one for you.’
‘This is such a pretty room,’ I declared, as she bustled over to the desk and pulled open an inner drawer. ‘It has such a different feel to the rest of the house.’
‘Well, it was the only room she was given free rein in … Ah!’ She triumphantly brandished a new nib. ‘Will this do?’
‘Perfectly, thank you.’
Handing me the nib, she delved into a large bag resting in the corner and withdrew a ball of wool, which was clearly what had brought her to the morning room. I cast a final appreciative glance at the painting.
‘Was it for a special occasion?’
Miss Scott smiled. ‘Her eighteenth birthday – it was the last portrait done before her engagement.’
‘And you came with her here to Greyswick on her marriage?’ I asked.
‘I did indeed, and I have been by her side ever since. Only once have I been away from her in all that time – and only then because there was no other way around it.’ Her voice had grown wistful. From the corner of my eye I noticed Mrs Henge glance up, just before she lifted the laden tray.
Miss Scott and I fell in step to leave. Mrs Henge stood aside to let us pass.
‘Well, I can see you have quite a bond,’ I observed, slowing my pace to allow Miss Scott first access to the doorway.
‘Oh yes,’ the companion assured me, clutching her wool to her stomach as she left the room. ‘I could never leave her.’
As I reached the doorway I glanced back to acknowledge the housekeeper. Mrs Henge made no attempt to return my smile, indeed she appeared distracted and unaware of my existence.
It was only much later that I succeeded in defining her expression. I realised the look she had borne was one strangely akin to pain.
Over the next few days my sister and I were constant companions. Madeleine grew increasingly at ease, and at times, as we walked arm in arm through the gardens observing the blossoming spring, she appeared completely carefree, her hand resting contentedly on her growing belly.
As a household we all began to muddle along quite nicely: I became inured to Lady Brightwell’s grizzling; Miss Scott started another matinee coat; Mrs Henge continued to efficiently haunt the corridors; and Maisie lent a breath of fresh air to each day. I came to look forward to her impish smile and revised my earlier judgement of her, recognising her now to be a sweet, spirited girl.
The only fly in the ointment was the continuing odd behaviour of my own maid. For some unfathomable reason, Annie Burrows had become fascinated with the nursery staircase, indeed, it seemed to exert some irresistible draw upon her. On numerous occasions I found her loitering at its foot, peering at the landing above, and once I even caught her halfway up, whispering into thin air, evoking uncomfortable memories of her father on the night of the fire.
As a child, I had made the conscious decision never to share what I had witnessed with anyone – not even Madeleine. I had been terrified of inadvertently causing further pain and my suspicions were only supposition after all, suppositions which in time – with maturity and logic – I came to dismiss completely. The re-emergence of such recollections now was as unsettling as it was unwanted. I did my best not to dwell on them.
One afternoon Madeleine and I had happily ensconced ourselves in the orangery. The light outside was that heavy gold hue that often presages a storm. We were quite comfortable on our wicker chairs amongst the aspidistras, looking forward to the cloudburst that was sure to come, anticipating the satisfying thunder of rain on the glass panels above us.
We were both engaged in embroidery, though the pastime was Madeleine’s forte not mine. I fumbled hopelessly with the needle and thread as I tried to create the image of a swan, but I failed to count the squares correctly and ended up having to unpick it all. I counted to ten under my breath in a bid to calm myself and rethreaded my needle.
‘Bother!’ Madeleine had been digging around in her embroidery case. ‘I must have left that lovely skein of blue we bought in town the other day in my room. I want it for the sky.’
Seeing an opportunity to escape my torturous needlework, I set down my things and insisted on retrieving it for her. I waved away her protests and promised I would be back directly. Madeleine laughed at my enthusiasm for the errand before merrily stitching on, humming an Irish air as I made my getaway.
As I proceeded to her room I was struck by how different the house felt when the ominous weight of night was not upon it: the corridors innocuous, the shadows cast by daylight somehow shallower and less daunting. It was much pleasanter altogether, and I made the journey to her room far more valiantly than I would have done on my own at night.
She had assured me the thread was on top of her dresser, but when I