‘Sure, I’d like to hear more about that…’ She left a convenient pause, but the man didn’t fill it. ‘I know you’re sort of… incognito, but could I at least know your name?’ she prompted him.
‘Sorry, yes, of course. Sorry. It’s been a… difficult couple of months. It’s Mark. Mark Canning,’ he said. Leah smiled, butterflies spinning in her stomach.
4
June 16th, 1911
Dearest Amelia,
I am writing to you of another new arrival to our quiet home: Mister Robin Durrant, the theosophist. I don’t expect you to know what a theosophist is, so let me enlighten you – not that I claim to be an expert! I had to get an explanation from Albert, and half of that I did not understand. He describes theosophy as a quest for wisdom and spiritual enlightenment, and through the practice of it, theosophists hope to be able to release themselves from the ties of flesh, and commune with beings on higher spiritual planes. I had rather thought that this was what we strove to do with prayer, but apparently it is quite different.
Mr Durrant is a man that Albert heard speak a fortnight or so ago, in Newbury, on the subject of nature sprites and the like. Albert didn’t talk about it a great deal at the time, but just a few days ago, he came in from his morning walk quite convinced that he had encountered such magical creatures – although apparently I ought not to call them this – out in the meadows around Cold Ash Holt.
I must say, the meadows are quite stunningly lovely at this time of year. They are simply glowing with life and wild flowers and fresh green growth. The grasses and reeds are growing so quickly, one can almost hear them at it if one stops and turns an ear! If nature can indeed put forth a spiritual body of some kind, then surely this would be the perfect environment for it to do so? I can’t help but wonder, though. It seems such an extraordinary thing – as though he had come home and claimed to have seen a unicorn! But, of course, he must be telling the truth, and as his wife I must support him, and trust in his better judgement. He is a scholar, and a man of the cloth after all. I can make no such lofty claims.
And so this young man, Mr Durrant, is due to arrive later this morning, since Albert wrote to him about his observations; and will stay with us for a while – I admit I have not been able to get from Albert how long this might be. Mrs Bell is quite in a flap about lunch and dinner for three – it’s a while since she’s had to cater for any more than just Albert and I. Which only goes to show, dearest, that a visit from you and my dear brother-in-law, not to mention sweet Ellie and John, is long overdue. Just name the date – your rooms are always ready for you. If he is to stay a while, this Mr Durrant, I do hope he is an amiable chap, and not too grand or clever and learned, else I fear I’ll find nothing at all to say to him that he won’t consider silly beyond belief!
Here is something that will surely make you laugh – but you mustn’t, because I am quite serious. I have begun to worry that there may be something amiss with Albert. In terms of his physical conformation, that is – never with his heart or the essence of him, of course. I was coming back from the school just yesterday afternoon, and as we passed John Westcott’s farm, I caught sight of his stallion being ‘put’ to a mare – I believe this is the term they use to describe this natural and necessary act. Westcott’s daughters were out on the verge, cutting grass for their pigs, and they curtseyed to me most prettily, but I admit my attention was quite drawn by the spectacle going on behind them. Entirely improper of me, I am sure, and I should no doubt have averted my gaze, but such natural sights are common when one lives in as rural a place as this. I would not for one second compare my dear husband to a farmyard animal, but I can only assume that, on some terribly base level, the physical systems of most creatures are – at least very loosely – similar. But perhaps I am wrong in this as well? There. That will have to be all I say on the matter, since I am blushing and feeling horribly treacherous as I write this to you, and you are my own flesh and blood! If by some small mercy you understand what I mean by this comparison, then your clarification, as ever, would be so welcome, my dear sister.
I worry about Cat Morley as well. She remains so very thin, and looks so very tired all the time. It seems that her body is not responding to the wholesome life here, although what kind of body could resist such simple goodness, I can’t imagine. Perhaps there is some deeper aspect to it that I have yet to discover, some perversion in her that runs deeper than I know. I have asked Sophie Bell to look in on her at night to see if she sleeps, but I understand that Sophie is a very deep sleeper herself, and finds it hard to rouse herself to check on the girl. What she might do in the long, dark hours of the night instead of resting, I can scarce imagine. It is an uneasy thought. And I also have it from Sophie that she barely eats, and upon occasion is in the act of eating and has to stop, gripped by some convulsion or sickness. I must get to the bottom of it. When I ask after her health she insists that she feels fine, and that the infection she had in her chest in London continues to improve. What does one do with a person who is sick, but will not admit to being so? I do my best to make her welcome, but it is not always as easy as it should be. She has the countenance of a hawk – a tiny, fierce bird of some kind; like a merlin, or a hobby.
Well, I had better finish this letter and make ready for Mr Durrant’s arrival. I will of course write and tell you all about him in a few days’ time, although forgive me if there is a delay – I am so fraught with the effort of getting everything organised in time for our Coronation Fête – one week today and still we have yet to find sufficient bunting. It’s becoming quite a to-do. I dare say we shall get there in the end, but now is hardly the best time to have a house guest arriving. Poor Bertie – men have no clue about such things, do they?
Write soon, dear Amelia; and bend your thoughts, if you can bear it, to what I have written about the horse. What a dreadful thing to write!
Your loving sister,
Hester
1911
It is nowhere near lunch time when a smart knock at the door jolts Cat from her reverie. She has been distracted all morning, her gaze wandering far and away through the hall window which she’s supposed to be polishing with balls of old newspaper. Thoughts of George Hobson tease her mind away from her work. She saw him again last night, drank enough beer with him to make her head spin and her insides glow. Now her head is spinning still, and her stomach feels weak, and a slow throb of pain has taken to beating behind her eyes. Fatigue makes her limbs heavy and her thoughts slow. Even this early in the day the air is warm, and a mist of sweat salts her top lip. When the door knocker forces her to move she turns, catching sight of herself in a heavy-framed mirror on the wall. A grey-white ghost of a girl, with dark hollows for eyes and a drab dress to set her off. That Holloway taint, still. Cat wears an expression of faint disgust as she opens the door.
‘Yes? May I help you?’ she asks the young man standing on the step. His face is every bit as fresh as hers is not; he carries a leather holdall in one hand and a travelling case in the other, with his coat draped over it. In shirt sleeves and waistcoat, his jacket abandoned, Cat is reminded of The Gentleman’s son, come down from university for a few days’ break. That same luxurious disarray.
‘Good morning. My name is Robin Durrant, and I believe I am expected.’ The young man smiles. His teeth are very white and even; the smile curls his mouth slowly, like a cat stretching, and makes his eyes crinkle warmly.