Death at Dawn - Caro Peacock [51]
I’d overstepped the mark, I could see that in her face.
‘Mrs Beedle might have her funny ways, but she takes more notice of the children than anybody else does. Several times a week, she’ll be up here hearing them recite their lessons.’
‘They have regular times for their lessons, I suppose?’
‘Yes. I get them up in the morning and washed at half past six, and they have a glass of milk, then an hour with their governess for prayers and reading. Then, if it’s fine, we usually take them out for a walk in the flower garden or the orchard. Breakfast is sent up for all of us at nine o’clock, then it’s studying from ten o’clock till two. Their dinner’s at half past two, then Master Charles usually has his pony brought round. Master James hasn’t cared for riding since his pony bit him, so he and Miss Henrietta play or work in their gardens. They’re supposed to be in bed by half past eight, but it’s not easy these light evenings.’
‘And then we have the rest of the day to ourselves?’
I was secretly appalled at the amount of work demanded.
‘I usually mend their stockings and things of an evening. Lady Mandeville sometimes calls the governess down to play cards if they need an extra hand. But she – There you are.’
The bell over the door had started ringing, bouncing up and down on its spring. Betty Sim’s expression was precisely that of a nervous actor about to make an entrance, and perhaps mine was as well. The children stood up obediently at the sound of the bell, but I couldn’t help thinking they didn’t look overjoyed at the prospect of seeing their mother and father. No backstage this time. The Mandeville children belonged – for these occasions, at any rate – in the other world on the public’s side of the backdrop. So the five of us went quickly along the corridor, through a proper varnished wood door instead of green baize, down a flight of carpeted stairs. We paused on the first-floor landing outside another grander door, painted white with gilt mouldings, while Betty checked the boys’ neckcloths and re-tied Henrietta’s ribbon. When she was satisfied, she tapped quickly and nervously on the door and it opened inwards, apparently of its own accord.
It seemed at first like magic, but there was a footman on the other side of it – a different one, the fourth I’d seen so far – who must have been standing there waiting for the signal. Betty gave Charles a nudge on the shoulder and he walked through it, with his brother and sister following him, then Betty, then me. I was reciting in my mind, A man’s a man for a’ that, to remind myself that I was my father’s daughter. In spite of that, I was dazzled and breathless. We were standing at the top of a double staircase, level with a chandelier that sparkled rainbows in the sunlight coming through a glass cupola several storeys above our heads. The staircase curved down in a horseshoe, left and right, to a circular hallway. The floor was white and blue mosaic, the family coat of arms with its three perched birds by the far door. A carved stone fountain played in the centre of the floor, surrounded by real hart’s tongue ferns. Orange and lemon trees alternated in bays round the walls, their scent rising round us as we went down the left staircase, treading an aisle of soft carpet between expanses of white marble. We crossed the hall. James wanted to linger to watch the fountain splashing into its bowl, but Betty urged him on.
On the far side was another white-and-gilt door, with yet another footman waiting to open it to us. It led into what they called the small drawing room, as I found out later, the one the family used when there were few or no guests in residence. Still, it was at least twice as large as any room I was accustomed to, at the front of the house overlooking the terrace and parkland. Plaster oak leaves and acorns flourished across the ceiling and grew down in gilded swags to frame the many mirrors round the walls, so that everything in the room was enclosed and reflected in a kind of frozen glade, beautiful in its way. The furniture looked