Chapter Seven
Harriet shifted on the hard plastic seat as she tossed the worn copy of Woman and Home aside. Lady Stokeley had been in with the consultant for nearly an hour, and she was starting to feel anxious about both her landlady and whether she’d make pickup time at school. She didn’t want to endure Mrs. Bryson’s self-righteous wrath yet again.
Lady Stokeley hadn’t spoken much on the drive into Oxford. She’d looked regal and remote in a two-piece ensemble of navy blue tweed that smelled rather strongly of mothballs. Harriet had tried to make conversation at first, but she’d ended up subsiding into silence. She didn’t feel up for much of a chat, either.
Her anxiety attacks were persisting, and she was having trouble sleeping, with too many worries pinging around in her mind. Mallory’s attitude. William’s hyperactivity. Chloe’s bed-wetting. And then of course money, like a time bomb ticking in the middle of the lounge. Most of the money from the sale of the furniture, car, and pony had gone to paying debts.
“How much are we in debt?” Harriet had demanded on the phone to Richard. “Actually?”
And then Richard had named a figure that had sent her staggering. It was nearly half of his yearly salary, minus the bonus.
“Like I said,” he’d said wearily. “We spend a lot.”
“Spent,” Harriet had returned. “We spent.” She certainly wasn’t spending anymore.
“We’ll get it back…” Richard began, but Harriet didn’t want to hear that tired litany yet again, or about Richard’s latest promising whatever.
“I know,” she cut him off. “But not right now.”
She needed to get a job, but when she’d worked up the courage to click on her CV to update it, the damned document hadn’t even opened because it was too old. She’d had to install a whole bunch of software just in order to open the thing, and then she’d looked at it and realized how dismal it was. No relevant experience whatsoever in eleven years.
And the only job she’d found that was remotely suitable was as a marketing executive for an academic publisher that looked great on paper but Harriet suspected she’d be laughed out of the office, assuming she even got in the office in the first place. She’d more likely get a form rejection letter, if that.
But she needed to start making money. She’d feel better, more in control, if she was actually earning something. The trouble was, she didn’t know how to go about it. Taking that first step, no matter how tiny, felt terrifying. And it made everything about this situation feel more permanent, something she hated.
“Mrs. Lang?”
Harriet looked up to see a nurse standing in the doorway of the consulting room, and her heart leaped into her throat. “Yes?”
“Mrs. Trent is ready to leave.”
“Thank you.” Harriet stood. “Is she… is she…”
“I’m fine.” Lady Stokeley appeared in the doorway, straightening her jacket, her chin lifted. “And ready to leave.”
“Okay. Do you… do you need to make another appointment?” She hadn’t asked Lady Stokeley about the nature of her tests or what kind of cancer they thought she might have. She hadn’t wanted to seem nosy and Lady Stokeley had definitely not been keen to offer any information.
“No further appointments are necessary at present,” Lady Stokeley responded crisply. “Now shall we?”
They walked out to the car which was parked about a half mile away, and Harriet wished she’d offered to drive it round because Lady Stokeley was starting to flag. She was still recovering from the pneumonia, and whatever tests she’d had must have taken it out of her.
Gently, Harriet took the older lady’s arm and it was a sign of just how fatigued she was that Lady Stokeley did not protest. They drove in silence down the A40, crawling through midafternoon traffic, while Harriet watched the minutes slipping by. She was going to be late for school pickup.
“Do you need to be somewhere?” Lady Stokeley asked abruptly. “Because you keep checking the clock.”
“Sorry, it’s the school pickup. The year one teacher gets rather chilly with me if I’m late.”
“Can you ring?”
“Yes…” But Chloe would just be frog-marched to the office, and made miserable because of it.
“Is there someone who can pick the children up for you?” Lady Stokeley asked. “A friend?”
Harriet thought of Sophie. A lifetime ago, she would have called Sophie, no question, but then a lifetime ago she would never have been late for school pickup. She could picture it now, though—how Sophie would have taken her children home with her, and insisted they take their shoes off before they put a toe across her threshold, and then sniffily fed them organic, disgustingly healthy snacks, which was exactly what Harriet would have done in the same situation, but Sophie would have done it in a martyred way, as if Harriet was presuming and she really was the most amazing friend.
William is quite rambunctious, isn’t he? She might have remarked when Harriet picked them up. Have you had him tested?
The whole scene unfolded in Harriet’s head as if it had actually happened. No, she most certainly could not call Sophie. And that made her realize she couldn’t call anyone. She hadn’t actually spoken to anyone properly in over a month and she could hardly ask for a favor now.
“Not really,” she told Lady Stokeley with what she hoped was a wry smile. “Not at all, actually.”
Lady Stokeley raised her eyebrows. “I thought a woman like you would have plenty of friends.”
Harriet gave a huff of laughter. “A woman like me?” Who was that, exactly?
“You seem accomplished, busy.” Lady Stokeley paused. “Important.”
“Do I?” Harriet let out another laugh, shaking her head. “Trust me, I don’t feel very important.” Not anymore.
She felt a stupid lump forming in her throat and she focused on driving, switching lanes just so she could distract both herself and Lady Stokeley.
Neither of them spoke for several minutes as they crawled along in the traffic. Harriet glanced at the clock again and then gave in to the inevitable and pulled into a layby to ring the school, asking for Chloe to be sent to the office until she could pick her up.
“You know,” Lady Stokeley said after Harriet had pulled back out into the traffic, “at my age one comes to realize how very long life is.”
Harriet glanced at her, warily nonplussed. Was this some precursor to how death would be welcome? Because she didn’t think she could handle that right now.
“So many phases and stages,” Lady Stokeley continued. “And in retrospect, none of them lasts very long.”
With a jolt, Harriet realized Lady Stokeley was talking about her. How much did she know about this unfortunate stage of Harriet’s life?
“The trouble is,” the old lady added, “when you’re in a certain phase or stage it feels endless, because of course you don’t know when or where the endpoint is. Pity,” she mused. “It would be so much easier if we were given a detailed plan beforehand.”
“Yes, it would,” Harriet agreed. “Although if we knew the plan, we might run away screaming and never do anything at all.” She certainly would have.
Lady Stokeley let out a sound that was halfway between a rasp and a rattle, and Harriet looked at her, alarmed. Was she having some sort of episode?
No, Lady Stokeley was actually laughing.
“Indeed,” she said when she’d recovered herself and was dabbing at her lips with a lace-edged handkerchief that was yellowed with age. “If I’d known some of the things that were going to happen, I might have been tempted to admit myself to a cloister. Not,” she added, “that I’m Catholic.”
It made Harriet wonder what Lady Stokeley had endured, but she didn’t feel bold or brave enough to ask. She drove into Wychwood-on-Lea, and Lady Stokeley waved a hand in the direction of the school.
“You’re late enough. Why don’t you pick up the children first and then drive back home?”
“Oh, but…”
She waved a knobby, beringed hand. “I am not as frail as I seem to appear.”
Harriet couldn’t help but grin at that, and she pulled into an amazingly empty space right near the school and then started jogging towards the gate.
She liberated Chloe from the school office, giving sympathetic murmurs and nods as her daughter recited her tearful litany of complaint before gathering up Mallory and William from the juniors’ entrance and then hurrying back to the car.
“I’ve got Lady Stokeley waiting,” she explained breathlessly as she chivvied them along the pavement.
“What?” Mallory looked both surprised and appalled. “Why?”
“Because I needed to take her to an appointment and there wasn’t time to drop her off at home. Come on now.” Harriet opened the back door of the Rover and the three children clambered in, Mallory still looking disgruntled, William more or less indifferent, and Chloe bright-eyed and curious.
“Why,” she asked, “does it smell funny in here?”
Harriet closed her eyes briefly, wishing her daughter had developed something of a social filter.
It did smell funny, of mothballs and lavender water and musty decay.
“My fault, I fear,” Lady Stokeley said. “It’s a byproduct of aging.”
“Chloe,” Harriet said in a remonstrating way, and Chloe blinked at her innocently.
“What? I didn’t say it smelled bad.”
“Even though it does,” Mallory muttered under her breath, and Harriet started the car.
She let the children off at home, with strict instructions to Mallory to keep everyone in line, before driving up the sweeping lane to Willoughby Manor.
“I’ll help you inside,” Harriet said firmly, brooking no arguments, as Lady Stokeley began to climb out of the car. She was looking worn out, the bags under her eyes a deep violet, every wrinkle and crease seeming carved more deeply than usual.
“Thank you,” she said, and took Harriet’s arm as they walked towards the massive front door.
The interior of Willoughby Manor was as freezing as Harriet had remembered. Outside the damp chill of a March afternoon had been leavened by weak sunlight and a warmish breeze, but the foyer of the manor house felt as still and cold as a mausoleum. Harriet could see her own breath coming out in frosty puffs as she guided Lady Stokeley up the stairs.
“I don’t actually know where your bedroom is…”
“Third door on the right.”
The upstairs of the manor was as faded and over-furnished as the downstairs, with paintings vying for space on the walls whose ancient paper was peeling from damp corners. The carpet under their feet looked both expensive and threadbare.
Harriet opened the door and ushered Lady Stokeley into a large, imposing room with a huge fireplace that provided nothing but a continuous draught of cold air and a canopied four-poster bed that looked like you needed a ladder to climb into it.
“My goodness,” Harriet murmured.
“This bed was here in Tudor times,” Lady Stokeley informed her.
Harriet wondered if the dusty, moth-eaten hangings were original.
“I’m fine now,” Lady Stokeley said, her blue-eyed gaze rather imperious.
This was a dismissal, but Harriet didn’t like leaving her there alone.
“Let me turn on the fire at least,” she said, stooping to fiddle with the knobs of an ancient-looking two-bar electric fire that had been placed, rather pathetically, in front of the huge fireplace. “And fetch you a cup of tea, if you’d like one.”
Lady Stokeley looked both surprised and resistant, but then she gave a stiff nod. “Yes, that would be very kind. Thank you. The kitchen is towards the back of the house.”
“Right.” Hopefully she wouldn’t get lost in this huge place.
Harriet went down the front stairs and then headed towards the back of the house, navigating a maze of corridors and walking into several empty rooms, all of them freezing cold with furniture covered in dust sheets, before she finally found the kitchen.
It was massive and looked like it belonged on the set of Downton Abbey, with a huge, ancient wooden work table dominating the center of the room, and an old-fashioned blackened range that looked like it should have been in a museum. A portable electric hob with two small rings had been plugged in next to it, and the sight made Harriet sad somehow.
She found an old-fashioned kettle, big and brass, and filled it up in a sink a small child could bathe in. The pipes creaked in protest as she turned the taps, and the water ran brown for several seconds before it sputtered and then turned thankfully clear.
Harriet plonked the kettle on top of one of the electric rings where it balanced precariously. Then she looked around the kitchen, curious and now more than a little saddened by it all. The cupboards were full of dusty dishes, the kind no one used anymore—chafing dishes and finger bowls and a crystal and silver condiment set. Harriet opened another cupboard and saw crystal glasses and goblets of every size and description, all of them with a fine patina of dust. Then she opened another cupboard and stared at its contents—not more crystal and silver, but a couple of tins of soup, a bag of economy tea bags, some UHT milk, and a few Fray Bentos steak and kidney pies.
Was this all the food Lady Stokeley had in the house? It was dismal, as well as sad beyond words. Harriet stared for another moment as the kettle started to whistle. She hauled it off the ring and took a teabag from the box, then searched the cupboards for a normal teacup rather than something that looked like you’d bring to the Antiques Roadshow.
The lumbering fridge, also antiquated, held an opened box of UHT milk and a small square of congealed butter on a saucer, and nothing else. Harriet swallowed hard. She had a strong desire to rush out and fill a trolley or two at Waitrose and bring it all back here, but she knew Lady Stokeley wouldn’t countenance such a thing for a second. It would be a huge, hurtful blow to her pride.
So she took out the milk and put a splash in the tea, and then took the cup upstairs. Lady Stokeley was dozing in bed when Harriet tapped on the door, but her eyelids fluttered open as Harriet came in.
“Sorry to disturb you… tea.” Harriet hefted the cup and Lady Stokeley nodded.
She looked even paler and more fragile tucked up in bed than she had in the car, and Harriet felt another hard tug of reluctance at leaving her there.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” she asked.
“I think not,” Lady Stokeley answered with some of her usual acerbity. “You’ve been most kind.” She reached for her tea, bringing the cup to her lips with a trembling hand.
Harriet knew she should go and leave the poor woman in peace, instead of gazing at her in obvious sympathy and even pity. But it was so awful, leaving Lady Stokeley alone in this huge place, surrounded by moth-eaten carpets and moldering furniture, her only company the frowning faces of her ancestors as they stared at her from their muddy, old oil portraits.
She had a sudden, jolting thought that this was what might have become of her, in the Old Rectory, surrounded by her furniture and things, and one day entirely alone.
“Bye then,” she said, trying to sound as upbeat as she could. “I might pop round tomorrow, to see how you’re doing…” She made it sort of a question, and after a tiny pause Lady Stokeley nodded.
“Yes, very well.”
“Right.” Harriet waved and then, with no real alternative, she turned and made her way downstairs and out of the huge house, pulling the heavy wood door behind her, so it felt as if she’d just entombed Lady Stokeley inside.
She climbed in her car and started to the drive, only to slow to a stop when Jace Tucker, the caretaker, flagged her down.
Harriet rolled down her window, slightly apprehensive. Jace’s impossibly good looks and simmering sexuality unnerved her. He looked like he belonged in a cologne ad, not standing in the mud holding a pair of garden shears.
“Were you up at the manor just now?” he asked, and she nodded. “How’s madam, then? Is she all right?” Something about his tone told Harriet that Jace cared about Lady Stokeley quite a lot, and the madam thing was an affectionate nickname.
“She’s just had an appointment at the hospital,” Harriet hedged. She didn’t think it was her place to share what Lady Stokeley had been up to. “And you know she had pneumonia…?”
“Yes, but she’s doing better, isn’t she?” He gave her a hard look. “Or is there more?”
“I think you’d better ask Lady Stokeley that,” Harriet said, and Jace gave a knowing nod.
“I see,” he said, and Harriet thought he probably did.
That evening she tried to think of something more she could do for Lady Stokeley as she made supper, washed dishes, and chased children around, reminding them to put away their clean uniform, do their homework, brush their teeth. Sometimes parenting felt like one long nagging session, but perhaps that was more her fault than theirs. There hadn’t been a lot of fun in their lives lately.
She couldn’t think of any way to help Lady Stokeley except what she was doing, visiting on occasion and driving her places. And she wouldn’t be able to do much of that once she got a job, which, she needed to figure out quite soon.
There was so much uncertainty in everyone’s lives, especially her own. With a sigh, Harriet wondered if she was worrying so much about Lady Stokeley simply because it kept her from having to worry about herself.