Goodwill To All Women

Goodwill To All Women

The offices of Messrs Ingleford, Chisholm and Took loomed large above me as I stepped down from Percy's carriage. I felt his presence, warm and reassuring, behind me, along with that of my closest friend, Arabella. The street was dirty with grey snowmelt, causing Arabella to wince prettily as she gathered up her skirt, and we crossed the path towards the glossy black door with care.

               Lamplight led the way to the office of Mr. Chisholm, a round, fat man with a countenance that reminded me of Father Christmas himself, made only more vivid by the aroma of peppermints about him. He plucked another mint from the small dish on his desk and popped it into his mouth before speaking.

               'Miss Fairfax. Thank you for making the journey to the offices this afternoon. The December weather surely made the journey more of a challenge for you, and I'd well imagine you'd like to know why I have asked you here.'

               Before I could answer, Percy sat forward in his chair. 'That we would, Mr, Chisholm, that we would. Alice doesn't venture far from home so I rather hope you can enlighten us on our reasons for bringing her to you.'

               'And you are?' Mr. Chisholm looked sternly at Percy over the top of his half-moon spectacles.

               'Percy Reed-Melton. I am Alice's fiancé, and this is our friend, Miss Arabella Smith.'

               'Quite,' said Mr. Chisholm shortly, then turned again to me. 'I shall come straight to the point Miss Fairfax. You will not be aware that you had a great-aunt in Oxfordshire. Sadly, she has passed on, but happily for you she has left instructions that you should inherit her house and all contents and staff.'

               My mouth fell agape, and Arabella grasped my arm.

               'What fortune, Alice! A house all of your own. And is it very valuable, Mr. Chisholm?' she asked.

               'It is. However, the bequest does come with certain, ah... conditions. Your great-aunt Mary will grant you the house only if you spend Christmas there. Alone.'

               'Alone?' I breathed. My heart fluttered. I had never left my parents' London townhouse unaccompanied, never mind stayed anywhere overnight. I had lived my whole life expecting to go from my family home to my husband's home directly, and that was due to happen in the spring. 'Oh, Mr. Chisholm. I couldn't possibly... I wouldn't know how...'

               He went to reply but Percy raised a hand to him. He turned in his chair and almost knelt before me. 'Alice, my darling. Think of what this would mean. Our marriage would begin with the most unexpected stroke of luck. God rest Aunt Mary's soul, but what a beginning for us!'

               'But Christmas...' I said.

               'It's only one Christmas, my heart. Only one. And then we shall spend the rest of ours together. You can hardly turn this down.'

               His hand caressed mine and Arabella gripped my other arm.

               'You really must say yes,' she said, her eyes glittering.

               I swallowed dryly and looked at Mr. Chisholm, who hovered over his papers expectantly.

               'I accept the conditions,' I said, my voice shaking. My heart tore at my chest and in that moment I knew not whether it was the fear of being away from Percy at Christmas, or simply the fear of being alone.

               On Christmas Eve I arrived at Hawshott Manor, a vast honey-coloured building like those that I'd imagined in fairy-tales. It rose from the deep white snow as if it were the decoration atop a Christmas cake, its roof and window gables dusted with icing sugar. The windows glowed warmly with light. Even though no host awaited me, it was clear that I was expected.

               Inside the grand hallway, I shook the snow off my boots as the coachman's horses thudded softly away down the drive. I closed the door and looked about me at the sumptuously furnished space. The polished floor was covered with Persian rugs and there was a chaise covered with the most beautiful silk. At the foot of an enormous sweeping staircase was a small table bearing a steaming mug of cocoa and a note.

               Dearest Alice,

               It will come as a great surprise that you are here in my home, and that I even existed. I shall say no more than that I was estranged from our family for reasons of my preference to make my own choices, rather than follow the plan they all had for me. I hope that you will see the value in the gift of this house, and the smaller gifts that you will receive over the next few days. I apologise that you are here alone - the servants are here but have been instructed to leave you to your solitude. I apologise also that I was not able to meet you before my death. But, be assured, I know a great deal more about you than you know about me. Dinner will be served for you at eight this evening, dear girl, and the first of your gifts is to be opened afterward.

               With great affection,

               Mary.

I placed the letter back on the silver salver and thought how very sad it was that I had never known her. It was strange to be in her home, among her things, without any way of getting to know the woman who had bestowed it upon me. Once again I felt frightened, and almost wished to call out to the servants behind closed doors for company, for anyone at all to be here with me. Hesitantly I picked up the cup of cocoa and breathed in its comforting scent. I took a sip, and as the warmth spread through me I felt the tiniest bit better. I even dared to explore, taking the warm drink with me as I climbed the ornate staircase.

               Upstairs, there was only one room which was lit and had a fire burning in the grate. It was richly furnished and in the centre was an enormous four-poster bed. Beside the bed was a small framed photograph of a young woman, posing in the austere fashion of the day, but with the slightest smile on her lips. I knew that it must be Aunt Mary at about my age. I sat on the bed and gazed at her for some time, until my eyes grew heavy and I curled against the plump feather pillow and drifted off to sleep.

               I awoke with a start to the sound of a dinner gong from below. Confused and semi-drunk with sleep, I rose, and automatically began to smarten myself for dinner. I was deeply conditioned to respond to the cues of an upper-class house, and was ready within minutes to descend for dinner.

               The dining room was laid beautifully - a long table was dressed with a crisp white tablecloth, and white candles burned in silver candelabras. At one end of the table there was a place set for me and a selection of dishes covered with silver cloches. I lifted one and breathed in the delicious aroma of tomato soup. Realising that I was ravenous I sat down to eat and worked my way through the soup, a plate of succulent roast beef and finally a sweet lemon tart. It was only as I finished my meal that I remembered that I had been promised a gift, and noticed a creamy envelope marked with my name, propped against a Chinese vase on the sideboard. I picked it up and opened it. How strange - the writing inside was Percy's.

               My darling Arabella, it read. I sat down heavily in my chair, no longer able to stand.

               You must be patient, my heart. I ache for you, I yearn for your touch once more, but I must fulfil my promise to Alice and her father first. Just give me time and I will return to you, beautiful orchid, once everything is secured. Until then, be discreet and we shall have our many years together, just as I promised.

               In love, and devotion,

               Percy.

The taste of lemon tart in my mouth turned to bile. Dizzy with shock, I put my head in my hands, letting the cursed paper flutter to the floor. What sort of gift was this? My benevolent aunt had somehow orchestrated this terrible trick, this cruel revelation that all was not as it seemed at home. How on earth had she procured this letter, and did I even believe it was real? My heart leapt at the thought that this may be some kind of awful joke, but then my eyes fell upon Percy's distinctive handwriting and I knew that it was no jape.

               Before I was aware of my own actions, I leapt from my chair, snatched up the letter and threw it on the fire. Percy. My Percy, betraying me with my own dear friend Arabella. I thought back to sitting between them in Mr. Chisholm's office, the look in their eyes as they realised my change in fortunes. A fortune that would become half Percy's once we were wed. A slick, cold feeling threaded through my jaw and down my chest, icy realisation settling in. I was to spend the next few nights in this house with nothing but this new information for company, and the knowledge that I was playing a game that might make Percy and Arabella the real winners.

               The next morning I awoke from a fretful, broken sleep. Disorientated at first, I came to look upon the picture of Aunt Mary and was at once transported back to the dining room the previous evening. Grief flooded through me as I remembered that wretched letter, now ashes in the grate. No amount of burning could destroy the feeling of devastation that the letter had unleashed. I lay there and wished for the bed to swallow me whole and suffocate the life out of me so I did not have to bear the weight of what I now knew.

               As if Aunt Mary had known that I would not wish to rise as usual, there came a soft tap at the door. I rushed across the room and opened it to find nobody there, but a tray laid with breakfast and another envelope. I brought it inside and placed it on the chest of drawers, glaring at its malign presence for some time.

               After a while, my stomach gave in to the food on the tray, and my curiosity bent to the will of the envelope in much the same fashion. Biting my lip, I extracted a folded sheet from it, all the time dreading what horrible surprise awaited me with this new gift. To my relief there was no handwriting on the page, Percy's or otherwise. Instead there was a map of the estate, detailed with the outline of Hawshott Manor and the land surrounding it. It appeared that there was a lot of acreage attached to the manor, with outbuildings and follies marked here and there. At the far extreme of the estate border I noticed that there was a lake, and on the edge of that lake was a promontory marked with an X. How curious. It appeared to be the mark of a treasure map of some sort. I wondered, grimly, what awaited at the spot marked by X. Judging by Aunt Mary's last offering, she had a penchant for unwelcome discoveries. So it was with some trepidation that I pulled on boots and a warm cloak to venture out into the snow.

               The route to the lake was circuitous, through the various areas of the estate that I had not had a chance to examine the previous day. I passed through a the stable yard and saw with some delight that there were horses in the stables, chewing lustily on sheaves of straw. As per Aunt Mary's instructions the stable-hands must have made themselves scarce, for my appearance slightly startled the horses. They made low whickering noises as I approached each stall, but calmed to my touch as I rubbed their proud noses. I had only been around horses that were attached to a carriage. In London our carriage was always ready and hitched and I never went anywhere near the beasts themselves, but these creatures were happy to be stroked and admired. Feeling somewhat pleased with myself that I'd dared to go near them, I left to continue my progress.

               I walked on, past a pared down vegetable garden that had been cut back and prepared for winter. An old scarecrow stood in the middle, festooned with icicles. Further on, I came to the edge of a small copse, and beyond that there was a most spectacular view across rolling countryside, fields striped with ridges of bright, white blankets of snow. I had never seen such wide open space, untouched nature, unspoilt by the hustle and bustle of a city. In London the snow was grey almost as soon as it fell to the ground, ruined by smog, muddy streets and footfall.

               I noticed also, as I stood there, that there was utter silence. Unlike the city, which was peppered night and day with shouts, rumbling wheels and clattering hooves, there was not the slightest sound to be heard here. The peace further eased the ache in my breast from the thought of Percy and Arabella.

               Before long, I came upon the place marked on the map. At the edge of a magnificent frozen lake was a small stone pier, and at the end of it was a tiny hexagonal building. A folly, much like some others that I had seen around the estate. I walked up the pier and went inside, where I was greeted with a small wicker hamper. The walls were candle-lit, so I was able to see clearly inside, and I pulled out a flask of warm mulled wine and a leather-bound book. I breathed in the fragrant spiced wine and suddenly remembered that it was Christmas Day. Tears pricked at my eyes as I wondered what my family, and Percy and Arabella, were doing today. I pictured my parents, straight-backed and serious, exchanging token gifts and dry kisses, myself sat beside them, being careful to behave as the lady that I had been born. My lip curled with distaste when I imagined Percy and Arabella celebrating the day together in my absence.

               Taking a warming sip of wine, I settled on a fur blanket and opened the book. It was an album of photographs. There were pages of them, carefully placed with their creamy edges slightly dog-eared but still in beautiful condition. They began with hazy old photographs of a little girl.

               She looked rather like I did in photographs at that age but it was clearly Aunt Mary. She was a prim and proper child, sat beside stern unsmiling parents, laced into elaborate and austere dresses. Her face was solemn and pale. Turning the pages I saw her gradually grow up, sitting formally at a piano, her features blank and unreadable. Further on, she appeared standing uncomfortably next to a waspish looking fellow with a bristly moustache. He had an hand awkwardly on her shoulder and her left hand sported a large engagement ring. In the next photograph he was gone, as was the ring.

               A page or two followed, and in between the photographs were two remembrance cards for her parents, who seemed to have died when Mary was around my age. She had ended up alone, so it seemed. No family and, it appeared, no husband. I turned the page, expecting to see more formal portraits but my eyes widened in surprise.

               Mary was in every picture, but they were nothing like the ones on the other pages. These were images of her in all kinds of locations, doing all manner of things. I recognised, in most of them, the estate in the background. Here she was, riding a horse, posing proudly and smiling for the camera. In another she was set against the backdrop I'd been looking out over earlier, her head thrown back in wild laughter. Her hair hung loose at her shoulders as if she had no regard for properness. I realised that this was the exact reason she was smiling. These must be the unpopular choices that she had spoken of in her letter to me.

               I turned page after page, seeing a life filled with nothing but happiness. Mary skating on the frozen lake just on the other side of the wall, Mary climbing to pick apples from a tree in the orchard, squinting into the sun. She was photographed on a huge ship, grinning at the camera with the sea in the background. Next she was atop an elephant in India, her hair wrapped in a scarf, a light sunburn on her nose. She had begun life as a china doll, just like me, fulfilling the purpose to which she was born. Then, once she had been left alone, she had really lived.

               Hugging the book to my chest, I began the walk back to Hawshott Manor.

               I woke again the next morning to another gentle tap at the bedroom door. That night I had slept as if I'd been awake for a week, not stirring once. I crept to the door and retrieved the tray that waited. Climbing back into the warm bed, I opened the small box that rested upon the tray. Within was a key, marked as the key to the main door of the house, but there was also a pen and a sheet of notepaper, blank but for a freshly printed header that read: Ms. Alice Fairfax. Hawshott Manor, Oxford.

               I picked up the pen and began to write.

               Dear Percy and Arabella...