Antoinette

The Lawson family had been in residence at Charlesworth house for over four hundred years. Except for her loyal companion Duke, an old English Foxhound she’d kept from the last of her hunting days, Antoinette Lawson lived alone in four rooms in the east wing: a bedroom, a bathroom, a dining room and a drawing room. She had no use for a kitchen. Albert, her butler, took care of all her dietary requirements. In fact, Albert, a balding, wiry little man now in his late eighties, took care of everything.

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She was an upright lady. Some might even say stiff. Her ice-white hair was perpetually pulled tightly into a bun, pinned impeccably in place, giving her an unapproachable air, which is just the way she liked it. Her wardrobe consisted predominantly of hand-made Harris tweed trouser suits, which she had shipped in from the Outer Hebrides. Her social circle, she had discovered, disappeared at the same time her money ran out. Frankly, she never cared much for either. 

She hadn’t ventured outside the grounds of Charlesworth house for nearly a decade. She'd spend her evenings after dinner in the drawing room, nursing a forty-year-old single malt, thumbing her way through the extensive book collection that covered the walls. She had unintentionally become a spinster and a recluse. And as she approached her eighty-eighth birthday, she realised she had allowed herself to become rather eccentric. Living with an old dog and a butler, in a stately home that was crumbling around her. She could feel Charlesworth house running through her veins, and if the truth be told, she was really rather fond of the old place. Despite this, the burden of being unable to continue the Lawson family line had weighed heavily around her neck all of her adult life. 

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 Antoinette politely dabbed the white cotton napkin at the corner of her mouth. She lay it down neatly next to her empty plate. Albert stood quietly behind her, his gloved hands clasped. He waited to make sure she had finished before swooping in to clear the table.

“The pheasant was exquisite, Albert. Bravo.”

Albert bowed his head.

"Thank you, ma’am. I had a little luck with my shotgun out in the orchard. May I?” Albert pulled out her chair. 

“I’ll be in the drawing room, Albert, should you need me. I assume the fire has plenty on and that everything is in place? The weather is frightful this evening.”

"Of course, ma’am. Everything is ready, as requested.” He paused. “Are you sure—”

"I'm sure, Albert," she interrupted. "The bailiffs will be here in the morning. I’ve got nothing left. I’m afraid it’s the only way.”

"Right you are, ma’am. . . Right you are.”

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The huge sash window in the drawing room stoically held back the rain as it lashed against the ancient glass. Heavy velvet curtains stood guard against the wind as it probed and searched for a way in. A crystal chandelier dominated the ornate ceiling, sparkling under the flickering light from the fire. Antoinette, carefully poured herself some scotch from a cut-glass decanter. Pulling a blanket over her knees, she pushed herself onto the worn leather chesterfield and took a long sip. 

“Bottoms up, Old Bean,” she said to Duke, tilting her glass. He flicked his tail slightly then huffed and went back to sleep. The wind howled down the chimney making the fire crackle and dance. In the dim light, eerie shadows crawled around the panelled walls making dusty portraits of past generations appear alive. She felt a shiver run down her spine. She opened her book and began to read. Outside, the rain hammered against the window, and a large oak tree swayed, tapping its outstretched branches against the roof. On a walnut table next to her stood a highly polished silver cloche.

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Antoinette thoughtfully closed the book and ran her fingers over the cover. Albert stood quietly behind her. She could hear him breathing.

"Ok, Albert, let's get this over and done with. I've had a splendid inning after all. No point in putting it off. Are you sure this will work?”

"Absolutely positive, ma’am."

Albert lifted the cloche. Underneath were three items. Two glasses of what looked like scotch and a piece of cooked chicken. Antoinette studied the tray. 

“Albert,” she said hesitantly. “Why two glasses?”

Albert moved around the chesterfield and sat down, removing his white gloves and placing them on his lap.

"The other one is for me, ma’am. . I've had a good inning as well. In fact, I've had a great inning. I would very much appreciate it if you would allow me to join you.”

Antoinette thought for a moment, then smiled.

"I would be delighted, Albert. Utterly delighted." 

Without hesitation, Antoinette passed Albert a glass and took one for herself. She stroked Duke softly on his head. He sniffed momentarily at the chicken before gently taking it from her.

“Bottoms up, Old Bean.” She said quietly, tilting her glass towards Albert.

They sat in silence, watching the fire, lost in its wonder. She kept her hand on Duke, feeling his body relaxing, his breathing slowing down.

“Albert, as this is our final evening together, I’ve got something I would like to share with you.” Antoinette’s face was bathed in orange and yellow flickers. “It’s a secret I’ve carried with me for nearly seventy years.” She turned to face him.

“When I was a young lady of twenty years old, I was in love . . . I was in love with a man called Joseph. He was a stable hand here . . . it wasn’t a foolish fanciful love. We were lovers.” Albert turned to face her.

“I know, ma’am. .” He whispered. “I remember him.”

"I used to sneak out in the middle of the night to meet him. We would make love in the boathouse by the lake." She turned and stared again at the flames as if unable to resist their allure. Her face now flushed with colour. “It’s a good job the swans can’t talk.” She smiled.

Albert allowed the words to remain between them for a moment.

"I used to make sure the boathouse was always unlocked, ma’am.” The beginnings of a smile emerged as he recalled the memories. Antoinette let out a hollow chuckle.

“He went to war.” She felt her throat tightening. “My Joseph went to war.” She brushed at the blanket on her knees. “I carried his baby for six months . . . I didn’t even know what a miscarriage was, Albert." She grasped the blanket and pulled it to her chest. "It was a little boy.”

She drained the last of her scotch and carefully placed the glass down on the table. 

“No one ever knew Albert . . . They never found Joseph’s body . . . To most he's just another name on the village memorial. I think a piece of me died with him.” Her voice trailed off.

Albert sipped the last of his drink.

Antoinette felt her head spin. "He was the only love of my life, Albert." She closed her eyes and let her head rest back. They sat in silence for a moment. "How about you? Have you ever been in love, Albert?"

Albert smiled.

"Yes, ma’am. . I've been in love for over seventy years." Antoinette forced her eyes open and looked at him inquisitively.

"I've been in love with this house from the very first time I saw it, ma’am. . . It’s been the only love of my life . . . Charlesworth House.

Antoinette couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer as the room began to spin. She smiled at the thought of Albert being in love with the old house. Her head gently swayed. They listened to the crackling embers in harmony with the rain and wind outside.

“Albert?” Antoinette slurred. “I would really rather like it if you could hold my hand.”

“It would be my honour, ma’am. It would be my honour.”

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The fire roared for several hours at Charlesworth house that night, before slowly and quietly dying for the very last time. As the rain and the wind blew themselves away, the huge velvet curtains hung still, the dusty portraits on the walls were motionless in the darkness, and the old house went cold.  

Out on the lake, just by the boathouse, a solitary ice white swan silently spread its wings and took flight towards the new dawn.