Beneath the Tor (21 page)

twenty

grandma dare

Meeting trouble halfway had
been my problem since I was old enough to know where halfway was. It was going to be the same when I met my grandmother, I just knew it, even though the Lady of the River had encouraged me for my own good.

As I left Bridgwater for Zotheroy on Saturday morning, little flappy insects were invading my stomach. Being dropped without warning into a family fold was disconcerting. I was used to my own status quo. I was not a family person. Anyway, I had a family, thanks very much—Gloria and Philip, Dennon and Charlene. I didn't want another, especially one with gargoyles on their house.

Twenty minutes later, I was crunching over the expansive sweep of driveway that led to the Hatchings, deciding which door I should use. The house was vast and centuries old, set in acres of garden with some woodland behind. It was built from stone, but there were newer parts knitted onto the original, some in red brick and some rendered and painted. The last time I'd been here, it had taken me all of five minutes to walk around the side of the house to the kitchen entrance with the takeaway order. I didn't want to start off as Lady Dare's servant, so went up to the front door and pulled on a cold iron knob. Deep inside the house, a bell jangled.

It was Lettice who answered. She was in Saturday jeans, her hair held back with a band. She leapt at me, wrapping her arms around me. “Sabbie! I'm so relieved. I wasn't sure you'd bother.”

“I keep my promises.” I was in the hallway, but this hall wasn't the narrow corridor people like me had to manage with. It was a huge room with high ceilings and walls mounted with—I checked I wasn't imagining it—the heads of stuffed animals. Mostly antlered deer and foxes but I saw a leopard's head as well. Between the mounted beasts were portraits in elaborate frames. Some were old, I could tell by the clothes the people were wearing. I stopped in my tracks. “Are these your … ancestors, Lettice?”

She made a face. “Gross, huh? They're yours too!”

“Let's not get ahead of ourselves.”

She bounced on the spot. “I can't wait for you to meet Grandma!”

I didn't even want to think about it. “How are you, anyway?”

“I'm very happy now the hols have started.”

“That's early, isn't it?”

“Yeah. We break up for almost twelve weeks at Millfields.”

“Ah. Lettice.”

Mrs. Peers Mitchell framed a doorway I hadn't spotted before, it being painted the same colour as the wall. I eyed her without smiling. I did not want this woman to think for one moment that I liked her, or that I was pleased to be in her mother's house.

“Why don't you saddle up Abacus and take him for a canter?”

Lettice looked at her mother, her body primed for an argument. “I'd like to stay here, please, Ma.”

“I think not. Off you go.”

My cousin shot me a look of solidarity then thumped along a corridor that lead towards the back of the rambling interior. I was left with my nemesis.

“Perhaps you'd come with me.”

Mrs. Mitchell didn't wait to see if I was going to follow. By the time I'd skidded thought the camouflaged door into a smaller room, she was disappearing from it into shadow, her ash blond French pleat lighting the way like a beacon.

I crossed the small room and stood on the next threshold. Now I was in a private, personalized part of the house, a sort of sitting room. It felt smaller than it was, thanks to the navy flock wallpaper and the fact that the woodwork was varnished a deep brown. It was dimly lit, despite the bright day outside, because velvet curtains fell half across the window, tied back at their waists by fat lengths of cord. The carpet was spongey under my feet and of a pale, intricate design. Carpets that couldn't be bought for a song from Ikea were outside my radar, but I thought this might be Turkish or Chinese. It reached across the floor, leaving a margin of polished wood around its edges.

My grandmother sat in a winged chair plumped with all manner of cushions. Her feet were raised onto an upholstered footstool; black house shoes with a small heel peeked from under her lap rug. I had somehow imagined she would be boney, delicate as a bird. She was instead matronly. A vast bosom—all I could think to call it—was covered by a tailored outfit straight from a
high-end
but rather
out-of
-date fashion establishment. Her hair, which she still possessed in all its glory, resembled a swirl of marshmallow. She was in full makeup—powdered cheeks, coral lips … I even detected a flash of eyebrow pencil.

I was captivated by her eyes. They were the same blue as my mother's, a
summer-flower
shade. I had loved my mother's eyes. Almost
twenty-four
years after she died, these are the only feature I can clearly recall.

Grandma Dare looked at me for a moment or two without speaking, or even moving. Then she said, “Peers, dear. Some tea, I think.”

My aunt's lips sucked into a point, but she flounced away to attend the request. I guessed that was how they spoke round here …
attend the request … matronly bosom …

“Would you move a little closer, please?”

That made me jump. Because she hadn't said hello in any fashion, I hadn't thought that she had even noticed I was in the room. I came closer, as I was bid. Her hand lifted from under the rug. She held it as if she wished me to take it. I hoped she didn't expect me to curtsy and kiss its back. The hand was plump and slightly freckled with
old-lady
marks, and the fingers each wore a ring. They glittered with bright gold and gemstones. I put my own hand out and she grasped it firmly. Her hand was cold, despite being kept under the rug.

“So,” she said. “I hope you don't mind tea. I rarely drink coffee now. It doesn't have the flavour it used to have.”

It occurred to me that one of us should open this conversation with some modicum of politeness; if she wasn't going to do it, I'd better.

“Good morning. I'm Sabbie Dare.” Perhaps I should have addressed her as Lady Dare, but it was already too late.

“Sabrina.”

“Yes.” I'd've loved to tell her that I had hated my full name since I was little, but I wasn't brave enough.

“My own mother's name.”

“Really?” I was genuinely shocked. My mother had given birth to me far away from all this pomp—far away from all this wealth. I found it hard to believe that she'd chosen a family name.

“My mother's family were shamefully theatrical, unfortunately,” said Lady Dare. She took in a breath, and began to recite.

Sabrina fair,
Listen where thou art sitting
Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave,
In twisted braids of lilies knitting
The loose train of thy
amber-dropping
hair …

“That's beautiful,” I said.

“Milton, of course. ‘Comus.'”

“Oh, right.”

“You have had some form of education?”

“Er … I've got a degree, if that's what you mean.”

Lady Dare shook her head, as if that was not what she'd meant at all. “You should sit.”

“Er …”

“The chair in the corner. The light one. Bring it over.”

The chair was what I'd call a carvery dining chair with a padded seat; heaven knows what Lady Dare might have called it. Hepplewhite or something. It wasn't light at all.

I positioned it a metre away from her and sat on it, crossing my ankles primly. I'd made a nod towards decorum and worn tights and a summer skirt for this occasion and now, for a reason I couldn't have explained, I was glad I looked more ladylike than usual.

“I think we've shot ahead of ourselves, Lady Dare,” I said as I settled into the seat. “I've not made any claim to being your granddaughter. I haven't done any research into it, either. I was happy to leave all this well alone.”

“Laetitia made that perfectly plain. It was I who instigated this meeting. I wanted to see you. I knew, if I set my eyes on you, that I'd be sure, one way or the other.”

“Right!”

“It is plain to me you are my daughter's daughter.”

“Even though I must look a good deal like my father?”

It was a bold thing to say; I wasn't sure how she'd react. According to things Lettice had told me, Lady Dare had refused to speak to my mother, or welcome her into her house, once she had taken up with a black man from Bristol.

“Yes. No doubt you do have some features that might come from that side of your bloodline, but what I see is the shape of your chin, which must be drawn from my own heritage, and the line of your nose, which is not at all African.”

When it came to barbs, this matriarch was perfectly able to duel with me and win.

“You are my granddaughter, Miss Dare.” She caught my gaze and for a second, the corners of her lips turned up. “However much either of us dislike the idea.”

At that moment the door opened with a sort of hush. I assumed it would be Mrs. Mitchell, but a woman I hadn't seen before was managing the tray of tea. She was dressed in a brushed cotton blouse, a pair of lightweight slacks, and comfortable
lace-up
shoes. I hadn't bothered to wonder what happened to Lady Dare when her
sole-surviving
daughter was not here, but it was obvious now; she had a care worker. Except I imagined this woman was never called that; she'd probably be the housekeeper or companion or suchlike. She placed the tray on a sideboard that stood at a far wall and brought over a small table, placing it between us. She poured the tea and brought over the two china cups on their saucers. She added a milk jug and sugar bowl to the mix, and the sugar bowl had lumps of sugar and a set of silver tongs. Finally, she brought two little plates and an assortment of
posh-looking
chocolate biscuits on a raised cake stand.

“Thank you, Shreve, we will manage.”

Shreve left the room, but first she bobbed her head as if in the presence of royalty.

“Sabrina, would you please add one lump for me and a little milk?”

It took me several seconds to get my head round that, because something had occurred to me as I'd watched Shreve do her bob, that perhaps I should have thought about long ago. What sort of lady
was
my grandmother? I hadn't even researched what sorts of ladies there were. If you married a lord, were you a lady? That stood to reason. And if you became a member of the House of Lords, but were a woman, surely then you became a lady. Some women got called it from birth; how did that work? I had no idea, and although this was the opportunity to find out, I couldn't think how to start. At last I managed to pass Lady Dare her tea. She took a sip and held it out again. The cup rattled on the saucer and I grabbed it.

“I'll have a Viennese, if you'd be so good.”

I stared at the cake stand. This was the bit of my education that was patently missing.

She pointed with one finger.

“Those are Viennese.” Her finger shook and the ruby on it glittered red. “Those are mint crisps. And those, Florentines. Try one.”

I thought I detected a flicker at the corners of her lips again, but it might have been my imagination. I lifted her cake by the little paper towel underneath it and passed it to her on a plate. I picked up a mint crisp. It was so thin and light, I didn't bother with a plate; probably be hounded out of society, but, hey. I nibbled its edges. It was exquisite.

“I have a selection box of these sent from Fortnum's every
twenty-eight
days. They are the best.” Lady Dare took a bite from her Viennese and moved her mouth round it, like old people do. She lifted the cup without spilling, although her hand shook very slightly, and took another sip. As she placed the cup back on the saucer, she spoke again, and this time, there was no stopping her.

“My husband was a baronet of the realm. Sir Sebastian. The baronetcy was granted to the Savile family by great Queen Anne, the last monarch of the Stuart dynasty, in 1712. He was Sir Simon, first Baronet of Zotheroy. He built this house and had a large family, creating an extended lineage. My husband, twelfth Baronet of Zotheroy was his direct descendent down the male line. This is my point; heritage moves directly and solely down the male line. My husband and I, as you must be aware, were unfortunate enough to produce only girls. The eleventh Baronet of Zotheroy is Sebastian's second cousin, Guy Dare. He inherited this house immediately my husband passed away. However, he is, at this moment, living in South Africa. He owns several mines. Diamonds, I believe. I stay here, as Dowager Lady
Savile-Dare
. Here I will remain, until my death, which, God willing, surely cannot be far into the future. At that time, Guy must decide what he will do with The Hatchings. Perhaps he will return here, retire here. Perhaps he will put the old thing on the open market. I sincerely hope he will not, as this house has been in the family since its construction in 1720.”

She took a breath—her first, I think, since she'd begun. I couldn't have spoken even if someone had goaded me to do so with the point of a Jacobean dagger. “I have brought you here, Sabrina, to inform you of these things. As my grandchild, it is only right that you know; that you do not go about the countryside in the belief that, as the only child of my elder daughter, you are in line to inherit anything.”

There was a pause. I heard her breathing, a settling of breath after exertion. My own breath had almost stopped. My head spun. It felt as if my grandmother had directly responded to my earlier thoughts—everything I wanted to know about being a lady but was afraid to ask.

“If you have any questions, Sabrina, you can pose them.”

“Lady Dare, there is one thing I'd like to ask you.”