‘Oh!’ She would be with Angelina. She could not think how to respond. What had she – thin, shy Beatrice – to offer lovely, golden Angelina? The girl seemed older than her; indeed, if her birthday was in August she was a whole school year ahead. If they were going to school, that is.
‘I’ll talk to your father’, Mrs Marlow sighed. ‘I hope he will agree.’
Days of argument followed.
‘It is a marvellous opportunity for her,’ Delphine would say.
‘We’ll be beholden to them,’ Hugh would object. ‘And she’ll start expecting to live the high life.’
‘Oh come, that’s nonsense – not our little Béatrice,’ she would counter.
Eventually Hugh Marlow gave way, astonished at his wife’s unusual insistence.
It was early in July when Beatrice was first invited up to the house. Her mother went with her. Up the cliff path, then a short walk alongside a field of ripening corn to a lane that ran between stone hedges to the gates of Carlyon Manor. Beatrice yearned for the house until they rounded the bend of the drive, then there it was, a wide expanse of Cornish granite with diamond-hatched windows, high chimneys and a slate roof. They passed a croquet game, abandoned on the front lawn. As they neared the front door their footsteps slowed, and though she said nothing, Delphine held her daughter’s hand more tightly.
A little maid with beady eyes, like a jenny wren, admitted them. ‘The mistress is still out riding,’ she told them, and showed them into the drawing room to wait. Beatrice, who had never been in a place so splendid, gazed at the sunlight dazzling off the electric chandeliers. The french windows stood open and beyond were lawns and flowerbeds and swaying trees.
‘May I go out in the garden?’ she asked her mother.
‘No, mon amour, we are not invited,’ said Mrs Marlow, tenderly brushing a lock of hair from her daughter’s face. There was a great tarnished mirror over the fireplace and Beatrice wandered across to make faces in it, though she was barely tall enough to see. She noticed the carved mantelpiece itself and ran her fingers over the pattern of leaves and flowers and fruit, wondering at the warmth and smoothness of the wood. Then her keen eyes spotted a carved insect hidden amongst the petals of a flower. It was a bee, its wings spread wide, and so delicately wrought she could see the markings on them. She traced its shape with a fingertip, thinking that because it was so small perhaps she was the only one who had ever noticed it. When she took a step away from the mantelpiece, the bee could hardly be seen. She was still marvelling at this idea when the door opened and Mrs Wincanton, in riding breeches, burst into the room. She was breathing quickly and her colour was high.
‘I am sorry, Mrs Marlow. It’s so glorious out on the beach, I quite forgot the time.’ She cast her hat and riding crop on a chair. Her bright gaze passed over Beatrice in her neat brown dress and black lace shoes, then she realized what she’d been looking at. ‘Oh, have you found our little bee? I’ll tell you the story about him.’
Mrs Wincanton pulled the bell-rope by the fireplace. Whatever the story she’d been going to tell, it was forgotten, for a sinister rumbling noise had started up somewhere above their heads. Beatrice and her mother looked at the ceiling in alarm, but Oenone Wincanton was unperturbed. When the jenny wren maid appeared she said, ‘We’ll have tea now, Brown. Would you take Miss Beatrice up to meet the children? I gather from the ghastly row that they are somewhere about?’
‘Upstairs, mam, all of ’em. Miss Hetty’s worriting the life out of that poor dog, and now the boys are playing skittles in the corry-dor. The butler’s been up to speak to them twice about their behaviour, but they don’t take no notice, mam.’
‘Oh, never mind. I’ll deal with them later. Boys will be boys,’ Oenone said to no one in particular, with a little laugh. She gave Beatrice’s shoulder a light pat and said, ‘Go with Brown, Beatrice. I’m sure you’ll have a very nice time, whilst I speak to your mother.’
With a pleading look, ignored by her mother, Beatrice followed the little maid out to the hall and up a wide wooden staircase. At the top a long landing stretched right and left into darkness.
‘Look out, miss!’ Brown cried, and pulled her to the wall as a missile came hurtling out of the gloom and sent a pile of wooden objects crashing at the other end.
Roars filled the air: ‘A triumph!’ and ‘Ed, you foul cheat. Your foot was over the line.’ And then came the sound of a struggle. Brown’s high voice piped above the general mayhem, ‘Master Edward, Master Peter, get up, both of you, you’ve got a visitor.’