The Unseen(58)

‘Ah, Robin! No, of course not. Of course not,’ Albert says, his cheeks colouring. In the uneasy silence, Hester takes a steadying breath.

‘Good morning, Mr Durrant. I trust you slept well?’ she says at last, her voice tight, higher than it should be. Robin Durrant smiles at her, in the languid way that he does, the curling shape moving slowly outwards from the centre to the far corners of his lips. For an instant his gaze seems to look right through her. She feels her face glowing hotly, and longs to look away, to put her hands over her eyes like a child. But that will not do. Her pulse beats hard in her temples, blood thronging to her cheeks in a blush she knows he can see. He holds her this way for a second longer, and then blinks, letting his eyes roam the room, quite at ease.

‘I did, thank you. I always do here – the quiet of the countryside is such a tonic for body and mind. Don’t you think?’

‘Oh yes, quite so,’ Hester manages. She clears her throat, knots her fingers together in front of her skirts. ‘I’ve always found it very peaceful,’ she adds, but Robin Durrant is looking at the vicar, and that same slow smile has quite a different effect. Albert seems to catch his breath, and a tentative smile of his own rises up to his eyes.

‘Well?’ he asks, and Robin Durrant smiles wider.

‘Yes, Albert. Yes. I have seen them!’ he says. Albert claps his hands together in speechless joy, holding the tips of his fingers to his mouth as if in prayer, his earlier anxiety evaporating. A sour worm of something fearful coils itself around in Hester’s gut, but she cannot for the life of her either define it nor think what she should do about it.





6


In the sunshine late on Monday morning, Cat scrubs Hester’s undergarments in a wooden butt of warm soapy water. She has come out into the courtyard to do this, where she can splash with impunity, and feel the sun on her face. These items are considered too fragile to be sent out to the laundress, and cleaning them is a painstaking process. Cat removes the stays from the corsets and washes them one by one; then she uses a soft scrubbing brush to gently sweep the satin fabric lengthways until all stains and marks and odours are gone. Each one must be rinsed under the pump, pulled and stretched back into shape along its whalebone pins, and laid flat to dry where the sun will help to restore its whiteness. She must check them every half an hour until they are dry, tweaking and coaxing and teasing them back into their proper shapes.

Hester’s drawers are stained this week. Dark, bloody scuffs on the gussets and legs that turn brown in the water, and give off the smell of rusting iron. Cat wrinkles her nose as she scrubs, squeezes, rinses, repeats, her hands aching and puffy in the water. She is glad George can’t see her in this labour.

‘Haven’t you finished that yet?’ Mrs Bell remarks, leaning her head out of the scullery door. Cat angrily waves a stained garment at her.

‘A twelve-year-old child could manage her courses better than the vicar’s wife!’ she exclaims.

‘Hush your mouth!’ Mrs Bell glances around, scandalised.

‘I heartily wish the vicar would get his leg over and do his duty by her, so I would have fewer bloodstains to scrub for a term. Or don’t men of the cloth do that?’

‘It is hard to picture it, the two of them …’ Mrs Bell chuckles, before remembering herself. ‘Just you … show some respect,’ she reminds Cat, hastily.

‘I’ve never heard them at it, though. Have you?’ Cat smiles, impishly.

‘For shame! I’ve never listened out for it!’ Mrs Bell replies, her eyes merry for once.

‘One would have to listen closely, I suspect. More like the snufflings of a pair of bunny rabbits than the mighty roaring of a stag, I should think,’ she says, and Mrs Bell laughs out loud, unable to stop herself.

‘Cat, you are a devil!’ she wheezes, and then coughs hastily and falls silent as Hester enters the courtyard from the far side gate, and walks towards them.


Hester has spent the morning teaching the smudged and bony children of the Bluecoat School, a small charitable school run for the poor families of the parish. The school house was once a chapel. A small and ancient stone building with a steeply pitched roof and low, narrow doorways, it huddles all alone, and rather forlornly, Hester always thinks, on the London Road at the edge of Thatcham. But on school days it lights up with the voices of twenty little girls, all chattering and laughing, their words skittering to and fro, rising up to bounce amidst the gnarled beams of the roof. When Hester arrives, the ragged girls quickly seat themselves at their desks, fall quiet and watch her with their big eyes shining like glass beads. Hester loves that moment. She stands with her hands clasped in front of her, feeling her heart bubble up in her chest.