Jenna cleans mine. Usually.”
“Jenna? But she’s your nanny. She’s not even a proper nanny—Mummy said so. My nanny wears a brown uniform.”
This worried me more than I wanted to admit. When we had tea with my mother, I could see that Charlotte did not think much of her either. I could see her eying my mother’s dress, which was the kind of plain dress she always wore on weekday afternoons, and over which she wore an elderly tweed jacket. I knew my mother’s opinions about diamonds in the daytime, and—although I was sure she must be right—I began to wish she had worn something more dashing than a single string of pearls. She did have diamonds, after all; they were kept in the bank, and every six months there would be a debate about selling them.
I began to wish I could tell Charlotte about these diamonds and to plan how I might mention them, in a casual way, once my mother had left the room. On the other hand, I knew my mother would be ashamed of me if I did any such thing. I squirmed about in my chair and tried not to notice when Charlotte shivered and glanced toward the drafty windows.
My mother was telling her about her orphanage work, and Charlotte was listening with a small, tight, supercilious smile that made me more nervous still; she despised orphanages as much as she despised my mother, I could tell.
When my father joined us I relaxed a little. I was sure my father was beyond reproach: He was so tall and so handsome; he had fine hands and a quiet dry way of speaking; he was a good horseman, and when he wore his hunting clothes William said there wasn’t a man to touch him in the county. I rather wished he were wearing his hunting clothes then, so Charlotte might see him at his finest; as it was, he was wearing one of his old tweed suits, but those suits were built for him, and William (who had the job of brushing them) used to finger their material and say, “That’s quality.”
I hoped Charlotte would see this. I hoped that when my father began to talk to her, that small supercilious smile would disappear from her face. My father stammered a little over certain words, which was a legacy from the Great War, but he was gentle and kind and he charmed everybody. It could only be a matter of time, I told myself, before Charlotte succumbed.
He asked her first about her lessons—which was perhaps a mistake, because Charlotte was now at boarding school and she had already, during our walk, given me her opinion of girls who stayed at home for their education.
“Your mother teaches you? I thought you at least had a governess.”
“Well, I did. But she left.” I hesitated, because that was difficult territory: None of the governesses had stayed long; we now no longer had a parlormaid and the cooks were always giving warning. This was because of wages, and the boiler in the basement, which ate money, and the orphanages, which ate up even more.
“She takes you for everything ?”
“She’s very clever. I do English and French and geography with her, and next year we shall begin on Latin. Mr. Birdsong comes over three times a week for mathematics.”
“Mr. Birdsong? But he’s the curate. ”
Definitive scorn. I was instantly ashamed of Mr. Birdsong, a mild and patient man whom I had always liked. Sitting in the drawing room, I now began to wish that my father would change the subject. Charlotte was lecturing him on Roedean, and the small supercilious smile was still on her face.
“And what about the summer holidays?” my father said, when that speech came to the end. He said it in his most polite and gentle way, but I could tell he didn’t like Charlotte at all. In fact, I think he found her funny, but no one would have known, because his manners were perfect.
“Oh, Mummy says we shan’t go to France next year. She says the Riviera is overrun. We may go to Italy. Or Germany. Daddy says Germany is on the up-and-up.” She paused and swung her foot and gave me a sly glance.
“And what
“Jenna? But she’s your nanny. She’s not even a proper nanny—Mummy said so. My nanny wears a brown uniform.”
This worried me more than I wanted to admit. When we had tea with my mother, I could see that Charlotte did not think much of her either. I could see her eying my mother’s dress, which was the kind of plain dress she always wore on weekday afternoons, and over which she wore an elderly tweed jacket. I knew my mother’s opinions about diamonds in the daytime, and—although I was sure she must be right—I began to wish she had worn something more dashing than a single string of pearls. She did have diamonds, after all; they were kept in the bank, and every six months there would be a debate about selling them.
I began to wish I could tell Charlotte about these diamonds and to plan how I might mention them, in a casual way, once my mother had left the room. On the other hand, I knew my mother would be ashamed of me if I did any such thing. I squirmed about in my chair and tried not to notice when Charlotte shivered and glanced toward the drafty windows.
My mother was telling her about her orphanage work, and Charlotte was listening with a small, tight, supercilious smile that made me more nervous still; she despised orphanages as much as she despised my mother, I could tell.
When my father joined us I relaxed a little. I was sure my father was beyond reproach: He was so tall and so handsome; he had fine hands and a quiet dry way of speaking; he was a good horseman, and when he wore his hunting clothes William said there wasn’t a man to touch him in the county. I rather wished he were wearing his hunting clothes then, so Charlotte might see him at his finest; as it was, he was wearing one of his old tweed suits, but those suits were built for him, and William (who had the job of brushing them) used to finger their material and say, “That’s quality.”
I hoped Charlotte would see this. I hoped that when my father began to talk to her, that small supercilious smile would disappear from her face. My father stammered a little over certain words, which was a legacy from the Great War, but he was gentle and kind and he charmed everybody. It could only be a matter of time, I told myself, before Charlotte succumbed.
He asked her first about her lessons—which was perhaps a mistake, because Charlotte was now at boarding school and she had already, during our walk, given me her opinion of girls who stayed at home for their education.
“Your mother teaches you? I thought you at least had a governess.”
“Well, I did. But she left.” I hesitated, because that was difficult territory: None of the governesses had stayed long; we now no longer had a parlormaid and the cooks were always giving warning. This was because of wages, and the boiler in the basement, which ate money, and the orphanages, which ate up even more.
“She takes you for everything ?”
“She’s very clever. I do English and French and geography with her, and next year we shall begin on Latin. Mr. Birdsong comes over three times a week for mathematics.”
“Mr. Birdsong? But he’s the curate. ”
Definitive scorn. I was instantly ashamed of Mr. Birdsong, a mild and patient man whom I had always liked. Sitting in the drawing room, I now began to wish that my father would change the subject. Charlotte was lecturing him on Roedean, and the small supercilious smile was still on her face.
“And what about the summer holidays?” my father said, when that speech came to the end. He said it in his most polite and gentle way, but I could tell he didn’t like Charlotte at all. In fact, I think he found her funny, but no one would have known, because his manners were perfect.
“Oh, Mummy says we shan’t go to France next year. She says the Riviera is overrun. We may go to Italy. Or Germany. Daddy says Germany is on the up-and-up.” She paused and swung her foot and gave me a sly glance.
“And what
Similar Books
