03|
Their department secretary, Alicia, had been right; minus the irritability Paxton's voice was 'to die for'.
It was after work when Meret finally called him back, standing in a quiet corner of the institute grounds. She had postponed the return call all afternoon, torn between calling him out on his initial offensive dismissal of her, and wishing to get into his good books in order to gain access to the Marlborough Mills building site—and whatever information he might have on the subject of its former inhabitants. By weighing the pros and cons it was now almost too late in the day for a business call. But weren't architect's known as artsy late risers who liked to make a night of a day's work?
From what she could make out, there was birdsong in the background on his side, and then, very much closer, the short sharp bark of a dog followed by a terse "Quiet, Pinks!". Apparently she had caught him after hours.
"Sorry for calling you so late, Mr Paxton... I might get back to you next week if it is inconvenient..."
"No, it's fine," he said, cutting short her excuses. "Thank you for returning my call... And I believe I owe you an apology."
"Um... well..." His head-on approach caught her off guard. "I guess, I didn't turn up at the best of times," she ended lamely.
"Even so, it was rude and uncalled for; therefore, I'm sorry."
"Accepted," Meret replied. "Thanks." An uncomfortable moment of silence ensued.
"Anyway, what can I do for you, Miss Frederiksen?... I understand that you're doing some genealogical research—"
"Yes. I'm from Denmark, but one of my ancestors was associated with Milton and Marlborough Mills in the second half of the 19th century. Her name was Emily Thornton—"
"Thornton?... A John Thornton owned and ran Marlborough Mills at about that time. He later became the MP for Milton-Northern—"
"Sorry? I didn't quite catch that."
"He was a Member of Parliament," Paxton repeated. "If I remember correctly, he was an independent. He's a bit of a household name here in Milton."
"Oh. I had no idea... I did know that her father was called John, though. Do you know about Emily, by any chance?"
"I'm afraid not," he said. "Name doesn't ring a bell—but then, I'm no local history geek."
"Never mind." Meret was quiet for a moment, wondering how best to broach her request. "Did this Thornton actually live at Marlborough Mills?"
"He did. In the building that's currently covered in scaffolding—you must have noticed it when you came to the office earlier this week... Would you like to have a tour of the house?"
"Yes, please!" Meret punched the air in silent triumph. "When?"
"Saturday, ten-thirty?" he suggested. "So as you can have a look around without getting in the way of construction work. Remember to wear robust clothes and sturdy shoes... See you then."
As she chained her bike to the steel ramp at the entrance of the former Marlborough Mills factory building, Paxton was already waiting for her across the yard. Like herself, he was in jeans, sweater, and boots. There was a black-and-white dog waiting by his side.
While Paxton offered his hand in an oddly formal greeting—she couldn't remember when she had last shaken hands at a casual meeting—his dog gently nudged her left hand. After a quick questioning look at Paxton, and noticing the dog's encouraging wag of the tail, she started to stroke it.
"What breed is it?" Meret asked, scratching the dog's ears. By the look of it, this one was currently in canine heaven.
"Some cross between retriever and border collie, with possibly some other bits thrown in. He was found as a pup and taken to an animal shelter, so nobody really knows... Now, that's enough, Pinks," Paxton finally said, pointing to a spot in the shade. "Stay there." The dog obediently trotted off and slumped down in the shade with a huge doggy sigh, resting his head on his paws.
"After you," Paxton offered, indicating the exterior stone staircase.
"Pinks? Like... 'carnations'?" Meret chuckled as she climbed the stairs. It seemed a strangely undignified name for the dog of the smart man next to her.
"Short for 'Colonel Pinkerton'... They called him that at the shelter, because of the marking around his eye that looks like a monocle. The name stuck—so, 'Pinks' it is." He flashed her a grin that quite transformed his stern good looks. And what a looker he was! Mid-thirties, tall, and with clear-cut features, he would draw the eye in any case, but that smile was devastating. Together with The Voice—well deserving the capitals—he could charm the pants off a girl.
Get a grip, Frederikson! Meret sternly reprimanded herself.
The hall they entered was dark and dank, with a wooden double-flight staircase at the back. A scaffold filled most of the two storey space and reached up to the ceiling.
"There was severe damage from water leakage through the roof," Paxton explained. "The plaster ceiling threatened to come down, and both the roof and ceiling structure were weakened by rot. The roof's already finished and retiled, and currently we're replacing beams in this ceiling. The crown moulding and cornice will be reconstructed afterwards—they're fairly common designs, so that won't be a problem."
As they went from room to room, Paxton told her that the largest chunks of work had already been done by repairing the roof and insulating the basement against rising damp. The rest of the work—while extensive—he described as 'mostly cosmetic'.
"With the entrance hall in the left-hand corner rather than in the centre, the layout of the house is a little unconventional. This made me wonder if it was initially designed as something other than a residential building... But there's no proof of actual other uses before a possible conversion. So, who knows?" He turned on the spot. "This here is the drawing room, by the way—" As he encompassed the room with a sweeping gesture, Meret noticed a nice set of arched windows. "—connected to the dining room. The sliding doors will have to be replaced, as they are bent by damp, but the wainscoting is still good."
"No wallpaper?"
"There might have been silk wall coverings at one point; but the building was in disuse and cluttered with junk for several years. And before that it was used as storage space ever since the mill closed down in the late sixties." He pointed at the fireplace. "We were lucky to retrieve the mantelpiece, a nice marble one, from the basement. It's presently in the workshop for restoration... Care to have a look upstairs?"
They made their way to the staircase through the obstacle course of the hall.
"What will happen to the place once it's refurbished?" Meret asked as she followed him upstairs.
"Conference hotel," he said, reaching out a hand to her. "Mind the truss!" When he had helped her across, he continued, "That's the plan, at least—if things go our way... Now, this one may interest you." They had arrived in front of a room at the top of the landing.
"What is it?"
"A music room."
"Up here?—shouldn't it rather be downstairs?"
"Well, call it a practice room, then... likely twinning as a school room."
"Emily's?"
"Possibly... When was she born?"
"In October 1853."
"Close enough, then... We found an old upright piano here, broken down and entirely beyond repair, but the manufacturer's stamp said 1842." He indicated towards the near wall of the bare room. "And, under several layers of grime and other papers, we found patches of the original wallpaper, a musical motif printed in 1858—"
"How'd you know this down to the actual year?" Meret asked, intrigued.
"Sheer luck." He shrugged. "It's in the V&A wallpaper collection. They began collecting them from their foundation in 1856... Though there's one big difference. This one here was hand-coloured. Very inexpertly—most likely by a young girl, going by her choice of colours... Must have been a rather wilful child to spoil a new wallpaper like that," he said with another one of his quick irresistible smiles.
"No wonder they tucked her away in one of the upstairs rooms for practising," Meret laughed. "She probably hated her piano lessons!"
As the train pulled into Euston station, Emily searched the waiting crowd in vain for her father's tall figure. She thought that she might simply have overlooked him in the sea of top hats and waving hands, but then she spotted his secretary. She pulled down the sash and gesticulated wildly. "Tom! Tom Boucher!... Here we are," she called, though doubting that she would be heard above the din of screeching brakes.
The young man, however, was already weaving his way through the crowd towards the place where he expected their carriage to stop. The moment the train halted, he was there to open the door and help them alight.
"Mrs Thornton—How do you do? Did you have a pleasant journey?" he asked, extending a hand towards the elder lady.
"Pleasantly uneventful, Boucher. Which is more than can commonly be expected," Hannah Thornton replied in her usual gruff manner as she stepped down from the train. "Will you find us a porter, please? There are two large trunks in the luggage compartment."
"Certainly, ma'am." He turned back to the compartment door. "Hello, Miss Emily," he said with a smile.
"Hello Tom Boucher... you are looking very dignified these days." She smiled cheekily. Not waiting for a reply she cried out, "Where's Papa?"
"Today's parliamentary session is still in progress, I'm afraid. He's asking to be excused and will see you at dinner tonight."
"At supper, you mean," Mrs Thornton snapped. "It's almost dinner time now."
"You may bear in mind, ma'am, that we keep late hours here in London," Boucher gently reminded her. "Let me get your luggage—"
A hackney coach took them to Pimlico and to the modern stuccoed terraces of St Georges Square where, on its western side, Mr Thornton resided during those months of the year when Parliament was in session. It was one of Emily's many homes, and she greeted the sight of the familiar portico and dark blue door with an exclamation of delight.
Dismissing Boucher's offered hand, Emily quickly stepped from the coach and ran up the marble steps to the door which, at that moment, was opened by Rawlings, her father's footman. She answered his words of welcome with an excited, "Back to London at last! Isn't it just fabulous?", then she rushed inside and twirled in the middle of the hall. She was about to make another ebullient observation, when her grandmother's appearance in the doorway, her weathered face eloquently speaking her reproof, checked her.
With the housekeeper's arrival on the scene the hall suddenly felt quite crowded, especially once Rawlings started to bring in the luggage. Mrs Daniels made short shrift of the situation by ushering the new arrivals into the front parlour for some tea, while Boucher excused himself and headed for his master's study.
The parlour room was handsome enough, albeit a little lacking in feminine elegance, but it was quiet and furnished comfortably with a group of maroon plush armchairs. Noticing her grandmother's stifled sigh as she carefully lowered herself into one of them, all the while leaning heavily on her cane, Emily was quick to supply her with a footstool and, once the old lady was seated, with tea and a small plate of sandwiches and crumpet.
For a short while they were quietly sipping at their cups.
"Mrs Daniels certainly knows how to serve a decent cup of tea," Hannah Thornton remarked before entering into the topic foremost on her mind. "Emily... At almost sixteen years old I should have expected you to show a little more restraint and decorum. Your behaviour upon arrival has been a disgrace—" Disgruntled already by the tedious journey, Mrs Thornton's vexation only grew as she listed her granddaughter's shortcomings. "—and it is exactly this lack of refinement that makes sending you to finishing school highly expedient. You will be out in society in a year or two, and your father's position here in London must not be compromised by provincial manners!"
"Yes, Grandmother," Emily said meekly. "I am very sorry."
"Your father has been far too lenient when he allowed you to be brought up with the boys!" She shook her head. After a moment of silence she added, but in a mumble, as if speaking to herself, "I had advised against it from the start... and finally he is seeing the errors of his ways."
"I am very grateful to my father for letting me study the classics, along with mathematics and the sciences. He never held being a girl against me—"
"He has always been proud of your keen intellect... However, he may not have done you a favour in the long run by giving you ideas above a woman's station in life." Mrs Thornton reached out to cover Emily's hand with hers and patted it in a reconciliatory manner. "You shall see, Lausanne will do you a world of good—and you may even come to enjoy it."
"Yes, Grandmother," Emily said again, though her voice held no enthusiasm.
In a world of large families I am an oddity.
I am an only child.
Is it a curse or a blessing? Neither—or both—I should say. I am of more consequence to my small family circle than I would be as one of several siblings, in particular if those siblings were boys. On the downside... Without any siblings to deflect parental attention, I am always under scrutiny; and any juvenile misconduct will invariably be laid at my door.
Sometimes I wish for the closeness that only brothers and sisters can provide; companions of one's blood but not one's choosing.
But there is quite another matter, as Grandmamma never tires to point out: A couple of years from now I shall be presented at court and become part of Society. From that moment people are bound to regard me less for who I am but for what I am—a future heiress of considerable amounts of vulgar new money.
(Excerpt from the diary of Emily Thornton)