TW: Brief mention to a pet's death of old age.
Chapter 12
«Can I help you, ma'am?»
«Hello, good afternoon. My name is Phryne Fisher. Could I speak with Mrs Harlan, please?»
«Just…just a moment».
Phryne didn't recognise the fifteen/sixteen year-old boy on the other side of the service door but he had heard of her at least, given how much his eyes had widened at the mention of her name and the way in which he had spoken. He had also tried to push the door as near as shut as he could without closing it completely but hadn't succeeded.
«Miss Fisher!», Mrs Harlan greeted in a warm tone some seconds later, smiling from the now open door. «How good to see you! I'm sorry for Michael – he's new here».
«Like-wise, dear Mrs Harlan, likewise», Phryne said, swiftly taking her gloves off, throwing them into her handbag, and extending her hand towards the other woman.
She took it and Phryne wrapped it with both of hers. Mrs Harlan was of average height and build, had astute brown eyes, and when she smiled she seemed to be in the know of a very amusing secret.
«Don't apologise. I haven't been here in so long…», Miss Fisher continued, somewhat wistfully.
«Did you have a good trip?», Mrs Harlan asked, moving aside. They had known each other for many years but given their roles in Brentby it would still be strange, if not straight up inappropriate, to invite Miss Fisher into her own house, even if the downstairs were mostly the domain of the butler, the housekeeper and the cook.
«I did. I flew in my own aeroplane», said Phryne, scrapping the soles of her boots on the doormat. Mrs Geary and Mrs Harlan strove to keep the downstairs service areas as pristine as the residence upstairs and she would never disrespect their and the maids' work by sullying them. Given that it was Autumn and she was going to the countryside, she had accessorised the burgundy suit she had bought at Selfridge's with boots and raincoat.
«Why am I not surprised?», said Mrs Harlan with a laugh. «Would you like Michael to take your coat and your umbrella?, she asked.
«Yes, thank you, Michael. It's nice to meet you», Phryne said, handing them to the hall boy, who bowed his head and disappeared behind one of the doors flanking the corridor, but keeping a case and her handbag with her.
«Would you like a cup of tea?», offered Mrs Harlan as they walked down the hallway towards the kitchen and the servant's hall.
«Sounds absolutely wonderful», Phryne replied with a warm smile, sitting on a chair next to Mrs Harlan's.
«On its way».
The room had sturdy dark furniture: a long table, chairs, two armchairs by the fireplace and a cupboard. On the wall by the door, the bell-board to summon the servants.
«Here it is», Mrs Harlan said, putting a tray on the table a few minutes later. There was always a kettle on the stove, so she didn't need much time to have it ready. Besides the tea, milk, and lemon, she had also brought scones, clotted cream, and strawberry jam in the fine porcelain reserved for upstairs. «Before you raise any objection, Miss Fisher, let it be known that those weren't destined for anyone in particular, the Strickland family has gone to London and you eating them will not mean any extraordinary work for me».
When Phryne had decided to visit Brentby, she had spared just a quick thought to wonder if the Stricklands would be there or not, preferring to deal with the situation when it came to it, but she was relieved to know they were away.
«Thank you very much. Mrs Harlan, I have dreamed about your scones many times, even before coming back to England», Phryne said, quickly picking one off the plate and twisting it with her hands.
«As if I didn't know it. That's why I didn't bring anything else», the cook said, good-natured, as she poured Phryne's tea and then some for herself in her trusted yellow cup.
«Mrs Swanson's are good but there's nothing like the original», Phryne said after savouring a bite of her scone.
«I'm glad to know I haven't lost my touch», deadpanned Mrs Harlan, taking a sip of her tea afterwards.
Phryne laughed, covering her mouth with the back of her hand.
Sarah Harlan had always been Phryne's favourite element of the staff.
The Fishers had been in Brentby for ten months when Mrs Reid, the cook at the time and of the last 28 years, handed in her notice. Her son had succeeded in America and sent for his mother so she could enjoy a well-earned and comfortable retirement.
In what seemed another lifetime, Margaret had seen her mother deal with similar household matters but after having renounced to such luxuries for love so long ago she feared her knowledge was obsolete and Irene's advice (per her own admission) was deeply rooted in London's context.
Margaret guessed she could post some advert on The Lady or contact an agency but there was so much still to do for her to add dealing with a new cook to the list.
Sarah was only 20 years old but she had been 14 when she had started working at Brentby's scullery and had meanwhile become Mrs Reid second-in-command, earning glowing references from the cook. It couldn't hurt to see if she could hold her own. After all, Margaret wasn't expecting the King and surely Sarah would be able to handle their small family dinners (which, with Phryne away at boarding school, would be for two more often than not) and occasional visits from a few friends.
Besides, if needed, Margaret could cook herself; the immense reverse in her life situation hadn't rendered her useless or made her forget her way around a kitchen, even if the one she had been used to had been much smaller and poorer than the one at her current disposal.
And so, after a conversation and a raise, Sarah became Mrs Harlan and had never given anyone any reason to regret handing her that opportunity.
In a world of limited perspectives, working at the house was the best one on her horizon and she had been lucky enough to get it, even if it had meant scrubbing her hands raw until every pot and pan glistened like sunlight and it seemed she would never be able to straighten her back again after washing the scullery floor and kitchen on her roughened knees.
Sarah wasn't only persistent. She was also observant, smart, and resourceful and soon knew how to anticipate Mrs Reid's needs and orders. Her efficiency and effort didn't go unnoticed. Over her long career in the kitchen of a grand house, Mrs Reid had had her share of subordinates and none had come close to Sarah's progress. And so she rewarded her, not only with more responsibilities but also the knowledge she could impart. If she were to die in that kitchen (the new family had come to Brentby so recently it was difficult to ascertain if they would be generous towards the aged servants if they couldn't work anymore), she would leave it in good hands and without much embarrassment.
Phryne had always liked that while Mrs Harlan was respectful as she was supposed to be toward the daughter of the family, she wasn't subservient and it didn't seem to derive from their short age difference only. There was a genuineness to her not minding Miss Fisher sneaking downstairs which she appreciated.
She knew that some members of the staff thought she was demeaning herself while others took her presence as an intrusion into the only space that, for all its shortcomings, was as close to theirs as they had.
Respecting this, Phryne didn't venture downstairs as often as she would like but while she enjoyed the library, the park, the new dresses, the new school, the art on the walls, the new people met and the friends made, sometimes Phryne felt like an interloper in this new life that was hers now. She was confident she would inhabit it more comfortably eventually, but in those other moments she felt she had to run away. Maybe this was some sort of cop out, as within some hours she would be back to being the Honourable Phryne Fisher with all the privileges it afforded but, for that time, doing things like peeling potatoes or breaking eggs for the dessert by Mrs Harlan's side felt closer to the real her, regardless of her lack of talent for more advanced culinary tasks. Mrs Harlan observed the proper manners and the green baize door never disappeared completely even when it was out of sight, yet she afforded Miss Fisher the possible comfort she could, not only by giving her these small assignments but also scones, pieces of toast and marmalade, and cake slices.
«I'm sure Her Ladyship is very glad to have you in London», said Mrs Harlan. There was no need to ask after the Fishers' health as she and Mrs Swanson were friends, exchanged letters frequently, and both Phryne and Mrs Harlan knew it.
«She is, it had been a while», replied Phryne earnestly. «My mother sends her regards and hopes the circumstances are as little disruptive as possible».
«That's very kind of Her Ladyship. The Strickland family is polite and reasonable but she is missed». Mrs Harlan wasn't trying to ingratiate herself with her original employer. Lady Fisher respected the servants and always had a nice word to address.
«She will like to hear that», Phryne said after taking a sip of her tea.
When Miss Fisher woke up, her head had thudded with more than the aftermath of the cocktails she had indulged in the previous evening. Brentby. Phryne had the feeling she had dreamt about it but couldn't pinpoint any details. Yet, the word echoed in her mind with certainty. An aspirin could take care of the headache, a train ride would help with the rest. Nevertheless, she had wondered if she should go.
«I was thinking about visiting Brentby», Phryne had told Margaret at breakfast after Henry had retired to the library to 'tend to Lords' matters', which both of them knew was a useless ruse to hide that he was going to read The Times while lying on the chesterfield in his study instead of focusing on any piece of legislation.
«You are going to Brentby», Margaret said without any hint of bitterness in her tone. Her daughter might be trying to smooth something over, but she knew her too well.
Phryne chuckled.
«I just feel that I keep leaving you here alone to go out and about while you meet Mr Brooke to try to find some way out or at least how to correct the situation as much as possible», Miss Fisher continued, her voice serious now, looking straight at her mother. « I feel that I'm not behaving much differently than Father».
«My dear Phryne, we are both adults so I will not deny that I would like to see you more often and for longer, but that's the mother in me talking. You have been away for two years and had lived a full life here, of course there are friends to meet and places you want to go back to. I can't resent you for that. You should go to Brentby if that's what you want to do. Besides, who knows for how long we can hold on to it even if we let it as it is now», Margaret said with a sigh and took a sip of her tea, « and as to be behaving like your father, you are not the one who squandered money and then ran away to squander some more. You not being here at all hours of the day can't possibly make you like him or has to make you feel guilty in any way».
Normally, Margaret tried not to be so acerbic regarding Henry, petty even, especially in front of their daughter, but the frustration and the hurt inside her heart had been stronger than her good intentions as these emotions had turned into a deep sense of betrayal, which was a new feeling in itself. While she loved Henry with all her might, beyond the sentiment of a young girl in love and never meant to overlook his flaws and actions and had been angry and upset in other occasions, his mistakes had never affected her trust in him this badly.
«Thank you», Phryne felt compelled to say nevertheless. It was soothing to hear but her apprehension hadn't been completely assuaged. Nevertheless, she got up at an obscenely early hour the following day and caught a train to Norfolk.
«Nanny is asking about Master John's tea», said Mrs Geary as she walked down the service stairs.
«Miss Fisher!», the housekeeper couldn't hide the surprise in her voice. It felt as if an exotic bird had suddenly flown into the servant's hall through an open window. That way of conveying messages wasn't becoming in front of her employers, but she was counting on only Mrs Harlan and maybe a maid or two being there. The Stricklands were in London – And wasn't Miss Fisher in Australia?
«Good afternoon», she continued, hoping to seem more composed.
«How do you do, Mrs Geary?», Phryne said with a nod. The look of alarm which had flashed in the woman's blue eyes was understandable and she didn't hold her reaction against her. While briefly, Miss Fisher was pricked once again by that sense of interloping.
«Very well, Miss Fisher. Thank you for asking».
Jane Geary had come to Brentby already as the housekeeper, taking over from Mrs Jenkins after her health had taken a sharp decline that prevented her from working anymore and had had to move in with her married sister.
Nine years into the role, Margaret felt much more at ease as the chatelaine and had swiftly taken the steps needed to fill such vital position. She had inquired around her circle of friends and acquaintances and written to Mrs Hunt's Servants' Registry Office, one of the leading employment agencies in the country. With the help of fortunate timing, the needed housekeeper was engaged soon enough, even considering the time necessary for initial contact, analysis and crossing of character provided by former employers and an in-depth interview.
Mrs Geary had never felt very inclined to family, not even as child, and a life in service could provide her with enough security and money to live her life for as long as she could work and, if judicious in her expenses, some to live off if she couldn't. She had started as a maid in her native Ireland. Even if a British civil servant wasn't exactly her first choice of employer, she had come to England when they had moved back home once their government position in the country had come to an end, her good work skills having earned her the chance to follow them if she wanted. It wasn't exactly easy being an Irish Catholic woman in England, but with her parents dead and her siblings, all older than her, busy with their own lives, there wasn't much to hold her back and so she had started her course, moving up the ranks and from houses now and then as the opportunities came up, but not so frequently that she would come across as capricious or incompetent.
Before coming to Brentby, Mrs. Geary had been in her second turn as a housekeeper, working at Tencombe House in Gloucestershire. But the baronet had died some years ago and so had his successor in Ceylon in a hunting accident, gone without issue. With the dowager Lady Regley back in her brother's house, the uncle who had inherited the title and the house had had it demolished. He had been established in Paris for more than 40 years, he wouldn't go back to England now and the taxes were too high to keep it.
Working at a Baron's house was a step up and also gave Jane the chance to run a London house when the family came up to the city for the Season. She liked the challenge and was quite good at it.
«The bell didn't ring», said Mrs Harlan, taking a look at the board, the wires apparently as they should be.
«We happened to cross paths», replied Mrs Geary.
Mrs Harlan's nod to Mrs Geary was brief yet Phryne discerned a knowing disbelief.
«Do go, please», Miss Fisher said so the cook didn't have to ask. «I'm settled», she added, looking at the scones on the dish and then back at Mrs Harlan.
The woman smiled, got up from her chair and gathered her tea things.
«Miss Fisher», Mrs Geary said before following the cook into the kitchen.
Phryne took a bite out of her third scone and looked at the bell-board. "Nursery". There hadn't been a baby in that house for decades, yet the room had remained such both in name and furniture and was finally at use. Jane being too grown up to stay there when she had visited Brentby last year, had chosen the Sunflower Room, out of all the guest rooms put at her disposal by Margaret (Lady Margaret, as Jane called her, with affection and not formality - grandmother and granddaughter were new roles in their lives for both of them but they had fit seamlessly in them).
Miss Fisher was fully aware than in spite of sharing a name, they were two different people, but she was quite sure that if Janey were still alive when they had come to England, that room would have probably been her choice too, with the beautiful floral wallpaper in white and yellow, as joyful as she was.
Phryne blinked, pulling her mind back to the present. The older Stricklands were certainly using the master bedroom, as befitting the lord and lady of the house, either temporary or permanent. She wondered who was staying within the blue and white damasked walls of hers. Mr and Mrs Geoffrey Strickland – the eldest son and his wife, proud parents to the four-year-old boy waiting for his afternoon tea? Or would it be Miss Olivia Strickland – the baby of the family, dazzling debutante soon to be Mrs Vincent Ford? Vincent Ford himself, industrialist extraordinaire who had put his family's already successful flour in nearly every grocer's shelves in America?
Miss Fisher was startled by an unexpected feeling of jealousy towards whoever it was. She knew it wasn't fair but she felt that something had been robbed from her. She wouldn't be mad at her father's recklessness again, it was on the back of her mind heavily enough, but this time next week Brentby could very well be lost to the Fisher family.
Phryne finished eating the scone in her hand, picked up her things and popped into the kitchen.
«I will be back in a bit», she said to Mrs Harlan, who nodded in acknowledgement as she prepared a dish of sandwiches, and walked up the service stairs. Phryne wouldn't barge into any bedroom – she saved that for when she was investigating and/or chasing criminals -, but she had to see something else of the house. That's why she was there, after all.
Brentby might not be the grandest house of the county but it didn't mean it was completely unremarkable either.
The service door Phryne had come through was mostly hidden from view, placed in the corner of the yellow-papered hall, with its tall ceiling. She crossed it and reached what was probably the most imposing sight indoors – the main staircase that lead to the first floor, bathed by the brightness coming from the elaborate skylight above as if it were a magical path to a fantastical world.
Its light cream walls were decorated with stucco floral motifs. The stair runner was a bit worn but without a speck of dirt. The polished banisters seemed to shine from within.
Over the years, Phryne had come down those stairs many times, most of them trivial, in fact - for meals, to accompany her mother to charity events in the village, to go outside, to ride her beloved bay mare Fortuna (the only gift Henry had given her by himself that she had truly loved ), to catch the train, to meet friends, to sit in the library and read until her eyes felt like falling off, to roam through the estate. Yet, in that moment the most prompt memory was of the night of the 18th birthday party. Clad in her black Poiret dress, she had made her way down, under the painted watchful eyes of Francis, the first Baron Fisher, Eleanor, the first Baroness, and John, the eldest son and heir, themselves in their late-18th century finery as they had posed for Sir Joshua Reynolds to mark being given their new title.
Four years had passed since their move from Australia to England but Phryne still wasn't used to celebrate her birthday in Winter, the air smelling (not unpleasantly) of the fires burning in the hearths of the house and of the rich scent wafting from the 'Dawn' viburnum and the aptly named wintersweet branches grown on the estate – there was a glasshouse with well-tended-to flowers, but Margaret preferred a more natural look and Phryne agreed, charmed by the delicate yet sturdy flowers.
At the time, Margaret still had a lady's maid. Palmer was curling, waving, coiling and pinning Phryne's then-long hair, trying to replicate one of Lily Elsie's hairstyles on The Merry Widow from news clippings and the as-detailed-as-possible drawings Maud had made from watching the actress at Daly's Theatre with her friends.
Phryne had been surrounded by Diana, Maud, Louisa, and Amalia in a nest of laughter, friendship, joy, and perfume as she sat in front of the dressing table getting ready.
Her friends were wearing their evening clothes already. Except for Amalia – who lived nearer and had been driven by motorcar-, the others had arrived earlier in the day with their families by train and been welcomed by Phryne on horseback.
But Miss Fisher had been by herself when she came down the stairs.
She glittered as the light from the chandelier above touched the exquisite silver-coloured beading of her dress, the diamond cluster earrings her parents had given her for her 16th birthday, the platinum bracelet she had received that morning and the diamond-set necklace of floral design – a late Victorian Fisher heirloom that went perfectly with the embroidery of her gown.
It had been the first time she had been given the chance to choose from the family jewels, each of the leather cases opened like oysters on her parents' bed. Some might not be to Phryne's taste but no one could deny the fine craftsmanship that had brought them to existence.
Miss Fisher had fussed with her perfectly fitted on gloves as she had walked towards the drawing room. While she wasn't prone to nervousness, one could hardly be completely at ease when facing a room filled with family, friends, and acquaintances to celebrate own's milestone birthday. (Twenty-one was more widely chosen as such, but Henry had pushed forward in order to consolidate his role as the new Lord Fisher of Richmond by the family's presence in the Season).
The four Stanleys had come from Australia and, to add an international flair, Henry had invited Christian and Agathe Fischer, a sibling pair of German distant cousins the solicitors had stumbled upon in their process to find the new Baron Fisher.
Meanwhile, they had had word that Christian had died in the War, serving the Kaiser's army, but no one knew what had happened to Agathe. Dead or alive, could she be the mother of the elusive new heir?, Phryne pondered about, when she retook the steps that lead to the drawing room.
She opened the door and looked inside: the eau-de-nil walls wainscoted with white panels and the white doorframes, the original marble fireplace mantel topped by the monumental gilded mirror as high as the room, the marigold sitting set, the French inlaid side cabinets, the armchairs in "Petit Pont" embroidery, the Chinese orange vases which had been converted into lamps, the Turner landscape on the wall overshadowing the other paintings in the room, the Persian rug, plaster-works on the ceiling, the ticking of the mantle clock.
While the guests were having diner during that 1907 evening, the furniture of the drawing room had been pushed aside or completely removed to make room for dancing and card games and conversation, some men reconvening in the library instead.
Phryne had loved being admired and fêted, having fun with her friends, charming people who hadn't met her yet, dancing more than the recommended number of dances with Hugo and still filling her card and not missing a single promise, the latter being a bittersweet memory as many of those boys had later died in the War.
«Miss Fisher?»
A man's voice, coarse in sound but utmost polite in tone, brought her back to that 1929 afternoon.
Phryne turned.
«Mr Nicholls!», she brightly said.
Even when she had arrived in Brentby as a fourteen-year-old girl, it was within reason – if not expected – for her to address him simply by his surname but Phryne had never been able to do so. He was the butler already at the time and seemed to her as imposing as the house and such an intrinsic part of it as well. No, nothing but 'Mr Nicholls' would ever do when she was talking directly to him. In tandem with the housekeeper, he kept the house running like the proverbial clockwork and, for Phryne, that was worthy of much respect in itself. That was why she also addressed Mr Butler as such.
«I hope I didn't startle you. I didn't mean to», Miss Fisher continued, promptly stretching out her hand.
The butler took it and bowed his white head. The young mistress of the house had always greeted him so after some time away. He knew it didn't change their circumstances or made friends out of them, but it felt good to be acknowledged thus.
«Not at all», replied Mr Nichols even if he was indeed surprised by her presence there. He had been in the library supervising two of the footmen as they placed the desk in a different position, as requested by Mr Strickland before leaving for London.
«Better then», she said with a frank smile. She wouldn't want to cause the elderly man a heart-attack, he was in good shape but she guessed he would probably be close to eighty.
«I hope you have found Brentby to your liking», Mr Nicholls said, unwavering in his quest to have the house as desired. After all, this was still hers, regardless of the current arrangements.
«As always, Mr Nicholls», she earnestly said.
Phryne felt surprisingly close to Brenty now, even if she had actually spent only a few weeks per year there. Most of her school holidays fell within the months the Parliament was in session, so she and Margaret remained in London with Henry. The city had presented so much to do and so many places to visit and ( once Phryne had been presented at royal court) to attend the social events of the Season, so maybe because of the conjugation of these circumstances and her own predisposition, Phryne had felt tremendously bored at Brentby sometimes. It was especially garish when she was had been younger and couldn't be outside by herself and then when she had a little bit more autonomy and bad weather prevented her from riding to Leasham Park to meet Amalia and/or Hugo.
«I better continue my tour – I was thinking of still going outside», she continued.
«Would you care for some tea, before your trip up to London, perhaps?», asked the butler, helpful without being subservient.
«No, thank you, Mr Nicholls. Mrs Harlan has already taken care of me», Phryne said with a smile.
The man nodded.
«It was wonderful meeting you, Mr Nicholls.»
« Likewise, Miss Fisher», he said with a bow, not meaning to keep her longer than what she wished. « I wish you a safe journey back to Australia».
«Ah…thank you, Mr Nicholls», drawing a smile out of her features.
The butler continued on his way to his tasks and Phryne made her way to the library, trying to ascertain why she had been so taken aback by Mr Nicholls remark. Wasn't she supposed to return to Melbourne? Wasn't her whole life settled there? Her home, her family (both found and natural), her job, Jack? Wouldn't she be there right this instant if her father hadn't shown up and the need to bring him back to England hadn't arisen?
Presented like this, it all seemed so…so repetitive and dull; Phryne had always chafed under predictability and 'should'. She would certainly find the wider scope under the seemingly mundane circumstances of her life (as mundane as being a wealthy lady detective could be), wouldn't she? Miss Fisher trusted herself to do so but she couldn't deny the changes that had happened over the last two years and how they had impacted her perspective of life as well as her perspective of herself. She had made the point of not taking anything seriously since 1918, but sometimes it was hard not to get too much into one's own head.
As soon as Phryne walked in, she noticed that the desk had been moved closer to one of the windows from its original position in front of the wall facing the fireplace.
While the two red plush-cushioned sofas remained close to the hearth – a small table between them -, the large floor globe where had planned so many of her trips was in its usual corner niche, the window seats and the upholstered armchair looked as inviting as always, things felt lopsided.
Once that impression had passed, Phryne turned her attention to the painting over the fireplace: one of the Seymours they would probably have to sell.
Truth be told, she didn't particularly liked it; she found a flatness to the saddled grey horse and the groomsman holding its reins. The light coat of the animal against the stormy sky of the background made a compelling deep contrast that drew the eye but that was the extent of the appeal to her. Regardless, it didn't matter. Miss Fisher wasn't the one going to buy it anyway.
The other Seymour was hanging on the opposite wall and pictured another horse held by a stable-hand, a chestnut animal this time, with a spotted dog on its hind legs attempting to catch the man's attention, the playfulness of the dog being her favourite part.
There had always been dogs at Brentby, both for the shooting and as family pets. When the Australian Fisher's had arrived, there was Silas, Eugene's spaniel, but he wasn't young and preferred to doze off in front of the fireplace in Mr Nicholls' office, probably because the butler had been the one tasked with taking care of him when his master had gone to South Africa and kept doing so until the new family was settled but the dog had never cared for them.
Henry hadn't exactly been pleased. Having one or two dogs following him around was part of his image of how an aristocrat should look so he had quickly arranged for a pair of English Setters to be brought to the estate. Apollo and Demeter started a dignified line of Brentby dogs that currently lived on in Hercules, currently under the particular care of Mr Townsend, the gamekeeper, as it always happened when Henry was in London – the dogs were meant to have space to run and be not to be confined to a townhouse, he said. «A bit like myself.»
Miss Fisher would drop by afterwards and pat the dear creature. Hercules was devoted to his master above everyone but was always excited to see any member of the family.
Phryne took the camera out of its case and photographed the Seymour paintings from different angles and distances, following Diana's instructions and tips. She then proceeded to walk up the library steps and carefully took the first picture of the wall, proceeded to do the same with the other, photographed them, turned them around, and placed them on the desk table top so she could capture the few labels and stamps on their backs that attested the very few owners they had had, supplying their provenance.
After she had finished and the paintings were safely back on their places, Phryne sighed.
Feeling a little overwhelmed, she made her way towards the front door and went outside.
Phryne took another deep breath. Autumn didn't offer many floral perfumes but the lawn in the rotunda and the path ahead had been mown recently and the familiar smell lingered in the air. She was awash by all the greenery around her, regardless of the coppery brushes in some trees: the park, the hills, the plains, the farms, the ornamental and kitchen gardens, what she could and couldn't see from where she stood. She might consider herself a city woman but there was a particular charm to the countryside indeed.
As she walked, Miss Fisher recalled the first time she had arrived in Brentby.
Two decades ago, so excited to see the house, she had had to furiously endure the long train ride from London. At the station, an elegant horse-drawn carriage waited for them, soon to be followed by some other type of cart to collect the luggage. She had liked the Chester Square house and London very much, but over the course of her life she had only been to the country very rarely and the prospect of an English country estate offered an endless amount of reasons to poke up her curiosity. She had hardly been able to breathe as she had taken it all in. The house, for starters, was two floors-high and made of a warm honey-coloured stone.
The entrance hall was bright in colour and light, with tapestries on the walls, a large stone fireplace and a sofa set for people to wait before seeing the Baron about affairs of the estate, Phryne had guessed, her mind filled with more ideas from books than actual knowledge. She had itched to run around and see it all at once, yet a loving but firm look from her mother had made her go from room to room at a much restrained pace.
Phryne looked back at those times fondly. She picked up the camera and took some pictures of the front of the house and the environment around it as she walked towards the stables.
«Mr Carter», she called from the entrance, the familiar smell of horses, hay, and leather in each breath she took. The stable-master had never liked to be caught by surprise. Yet, instead of the ruddy face she was counting on, it was a younger man that appeared.
«Can I help you? Mr Carter isn't here right now», he was wiping his hands on a piece of flannel.
«Hello, Tom!», he had been a stable-hand when she had left. The two years that had passed had solidified his boyish looks and he seemed to have climbed some rungs in the job ladder too.
«Miss Fisher?», he said, stopping to clean his hands and raising his hat.
«The one and only. How do you do?»
«Well, thank you.»
«I came to see the horses, if it were possible».
«Of course, Miss. Come this way».
Phryne followed Tom inside, the stables feeling too big now too. Gone were the days where they housed the numerous horses meant for the different kinds of carriages on the estate, for riding and/or hunting and even some agricultural works in the farmland that served the house.
Mr Carter and Tom Rogers were enough now to take care of the five horses in residence and also took on some game-keeping tasks with Mr Townsend, his own staff having been reduced as well.
There was a new acquisition Phryne wasn't familiar with: «Topaz – Miss Olivia's horse – her father got it especially for her», Tom said when they passed the bay horse chestnut horse Phryne only looked at, not knowing if it were amiable to strangers.
«It's a beautiful horse», Phryne said.
She patted the other horses she knew as she walked on, greeting them on soft tones. Her beloved Fortuna had died of old age some years ago, shortly after Phryne's return to England after the War.
As he rarely did, Henry had paid heed to the advice that beginners were better served by, and safer with, older and already trained, more predictable horses.
While Phryne had always been an adventurous person, she had thought that horses, given their height, power, and sensitivity, were due a significant deal of respect and Fortuna's calm and reliable demeanour had made her a wonderful first mount. Afterwards, she had ridden Artemis, meant for Margaret (who turned out to not be very drawn to the activity), but while she was a good horse, the bond hadn't been the same. Phryne missed Fortuna all over again, the loss of pets never made any easier.
At least Fortuna hadn't been sent to the War. When the Army had come to buy as many horses as could be diverted from essential tasks, she was already too old to be of use or interest and remained in Brentby, much to Phryne's relief, even if Miss Fisher herself ended up leaving for Europe soon.
Being younger, Henry's horse Zeus didn't have the same luck and had never returned to England. He had been succeeded by Apollo, the bay horse Phryne was petting now. Always a friendly animal, she wished she had some sugar cubes or some pieces of apple with which to reward him. She used to sneak them out of the kitchen in a kind of game with Mrs Harlan both knew well – while Miss Fisher never mentioned it at the time of happening, she would always left a note for the cook informing her of what she had taken. Meticulous records were kept about what food came in and went out and she didn't mean to cause anyone trouble.
Phryne was tempted to imagine who had taken each horse as she had done with the rooms, an unknown and unwelcome masochistic streak coming up to the surface again, but she stopped herself in time. Nothing good would come out of it and Phryne never devoted much effort to foolish endeavours.
«Well, thank you, Tom. Please give my regards to Mr Carter, in case we don't cross paths», Phryne said, before her wish to ride got too strong. Accepting tea and scones was the polite thing to do, riding around would be too much.
«Be sure that I'll let him know», said the stable-hand.
«Goodbye, Tom.»
«Goodbye, Miss Fisher».
If Phryne was riding a horse, she would have visited each corner of the property, retracing the steps she had sometimes taken with Mr Howard, the steward, as well as the farms where she had gathered some of the agricultural knowledge she added to her extensive personal library of facts.
But she was on foot and with a train to catch soon, so Phryne arranged the lapel of her coat around her neck to stave off the sharp October wind and cut across the field towards the folly, still hidden behind the woods in front of her.
The Neo-classical Doric temple lived up to its name, coming to be out of the fancy of John, the second Baron Fisher, as a memento of his Grand Tour, taking a step further from bringing home paintings and other souvenirs (which he also did and had adorned the house since then).
It had always been her favourite place in the whole estate to be as idle as a cat laying in a patch of sun.
With its open colonnade at the front and stone bench against the wall, it was the perfect place for that. Phryne used to bring up some cushions from the house and go there alone to read, draw, gaze at the lake, chat with her friends and, later, to be alone with Hugo, basking and partaking in the daze of first love.
Phryne sat down on the bench, a slight cold seeping through her clothes. A deep breath. The trees swaying in the breeze like waving hands. It was difficult to not take them as another sign of goodbye instead of welcome. She had been obviously aware that such feelings would never far away but actually living through them was a completely different game.
To how many more things would she be saying goodbye while in England? Her eyes prickled with tears. She hadn't cried so far but it had been mostly out of rush than out of any sort of attempt at avoidance or bravery.
The tears running down her face because a sob Phryne didn't try to contain. It went beyond her being at Brentby perhaps for the last time. It was heavy with the circumstances of her trip to England and her father's behaviour but also with a certain forlornness that took over her, sitting there in the midst of Nature, seemingly so far away from people she held dear and even from herself.
Phryne didn't give in to, it wasn't exactly despair, but more like…emptiness, yet when it came over her it felt like an enveloping and smothering blanket placed on her.
She took a handkerchief from her handbag, wiped her eyes; soon she would have to blow her nose as tears kept coming out, but she was comfortable with that and stayed still for a little.
A flock of birds she couldn't name cut across the sky.
Phryne took a deep breath, stretched her toes inside of her leather boots and dabbed at her eyes, cheeks, and nose for the last time.
Feeling steadier, she looked attentively at the landscape ahead of her, focusing on how the colours changed , the range of greens and golds and browns of woods, the mirror of the lake, the shades of grey in the clouds as if they had been masterfully painted. She had noticed these details before that same afternoon, but there were much more impressive when appreciated from the folly, the view uninterrupted by nothing, reaching out until the horizon itself.
Miss Fisher removed the camera from its case and took a picture.
Afterwards, she got up, walked ahead and turned to capture the folly.
Phryne looked at it once again and touched the outside column closest to her as she made her way back to the house.
A/n: Thank you so much for reading this story after such a long time since it was last updated. While writing happens very slowly, I think about it every day so it's always surprising for me when I check the date of the latest chapter. I'm very sorry for the long delay and I can only hope you find the story still worthy of your attention.
As I had mentioned earlier, I tinkered a bit with the real estate arrangements of the Fishers given how I unconsciously sometimes and deliberately others retconned some bits of the show regarding the whole Henry mess and the timeline of the title.
In the show, Henry basically left Margaret stranded in the countryside as he claimed to be looking for a house in London. In my story, they already have both and have been living in the capital while the country seat is let to an American family in order to get some money. Henry's title is presented as Lord Fisher of Richmond-Upon-Thames but I moved the estate to Norfolk instead of along the river given that they already have said house in London and took the county from the reference to 'Norfolk House' that comes up in the flashbacks to when Phryne saw Henry and Eugene arguing.
With this bit of housekeeping out of the way, here are some historical notes:
«The Lady» is a weekly magazine that still exists today, caters to women, and has always been known for its job listings for service positions, which still posts.
The Mrs Hunt's Servants' Registry Office was a real job agency that existed.
While geographically Norfolk is located north of London, people always said «they were going up to London» because in the train timetables London was always the first station listed.
James Seymour is a real 18th century painter mostly known for his equestrian art and who garnered some well-regarded patrons among the great sporting families who favoured his paintings. From what I read in the Getty's Provenance Index (thank you BBC's Fake or Fortune), in 1929 the listed Seymours sold for about £450 pounds at the time, which may sound little but wasn't exactly something to snooze at at the time (being around £30.000 today) and Margaret is trying to hold on a little longer before she has to get rid of the Turner and the Sir Joshua Reynolds.
From what I read, the Army didn't exactly 'seize' horses and other animals, but bought them even if sometimes for a lower price than what they were probably worth and not all horses were deemed appropriate for what the army wanted due to age, for instance, and the type of animals also changed from war theatre to war theater because of geography, for example.
Garden follys assumed a lot of forms as the rise of ornamental gardens grew and wealthy people wanted to show off, basically. There were temples, towers, bridges, pagodas, tartar tents but there were also others build to resemble actual ancient ruins. Some still exist to this day.
Well, I hope you enjoyed this new chapter and that are still up for a new one. I'd love to promise a prompt update but I know better than that so I can only ask for your patience.
Next time, Phryne will still be in the countryside but exploring a different part of it and pondering on a different path she might have taken.
Thank you so much for reading this story. Feedback is appreciated as always.
