Daily Mail, 18th October 1914

18

IT WAS NEARLY always wet in the countryside; she simply could not remember it raining this much in London. There was no noise either. No distraction. If anyone spoke or sang or read, it was her, which meant there was no real entertainment; ticking clocks filled her days. She remembered, not so long ago (although it felt like forever), when she used to erupt into involuntary gusts of giggles. Now she was all about sighs. The silence stretched through the house, out on to the lawn and beyond through the fields and up the ancient sleeping hills. The silence was in the root of plants and trees. The wet garden, the petals of the dead roses.

Vivian introduced herself to the staff, such as it was. Mrs Rosebend, the housekeeper, and a housemaid. She quickly employed a plump woman from the village to cook. Cook came with references and an understanding that she was looking forward to feeding Mrs Owens up, as long as Mrs Owens respected the fact that the kitchen was her domain, Mrs Owens was not expected to visit, ought not to. It was an arrangement that suited Vivian. She’d brought her own maid from London, but unfortunately the girl only lasted a week before she announced she was going back; she was confident she’d easily find work in a shop or factory, even an office, now that so many of the men had gone to war. Vivian didn’t have the heart to stop her. Why would anyone stay here if they didn’t have to? The place was meagre and uncomfortable. Isolated.

She walked through the muddy, sodden streets and found little to divert her: a church, a village hall and a small store. There she asked if they knew of a girl looking for work; someone was sent to her by the afternoon. The girl had no experience as a lady’s maid, but she was neat and quiet and Vivian wanted to believe she’d be adequate. Any port in a storm. She did at least acquire a certain amount of esteem by employing four of the village women. Nevertheless, when she went to church or walked around abouts people whispered behind their hands and raised their eyebrows in her direction. Some remained frosty because she was a Londoner, and townies were never trusted by country folk; others were more sympathetic, even awed by her glamour. They all agreed she was not the right type of girl for this sort of thing: farming, visiting the poor and such. War.

Vivian knew what they were saying. What they were thinking. One couldn’t expect too much from such as her. It wasn’t fair to do so. They thought a hefty girl or a plain girl was likely to do a better job as mistress, and dismissed her as inadequate. Vivian agreed. She’d always been so proud of her looks, her trim figure, her delicate frame. Now her skinny arms seemed useless.

She spent a morning unpacking her clothes and another arranging the paintings and photographs around the house, then devoted a third to placing the small knick-knacks. She wondered what Aubrey expected her to do with her days here in the middle of nowhere. It dawned on her that he had probably given the matter no thought whatsoever. He was not in the habit of looking out for her; he was no more used to being a husband than she was to being a wife.