Beethoven's Assassins by Andrew Crumey;

Author:Andrew Crumey; [Crumey, Andrew]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781915568397
Publisher: Bookwire GmbH
Published: 2023-05-29T00:00:00+00:00

Four

1823

Dusk was falling when Marion reached Axtoun after travelling for most of the day. One of the horses had grown lame and needed to be changed, then during the final stage the coach had rocked laboriously along poor roads rendered muddy by recent rain. Alone inside the post-chaise, Marion had spent the time revisiting her doubts, missing the home she had left and her father at whose insistence she was now to serve in Colonel Wilson’s household. It was with an unsettling combination of relief and apprehension that she caught through the carriage window her first glimpse of the manor, sombre and aloof at the head of a long drive, then finally growing with the inescapable reality of arrival into the grey disconsolate edifice at which the coachman drew up, climbing down to open her door and unfold the step. She was in no haste to alight.

Two brisk figures approached from the house, a lean woman and a red-haired boy. For a moment Marion wondered if the latter were the child she had come to supervise; however these were both servants, the boy’s task being to help the driver with the luggage, while the stern-faced woman announced herself as Mrs Struther, the Colonel’s housekeeper.

“Come, Miss,” she curtly instructed as Marion climbed out and followed through a side entrance to a small, stone-floored parlour, low ceilinged and weakly illuminated by a log flickering in the hearth. Around a rough wooden table stood several unmatched dining chairs, probably cast-offs from the better rooms, like the ancient dresser with its chipped china. At the far end a door stood open on an unlit passageway promising further gloom. “You’ll be presented to the master tomorrow,” Mrs Struther announced, then turned to the lad heaving Marion’s trunk behind them on the uneven flagstones. “Don’t drag the thing!” she snapped. He raised it as best he could in order to take it past them, into the shadows of the corridor that quickly swallowed him with all of Marion’s belongings.

“The Colonel will expect to see you properly attired and prepared.”

“Of course. And for the lesson…”

“There’s nothing to prepare but yourself. Sit down,” Mrs Struther said, gesturing towards one of the sturdier looking chairs, then asked, “How old are you?”

“Nineteen.”

“Have you much experience?”

“None. I’ve never been… away…” She broke off.

Mrs Struther’s tone softened. “You must be hungry.” From a wall cupboard she produced bread, cheese, milk; and though Marion had no appetite she tried to force a little into her unsettled stomach while Mrs Struther stood watching. Neither spoke, the only sounds the slow crackle of the settling log and the stately measure of a longcase clock propped obliquely on the uneven floor, until the boy hurried back and threw himself down heavily opposite Marion, immediately reaching for the bread.

“Manners, Willie.”

“Maw!”

“Let Miss eat first.”

“Ah’m starved, maw.”

“Wait your turn.”

“Have some, Willie,” Marion offered, tearing the loaf in half.

Mrs Struther handed the boy a pewter plate from the dresser and said to Marion, “I expect your mother’ll be missing you.”

“Yes.”

“Are you not so hungry after all?”

“Not really.

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