On the upside, despite the fact I will be questioned to death over her deliberate misunderstanding when she gets back, it does mean my weekend is free. And as Christmassy as Tyntesfield is, I’ve surprised myself with how much I’m enjoying myself today.
I hurry through the front door to find Belle and Marsha already in the large hallway standing around a grand piano with a small group of others whilst a young man in Victorian garb is belting out ‘The Twelve Days Of Christmas’z in a deep baritone and with a huge amount of jollity, shaking bells with gusto as he does so. I don’t think I could fake that for eight hours a day.
‘…And a parsnip in a pear tree,’ he booms out to his amused audience. Okay, that’s it, I admire him but I can’t listen to much more. I’m beginning to have murderous thoughts that include putting those bells somewhere illegal.
There’s a great tree to the side of the piano which I examine in detail to avoid concentrating on the song. A song the guests are now beginning to join in with.
‘Let me know if you need a silent, darkened room to lie down in,’ a voice whispers in my ear and I turn my head to see Belle standing close, her Belle smirk on her face.
‘I’ll try to struggle through. Although a dark room shouldn’t be too hard to find. The amount of dark wood in this house is quite a thing.’
‘It is, isn’t it? I love it. All those wood carvings and engravings. All this work was done by master craftsmen, the dedication, the excellence. I don’t find the darkness of it suffocating, I find it comforting, like a duvet. I can imagine swanning around these rooms at the height of their glory, sighing Victorian heroine sighs as my one true love goes off to fight in the Crimea and I am forced to marry the local landowner who looks like a frog and has seriously impairing digestive disorders. Not that I would necessarily be the daughter of the house…’ she adds in a rushed voice. ‘I can also picture myself as a kitchen maid, scrubbing like mad on the floors but still sighing for my sweetheart, also off to the Crimea, and trying to avoid the handy nature of the under-butler, Rawlings, who is so greasy he looks as if he would drip on you.’
‘You’ve put quite a lot of thought into this.’
We move away from the piano, following Marsha as her eyes fall upon a small table offering the chance to do colouring in. The girl is very fond of a crayon.
‘No thought, that was all spontaneous. It’s a gift I have.’ She smirks again, and I can’t help but grin myself. When she’s comfortable with someone she’s such a pickle, as my mum would say. Her naughtiness radiates from her, pulling her confidante into a special kind of world.
‘Ha! You have the imagination of a doomed romantic,’ I say.
‘I am a doomed romantic,’ she responds and then lets out a little half laugh. ‘Although Luisa would say I am a doomed romantic with appalling taste and intimacy issues.’
‘Oh, I’m with you all the way on the intimacy issues,’ I say, surprising myself that such a statement should fall from my lips. I hadn’t realised it was true until I said it. Let’s face it, I hadn’t even thought it until I said it. But now yes, it’s a fair point to make. Maybe Belle Wilde is good for me after all.
‘I drawed this for you.’ Marsha presses a piece of paper into my hand. It’s a picture of a reindeer. ‘Ooh, what’s that?’ She says as her eye catches something and she’s off again. I swap a smile with Belle as we trail after her into a large room where there’s a woman, again in Victorian dress, with a gramophone playing behind her and a keen smile on her lips as we enter. Bar her, we are the only people in the room.
She is welcoming as she waves us in but I feel the hackles on my neck rise. This is not feeling friendly, this feels trap-like.
‘Hello, hello, how are you today?’
‘Great, thanks,’ Belle answers.
‘Christmassy, we’ve made decorations, done snow tasting, ridden in the horsey carriage and I’ve just done colouring in,’ Marsha informs her.
‘You have been busy. And how do you feel about learning to do a dance?’
‘Oh, I like dancing, look.’ Marsha breaks into some weird dancing style that seems to combine acid house and the Charleston.
‘Ooh, yes. I see. Most unusual. Here we like to dance to celebrate Christmas.’
‘That’s what I’m doing.’ Marsha pants, still free-forming with the whole of her heart.
‘Yes, I can see. That particular style hasn’t caught on here yet. Would you like me to teach you our dance?’
Marsha pauses, ‘Hmm, my godmother Belle says you should always be willing to learn new things.’
‘She sounds like a very wise woman. Your parents chose well.’ She flicks a smile across at us. Oh God, she thinks we’re the parents. I’m about to interject when Marsha speaks again.
‘Yes, they did. What’s this dance then?’
‘It’s the St Bernard’s waltz. Would you like to learn with me? Then Mummy and Daddy can dance with each other.’ The woman holds her arms out wide and Marsha goes towards her.
‘Oh we’re not…’ I start to say.
‘That would be lovely,’ Belle says, that mischief back on her face, a complete reversal of her blushes earlier.
‘You have to be joking me,’ I mouth as she stands in the centre of the floor and holds her arms out waiting for me to join in, knowing full well that I won’t abandon her.
