Moorland Hall (FIRST DRAFT)

from 11-12 November 2010: The House Party Descends

More days passed, and finally there were news. In the hallway, as Julia was passing, the phone rang. On the line, the voice she had longed to hear for weeks.

‘Miss Young, is that you?’

‘It is. How ... how are you?’

‘Absolutely fine, thank you. I trust you’re not au pairing in the middle of the road just because I’m not there to see it?’

‘Of course I’m not. Odelia is in the nursery, if you wanted to speak with her?’

‘That won’t be necessary, that’s not why I phoned.’

‘She misses you, you know.’

Silence. Then, sternly, ‘I have something to discuss with Mrs. Deacon. May I speak with her?’

‘Sure, one moment.’

Julia handed the phone over to the woman who had been shuffling down the hallway but not got to the phone in time. She mouthed who was calling, and handed the phone over.

‘Hello? Oh hello, dear. Yes?’ There was no reason to stay, but Mrs. Deacon raised her index finger to make her pause and wait. ‘Yes. Yes, I see. No, we’ll make do, don’t you worry. Bye now, good bye.’ She turned around. ‘Right, my dear, it seems they’re coming over. Moving the house party here.’

‘Really? When?’

‘By the end of the week. Oh my goodness, and tomorrow’s Tuesday. We’d better get to work!’

Luckily, not being in the 19th century, it meant that instead of the cleaners coming by twice a week, they booked an extra day, and Julia sat down to sort out the menus for the weekend and the shopping lists required for it, when Mrs. Deacon put a folder in her hand.

‘No shopping list, dear, we normally get a caterer in for these sort of occasions. The lad doesn’t want us to over-stretch ourselves, and quite rightly so. Bringing them all here, I don’t even know where to start!’

But start they did, there was no other choice. Flowers for vases in all the rooms were ordered, floors scrubbed and polished, curtains cleaned and re-hung, mantlepieces and windowsills dusted, ornaments polished and windows cleaned. The house had by no means been in disarray before, it was always kept clean and fresh, but not like this. By Friday night, they were exhausted and not sure if they looked forward to the people coming or if they dreaded it.

Odelia spent most of the week running around the house and being in the way, and as the “fashionable people” started arriving in their expensive cars, she couldn’t keep still. Julia made her keep upstairs so that she wouldn’t be in the way, and eventually she sat down by the balustrade, looking down at the strangers with their expensive clothes that she said were so pretty. If they were or not, it was not Julia’s knowledge and she didn’t really care.

One of the women sweeping into the entrance hallway had glossy, black curls arranged in a very becoming fashion. Beautiful. And just behind her, with a hand on her back as he held the door open. No question as to who the woman was, there could be just one by that description: Felicity Derringham, laughing and smiling and looking around the downstairs bit to take in the place. Surely there had not been many changes to the décor since the last time she had been here? Moorland looked like it was stuck in a time warp and could do with many an upgrade. Was this the sort of home she, the daughter of a lord, sought after? A stately home in the countryside with a man who was away half the time and had a daughter he could do a lot better at being a father to? She could do much better than trying to get her hands on Mr. Harrington and the Moorland estate, that was obvious. Was she after him because of his money? Mrs. Deacon had mentioned the Derringham estate was faltering and had been struggling with debts for years, and could do with a cash inject. Was that really all he was to her, a cash inject? Or was the accomplished young lady actually in love with him?

The reasons for him to encourage her were obvious, considering the mirror must always smile benevolently at her in the morning. No dark circles under the eyes, no cheeks crinkled by the bedsheets, no hair that stood out like a porcupine with static whenever it was cold and hanging down as straight as a drainpipe when it wasn’t. No, she was the image of perfection, and the likeness to the portrait Julia had drawn was uncanny.

When everyone had come in, and it was a fairly large group of people, they moved into the drawing room for a welcoming drink. If she had ever been to one, Julia would have been correct to liken this to a wedding party, one that would drag on for far too many days. At least she didn’t have to socialise with them and was relieved when it was time to put Odelia to bed, and afterwards, she was happy to retire to her room and try to close out the noises of people moving around downstairs, laughing, talking, drinking and playing music.

All these strangers, they were swarming all over the place like locusts. That was the first thought that hit her the following morning. No one but Mrs. Deacon and the temporarily employed staff who sorted out the food and cleaning were up when Julia came downstairs for breakfast, and to her surprise, was greeted with a summons for the party that evening.

‘I don’t have anything to wear to a party,’ Julia complained, but Mrs. Deacon assured her she would not exactly require a ball gown. Odelia was also asked to put in an appearance, and the suggestion that she would let the girl into the room and then go and collect her a little later was dismissed.

‘He specifically asked for your presence, dear, and said that if you wouldn’t come, he would come and fetch you there himself, so I’m sorry, but there’s nothing much else to do than to go there unless you wish to be rude or make a spectacle of yourself, and you wouldn’t want that. It’s only a party, after all, there’s no reason to be afraid of it or even afraid of these people. They may look fancy, but they still put their socks on one leg at a time just like the rest of us.’

And the old lady was right. Julia didn’t want to make a scene or cause a fuss, so dressed in her best clothes, which were basically nothing more than a pair of dark, pinstripe trousers and a smart, white blouse, she entered the drawing room just before six o’clock. Odelia by her side, clad in the blue dress her father had brought from the latest excursion out of the country, was eager to see all the pretty clothes and jewels, and found waiting for them incredibly boring, even though Julia had brought her a box of crayons and a colouring book to amuse her with in the meantime.

Twenty past six, fashionably late as they’d call it, the double doors opened and the party descended on them.

The first people to enter were Felicity Derringham and her sister Millicent; both were remarkably beautiful women, although the older of the two was arguably the better-looking. The only thing spoiling the image was the look of quiet disdain on both of their faces. Their laughs were false, satirical and they both had a look of cold superiority.

On hearing the group come in, Odelia leaped from her seat before Julia had a chance to stop her, and she bounded up to the ladies, who stopped dead in their tracks.

‘Guten Abend,’ she twittered, ‘Ihr seid sooo schön!’

‘This must be the infamous German daughter,’ Millicent said, glancing at her older sister, who didn’t even raise an eyebrow.

‘I suppose it is. What a little doll.’

Odelia didn’t care that she was ignored and not even understood; she started whirling in between the guests, singing a little tune. None of the guests paid much attention to her, and as no one seemed disturbed by her presence, Julia let her be, and instead waited to see the only member of the party familiar to her, and finally, he came.

(This is as far as I got before I got bored of simply paraphrasing the original but adding things like telephones and TVs. When I get around to it, this is getting a complete re-write. Mind you, this is only a first draft anyway. Thank you for reading!)