Star Gazey

Chapter 5

"So, Rose, where to?" asked Eleanor with a small smile. Although it seemed like she wanted to distract me, it also appeared like she genuinely wanted to spend more time with me. This made me happy, although the slow burn of curiosity did not extinguish.

"Well, I think I'm starting to feel the need for an afternoon cup of tea. Anywhere we could find one in the village?"

"A smashing idea. Miss Annie's tea house is nearby and she makes scones that are to die for. Not," she added with a sidelong look at me, "that they could compare to what you might find in London, I'm sure."

"You know, Eleanor, I've been coming to a conclusion, which becomes more certain every day, that not everything is better in London." I smiled wryly.

"I can't say I believe you," she said with a false loftiness. "Agnes Locke went to London once, and she came back with a new frock and a growing dissatisfaction with everything else around her."

"She is a sullen creature, isn't she? I'm not sure I'd use Agnes as the gold standard of what is best."

"Oh, she's a sour little toady who thinks that life has dealt her an unfairly harsh blow. Turn up this lane here, although you'll soon see more of Agnes than you'd care to, I'm afraid."

I shot her a questioning look as we walked into the tea house, but I understood once I saw Agnes wearing an apron and carrying a tea tray to a table. Eleanor laughed at the expression on my face.

"I'm sorry, but Miss Annie's really is the best. I had a suspicion that she might be heading to work when she left the cottage but I didn't want to dissuade you from tea just because we don't enjoy the service," she whispered.

"I'm afraid that it's the service who doesn't enjoy me, from what I've seen," I shot back, amused. "You underestimate my fortitude, however, for I would never stop doing what I want for the pleasure of another. It's the spoiled, independent city girl in me, I suppose."

Eleanor looked as though she were unsure of how to reply to this, but was spared by the appearance of Agnes who stopped indolently in front of us.

"Anywhere you like," was all she said with a jerk of her head towards the empty tables before she moved on.

We exchanged looks but obeyed her, finding ourselves a little table next to the window so that we could observe the street while we chatted.

"Tell me a little more about yourself, Rose," Eleanor implored once we'd ordered our tea and scones. "I'd like to hear about your family, if you don't mind."

"Well," I began, unsure of what might be interesting to her about myself, "I was born and raised in the country, actually, although we used to take trips out to the city frequently. My family and I lived at Aswick, my grandfather's hereditary estate, with him and my grandmother, Clara. My father is a smart businessman, and my mother is a beautiful and loving woman. I have no siblings but plenty of cousins and other relatives that kept me entertained throughout the years. My father has now assumed most of the duties of the Viscount, although my grandfather still sits in the House of Lords himself. I remember my mother and father and I visiting a sitting of the House once when I was an older child, and I was rather fascinated by the politicians. I suppose I was interested in the ways in which they were able to manipulate each other in the machinations of politics. It seemed such an exciting, foreign world, in comparison to my rather sheltered life at the manor. Not that it was unpleasant in any sense. I loved my home and my family, and I was rather indulged, as you might imagine, as an only child. The old, rambling house was full of mystery and excitement to me growing up, and I loved to ride, drive and walk about the countryside and swim in the lake.

But, as I grew up, the fantasies of childhood faded and I began to feel bored and stagnant. I was tired of our society, tired of the country and I wanted a new challenge. I remembered the excitement of the city, so I told my family that I was moving to experience something new. I got my way, as I tended to, and my parents gave me a lovely flat in Mayfair. I was eighteen, just like my grandmother when she left. That may have been the only flaw of my parents in dealing with me; they perhaps gave me too much indulgence and let me have my way, even when it was bullheaded and foolhardy."

Eleanor was listening, transfixed, and started when someone cleared their throat.

Agnes was standing with our tea tray. "Sorry to interrupt, but here's your tea and scones." She put down the tray with surprising dexterity and slid my scone in front of me. "I hope it meets your understandably high standards, Miss Grantham," she said slightly acidly, before wheeling around and moving off to speak with another table.

"Oh, don't mind her," Eleanor muttered, "I'd like to hear about your time in London! What did you do there?"

"I got into fashion. Mostly modeling for photographs and working with designers. It was fun, and I enjoyed myself, although some of those in my parents' circle may have found it less than appropriate. I was of the opinion that the world was fast becoming a wonderfully more liberal place and didn't care for their opinions. I moved in social circles that considered ourselves worldly, sophisticated and progressive. We read highbrow literature, and I even tried my hand once or twice at writing. Pretentious rubbish, mostly. It did get to be a little exhausting, after a time. People are not always so genuine or reliable as you'd hope they might be. Anyway, once the war happened it turned our world upside down, and we had to live with more restraint and a bigger purpose. Afterwards, I was just tired and needed to get away. So, here I am. But enough about me, I think? I'd like to hear more about you and Johnny. Has your family always lived in Mousehole?" I had the impression out of the corner of my eye that Agnes had lingered nearby, and was listening.

But Eleanor didn't answer. Instead she cocked her head and looked at me intently. Suddenly, her eyes lit up.

"Of course! You know, I thought I recognized you somehow when I first saw you!" She exclaimed, before leaping up and rushing over to a shelf along the wall. I watched her rifle through books and magazines, before picking one up and opening it to flip through it. It was an edition of Vogue from the summer, 1941. She stopped on a page and then turned it towards me, calling across the room. "Look, here you are! The magazines aren't terribly up to date in here, and I've spent ages flipping through them over and over. I'm surprised I didn't remember this sooner!"

The picture was me sitting for Burberry, in a piece on summer fashion trends. I remembered that piece, since I'd even written a little input on it, although it had been heavily edited and amalgamated into the rest of the article.