The Wolf Border(22)
The soft purring of a telephone downstairs – she had not even realised one was connected yet. She goes in search, finds it on the windowsill of the kitchen, and picks up hesitantly, as if she hasn’t the right.
Hello?
Rachel?
It is Honor Clark, of course.
Yes.
Settled in alright, I hope? We’ve set you up.
Yes, fine, thanks.
Got everything you need?
I think so.
Excellent. Just to remind you, Thomas is hoping you’ll be able to join him and a few other guests for dinner this evening. A small welcome affair, but it would be useful for you to attend. Will that be convenient?
It is less of a question than an expectation.
Yes.
Good.
She wonders whether she will be summoned regularly to the big house, now that she is in situ, and biddable. The thought is unsettling. But this is her first night, after all.
What sort of time?
Seven for seven-thirty.
I’ll see you then.
There’s a pause.
Thomas will look forward to it. I’ll be in touch again in the morning about the advertisement – we thought the Guardian, Times, National Geographic, the usual.
She senses mild rebuke – a reminder of the separation of staff and employer, the strata of the estate. She will have to get to know the system. She will have to ascertain where she herself fits in, or doesn’t.
OK, fine.
Pop over when you’re up and about, let’s say nine?
See you then.
Rachel hangs up. Too late she wonders about dress code, then thinks to herself, No, there must be some limits, preservation of the ordinary. She is as she was the day before: the same person, charged with similar duties. Even here. She opens the refrigerator door. Inside is a bottle of fresh milk. She opens a cupboard. Gold-label tea bags, Illy coffee, sugar cubes. Set up, yes, and welcomed, but she has a distinct feeling that something may be forfeit.
The thought of a formal dinner is not appealing. She would rather settle in, be by herself, and try the fireplace. And think. She has been not thinking, and has been making a point of not thinking. She isn’t due at the Hall for a couple of hours – there’s time for a short walk first. The light is good outside: pale spring light, citrine. The cottage is near the lake, she knows, there were glimmers through the trees from the taxi window. She takes a cagoule from her bag and changes into boots. She locks the front door, though it seems unlikely anyone will attempt to break in, unlikely anyone will even pass by along the lane. A stray walker, maybe. A horseback-rider on the bridleway. She starts out along the track, which is rutted on the outside with deep tyre marks from the transit of large construction vehicles, then she cuts into the trees, walks through a beautiful stretch of old woodland. Buds and blossom; there’s a sweet, spermy fragrance in the air, a scent both exquisite and intolerable. The last few weeks she’s noticed a strange sensitivity to such things, aversions, smells that are nausea-inducing. For all that the business of pregnancy is interruptive and alarming, she cannot deny it has its interesting frontiers.
All about her, the season is surprisingly lovely, unsettled and kinetic, then windless, held. The air is moist and downy. There are flashes of tropical colour on bare twigs. She does not remember Cumbria looking so exotic. The path disperses, broken up by surfacing roots. Moss and columbine. The boulders are occluded, starred with orange and yellow lichen. Ahead, through the low branches, she can see the lake water rustling with light. She breaks clear of the trees, walks along the shore, and sits on a flat rock at the edge of a shingle bay. The wooden island has no reflection today, but floats, like a mirage. She cannot see the folly from this angle. The river-mouth is nearby, rushing and spilling. She breathes in, exhales, tries to relax, to formulate a plan.
Tomorrow she will register with a GP and make an appointment, get the process moving. There will be, at worst, a day or two’s inconvenience. She will buy groceries, stock the cupboards, then take one of the estate’s quad bikes and go into the enclosure. Perhaps she will even call Lawrence, try to sort that mess out. She must, of course, sort it out, though part of her, a faulted, habitual part, would let the aggravation fester, let the gap grow until it is too wide to bridge. She gets up and walks slowly along the lakeshore to the river, where the water is very clear. Fish glimmer in the shallows, dark gold, blunt-headed – trout. The wolves might go for them, once released, straddling the rocks and snapping them out – she’s seen them fish for salmon before. The rich protein in the brain is worth the wet paws, the patient vigil, and many misses. She wonders how things are at Chief Joseph. The same, no doubt, without her.
On her way back to the cottage she snaps a few sprigs of blossom from the trees. Yellow, star-shaped petals, and boughs of willow. She regains the lane a few hundred yards from the cottage. A man is standing further up the track, next to Seldom Seen. He has on dark trousers and a wax jacket. His back is to her. He is looking into the garden of the cottage, as if he has knocked and waited and is now searching the grounds. She calls out – Hello, are you looking for me? – but he is too far away to hear. Without turning, he walks up the lane, rounds a bend, and disappears. The quick confident gait of a local, she thinks. She goes into the porch. There is no note on the door, no sign of why he might have called. Perhaps he was simply passing, and the cottage is not as secluded as she assumed. Perhaps it was sensible to lock the door after all.