‘Oh, that old thing’ – he waved a hand towards it – ‘Beatrix wrote rather a lot of letters to children.’ And off he went on another subject before I could pin him down.
One day soon, I promised myself I would find the courage to ask more. But even if I never learned more about Flora MacNichol, my days were filled with glorious books; just the scent and feel of them as I catalogued new stock in a vast leather-bound ledger with a heavy ink pen filled me with pleasure. I’d had to take a handwriting test before he’d actually let me put ink to paper. I’d always been complimented on my clear, elegant script, but I’d never thought that one day a skill that was fast becoming archaic and defunct would turn into an asset.
As I sat on the bus on the way to the bookshop at the beginning of my third week, I pondered whether I should have been born in a different era. One where the pace of life had been slower and missives to loved ones would take days – if not months – to reach them, rather than arrive in seconds by email.
‘Good God! I loathe modern technology with a passion!’ Orlando mirrored my thoughts as he strode through the front door at his habitual half past ten, patisserie box in hand. ‘Last night, due to a freak rainstorm, all the telephone lines went down in Kensington, taking the internet with them. And I was unable to put in my bid for a particularly spectacular copy of War and Peace. I love that book,’ he sighed, turning to me with a crestfallen face. ‘Ah well, Mouse will be relieved that I’m not spending more money we don’t have. Talking of whom, I mentioned you the other day.’
I’d heard about ‘Mouse’ several times before, but had never managed to ascertain exactly who this person actually was to Orlando. Or even whether they were male or female.
‘Did you?’
‘Yes. Are you busy this weekend, Miss Star? I have to travel to High Weald for Rory’s birthday. Mouse will be there too. Thought you could see the house, meet Marguerite and chat about Flora MacNichol.’
‘Yes . . . I’m free,’ I said, realising I had to grasp the opportunity while it was on offer.
‘That’s settled, then. I shall meet you at Charing Cross in the first-class carriage of the ten o’clock train to Ashford on Saturday. I shall have your ticket with me. Now, I must disappear back upstairs to discover whether Wi-Fi – our great modern god – has deigned to appear to us mortals.’
‘Where are we going, exactly?’
‘Haven’t I told you?’
‘No.’
‘To Kent, of course,’ he said airily, as though it should have been obvious.
For the rest of the week, I was torn between excitement and fear of the unknown. I’d been to Kent once on a university trip to see Sissinghurst, the glorious house and gardens that had once been the home of the novelist and poet Vita Sackville-West. I remembered it as a gentle and mellow county – the ‘garden of England’, as one of my fellow students had told me it was nicknamed.
As promised, Orlando was already in the carriage when I arrived at Charing Cross station on Saturday morning. His midnight-blue velvet jacket and paisley scarf – not to mention the enormous picnic hamper that took up the whole of the table we were supposedly to share with other passengers – made for an incongruous sight on the modern train.
‘My dear Miss Star,’ he said as I sat down next to him. ‘Perfectly on time as always. Punctuality is a virtue that should be lauded more often than it is. Cup of coffee?’
He opened the hamper and produced a flask and two china coffee cups, followed by plates of fresh, still-warm croissants wrapped in linen napkins. As the train pulled out of the station and Orlando served me breakfast, chatting to me as usual about everything and nothing, I noticed nearby passengers looking at us in bewilderment. I was only thankful that no one was sitting in the seats opposite.
‘How long is the train journey?’ I asked him as he took out two further plates of perfectly arranged chopped fruit and removed the cling film.
‘An hour or thereabouts. Marguerite will collect us from Ashford station.’
‘Who is Marguerite?’
‘My cousin.’
‘And Rory?’
‘A charming little boy, who will be seven tomorrow. Mouse will be there too, although, unlike your good self, the poor dear has no concept of time-keeping. Now, if you’ll excuse me,’ he said as he returned the dishes to the picnic basket then fastidiously wiped every last crumb off himself and the table into a napkin, ‘I must take forty winks.’
With that, Orlando folded his arms across his chest as if to protect himself from being shot, and nodded off.
Thirty minutes later, just as I was beginning to get nervous about getting off at Ashford, but not liking to disturb Orlando, his eyes suddenly snapped open.
‘Two minutes, Miss Star, and we will alight.’
The platform was bathed in mellow autumn sunlight as we walked along it, dodging other travellers.
‘Progress takes its steady toll,’ Orlando lamented. ‘With the Eurotunnel station they are building, we’ll never have peace and quiet here again.’
As we emerged onto the station forecourt, I noticed there had been a frost the night before, and I could see the faint smoky tinge of my breath.
‘There she is,’ Orlando said, marching at full speed towards a battered Fiat 500. ‘Dearest Marguerite, it’s so kind of you to come and sweep us up,’ he said as a statuesque woman, as tall as he, extricated her long limbs from behind the wheel of the tiny car.
‘Orlando,’ she said haltingly as he kissed her on both cheeks. She pointed to the large wicker hamper. ‘How on earth are we meant to get that in the car? Especially as you have brought a guest.’
I felt her large, dark eyes sweep over me. They were an arresting colour – almost violet.
‘Allow me to introduce Miss Asterope D’Aplièse, more commonly known as Star. Miss Star: my cousin, Marguerite Vaughan.’
‘What an unusual name,’ the woman said as she approached me, and I saw from the faint lines on her pale skin that she was older than I’d initially thought, probably in her early forties.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you,’ she continued. ‘I can only apologise for my cousin’s thoughtlessness by bringing this ridiculous hamper, which you’ll now have to squeeze in next to. God knows what’s wrong with the coffee at Pret,’ she said, rolling her eyes at Orlando, who was attempting to load the hamper onto the back seat. ‘But I’m sure you know what he’s like.’ She smiled at me warmly.
‘I do,’ I said, finding myself smiling too.
‘Personally, I think we should make him walk the five miles home as penance so that you can sit in comfort.’ She patted my arm conspiratorially. ‘Come on, Orlando, I’ve got a lot to do when we get home. The beef isn’t in yet.’