Flora Rose MacNichol ran full pelt across the grass, the hem of her skirt soaking up the early morning dampness like a sheet of fresh blotting paper. The mellow dawn light glinted on the lake and set the icy fronds – remnants of a late frost – a-glitter.
I can get there in time, she told herself as she neared the lake and veered right, her long-suffering black-button boots dancing lightly across the familiar hillocks of hard Lakeland earth, which refused stubbornly to pretend it was a smooth lawn and paid no heed to the constant ministrations of the gardener.
Just in time, Flora arrived at the boulder that sat at the water’s edge. No one knew how it had come to be there, or for that matter why; it was simply a lonely orphan separated from its plentiful brothers and sisters that populated the surrounding screes and valleys. Looking rather like an enormous apple that someone had once taken a bite out of, it had provided a convenient resting place for generations of MacNichol behinds, as they witnessed the spectacle of the sun rising behind the mountains on the other side of the lake.
Just as she sat down, the first rays of sunlight lit up the watery blue sky. A lark flew in perfect synchronicity with its reflection on the lake beneath – a silver silhouette of itself. Flora sighed in pleasure and sniffed the air. Finally, spring had arrived.
Irritated with herself for being in such a hurry that she had forgotten to bring her sketchpad and tin of watercolours with her to capture the moment, she watched the sun break free from its tethers on the horizon and shine a light on the snow-capped peaks, bathing the valley beneath in soft gold light. Then she stood up, realising she had forgotten her shawl too, and that her teeth were chattering in the bitter morning air. Tiny burning sensations began to prickle the delicate skin of her face, like barbs shot by a heavenly bow. She looked upwards and realised it had begun to snow.
‘Spring indeed.’ Flora chuckled as she turned to walk back up the hill towards the Hall, knowing she still had to change her wet skirts and sodden boots before making an appearance at the breakfast table. This past winter had seemed longer than any other, and she could only hope that the raw winds that blew the snow at a cruel angle would soon be just a memory. And as humans, animals and nature came out of hibernation, so too would her universe come alive and fill with the vibrancy and colour she’d longed for.
During the endless months of short, dark days, she’d sat to catch what light there was at one of the windows in her bedroom and used charcoal to sketch the view, feeling that if she were to paint it, it would only be in black and white anyway. And, just like the result of the recent photographic session Mama had insisted on for her and her younger sister, Aurelia, it would only result in a dull facsimile of the real thing.
Aurelia . . . beautiful, golden Aurelia . . . Her sister reminded her of a porcelain doll she’d once been given for Christmas; her wide blue eyes rimmed by coal-dark lashes, set in her perfect face.
‘Peaches and cream beside gruel,’ Flora muttered, pleased with her apt description of their opposing looks. She thought back to the morning of the photographic session, when the two of them had dressed together in her bedroom, putting on their best gowns. Regarding their reflections in the gilt mirror, Flora noticed how everything about Aurelia had soft, rounded contours, whereas Flora’s own face and body seemed sharp and chiselled in comparison. Her sister was inherently feminine, from her tiny feet to her delicate fingers, and she radiated gentleness. Despite eating porridge laced with cream, Flora could never seem to achieve the heavenly curves of Aurelia and their mother. When she had expressed that thought, Aurelia had given her a gentle poke in the side with her finger.
‘Dear Flora, how often must I tell you that you are beautiful?’
‘I can see myself quite clearly in the mirror. My only redeeming feature is my eyes, and they certainly aren’t enough to turn any heads.’
‘They’re like sapphire beacons, shining in the night sky,’ Aurelia had said and given her sister a warm embrace.
Despite Aurelia’s kindness, it was hard not to feel she didn’t belong. Her father had the red-gold hair and pale skin of his Scottish forebears and her sister had inherited her mother’s cool blonde beauty. And then there was Flora, with what her father rather cruelly called a ‘Germanic’ nose, sallow skin and thick dark hair, which completely refused to stay in a neat chignon.
She paused as she heard the faint call of a cuckoo from far away in the oak trees to the west of the lake, and allowed herself a wry smile. A cuckoo in the nest. That’s me.
Treading back lightly over the tufts of coarse grass, Flora approached the worn stone steps that led up to the terrace. Its heavy grave-like slabs were covered with a winter’s worth of moss and leaves. The house rose above her, its many windows glinting in the pale morning light. Andrew MacNichol, her great-great-grandfather, had built Esthwaite Hall one hundred and fifty years ago, not to be a thing of beauty but to shield its occupants from the cruel Lakeland winters, its sturdy walls fashioned from rough shale rock quarried from the nearby mountains. It was an austere dark grey building, the roofs pitched low and defensively, their edges sharp and forbidding. The house loomed above Esthwaite Water, staunch and immovable amid the wild landscape.
Skirting round the house, Flora entered through the back door to the kitchen where the delivery boy had already deposited the week’s groceries. Inside, Mrs Hillbeck, the cook, and Tilly, the kitchen maid, were already preparing breakfast.
‘Morning, Miss Flora. I s’pose them boots of yours are soaked through again?’ Mrs Hillbeck said, eyeing her as she unlaced them.
‘Yes. Could you put them to dry on the range?’
‘If you don’t mind them smelling of your father’s breakfast kipper,’ the cook replied, as she chopped thick pieces of black pudding into a frying pan.
‘Thank you,’ Flora said, handing the boots to her. ‘I’ll come and collect them later.’
‘I’d be asking your mother for a new pair if I were you, Miss Flora. These have seen better days. The soles’ve worn right through,’ Mrs Hillbeck clucked as she took the boots by the laces and hung them to dry.
Flora left the kitchen, thinking that it would indeed be a wonderful thing to have some new boots, but knowing she couldn’t ask. As she made her way along the dark corridor, a strong smell of mildew assailed her nostrils. Just as there was no money for new boots, neither was there any to repair the damp that had started to seep through the thick stone walls, ruining the one-hundred-year-old chinoiserie wallpaper – a riot of flowers and butterflies – that adorned the walls of Mama’s bedroom.