had got quite shirty and told her she was sure there had been some mistake and really Lottie was being rather rude going on and on about it.
Perhaps Celia hadn’t even got a boyfriend, Lottie thought. Perhaps all these men were figments of her imagination, and she was really spending her evenings practicing her needlepoint and piano scales with Aunt Angela’s children. The thought made her smile. Just to get Celia going, Lottie had made no mention of Guy at all in her next letter, but she had asked lots of questions about Aunt Angela’s children.
It had been an odd couple of months; only now was Lottie getting used to Celia’s absence. But with that increased comfort, she had become aware of an increased tension within the house, as if Celia’s absence had removed some focus that, like invisible glue, had been holding the whole thing together. Dr. Holden’s absences had become more frequent, which had rather stretched Mrs. Holden’s brittle hold on everyday life. At the same time Freddie and Sylvia, as if responding to some unseen siren, chose this time to become more shrill and excitable, shredding what remained of her “nerves” and giving Dr. Holden an oft-spoken reason for not returning home. “Is it impossible to get a moment’s peace in this house?” he would ask, in his low, seemingly measured tones, and Mrs. Holden would jump, like a dog about to be kicked outside on a cold night.
Lottie would watch him silently as he withdrew to his study or on some unheralded night call, returning his “good night, Lottie” with equal civility. He was never rude to her, had never made her feel like a usurper within the house. Then again half the time he had hardly seemed to notice her at all.
When she had first arrived in the house, he had been less reserved. He had been friendly, had smiled more. Or perhaps she just remembered it like that. On her first night in the house, when she had wept silent tears, unsure what exactly it was that she was crying for but paradoxically afraid that her hosts would hear her and send her home again, he had let himself quietly into her room and sat down on the bed.
“You mustn’t be afraid, Lottie,” he’d said, placing a warm, dry hand on her head. “I imagine life has been pretty difficult for you in London. You’re safe now.”
Lottie had been stunned into silence. No adult had ever spoken to her as he had. With solemnity. And concern. And without some kind of threat or disparagement. Most of them hadn’t even remembered her name.
“For as long as you are here, Lottie, we shall do everything we can to ensure your happiness. And when you are ready to leave, we shall hope that you remember your stay here with fondness. For we are all sure that we shall be fond of you.”
And with those words he had patted her and left, taking with him her eternal gratitude and what passed in her eight-year-old heart as devotion. Had he known that she’d never had so much as a father figure in her life before, let alone kind words from one, he might perhaps have tempered his attempt at affection. But, no, Dr. Holden had smiled and patted her comfortingly, and little Lottie had stopped crying and lain in her soft bed and wondered about the magical and unforeseen existence of men who didn’t swear, demand that she fetch things from the corner shop, or smell of Old Holborn.
As she had grown older, she had developed a slightly less rosy version of Dr. Holden. It was hard not to, when you witnessed at close hand the cruelty that could be inflicted by a man who simply refused to interact with his wife. In the mornings he would retreat behind his newspaper, emerging from behind his inky curtain only to mildly chastise Frederick or Sylvia for some reported misbehavior, or to pick up his coffee cup. In the evenings he would come in late and distracted, would insist that it was impossible for him to talk until he had had a drink and “a few minutes’ peace” that usually managed to stretch
Perhaps Celia hadn’t even got a boyfriend, Lottie thought. Perhaps all these men were figments of her imagination, and she was really spending her evenings practicing her needlepoint and piano scales with Aunt Angela’s children. The thought made her smile. Just to get Celia going, Lottie had made no mention of Guy at all in her next letter, but she had asked lots of questions about Aunt Angela’s children.
It had been an odd couple of months; only now was Lottie getting used to Celia’s absence. But with that increased comfort, she had become aware of an increased tension within the house, as if Celia’s absence had removed some focus that, like invisible glue, had been holding the whole thing together. Dr. Holden’s absences had become more frequent, which had rather stretched Mrs. Holden’s brittle hold on everyday life. At the same time Freddie and Sylvia, as if responding to some unseen siren, chose this time to become more shrill and excitable, shredding what remained of her “nerves” and giving Dr. Holden an oft-spoken reason for not returning home. “Is it impossible to get a moment’s peace in this house?” he would ask, in his low, seemingly measured tones, and Mrs. Holden would jump, like a dog about to be kicked outside on a cold night.
Lottie would watch him silently as he withdrew to his study or on some unheralded night call, returning his “good night, Lottie” with equal civility. He was never rude to her, had never made her feel like a usurper within the house. Then again half the time he had hardly seemed to notice her at all.
When she had first arrived in the house, he had been less reserved. He had been friendly, had smiled more. Or perhaps she just remembered it like that. On her first night in the house, when she had wept silent tears, unsure what exactly it was that she was crying for but paradoxically afraid that her hosts would hear her and send her home again, he had let himself quietly into her room and sat down on the bed.
“You mustn’t be afraid, Lottie,” he’d said, placing a warm, dry hand on her head. “I imagine life has been pretty difficult for you in London. You’re safe now.”
Lottie had been stunned into silence. No adult had ever spoken to her as he had. With solemnity. And concern. And without some kind of threat or disparagement. Most of them hadn’t even remembered her name.
“For as long as you are here, Lottie, we shall do everything we can to ensure your happiness. And when you are ready to leave, we shall hope that you remember your stay here with fondness. For we are all sure that we shall be fond of you.”
And with those words he had patted her and left, taking with him her eternal gratitude and what passed in her eight-year-old heart as devotion. Had he known that she’d never had so much as a father figure in her life before, let alone kind words from one, he might perhaps have tempered his attempt at affection. But, no, Dr. Holden had smiled and patted her comfortingly, and little Lottie had stopped crying and lain in her soft bed and wondered about the magical and unforeseen existence of men who didn’t swear, demand that she fetch things from the corner shop, or smell of Old Holborn.
As she had grown older, she had developed a slightly less rosy version of Dr. Holden. It was hard not to, when you witnessed at close hand the cruelty that could be inflicted by a man who simply refused to interact with his wife. In the mornings he would retreat behind his newspaper, emerging from behind his inky curtain only to mildly chastise Frederick or Sylvia for some reported misbehavior, or to pick up his coffee cup. In the evenings he would come in late and distracted, would insist that it was impossible for him to talk until he had had a drink and “a few minutes’ peace” that usually managed to stretch
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