Free The Novel in the Viola by Natasha Solomons Page A

when she had sneaked it in and, while I realised that I would never have occasion to wear such a dress, I should be glad to see it hanging in my wardrobe, a memento of better times. When I lifted it, I noticed that the hem was rumpled, as though something was concealed within. Taking the razor blade, I unpicked the extra layer of stitching, and carefully drew out a snake of white pearls. Anna’s pearls.
    I sat on the bed as the evening dulled into darkness, and listened to the breakers on the beach. The string of pearls shimmered in the candlelight and I ran my fingertips along the smooth beads, pale as drops of milk. The stowaway pearls revealed Anna’s doubt that I’d ever see her in New York. I pulled them through my fingers, again and again, unwilling to fasten them around my neck, in case they choked me.
     
    I fell into a fitful sleep, but the sound of the sea kept invading my dreams. I was carried on a ship into a far-off land, but it was not America, and I knew we sailed the wrong way to reach Anna and Julian and Margot. I howled at the captain to turn the boat around, but two muscled crewmen with wolfish faces picked me up by my arms and cast me into the sea. I thrashed and tried to scream, but my lungs filled with burning saltwater. I awoke with a cry, and found myself soaked with sweat, the bedcovers as wet as if I had drenched them with a bucket of water. My candle had burnt out and it was pitch dark. I took deep breaths, in and out, in and out, until I felt my heartbeat slow to a steady thud, and decided to go and wash my face.
    I padded along the corridor in bare feet, feeling my way like I was playing a lonesome game of blind man’s bluff. I had never been afraid of the dark or night-time noises, and willed myself not to be scared now. I had not noticed the bathroom on my way upstairs, and had been directed to an outside privy when I’d requested the toilet. Several doors led off the corridors, but not wanting to disturb May or any other maids who might be sleeping, I decided to creep down to the yard and splash my face outside in the cool air. The back stairs lay in total darkness and I groped my way down keeping one hand on the banister, managing not to stumble on the narrow treads. I emerged in the corridor beside the kitchen and hurried along to the back door. It was unlocked and I stepped straight out into the moonlit yard.
    The cobbles were cold beneath my feet and slippery with dew. As I skidded, stubbing my toe on a broken stone, I realised that it might have been sensible to put on my shoes, but then I only ever thought of sensible things when it was too late. Mr Bobbin’s brown and white dappled head rested on the stable door; his eyes were closed and he snored softly. I smiled; I’d never heard a horse snore before – only Julian when he’d had too much brandy from the decanter in the dining room after a good dinner.
    The night air held a chill and I shivered in my damp pyjamas, but I liked the quiet. There was no one around but me and I experienced a rush of satisfaction. For now I was free from worrying about how to behave, what to say, which words to use and, if I wanted, I could skip around the silent yard without anyone scolding me for inappropriate displays. I stretched luxuriously, revealing my belly to the night and gave an unladylike yawn. My hair was sticky with sweat and clung to my face and I decided that I would wash, despite the cold. An old-fashioned water pump with an iron handle stood in the middle of the yard. I’d watched the stable boy use it earlier before scrubbing Mr Bobbin, and I mimicked his movement, pushing the handle up and down, until a steady stream of water sluiced my feet and gushed over the cobbles. Kneeling, I shoved my head under the flow, trying to pump at the same time and managed to rinse my hair as well as spray myself with freezing water. The cold took my breath away, emptying my mind of all thought, save for the sensation of icy liquid washing through