‘Are you wearing that dress for the party?’
‘Yes, miss.’
‘What about the white one I gave you? Have you not altered it yet?’
‘I have, miss. Only ... I don’t know whether I should. It’s very grand.’
‘Nonsense. This is a party. The perfect occasion for a grand dress.’
They share a smirk in the looking glass, and Liz senses the excitement building in the young girl.
‘Now, go and see to Mary, then get yourself in that dress. Promise?’
‘Yes, miss.’ Anne curtseys and practically skips from the room.
Liz goes to the window again. The storm clouds are closer. A bee has found its way through the window and now buzzes in panic to be free. Liz brings over a chair, stands on it, and ushers the bee outside, feeling its wings vibrating against her fingers as she does so.
Below her, Tom strides across the lawn. After a moment, he slows, turns, and finds her, immediately. They hold each other’s gaze. Then Tom turns again and paces away.
Tom sips his champagne and sees his carriage coming closer over the heathland with a group of villagers. His pocket watch tells him it is ten to three as he stands next to the marquee where the food is laid out and covered in starched cloths to keep off the flies. Chipman murmurs something behind him, and soon Liz appears by Tom’s side with a foggy glass of champagne in her hand.
‘Mary is getting dressed.’ Liz drinks. She is pale, despite the heat. The pearls around her neck lie unevenly over her protruding collarbones.
‘I think you should sit.’ Tom guides her to a seat and orders Chipman to collect her parasol.
‘Are you looking forward to the game?’ she says. Her hand is cold through her glove as he holds it.
‘Slightly.’
‘Do you fear they shall beat you?’ Her lips twist under her hat, her eyes sparkle. Tom shivers, swallows, forces his eyes from her pretty face.
‘Your parasol, miss.’
‘They are nearly here. I should go to Mary.’ She rises, and Tom steadies her by the crook of her elbow when she stumbles.
‘Are you sure you are all right?’ He is close to her, whispering into her ear. He feels her hair touching his face as he speaks; he smells rose and lavender.
She hesitates for a moment as if she would say something, then pats her skirts. ‘I am fine.’
He watches her go. She places each foot on the ground like she is creeping into a nursery in the dead of night. How he longs to follow her, but the villagers are approaching. He wonders if it is rude for Mary not to be present as the guests arrive, and smiles as he realises it is.
They parade up to him, each and every one of them beaming. They say hello, how nice it is of the Olivers to do such a thing, how they are so looking forward to the afternoon. The men joke between themselves, the women sneak up to the marquee to peek at the food. All of them, including the children, take a glass of champagne.
Anne’s parents and a couple of older villagers dismount from the carriage that has parked on the drive and make their way towards the congregation. Mrs Witmore staggers as she holds onto her husband for support, her wooden leg difficult to manoeuvre.
‘Good day, Mr Witmore, Mrs Witmore.’ Tom ambles over to them, meeting them on the lawn and clicking his fingers at one of the maids who holds another tray of drinks.
‘Thank you, Mr Oliver.’ Mrs Witmore giggles as the bubbles catch her nose while she sips. She has the same colour hair as her daughter, but her features are daintier and lined with age. It appears that Anne follows her father in her looks.
‘Very kind of you to send the carriage.’ Mr Witmore doffs his hat.
It is the first time the two men have met, and the atmosphere is not quite as subdued as Tom would have liked. Mr Witmore’s blue eyes move over Tom, surveying his suit, his hair, his face.
‘No trouble. Shall you play today, Mr Witmore?’
Suddenly, two small red-haired boys collide into their father, grinning mischievously.
‘Yes. And these two are certainly looking forward to it.’
‘Boys!’ Mrs Witmore pulls them from their father, chiding them for their unruly behaviour as Grace, Anne’s sister, comes along. ‘I told you to keep an eye on them. Sorry, Mr Oliver.’
‘Not at all.’ Tom winks at the boys who laugh wickedly. He smiles at Grace, a miniature version of her sister. ‘I hope you enjoy the day. And here is my wife, looking as radiant as ever.’
Mary and Liz emerge from the house arm in arm. Liz smiles as she passes the crowd. Mary’s face is flat.
‘Darling.’ Tom kisses Mary on the cheek as she unlinks from Liz. ‘These are Anne’s parents.’
‘Hello.’ Mary does not look them in the eye, and Mrs Witmore’s smile fades as Mary shows no recognition of her.
‘We best go and sort the children.’ Mrs Witmore nods at the boys who have started to run around the garden amongst the women’s skirts.
‘Nice to see you again,’ Liz says before Mrs Witmore leaves, and earns herself a smile in return.
‘Is the Reverend here yet? Or Doctor Jameson?’
‘Not yet, dear. It is only ten past.’
The three of them stand in the middle of the lawn, the ladies’ parasols high, champagne flutes to their lips, smiling or unsmiling at those having a far nicer time around them.
To Tom’s relief, it is only a minute before a carriage draws up to the house, and the Reverend Carey, a tall willowy man, and his wife, a short woman, similar in looks to the queen, dismount. Directly behind them, another carriage pulls up, and Doctor Jameson emerges on his own.
Tom readies himself, downs his drink, and strides towards his guests. He kisses Mrs Carey’s cheek before she walks on to find Mary, then shakes the men’s hands.
‘You certainly look the part,’ Doctor Jameson says, quickly removing himself from Tom’s firm grasp.
‘Yes, you shall make a fine cricketer, Mr Oliver. I hope I can only catch the ball if it comes my way. I was never one for sports at school.’ Reverend Carey chuckles, shakes his head. ‘My legs don’t seem to do what my brain tells them to.’
‘We shall have to have you as bowler then, Mr Carey.’
Mr Carey removes his handkerchief from his pocket and dabs his glistening forehead. ‘This is a marvellous thing for you to do, Mr Oliver. Just marvellous. I have never seen the villagers so jolly. You have been in their prayers recently and shall continue to be so, I am sure.’
‘Whose idea was it to invite them?’ the doctor says.
‘I thought it would be a nice way to introduce ourselves properly, get to know everybody, bolster them up for the harvest.’
‘Ah, yes. The harvest. Now I see.’
‘A marvellous idea,’ Mr Carey says, oblivious to the politics in their circle. ‘Mr Oliver, is there ... is there anywhere I might use one of your conveniences?’
Tom beckons Chipman over and instructs him to show Mr Carey to the water closet. Tom and Jameson turn towards the party, a reasonable distance between them, the silence expanding.
‘How are they finding you?’
‘Sorry?’
‘The villagers. Your tenants.’
Tom clenches and unclenches his jaw, smiles through the stiffness.
‘Pretty well, I should say.’ He gestures to the crowd, who are all laughing and drinking and throwing happy glances his way. Jameson draws breath to speak again, but Tom is in no mood for him today. ‘Darling,’ he calls to Mary over the head of the doctor. ‘I think it is time for some cricket. Are you playing, Doctor?’
‘No. I prefer to observe, Mr Oliver.’
The cricket match is nearing its end when Anne descends the garden steps onto the lawn. The villagers have their backs to her, but she can see the blue and green shimmering dresses at the head of the crowd, lace parasols raised, the two ladies together looking like a peacock on display.
Her heart races as Mr Oliver bowls. The muscles in his arms have grown thick, and his cheeks have a rosy
hue from the exercise. He bowls the perfect shot, and the ball glides effortlessly past Mr Marsh’s defence, toppling the wickets. Mr Oliver’s team cry in joy, and as he laughs, his gaze falls upon Anne for a second. The game continues as someone shouts about the looming clouds and how they’d better hurry up and win properly.
Anne finds her mother in the crowd, sat on the far side with Grace next to her. She sneaks up on Gwen and taps her on the shoulder, making her jump, so enthralled in the game she is.
‘Anne! You scared me.’ Gwen opens her arms, and Anne hugs her close for as long as is comfortable in the heat.
‘You look well, Mother. And you, Grace.’
The glee in her mother’s eyes wavers as she regards Anne. ‘Where did you get that dress?’
‘Miss Oliver gave it to me. It’s fine, ain’t it?’ Anne twirls and some villagers stare at her.
‘It is very fine. Too fine, Anne. Are you sure you should be wearing it?’
A heavy drop of rain falls on her bodice. Overhead, the sun is hidden behind grey curtains of clouds. She thinks she hears thunder, but it could just be the roar from the players as the final wicket is won and the game ends. In a second, Eddie and Paul run at her, crushing her in a long embrace.
‘Anne, you look ... wonderful.’ Will has come over. He is pink-faced, and Anne does not know if that is from playing or from something else.
‘What are you wearing?’ her father says on his approach, and Eddie and Paul disentangle themselves from her.
‘Miss Oliver gave it to me.’ Anne’s voice is thin and childish. She thought she would walk out and be admired, not chided.
Her mother sighs. ‘Anne, when your lady gives you clothes, it is better to sell them and buy something more ... suitable.’
Anne feels the cotton, how smooth and clean it is. The green stitched flowers are made of silk, something she has never worn before. She has been transformed into a beauty, like the butterfly she embroidered.
‘You do not know Miss Oliver. She likes me to wear it.’ She flounces away from them towards her mistresses, timing, nicely she thinks, with Mr Oliver who meets her there. He wipes the sweat from his brow, whistles through his teeth, and smiles as he holds her gaze. She knows she is blushing, but try as she might, she cannot make her skin cool.
‘What on earth!’ Mrs Oliver rises.
The happiness evaporates as Anne sees Mrs Oliver’s face. She wishes she could run away, but there is nowhere to go. She is helpless.
‘First of all,’ Mrs Oliver hisses, prowling towards Anne and lowering her voice so the villagers cannot hear, ‘you dress like a whore and, now, as if you were the lady of this house.’
‘Ma’am. I ...’ Anne does not know what to do. Everybody is watching. Her face stings and her fingers flutter involuntarily to her cheeks to hide her humiliation.
‘Mary,’ Mr Oliver whispers. ‘Do not embarrass the girl.’
‘Be quiet, Tom!’
The villagers gasp as Mr Oliver is silenced.
Miss Oliver stands. ‘I am feeling a little faint.’
‘Who do you think you are, Anne?’
Miss Oliver sways, and Mr Oliver rushes to his sister’s side. Anne would go to her too, but she is pinned by Mrs Oliver’s glare. Suddenly, there is a cry, and Miss Oliver falls.
‘Doctor Jameson!’ Mr Oliver cradles his sister in his arms as the village women form a circle around her and fan her with their hands. Doctor Jameson checks her pulse, feels her brow, retrieves his smelling salts. Gulping the air, Miss Oliver wakes, as if she has been brought back from the dead. Rain splatters her forehead, and Mr Oliver takes his handkerchief to dry her.
‘Get her inside.’ Jameson clicks his fingers at Chipman and Will, who carefully, along with Mr Oliver, manage to get her to her feet.
‘I think you should go with Liz now,’ Mr Oliver says, and Anne is grateful for his command. Keeping her gaze averted from Mrs Oliver and her parents, Anne scurries after her mistress.
They carry Miss Oliver up the stairs and lay her on her bed. The doctor instructs Anne to get fresh water and to tell the cook to prepare some broth. After Miss Oliver has drunk a large glass of cold water, the doctor leaves, and tells Anne to keep an eye on her for the rest of the day.
‘I think she has done you a favour.’ Jameson leers at Anne down his nose as he goes.
Miss Oliver is as pale as her sheets. Anne frees her hair from its pins so that it cascades over her shoulders and back. Then, Anne carefully unfastens her clothes, peeling them away from her sticky skin, until she wears only her chemise and drawers.
‘Some more water, miss.’ Anne lifts her head and trickles the drink over her cracked lips.
‘You do look beautiful,’ Miss Oliver whispers.
Anne’s heartbeat quickens. For all the shame, there is a fire in her stomach; the way that Mr Oliver regarded her was unmistakable. A smile spills onto her lips, but when she meets Miss Oliver’s gaze again, the woman’s eyes are hard.
‘I’ll go and fetch your food, miss.’
Anne slips from the room. She is just about to scurry to the back stairs when she hears raised voices from the hallway below.
‘You will calm down this instant.’
‘I shall not! Who does she think she is? She will be gone first thing tomorrow.’
‘Don’t be so rash, Mary.’
‘Rash? No maid should look so … so …’
‘Pretty?’
Silence. Anne’s heart pounds. She holds her chest.
‘What did you say?’
Anne should leave; she should run away like a good maid. She should not eavesdrop. But she is desperate to hear what Mr Oliver will say.
‘Anne looked pretty.’
Anne’s elation crumbles as she hears a slap and knows, with a terrible sickness, that Mrs Oliver has hit her husband. Then, there is the rumbling of a chuckle.
‘I think you are not feeling well, my dear. Perhaps you should go to bed.’
Mrs Oliver’s voice is low and rough, like a dog growling. ‘I will not go to bed.’
‘The party is over. You saw to that. Everyone has left.’
‘I want her gone. Do you hear me, Tom?’
Mr Oliver says nothing.
‘I want her gone!’ The walls echo Mrs Oliver’s scream.
Anne holds her breath.
‘No.’
Silence.
How Anne wishes she could see the look on Mrs Oliver’s face!
‘I want her gone,’ Mrs Oliver repeats, but the command is hollow.
‘I said no.’ He sighs. ‘You look tired, wife. The party has taken its toll on you.’
‘I am fine.’
‘Are you really? You don’t seem it.’
‘I am well!’
‘Go to bed.’ His words send shivers through Anne; they are as sharp as a blade on glass.
Anne would stay longer, she would reach over the bannister to see those gorgeous green eyes, those full red lips as they speak to defend her, but then shoes tap on the stairs; Mrs Oliver is obeying!
Before Mrs Oliver has time to see her, Anne slips through the disguised partition door and runs to the kitchen, smiling all the way.
Chapter 7
October 1869
The rain has been almost constant for the past two months. Everywhere seems damp. The windows swirl with water, and the grounds are brown sludge. Even the walls cry in misery.
Liz has been inside for five days straight. The air is thick with dust, her clothes are heavy and cloying against her skin. She passes the time finding patterns in the streaks of rain on the glass panes, imagining forests or unfriendly faces.
She cannot stand it anymore. Another minute sitting here and those faces will come out of the windows and bite her.
She calls for Anne.
‘Prepare my coat. I am going out.’
‘Where, miss? You’ll get drenched.’
‘I need some air. Come with me if you like?’
Anne hesitates; she does not
like the wet, but she likes Mary even less. ‘I’ll just be a minute.’
They meet by the front door, the two of them wrapped in dark coats, the hoods falling over their eyes.
‘Should we take the carriage, miss?’
‘No. I want to walk.’
Liz strides out. The wind is not as cold as she had imagined, and it breathes against her bare cheek in welcome relief. Underneath her vast cloak, she does not feel the rain, only the occasional drop on her nose where it falls from the rim of her hood. Her feet, however, grow wet and she wriggles her toes in her stockings, cringing at the moisture there.
‘Where are we going, miss?’ Anne says, struggling to keep up.
Liz slows. She has not thought where they would head, she had just needed to get out from the confinement of the walls, to stop the eyes in the paintings from looking at her, to stop the noise in her head. Most of all, she had wanted to escape before Mary joined her in the afternoon, as has been her custom these last few weeks, so she would not have to see the bump underneath Mary’s dress, or hear talk of kicks, or knit gowns for the little boy that Mary is sure she will deliver.
The mist hangs so low that the clouds are indistinguishable from it. They could be miles from the sea for there is no evidence of it in view. The heathland is, now, a massive bog and unsafe to walk over. Only the shadowy trees are visible, like grey tombstones in the whiteness, and so she heads towards them.
Liz and Anne do not talk until they reach the woods where the leaves shelter them and quieten the noise of the downpour. Liz lets down her hood and breathes, inhaling freshness. It is like a long drink of clean, cold water.
‘Do you know what sort of trees these are?’ Liz meanders serenely between the trunks, pausing to pull on a branch. Fat splodges of rain drip onto her cloak.
‘That is a beech, miss.’
‘How can you tell?’
Anne draws closer. ‘Its leaves have little wavy edges and fur. Can you see the hairs on them? The trunk also gives you a clue. It’s almost grey in colour. And if you touch it, it’s smooth.’
Convenient Women Collection Page 27