Phoebe’s head nearly swam with all she’d learned. “I might not remember all of this tomorrow,” she joked with Eva as Mr. Tremaine led them back to the administrative building and the conference room, where Julia awaited them. “But I certainly have a new appreciation for how much effort goes into creating china. I’ll never take a teacup for granted again.”
Eva chuckled. “Now comes the difficult task, choosing a pattern and shape for your grandparents.”
“Why difficult?” Amelia had caught up to them, once more removing her hat and swinging it by her side.
“Because, my lady, there are four of you and only one pattern to be chosen.”
Phoebe stepped inside ahead of them as Mr. Tremaine held the door open. “I’m fairly certain we can rule out Fox having an opinion one way or the other.” She glanced over her shoulder at him, lagging with his friend several yards behind their little group. The dog—Jester, Phoebe had heard him called—lumbered along beside them, his tongue lolling. None of the trio appeared particularly enthusiastic about the prospect of going inside. In fact, Phoebe guessed, if given the chance, they’d take off—the boys running, the dog bounding—somewhere no one could find them for a good long while. But she had no intention of giving her brother that chance and having to explain to Julia how she had lost him.
“Fox, come along. Julia is waiting. And you know how she gets when her patience runs out.”
That did the trick. Fox hurried his steps, and moments later they all filed into the conference room. The mingled scents of various teas—spicy, sweet, smooth, bold—filled the air. Julia and Ronald Mercer occupied two places at the far end of the table, Julia at the head and Mr. Mercer to her right. Hetta stood near a window, her hands folded at her waist, her eyes fixed on her mistress.
Julia and Mr. Mercer were leaning toward each other, appearing deep in concentration. Each held a teacup aloft, sipping occasionally, while around them was ranged an assortment of cup shapes and sizes. Julia had been busy in their absence, apparently. She glanced up and blinked. “There you all finally are. I was beginning to think you’d never return.”
Jeffrey Tremaine once more colored with embarrassment. “I’m so sorry, Lady Annondale. I . . . I hadn’t realized we kept you waiting such an uncomfortably long time. I do apologize.”
“Oh, Julia, you should have come.” Amelia walked the length of the table and plunked into the chair opposite Mr. Mercer. “We learned so much! All of it fascinating.”
Julia issued one of her shrugs and tilted her head. “One doesn’t need to know how a motorcar works to operate one.” She drained her teacup.
“Try this, Lady Annondale.” Mr. Mercer leaned forward to retrieve a teapot; he turned to Amelia. “Choose a cup and saucer and tell me what kind of tea you fancy.” Then the man noticed his son standing behind Fox. Or hovering, looking as though he hoped not to be seen. His father’s pleasant expression dimmed. “Trent. What are you doing here? You have work to do.” Phoebe saw his gaze land on the dog, but he gave the animal no sign of welcome. Neither did Jester trot over to the man in greeting.
“We’re mates from Eton,” Fox explained when his friend only stared back at his father in tight-lipped silence.
Ronald Mercer leaned back in his chair and viewed the boys down the length of his curving nose. “Is that right?”
Fox nodded. Trent continued to gaze mutely at his father. Phoebe couldn’t help but notice how his eyes became larger and how his bottom lip protruded. His withdrawal from Eton had been a contentious topic between them, she concluded. Still was.
His father smiled. “Not anymore, I’m afraid. Trent has left academia behind. He’s learning this business and will eventually train as a designer. Like me.” He touched his fingertips to his coat front.
“That’s splendid.” Julia sampled the tea the man poured for her, then announced, “Mr. Mercer and I have made some preliminary decisions.”
Phoebe took a seat beside Amelia. “I thought this was supposed to be a family decision.”
Before Julia could reply, a bustling sounded in the doorway. A man practically skidded in from the hallway. Compact in size, with unkempt dark hair and uncommonly green eyes, he appeared out of breath and flushed. A bundle of papers, the corners sticking out this way and that, filled his arms.
“So sorry I’m late.” He came to a sudden halt beside Mr. Tremaine, who rolled his eyes slightly and looked as though he’d like to melt into the floor tiles. “Got caught up with a project.” He attempted to straighten his papers on the tabletop, to little effect. He laid them down instead. “You’re the Renshaws, yes?”
Phoebe and her siblings regarded the young man in perplexed silence, until Phoebe overcame her surprise at the manner of his arrival. “Yes, we’re the Renshaws. Let me hazard a guess. You’re Percy Bateman, the other designer.”
“I am,” he replied in equal surprise, as if he credited Phoebe’s knowledge of his name to mystical powers. “And I’ve brought some ideas for your china.”
“That might not be necessary, Percy.” Mr. Mercer looked downright triumphant. “Lady Annondale and I appear to see eye to eye on what the family requires.”
“But . . .” Percy Bateman visibly wilted. “I’ve worked so hard. Surely . . .” His glance darted from Phoebe to each of her siblings, landing lastly on Julia. “Surely, you’ll at least take a look.”
“Of course we will.” Phoebe ignored Julia’s intake of breath, yet another sign of her impatience. “We haven’t made any decisions yet.”
“Have a seat, Percy.” Mr. Tremaine gestured the younger man to the table. “Before our guests decide on a pattern, they must choose a cup shape, which will determine whether the design will be traditional, modern, romantic, Baroque, etc.”
“Modern,” Julia uttered without hesitation. She pointed to a cup with sleek, tapering lines, a small round foot, and a triangular-shaped handle.
“Romantic,” Amelia said over her, reaching toward a fluted cup that mimicked the petals of a flower.
“Traditional,” Phoebe said with emphasis. “Grams and Grampapa are traditionalists in every way. They won’t want anything modern, Julia. Or too fussy, Amelia.” Her gaze landed on a footed cup with a wide bowl and scrolling handle.
“Nonsense.” Julia sniffed. “It’s a new decade. A new era.”
“While I couldn’t agree with you more,” Phoebe said evenly, “we can’t impose our tastes on Grams and Grampapa. This gift is for them, not you or me.”
“I agree with Phoebe about not wanting something modern.” Amelia reached into the center of the table, looped her finger into the handle of the fluted teacup, and lifted it carefully. “But traditional is boring, Phoebe. This is for their anniversary. It should be a romantic shape, with a lovely floral pattern worked around the coat of arms.” She turned to their brother, who sat with Trent farther down the table. “Fox?”
“I say we scrub the whole idea of teacups and bring Grams and Grampapa a pair of Staffordshire bull terriers, like Jester here.” He pointed down at the dog, sitting placidly beside his master’s chair and appearing thoroughly bored by the humans around him. “That’s what Foxwood Hall needs nowadays. A good pair of dogs like we always had about the place before the war.”
* * *
With Phoebe and Amelia’s permission, Eva left the siblings to squabble over teacups. Mr. Tremaine had said it would be all right for her to return to the building where the artwork was done and quietly observe, but to stay clear of the industrial areas. No risk of that, as she had no desire to return to the subterranean-like chambers that housed the vats with their lethal-looking blades or the ovens, where nothing living could survive the temperatures.
What held her fascination in the room she returned to were the rows and rows of worktables, nearly all of them occupied by women, each with a good two dozen teacups on trays before them. Each woman wore a simple cotton dress of light blue or gray, covered by a thick white apron. It surprised her that those aprons, in most case
s, were virtually unblemished. That showed their great skill and care in handling paint. Brush in hand, prepared pigments arranged beside them, each artist painstakingly applied an array of color to each item of transferware, bringing the patterns to vivid life.
She walked slowly down one of the long aisles, of which there were nearly a dozen. Large windows let in a good amount of natural light, augmented by the electric lights overhead. Eva understood this last detail would have been added only within the past few years. Before that, artwork would have depended on the weather cooperating with abundant sunshine. Days without must have put production behind schedule.
Only a few of the artists glanced up as she passed them. Most seemed undisturbed in their concentration and unaware of their audience of one. Or perhaps they were accustomed to being observed. Eva would imagine Mr. Tremaine, as the company’s owner, and Mr. Mercer, as head of the design department, would wish to ensure their workers produced only the finest quality.
She was about to make a turn onto the next row when a woman sitting in the corner at the far end of the room stood abruptly. She was a sturdy, large-boned woman, much like Hetta, with a round face, wide chin and brow, and small blue eyes above a short, upturned nose. She and Hetta were even about the same age. But here the resemblance to the congenial Swiss woman ended. Eva could imagine this woman as a head matron at a hospital, one who ruled her nurses with an iron fist, especially judging by her displeased expression, which was aimed wholly upon Eva.
“Can I help you?” Nothing about her tone implied a desire to be solicitous. On the contrary, she appeared about to order Eva from the premises. “You shouldn’t be here. I can’t imagine how you got in.”
Eva decided to be acquiescent rather than defensive, even if she did have Mr. Tremaine’s permission to be there. “I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb anyone. I was here earlier, touring the facilities with Mr. Tremaine. Perhaps you remember?”
“And? That doesn’t explain what you’re doing back here now.” The woman narrowed her gaze as she took in Eva from head to toe, surveying her charcoal traveling suit beneath her plain wool coat, and her sensible pumps. A little gleam of judgment entered the woman’s small eyes. She had sized Eva up and made a deduction, though whether for good or ill, Eva couldn’t yet say.
“You see, my employers are planning to commission a table service for their grandparents.” She smiled and tilted her head apologetically. “They’re deciding on the particulars now and don’t need me, so I slipped away. This part of the factory fascinated me, and Mr. Tremaine said it would be all right if I returned to watch. Honestly, I didn’t mean to disturb your work.”
She quickly gazed to her right and left to find several of the workers had turned their attention on her, but they just as speedily returned to their tasks. Perhaps it wasn’t that they found the encounter dull, but that they feared being censured by their supervisor—for Eva decided this woman must be in charge of this department.
“Your employers, you say? Are they the family of the Earl and Countess of Wroxly?”
“Yes, the very same.” Eva made sure to smile and speak cordially.
“Hmph. That’s an important commission. All right, then, you may stay.” The woman’s gaze traveled over Eva once more. “What are you, a lady’s maid?”
“I am, yes.”
“Hmph,” the woman uttered again, giving Eva the impression she disapproved of the position. “I’m Moira Wickham, head of painting and enameling.”
Yes, Eva had guessed correctly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Eva Huntford. Thank you for letting me stay.” She glanced down at the woman’s left hand and saw no ring. Not even that slight, telltale indentation of the finger that said she sometimes wore one, but removed it to work. In all likelihood none of these women had husbands, or they wouldn’t be working here at all.
Miss Wickham began walking, signaling for Eva to join her. They slowly made their way down the row Eva had been heading for before Miss Wickham had waylaid her. As they passed by each desk, Eva silently admired the efforts of each painter. “Do you have artistic ambitions, Miss Huntford?”
“I wish I had the talent, but, no, I’ve only an appreciation for the work you’re doing here. I must admit to being slightly envious.”
“You don’t like your position, then.”
“Oh, I don’t mean to imply that at all. I love working for my ladies. I tend to two, you see, the earl’s two younger granddaughters. It used to be all three, but now that the eldest, Lady Annondale, is . . .” Eva trailed off, having little desire to explain the circumstances of Lady Annondale’s widowhood. Besides, Miss Wickham could hardly be interested in such particulars. And yet, the woman nodded.
“Yes, the Viscountess Annondale, that was Lady Julia Renshaw. I read all about her in the papers last spring.”
Eva’s face heated. How she loathed the thought of any of her ladies being subjected to the scandal sheets. Yet, she could hardly blame the newspapers for running the story of the Viscount Annondale’s murder on the very night of his wedding. How, then, could she blame the public for reading those same stories?
Best to change the subject altogether. “How long have you been working here, Miss Wickham?”
“Over ten years now. Before that, I worked for a competing pottery.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, how is it that most of the painters here are women?”
They stopped beside a blonde of about thirty who held one of the modern cups Lady Annondale had admired in the conference room. She appeared to be working with a palette of blues, with white, lavender, and subtle pinks bringing highlights to the elongated trees in the design. The woman smiled up at them and immediately refocused on her work.
“Women have smaller hands, better for such fine details.”
Eva couldn’t help stealing another glance down at Miss Wickham’s hands. They were hardly small. In fact, they were wide and muscular, the fingers were short and stubby. But Eva could only surmise the woman possessed the necessary dexterity nonetheless, or she would not be head of painting and enameling.
“Our few men are only here temporarily, as soon enough they’ll be promoted to assistant designers. As for the rest of us, there isn’t much work out there for female artists, other than what we do here. It’s not creative, you see, but carefully laid out for us. Creativity is left to the men. You met Mr. Mercer.”
It wasn’t a question, nor was the observation without its implications—being that women were relegated to a secondary role in the creation of Crown Lily china, and this did not please Moira Wickham.
“I also met Percy Bateman,” Eva said. “He seemed most eager to present his design ideas to the Renshaws.”
“Poor Percy, he’s a bit of a nervous wreck sometimes, but a first-rate designer. I hope he wins the commission, but we’ll see.” Her brow creased. “There are others who’d like the commission as well, who have fine ideas for the pattern design, but they won’t be considered.”
Again, the implication seemed to be that Mr. Mercer held the reins of creativity tightly in both fists. Eva hoped Mr. Bateman would win out merely on principle. Then again, was Miss Wickham speaking of herself as having fine ideas for the Renshaws’ pattern? How frustrating it must be, and infuriating, to have one’s talents dismissed merely on the basis of being a woman.
“How did you receive your art training?” Eva asked, at the same time surprised that after such a frosty beginning, they should find themselves speaking almost as confidantes.
“My parents saw my potential early on and found the means to send me to one of the local art schools. There are plenty in the region, you know, because of the many china manufacturers.”
“Were they artists as well?”
Miss Wickham laughed quietly. “My parents, no. My mother was in service before she married. A lady’s maid, like yourself.” She nodded at Eva, and Eva suspected the coincidence was largely responsible for Miss Wickham not sending her packing earlier. “An
d my father was a vicar before he retired. They very wisely wanted me to have choices, and I often wonder, nowadays, where I would be if they hadn’t.”
“What do you mean?” The comment left Eva truly curious, and she looked up from studying a bold black-and-white pattern, strewn here and there with brightly colored balloons, on the plates a woman was painting.
“The war, of course,” the woman said succinctly. “I’m a surplus woman, as are most of the others here. Women without husbands, and who’ll likely never find husbands. Like yourself, if I’m not mistaken. You’re about the right age, I’d say.”
“Surplus women . . . such a callous term.” Eva wasn’t admonishing Miss Wickham. She had heard those words before and read them in the newspapers in recent months. Miss Wickham had defined the term perfectly: women who would likely never find husbands because the war had taken so many men of their generation. That much Eva knew to be true. What she couldn’t understand was why such women were blamed for their circumstances, as if they should apologize for existing and slink off into oblivion, where society would no longer have to acknowledge them.
Yet, she didn’t mention that, unlike so many women her age, she very likely would marry one day. It wasn’t a lack of prospects that kept her single at present, but duty toward her ladies—and genuine love for them. Having been motherless from an early age, and fatherless since the war, the Renshaw girls needed Eva as so much more than a lady’s maid. But when they no longer did . . .
Then perhaps she and Miles Brannock might build a life of their own. A constable made too little money to support a family, but someday he would be promoted . . . and her ladies would no longer need her as they do now . . . And then, they would see.
“I’ll have you know it was us women who kept Crown Lily going during the war.” They had reached the end of another row, and here Miss Wickham drew Eva aside. “Pulling double duty not only painting and enameling, but filling in for the men who went off to fight. We packed barrels and loaded lorries and train carriages. Backbreaking work, I don’t mind telling you. But we did our bit. It was the patriotic thing to do, keeping an old English company like this one afloat. We were painting quite a lot of commemorative patterns, too, town and city crests, military insignia, tributes to our victories on the continent. Many was the day we toiled long into the night, but not a one of us complained.”
A Sinister Service Page 3