by Jack Murray
‘And good to see you Arthur. You’re looking so spritely,’ replied Lady Emily.
Cavendish suspected this was intended to enrage him. To be fair to Emily, her aim was usually unerring. It had. He smiled back to her.
‘Oh, you know, Emily, I make sure to have lots of exercise and fresh air. I intend being around for a long time yet, my dear. A very long time,’ he emphasized.
Fifteen all.
And then there was the beastly boy. Cavendish studied him closely. Boy? He seemed like a young man, now. Was it really a year since they had last been together? The extent to which he was growing up became apparent when Henry stepped out of the car. Cavendish found himself having to look up into the young man’s blue eyes. He had grown a couple of inches since Cavendish had last seen him. They shook hands civilly but there was a limpness of grip that disappointed Cavendish.
‘Good to see you too, young man,’ said Cavendish with a smile and warmth he surely did not feel.
The height gave him a presence and a nobility he had previously lacked. The Cavendish nose was a Roman affair, but the blond hair, with just the hint of a curl, was definitely from Emily as were the fine features and clear eyes. He was, in some ways, like a Greek God. However, Cavendish detected in him a detachment, an unknowable depth that, as yet, had not resolved itself as either brilliance or stupidity. He was so unlike Robert at the same age.
His father was always destined to be in the army. A sportsman from before he could walk. He was an intoxicating mixture of devilry and duty. Unlike John, who was more serious and bookish, Robert had revelled in the outdoors, questionable company, and beautiful girls. However, this stopped short of outright self-indulgence. Instead, it made him a leader adored by his men from South Africa to the fields of France. He took risks, ended up in a few scrapes and bravely led from the front. Despite this, he seemed to be indestructible. Until Cambrai.
Henry abhorred sport. Although tall, he had not yet filled out. Where his mother had a complexion of peach, he had an unattractive pallor. Where Robert was self-assured and open, Henry was touchy and sullen. There was no hint of the quick humour and charm that had bewitched Emily and made Robert so cherished by Cavendish, his brother, and his fellow soldiers.
Cavendish regretted the lack of time spent with this young man. He realized it was incumbent upon him to make the effort. Clearly, he needed a new school. Somewhere he would be educated from the neck down. A greater emphasis on sport and outdoors would build the character that he found so difficult to detect in his grandson but wanted to see so badly.
He would try this Christmas. If Henry was to inherit his title and the responsibilities that came with it, Cavendish wanted him to have the right leadership qualities. There was time yet, he thought.
Events were to prove otherwise.
‘Grandfather,’ said Henry nodding. As he did not seem inclined to add to this statement, Cavendish turned and took Emily’s arm, leading her into the house.
‘Our other guests have arrived.’
‘Jolly good, I’m looking forward to meeting this Lord Kit Aston. I’ve heard so much about him. Very much the coming man, they say.’
‘I wouldn’t disagree,’ nodded Cavendish.
‘But who is this Strangerson? I don’t remember Robert mentioning him in letters to me. I fear I shall find it difficult to talk about the past,’ said Lady Emily. There was a something in her voice. There was no questioning her sincerity.
Cavendish shot her a look as she said this. For a moment he believed her. Had there been just a hint of a catch in her voice? In truth he had never quite trusted the motives of Emily in marrying Robert. However, if Emily’s motives were suspect, could he really criticize?
She was also an heiress. Her family owned one of the largest pharmaceutical companies in England. The family’s wealth had certainly been a point in her favour as far as he was concerned. Even Robert must have considered this. She was a beauty also. Robert would certainly have been attracted to her, irrespective of her family circumstances. Something in her tone had suggested he may have misjudged her. Or maybe he had imagined it. As with Henry, Cavendish felt this Christmas could be an opportunity to start anew with Emily.
They walked through the Palladian doorway. Once again, the staff had lined up to greet the new guests.
‘Lady Emily,’ said Curtis, bowing slightly and smiling deferentially at her and Henry. Neither acknowledged him or the other staff.
Cavendish observed this interaction and it irritated him greatly. All of a sudden, the old prejudice returned. This was not how one dealt with staff. She was just a social climbing parvenu and always would be. Immediately he felt ashamed for thinking this. It was too easy to let sympathy for Emily evaporate. It was not acceptable to sit by and not address the problem directly. They had all suffered so much in the last few years. It was time to come together. However, Curtis, of all people, should have merited more from Emily. He stopped himself thinking more on this subject. At the foot of the stairs, Emily let go of Cavendish’s arm.
‘We know the way from here. What time are we expected for lunch?’
‘We’ll have a light lunch around midday or after and then we will make ready for the carols singing afterwards. Reverend Simmons will be joining us once again with some of the villagers. Afterwards we’ll serve mulled wine and mince pies.’ He added innocently, ‘I know how much you value this tradition, Emily.’
Emily smiled insincerely back at him and nodded.
Thirty-fifteen, Cavendish thought mischievously but not mean-spiritedly.
Henry passed by. He looked like murder.
Chapter 4
Kit lay on the large bed bent double with laughter. Miller stood before him with his arms spread wide. He was modelling his new livery. He was laughing, too. The laughter was loud and continued for a minute before Kit finally sat up. Taking another look at Miller, he lost it once more. Miller turned and walked to a full-length mirror. He turned this way and that.
‘It fits quite well, don’t you think?’ suggested Miller.
Kit managed to splutter, ‘Perfectly. You really must get the name of their tailor.’
‘Yes, do you think he’d make on in white?’ This set off another round of schoolboy laughter from the two men.
‘Have to say, sir, I’ve done some things for you which were a challenge perhaps even foolhardy, but this really takes the biscuit.’
Kit looked more serious now.
‘I know, old chap. I can only apologise. If you wish I can say something to Lord Cavendish.’
Miller shook his head and then gave a half-hearted shrug of his shoulders. He was not a grumbler by nature. His first instinct was usually to see the amusing side of any situation and he normally laughed at himself as quickly as he would make fun of others. Kit valued this. He, likewise, did not take life so seriously. How could they after what they had experienced, he thought? They had both survived, many had not. There was nothing to complain about. Both recognized this; neither spoke of it.
Kit joined Miller at the mirror. He was wearing a tweed suit and a green woollen pullover, checked shirt and tweed tie. Miller couldn’t resist one last smirk and shake of the head. His livery was a dark, long tailed jacket, matching dark trousers, silver waistcoat, a white shirt with stiff white collar and a black tie. Kit could not suppress a smile also.
‘I wish I’d given you better training for these situations,’ said Kit apologetically causing Miller to laugh again.
‘How difficult can it be, sir?’ responded Miller.
‘You’d be surprised, Harry. Listen carefully to what this fellow Curtis says. You can end up in all sorts of trouble when you‘re serving luncheon and dinner. Really, don’t underestimate the challenges serving soup to lords and ladies.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind. You’re sure you don’t want me to spill some soup on Henry?’
‘Oh, why do you say that?’ asked Kit.
‘I gather he’s a real charmer,’ explained Miller sa
rdonically.
‘Really? How interesting. I‘ll make time for this young man.’
Miller could not decide if this was for amusement or if he had more noble motives in mind. With Kit, both could sit easily alongside one another. It was one of the reasons why he liked him as much as he did. He recognized it was also one of the reasons Kit had employed him.
Miller had admitted to a past that had been on the wrong side of the law. Far from being shocked by this, Kit had found it both entertaining and useful. Although he rarely gave the impression of assessing individuals, Miller recognized in Kit an acute sense of people. He also had a belief in the fundamental good of human nature. Miller suspected Kit might use some of his time over Christmas to get to know Henry Cavendish better and, perhaps, act as a mentor.
All in all, it was going to be a very different Christmas to any that he had experienced before. He thought once more about Polly. However, before he could dwell on her, he realised Kit was addressing him.
‘Perhaps you should re-join the rest of the staff, Harry. They will need help with lunch, I suspect.’
‘Right away, sir.’
Miller left the room and headed down the back stairs, to the kitchen. The food was sitting on the table ready to be brought upstairs. It was interesting, reflected Miller, that a light lunch at a country house would feed a hospital for a day. It looked wonderful and brought with it a comforting, gamey aroma. Curtis greeted Miller with a slow, priestly nod.
‘We need to bring this up to the dining room. No need to serve; they shall do so themselves.’
Miller felt relieved. He was not looking forward to serving food. This was a stay of execution only. Even Devlin was dragooned into moving the lunch from the kitchen to the dining room. Only Elsie stayed behind. Her job was done, for the moment. She collapsed onto a seat. With the three men and Polly helping, the food was quickly transferred upstairs.
Once everything had been set out, Curtis sent Devlin and Miller back downstairs, but Polly remained, much to Miller’s disappointment. On the way down the stairs, he shook hands with Devlin.
‘Harry Miller.’
‘Liam Devlin.’
Miller turned to Devlin when he heard the accent. ‘You’re Irish then. What part are you from?’
‘Just south of Dublin; a town called Bray,’ answered Devlin.
‘My grandma, on my mother’s side, was from Wexford.’
‘Really? I know Wexford well. It’s further down the east coast. Ever been?’
Miller laughed and shook his head.
‘First time I left England was to go to France.’
Devlin smiled in acknowledgement but did not add anything more. By now, they’d arrived in the kitchen. Elsie was head down on the kitchen table snoring loudly.
Devlin looked down at Elsie as they entered. Turning to Miller he said, ‘Just leave her, she’s been flat out since dawn. I’m heading back out to the front of the house. I want to put more salt down. I wasn’t anticipating so much snow. The carol singers will be coming in a few hours. At this rate they won’t make it to the house the way the snow’s falling. Help yourself to some of the food over there.’ He pointed towards a smaller food preparation table near the larder.
Beside the table was the basket Miller had brought in earlier. Something was beginning to stir inside, Miller noted. He knelt down and looked through the wicker bars. Two small brown eyes opened and blinked up at him. This was followed by a light growl. Sam was awake. The barking started. As Miller had predicted, he was in a foul mood. Reaching up to the table, he grabbed a piece of chicken and showed it as a peace offering to the little dog.
‘Well Sam, my lad, this can go two ways. You be nice to Harry and you get this lovely piece of chicken or you can be your usual bad-tempered self and starve.’
The little Jack Russell looked at Miller and then at the chicken with a slight tilt of his head. Incredibly, the growling stopped. Miller smiled triumphantly.
‘Good boy, I knew we could reach an accommodation. You might be capricious little so and so, but you’re not the stupidest, that’s for sure.’
Reaching down, he handed Sam the chicken, which was gobbled down greedily.
‘Some more boy?’
Miller could have sworn he saw Sam nod assent. This definitely was not the stupidest animal in the house. He looked up and saw Curtis arriving back in the kitchen, clearly harassed.
-
Eric Strangerson was also wearing a tweed suit. He surveyed himself in the mirror. His jacket refused to button. He left it unbuttoned deciding it was not worth the risk of it popping at an inopportune moment. He clapped his expanding waistline. It would have been unfair to call him fat, but he was definitely running the risk. He reproached himself out loud.
‘More bally discipline needed old chum. But not yet.’
A closer inspection of his face in the mirror brought a dissatisfied reaction. He took a pair of small scissors from his toilet bag and began to trim his, already, slim moustache. After a few moments he nodded with some satisfaction, then patted down his hair. Unquestionably it was beginning to recede at the front.
A rumble in his stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten for a few hours and was now distinctly peckish. When would they bang the gong for lunch, he wondered? Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a hip flask. Sadly, it was empty. On the journey up from London, he had imbibed from time to time.
‘This’ll never do. Must have some rations. God forbid they‘re a dry lot here.’
He pulled out from his bag a bottle of Scotch. Carefully he decanted some of the contents into the hip flask. Finally, he was able to take a quick nip. All at once he felt warm inside. Magic, he thought.
The prospect of being in a country house with people he had never met was not something that greatly worried him. He was naturally gregarious and sociable. His only worry was not himself, but them. Thankfully, reflected Strangerson, Aston seemed to be a good sort. It would be easy to spend a few days in the company of this man. Then of course there were the beautiful Cavendish sisters. The prospect of meeting them also added to the appeal of the next few days. Although if he didn’t miss his guess, one of the would be bound for Aston.
It was the first time Strangerson had met Aston. Although they had only been able to chat in the car from the station, he had formed an impression of a man at ease with himself and with a ready sense of humour. This corresponded with what he knew about Aston from mutual acquaintances.
They had both travelled from London, however, they were in different parts of the train. Strangerson had travelled second class on the train. Aston had travelled in first class. It was also interesting to note that his man, Miller, had also travelled first class with him. This seemed a bit odd, nevertheless, he realized things were changing. It would take a lot to convince him it was a sign of progress for servants to travel first class with their masters while a gentleman, like himself, had to travel second class due to economic necessity.
-
Lady Emily studied her reflection in the full-length mirror. She rarely over-indulged in any vice. She was temperate and did not smoke. Consequently, as her fortieth birthday loomed, she could easily have passed for someone ten years younger. Although quite vain in many ways, the way she looked was not something she thought about deeply. She was unquestionably beautiful. It had always been thus. There was little she could do to improve how she looked; there was no desire to do so and even less inclination to live a life that would age her unnecessarily.
Her contemplations were disturbed by a knock at her door. A voice said, ‘Mama?’
‘Come in Henry,’ replied Lady Emily.
Henry walked in a moment later. He’d not bothered to change. His mother raised an eyebrow towards him. Emily Cavendish could say more with a twitch of a facial muscle than most could in a speech.
Henry was an expert reader of his mother’s mood and understood immediately she was displeased. Lady Emily was even more expert at reading him, however. She c
ould read beyond the surface façade that he did not care. He cared but did not want to betray weakness to people he loathed.
Although this did not make her despair, it saddened her more than she would admit. It also made her a little angry, but not with Henry. He was just at a certain stage in his life. Soon he would emerge from the place he occupied, deep within himself, to become a young man to be proud of. This was a matter of certainty not the blind optimism of a mother.
‘You’re ready?’ she asked, knowing the answer.
‘Yes.’
She made a great show of surveying him up and down, ‘You could’ve made more of an effort.’
Henry snorted partly out of irritation for being treated like a child, partly because he could not see the point.
‘For them? They don’t like us. We don’t like them. Obviously, I’m not going to come out and say this, but I’m sure they know.’
It was difficult to disagree. This was a silent protest from Henry, and he had every right. Robert’s family had not been supportive since his death. If anything, they had seemed to wash their hands of both her and Henry. This was unforgivable. Lord Cavendish rarely wrote or called her. The girls never made contact. This was tantamount to abandonment. Robert’s boy, the future Lord Cavendish, had been made an outcast by his own family. She looked at him unable to hide the sadness she felt.
‘Very well. Remember, though, you will one day be lord of all you survey.’
Henry walked over to the window. What he could survey was quickly turning white.
‘It’s coming down pretty thick.’
‘Yes, I’ve seen. I hope they’ve made adequate provision.’
‘In other words, you think we could be stuck here for a while?’
This was good news as far as he was concerned but he did not want his mother to know why. Less enticing was the prospect of being stuck with relatives who did not care one jot for him. And then there were the other people he did not know. Almost certainly he would not like them. He knew they were just as likely not to like him, either. He was self-aware enough to know that he was awkward in company. This did not worry him particularly, or so he’d trained himself to think.