Christmas had been the best he remembered, but then it could be no other way considering that, until then, he had spent each one hungry and cold, alone apart from Fecker. Not only did it bring the gift of Archer’s love and the freedom of his estate, but Silas came to the house to find Fecker alive and, although injured, well. Then Archer had given him something he could never have imagined. The viscount and Fecker had rescued Silas’ twin sisters from more than poverty and given them employment not only at Larkspur but in Silas’ own suite of rooms, conveniently joined to those of his lover. With his good friend James as his valet and assistant, there could be nothing better, and Silas’ life was set on a course for… For…
‘That’s the thing, though, isn’t it?’ he said later that morning, again staring from his window to the moors that rolled into the distant mist. ‘What am I doing?’
James, behind him and brushing his collar, said, ‘You’re living, mate, that’s what counts. And you’re living free.’
‘Yeah,’ Silas agreed. ‘And that’s my problem. I’m living for free. I ain’t doing anything for Archie, nor for the estate. I ain’t got any skills other than mimicking folk and being cheeky like I’m some kind of music hall turn. You’ve got a job, you have a purpose, you’re alright.’
‘I am, and I can’t deny it,’ James said, putting down the soft-bristled brush. ‘Turn around?’
Silas did as asked, and James was content with his appearance.
‘I got to have something to do, Jimmy.’ Silas collected the brush and attended to James’ suit.
There was no need for him to tidy his friend’s clothes, and in any case, it was the valet’s job, not the master’s, but Silas was not a master. He never called himself one, and the ritual was purely to remind Jimmy that despite the roles they had to play in public, they were equals.
‘What do you want to do?’ James asked, straightening an arm so Silas could check the sleeve. ‘You’ve been learning to ride and fence, that’s something.’
‘Yeah, Fecks and Danny have got me on a bloody horse without me falling off, but…’ He sighed. ‘Life was a lot easier before I met Archer.’
‘What? Renting on the streets of the East End was easier than living here?’ James’ hazel eyes were wide in mock horror. ‘You’d rather be doing that?’
‘I’d rather be doing something other than sitting around reading books and being nice to posh people,’ Silas moaned. ‘There, you’ll do.’ He replaced the brush on the dressing table and returned to the window. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Jimmy, I love being here, and no, I don’t want to go back to my old life, who would? But I do miss the…’ The word evaded him.
‘Sex?’ James suggested as he stood shoulder to shoulder admiring the infinite view.
‘Dirty git,’ Silas chuckled. ‘No, I get plenty of that with Archie, and it’s completely different. No, I miss the thrill, I suppose. Not knowing what’s coming next, who you’re going to meet, how you’re going to survive. I had a purpose then, see? Staying alive, mainly, but now? I feel like a spare prick at a whore’s wedding.’
James put his arm around the shorter man and gave him a squeeze, something that would never happen in any other noble house. ‘Tell him then, mate,’ he said. ‘Tell Archer you’re bored and see what he comes up with.’
‘I don’t want to sound ungrateful, and I don’t want him to think I’m only here to be his plaything either.’
‘You are far more than that, and you know it. What you don’t know is what to do with yourself.’ They took a breath together as below on the lawn, a crow disturbed the mist and broke the morning with its caw. ‘You miss the excitement, don’t you?’ James prompted. ‘We’ve not heard from Quill since the courtroom.’
‘Don’t remind me,’ Silas moaned. Despite the memories of the cell, the beating and the humiliation, he managed a smile. ‘But yeah, I do miss all that, not that I want him to rear his deformed head anytime soon, but I’ve got to have something to do, Jimmy.’
‘Leave it with me, Sir,’ James said, releasing Silas and standing to attention. ‘I will think on it.’
‘Cheers, mate.’ Silas kissed him on the cheek, something else than would never happen between a viscount’s secretary and his valet, probably not in any house let alone a stately one, but they were the closest of companions, and their friendship had always been gilded with attraction. Attraction that was never allowed to boil over into anything other than the occasional peck, a hug or light-hearted, verbal flirting. They both understood the rules.
‘And your plans for this morning?’ James asked as he collected Silas’ pyjamas and draped them over his arm.
‘Going for a wander,’ Silas replied. ‘Maybe see Fecks. I don’t know. Stuff.’
He paused at the door. Although they were in Silas’ private suite of rooms, there was no telling who was on the other side, and there were many secrets the servants were not to know.
Opening the door, Silas said, ‘Thank you, Mr Wright, that will be all.’
‘Sir,’ James replied as he bowed his head.
They winked at each other, and Silas stepped into the gentleman’s corridor, turning right towards the main stairs. If he turned left, he would come to the end of the passage and a stone arch; the entrance to the tower. The building rambled in a ‘patchwork of styles’, as Archer called it, and on more than one occasion Silas had become lost in its passages, galleries and stairways.
One night, Archer had asked Thomas to bring a set of children’s building blocks from the attic. They had been Archer’s when he was a child, and as with so many other things in the house, they had never been thrown away. He had used them to build a rough layout of the estate as a way of helping Silas orientate himself to the property. Two long bricks either side of an arch represented the south façade that faced the inland moor, one up-ended brick for the west tower, and at the other end, another long brick at right angles for the east wing. Behind and below the house were a jumble of smaller wooden pieces, the kitchens and below-stairs rooms leading to a back yard and the dairy, the icehouse and the machine room. Beside them the kitchen gardens were laid out, and a plot of land now farmed by Fecker’s brother, Danylo. To the west, behind the tower and beyond another jumble of blocks, were the stables, Fecker’s coach house, the groom’s quarters and stable-boys’ rooms. The north lawn descended to the ruined abbey and its graveyard, and around it, more ruined walls where stones had been robbed out to build an extension to the house. Every viscount over the centuries had added something to the original hall; a wing, improved kitchens, a new paddock or a cottage, and even Archer, only elevated to the title eight months previously, had installed hot water and baths for not only the upstairs, but also for the servants. He had plans to electrify the property as soon as his company could address the work.
Until then, the house was lit by gas and warmed by fireplaces, though there was always some part of a corridor or room where the cold wind whistled. The central, medieval hall, although splendid with its crested ceiling and chandeliers, was permanently chilly, unless a party was arranged in which case the maids set the fire and Barnaby attended it while candelabras helped warm the stonework.
Silas descended to the hall, taking the men’s stairs and arriving on the flagstone floor, where his leather shoes clicked as he doubled back to reach the breakfast room, trailing his hand over the stone pillars, as he threaded through them to the passage.
Archer had eaten and gone, Saddle informed him as he entered. The under-butler stood smart and attentive in his uniform, guarding the sideboard where various dishes were being kept warm, and where Barnaby, the recently appointed footman, waited in silence.
‘Do you know where he’s gone?’ Silas enquired.
‘To the village, Sir,’ Saddle replied, turning to check the heat of the coffee pot. ‘Just five minutes ago.’
‘Thanks,’ Si
las said, making his selection from the dishes. ‘How are things with you?’
It wasn’t that he particularly liked Saddle, it seemed no-one at Larkspur did, it was that Silas was keen for conversation and without Archer, there was no-one else to talk to.
‘With me, Sir?’ The under-butler managed to make the question sound like an outrage. ‘All is well, thank you.’
‘You, Barnaby?’
‘Thank you, Mr Hawkins, aye.’ Barnaby was a Cornishman. After ten years as a hall boy, Archer had promoted him to footman. Thomas had trained him well, but he had trouble controlling his accent.
‘The reply is, “Yes, Sir,”’ Saddle corrected, annoyed. ‘Apologies, Mr Hawkins.’
Silas waved it away and winked at Barnaby. ‘Be there a newspaper, Mis’r Barney?’ he asked, copying the young man’s accent to annoy Saddle just for the craic.
Saddle nodded sharply to the footman and then at a newspaper on the sideboard before announcing, ‘If you will excuse me…’ He strutted from the room, and the footman delivered the broadsheet to Silas as he sat.
‘The usual stuff, I imagine,’ Silas muttered as Barnaby poured his coffee. ‘Court matters, farming disputes… Oh, I see we have a local branch of this new society.’
‘Sir?’
‘The Plumage League,’ Silas read. ‘Apparently, it’s an organisation campaigning against the use of bird feathers in women’s clothing. What do you think of that, Barney?’
It wasn’t that Silas was interested, he was just lonely.
‘I’ve not read it, Sir,’ the footman replied. ‘But it sounds absorbing.’
It wasn’t. Silas turned to the City news section. ‘Ah, I see they’re opening a new theatre in town later this month,’ he said. ‘The Garrick. Oh, and someone called Dunlop has invented a tyre for bicycles. That’ll keep the messenger boys happy.’
‘I heard it’s a success,’ Barnaby said, standing back to guard over Mr Hawkins as he ate.
Silas put the newspaper aside and picked at his scrambled eggs. Beside him at the head of the table, Archer’s place had been cleared, and there was nothing else to see in the room apart from its lavish furnishings and paintings he had inspected a hundred times. Outside, the sky was a dull grey, and although not as cold as it had been of late, the scene was still a desolate one. The back of the house afforded a view of the moors rolling down towards the sea, distant but discernible on sunnier days. Away to the west the village of Larkspur was hidden by the rolling countryside.
‘Do you know what His Lordship is doing in the village?’
‘Aye, Sir,’ Barnaby replied, apparently shocked to have been addressed. ‘Sorry. Yes, Sir. Only he ain’t in the village. He’s over at the dower house with Mr Harrow. Something about repairs. He’ll be back dreckly. I mean, soon.’
‘Barney,’ Silas smiled. ‘I don’t mind how you speak to me, as long as you don’t mind me calling you Barney.’
‘I don’t, Sir, but Mr Saddle doesn’t like it.’
It was probably best not to confess that Silas didn’t care what the under-butler thought, nor was it correct to say what a ridiculous name the man had. He liked Barnaby and didn’t want to embarrass him. Plain speaking and the same age as Silas, he was a cheerful, grateful young man, far less serious than his new position allowed. ‘What about Mr Payne?’ he asked instead.
‘Mr Payne addresses me as Barnaby, Sir.’
‘Then I shall try and do the same. Where is he?’
‘Mr Payne took the early train to Plymouth, Sir. He’s ordered a special wine for the Easter dinner come Friday.’
‘Ah yes,’ Silas remembered, reaching for the newspaper again. ‘It was going to be mentioned in here, wasn’t it?’
‘Page seven, Sir. I saw it when I were ironing it. When I was ironing it.’
‘You’ll get the hang of it.’ Silas slipped into his natural, Irish accent. ‘Sure, it took me a time to cover me accent, but you can’t hide the blarney, Barney.’
The footman stifled a snigger. ‘Will there be anything else, Sir?’
‘No, you’re okay. You get on with whatever you’ve got to do. I’m going to read this.’
‘Right you are… Very good, My… Sir.’
‘Take a breath, Barnaby,’ Silas laughed. ‘Remember Mr Payne’s rule.’
‘Stop, take stock and start again. Right you… Very good, Sir.’
Silas winked and tipped his head to the door. Barnaby returned the good humour with a grateful grin before straightening it and his back, bowing and leaving the room.
The new footman had lifted Silas’ mood, for which he was grateful, and he turned to page seven with a sigh of contentment. Friday, Archer had said, was to be the most important dinner he had ever hosted, personally and professionally. If it was the success he craved, the Clearwater Foundation would secure further patronage and not just from Archer’s close friends, as it now enjoyed, but from some of the leading lights of the stage and arts.
Silas began to read.
The Cornishman, Monday, April 17th, 1889
Larkspur Hall to Host Glittering Dinner
It has been some months since Larkspur Hall, the country home of the Viscounts Clearwater since 1450, has played host to a society dinner, but all that is to change this coming Easter Friday.
Following the death of the 18th Viscount last year, the Hall rested in mourning until December, and to his credit, the current incumbent, has not been hasty in hosting a celebration, no doubt in deference to his late father, a great supporter of the Bodmin and Larkspur schools, hospital and St Peran’s Church, Larkspur village.
Residents of Bodmin and the surrounding area will have known the new viscount as the Honourable Archer Riddington, second son of Mathias, Lord Clearwater, and will know that he was elevated to the title on the sad incarceration of his older brother, the first son and heir, Crispin Riddington, now in a private institution in The Netherlands. What readers may not yet be aware of, however, is the new Lord Clearwater’s fascination with and support for the arts.
His Lordship has, since the death of his father, spent much of his time in the Capital, but it has not been time wasted. His first grand project was to devise The Clearwater Foundation, a charity specifically to assist underprivileged men of the city’s East End. The charity was officially launched at a spectacular gala at the Royal Opera House last November, a glittering event which the King of The Netherlands saw worthy enough to grace with his presence.
That evening’s great success no doubt spurred His Lordship to the further raising of funds for the charity which continues to thrive in its work among the lower classes. As we know, funds are hard to come by, especially for such an unusual and, some say, socially daring endeavour, but it appears the ‘Litterati’ are of a different opinion.
Anyone passing through the village of Larkspur this coming Friday may be forgiven for imagining themselves on the streets of Bloomsbury or even Covent Garden itself, for, as The Cornishman has learned, a small, but important gathering of our country’s finest are invited to the Hall for the Friday to Sunday, the pinnacle of which will be a dinner complete with a guest of honour.
Those invited to attend are: Lady Marshall the Viscountess Delamere (His Lordship’s godmother), her nephew, Mr Cadwell Roxton, the shining star of last year’s Foundation gala, Sir Arthur Sullivan, the Earl and Countess Romney and the poet laureate, Baron Tennyson of Aldworth and Freshwater.
The guest of honour is Henry Irving who, accompanied by his business manager, is returning from a successful tour of America and stopping at Larkspur on his way to a command performance (with Miss Ellen Terry), for Her Majesty at Sandringham. No doubt he and Mr Sullivan will have much to discuss, as the composer, still riding the success of ‘The Yeoman of the Guard’, was responsible for the music for Irving’s last season production of Mac
beth.
Readers aware of societal convention will have noted that, unlike previous Easter dinners at the Hall, the number of gentlemen guests outnumber the ladies. This is because the gentlemen attending this sumptuous event are all members of the famous Garrick Club, including Lord Clearwater himself.
When we spoke to His Lordship last week, he was keen to stress that the Arts, despite its occasional unconventionality, has always supported the needs of the unfortunate.
“Whether it is in employment,” he said, “or the waiving of fees at charitable events, I have always found those involved in theatre, music, poetry and the other aesthetics, great patrons of those whose lives have taken less glamorous turns. Were it not for the outlet of stage, canvas and paper, many of our creatives may have gone the way of the young men of Greychurch whom my Foundation seeks to assist.”
Noble words from a noble man indeed, and the sentiment gives us some insight into the mind of our new Lord of the Manor, a man who only turned thirty this March. He has already achieved so much. Since returning from his London season, Larkspur Hall has hosted the Bodmin Moor Hunt in traditional fashion. His Lordship preferred not to ride out, and instead, put in his place his Master of the Horse, a young Russian of some intrigue to the ladies of the village. Also newly appointed to the Hall is Lord Clearwater’s private secretary, a man of low Irish descent. We mention this as proof that His Lordship is a man determined, as Viscountess Delamere is quoted as saying, “To put his mouth where his money is.” Not only does the second son support the unfortunates through his charitable work, but he has also taken in and employed such men. How many others, we may ask, would be prepared to do such a thing?
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