Larkspur Hall, now ‘under new management’ does not only care for the ‘Litterati’ or the subjects of the Clearwater Foundation, but many of our own local families also benefit. On a more personal and local note, Barnaby Nancarrow, the son of a local farmer was recently promoted to the position of footman; Miss Edith Hammett and Jane Gloyne, both from Bodmin, are now in service there, and the Hall and its three farms on the Larkspur estate continue to employ men and women from the village and its environs.
The New Year saw the arrival of our new viscount, and it seems that change is the way forward, both domestically and in the wider world as Lord Clearwater seeks to bring on board some of our most talented and well-known names who will dine with him on Easter Friday. We expect to see St Peran’s Church full on Easter Sunday morning with not only villagers, but also the glittering stars of the city arts scene, and we hope the event will bring much-needed attention and thus income to our area.
Much, then, is riding on the Easter Friday dinner, and not only for our county but for the 19th Viscount Clearwater of Riverside and Larkspur.
Three
Thomas was intrigued by the man travelling with him in second class. He had also boarded at Plymouth, but unlike Thomas, carried no luggage. Whereas Lord Clearwater’s butler carried items needed at Larkspur as well as his newspaper and personal shopping, the man on the opposite bench seat appeared to have nothing apart from a pocket watch. This he regularly withdrew and examined as if hoping an hour had passed in the two minutes since he had last noted the time.
The man, dressed for third class and yet sharing the carriage with gentlemen, had chosen to occupy a seat away from the window, suggesting to Thomas that he wasn’t a tourist come down to Cornwall to experience the newly opened route to Padstow, but a local traveller who had no need to take in the scenery. He only moved to the window when the train pulled into a station, there to look out and watch the platform until the train pulled out when he returned to sit, his head down. Apart from his watch, he only had eyes for his shoes, scuffed, Thomas noticed, and in need of repair, or at least a stiff brush and polish.
His eccentricities became more apparent as the train gathered speed after leaving Saltash where several new passengers had come aboard. The man, who Thomas guessed to be in his early thirties, shrank into his seat as unfamiliar faces brushed past him, and took a special interest in the lining of his jacket, burying his head to examine the stitching as if he didn’t want to be seen.
With every passing station, Thomas became more fascinated by his behaviour and his unusually attractive features. Despite a hooked nose, the man was handsome in a strangely exotic way and had something about him that was hard to place. A feeling of loneliness, perhaps? He gave the impression of being a foreigner, and yet one who understood where he was and knew what he was doing. It was difficult for Thomas to put his finger on it, but there was more about the stranger than his handsomeness and unease.
Glancing surreptitiously so as not to make the stranger any more uncomfortable, Thomas couldn’t help but compare him to James. Where his lover was blond, the passenger’s hair was dark and unfashionably short at the back, parted in the middle and not well cut. Like James, he had no moustache, but unlike James, he showed evening stubble even though it was only just past one in the afternoon. High cheekbones caused further shadowing of hollow cheeks in a striking and not unhealthy way, his ears were pointed, and everything about him seemed black, from his hair to his mood.
By the time the train pulled in at Liskeard, Thomas was unable to contain his curiosity, and with the nearby seats vacated as passengers alighted, he leant forward and addressed his fellow traveller.
‘Excuse the impertinence, Sir,’ he said as the stranger put away his watch. ‘I couldn’t help but notice you seem anxious about the time. I have travelled on this line on many occasions and have never known the Great Western Railway to be late.’
The man said nothing, but returned Thomas’ friendly stare with one of mistrust. He shrugged in the manner that Fecker was prone to do and returned his gaze to his feet.
‘If your watch is not working,’ Thomas continued, undeterred. ‘I can tell you the time from mine. It is regularly wound, that being my job.’
The ambiguity of his statement drew the man’s attention from his shoes, and he stared at Thomas with dark brown eyes as intense as they were large.
‘I am the butler at Larkspur Hall,’ Thomas explained. ‘Perhaps you know it?’ There was no reply, only a look of surprise. ‘I’m sorry. I see you want to be left in peace.’
Sitting back, he gave up on a bad job and was opening his newspaper when the man spoke.
‘I don’t know it,’ he said, and glanced behind.
The nearest passengers were several feet away, and the carriage was clanking and swaying on the tracks as if the wheels were anything but round. No-one could hear the conversation, but still, the stranger shuffled forward on his seat and hunched his shoulders.
‘Perhaps you could tell me more about it, Sir?’ he said. His speech was educated, but thickened by an accent Thomas had not encountered before. It added to his mysteriousness. ‘I would be interested to know how such a grand house runs, for it must be grand to have a butler. Are there many staff beneath you? Who lives there? I hear there are great celebrations at Easter on these estates, is that the case at yours?’
They fell into conversation with Thomas answering his questions, proud to speaking from a position of authority. He outlined preparations the forthcoming dinner, his first as the butler, and the conversation rattled along like the carriage. It passed the time, but the man, although interested in the minute details, continued to refer to his watch.
‘I had hoped to be at my destination by now,’ he admitted when he noticed Thomas’ curiosity. ‘But I missed the early train and had to wait.’
‘Ah, I see,’ Thomas smiled back, folding away his paper. ‘I hope it wasn’t an important meeting.’
‘It wasn’t a meeting,’ the man replied. ‘It was…’ He thought better of it and sat back.
‘Thomas Payne.’ Thomas offered his hand.
It was regarded cautiously as if his acquaintance thought it might in some way be dangerous, and he took so long studying it, that Thomas’ arm began to ache. Perhaps it was the butler’s congeniality or his caring green eyes, but the man opposite unwound his shoulders and took the hand as his otherwise downturned mouth morphed into the briefest of smiles.
‘Joshua Smith,’ he said. ‘Sorry to be a bore.’
‘Not at all.’
The hand was smooth on top, but his palm and fingertips were rough. As Thomas greeted him, he couldn’t help but notice worn shirt cuffs. Ill-fitting, they showed from beneath the man’s jacket which was made of rough wool and broadly stitched, it too didn’t quite fit, and one button was missing.
Knowing it impolite to comment, but his curiosity running wild, Thomas asked, ‘Are you from Plymouth, Sir?’
‘Plymouth? No.’
‘From Cornwall?’
Smith shook his head.
‘I only ask because you seem uninterested in the scenery, and the climb to the moors is notable for its views, particularly in the spring.’ Thomas indicated the window. ‘On a clear day, one can see across to St Neot and the moor above.’
‘Oh.’ Smith could not have been more disinterested. Instead of looking at the view, he again took out his watch.
‘It is just gone one fifteen,’ Thomas informed him, glancing at his own.
Smith put his away. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I am anxious to make my connection, but afraid I may have missed it.’
‘Connection?’
‘I was told I had to change at Bodmin Road?’ The place name was said with a slight rolling of the R among the foreign accent.
‘Ah, yes. If you are heading
further west.’ Thomas produced a hipflask and unscrewed the lid. ‘You are unfortunate that this train is the only one per day that extends to Padstow rather than Penzance. You will be further delayed.’
He offered the flask, and Smith regarded it, sucking in his lips as he considered, weighing up his options. If he accepted the drink, he would be entering into a friendship rather than simply chatting with a travelling companion, and apparently it was a big decision.
‘You’re the butler at Larkspur Hall?’ Smith clarified as if accepting a drink from anyone else would be dangerous.
Thomas thought he had ben perfectly clear. ‘Yes, Sir. Where His Lordship keeps a fine cellar, but this is whisky. April has not yet brought the warmer west wind. Please, if you are feeling the chill…?’
‘Thank you.’ Smith accepted, smiling. After a long swig, he gasped and handed it back. ‘Gosh, that’s rather good.’
‘It is, actually.’ Thomas moved forward conspiratorially. ‘My master has a liking for Scotch and insisted I take this with me. It’s not a particularly cold day, but he said it would, if nothing else, relieve the boredom of the journey. It seems he is correct.’
The whisky, or the gesture of offering it, had gone some way to helping Smith relax. ‘I need no excuse for a decent Scotch,’ he said. ‘Nor a fine wine. I expect you know a lot about wine, being a butler.’
‘I currently know as much as I need to,’ Thomas replied. ‘But not as much as I would like. I am returning from an expedition to procure a special crate of Purcari Dragasani for His Lordship. Like the Golden Mediasch his ancestors laid down, it is Romanian and very rare, but my victualler had it imported, and I went to check its resting.’
Smith said nothing for a long while, but his murky eyes remained fixed on Thomas as though looking through him to an imagined other place beyond.
When he realised he was staring, he said, ‘I have heard of this Mediasch,’ and Thomas had never heard the word pronounced in such an accomplished manner. ‘He is fond of red wine?’
‘As most men are, but the wine in question isn’t for him. The Romanian wines are the favourite of his guest of honour. The Mediasch is to be a special surprise.’
‘I am sure it will be,’ Smith said. ‘And who is the guest with such lavish taste?’
Thomas didn’t want to say too much to a man he didn’t know, but did allow him a snippet. ‘One of the country’s most acclaimed actors on his way back from a tour overseas.’
It was enough. ‘I see.’
Smith lost interest, and Thomas changed the subject. ‘Is this your first visit to Cornwall?’
‘Yes. Are you also new to the area?’
The answer confirmed that Smith was not local, and Tom wondered again about his accent. It hid behind a veil of well-spoken English such as Archer might speak, but was not as clipped or polished.
‘Not exactly,’ Thomas replied. ‘I was born in Kent. I moved to the city and into service when I was eight. Since then, I have been regularly at Larkspur and in the city. His Lordship has two houses. Rather, he uses two houses, the others are tenanted.’
It was a lot to share with a stranger, but the more they spoke, the more intrigued Thomas became, and the friendlier Smith appeared. Another sip each from the hipflask helped loosen tongues further.
‘His Lordship is who?’ Smith asked. ‘If that’s not a rude question.’
‘Not at all.’ Thomas replied. The man’s mood had transformed from silent and concerned to talkative, and he adopted manners and a tone that suggested breeding. Not the highest breeding judging by his clothes, but at least some. ‘My master is Viscount Clearwater.’
Referring to his best friend as his master was easy. It was just a word, a title, a form of address. They had grown up together, and despite the divide in status, had been inseparable since they were young.
‘Clearwater? Not a name I am likely to know,’ Smith said. ‘And where exactly is Larkspur Hall?’
‘About three miles from Bodmin, where I leave the train. It sits high on the moor and faces across to the sea to the north. You should be able to see it once the train leaves Bodmin Road station if you care to look.’
Smith swept his hand through his hair on one side, pulling it back from its parting before his other hand did the same on the other side. Another mild eccentricity, Thomas noted, and pointless because his hair fell back into exactly the place it had been before being disturbed.
‘I don’t care for travel much,’ Smith said.
‘You fear the railways? They have come a long way in terms of safety since they began,’
‘Oh, no, it’s not that. I find I suffer from motion sickness if I am too close to the window.’
The carriage rocked as the locomotive picked up speed. It was not as well sprung as the first-class compartments and not as comfortable, but was luxury compared to third. There, open to the elements and provided only with wooden benches, the passengers huddled tightly together for warmth. Second class rattled and vibrated, but at least there were windows to keep out the soot, and thin padding on the seats. Archer insisted that his staff travelled in second, even the maids. If a journey was needed, he would pay fares from his own pocket. He would have had Thomas in first if he had his way, but sometimes the butler had to put his foot down when it came to what was appropriate.
‘Motion sickness can’t be a pleasant experience,’ he sympathised and offered the last of the Scotch, which was accepted. ‘Finish it,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t be drinking it anyway.’
‘Your master sounds very liberal,’ Smith commented. ‘Giving his servants his whisky.’ The smile had returned.
‘He insisted. It’s up to me whether I drink it or not.’
‘Quite.’
‘Tell me, Mr Smith, as we’re getting along so well…’
Thomas was about to query the man’s accent when it occurred to him that the vibration of the carriage had now become a shake. The planked floor trembled, sending shockwaves into his feet, and looking from the window, he was confused to see the bushes and trees passing at an ever-increasing speed.
‘Is something wrong?’ Smith asked, sensing Thomas’ unease.
‘Something is unusual,’ Thomas replied. When Smith appeared not to understand, he added, ‘We’re approaching Bodmin Road. We should be slowing down when, in fact…’
Other passengers had noticed the anomaly, and several had moved to the windows in the hope of understanding the reason. Their conversation, until then barely audible, could clearly be heard over the rattle and creaks as voices were raised in concern.
‘Perhaps it’s gaining momentum for an incline?’ Smith suggested.
If that was the case, it was the first time Thomas had experienced such a thing on this part of the line. There was no reason for the driver to push the locomotive so hard.
The carriage jolted with a screech of metal on metal, and the whistle blasted like a scream of horror, but the station flew past in a blur, the brakes impotent against the momentum.
‘Good Lord,’ Smith said. ‘Sir, you have turned pale.’
‘This isn’t right.’ Thomas spoke more to himself than the man opposite. He peered through the glass to see as far up the track as he could, but the train was approaching a bend, and he could see nothing but the chimney smoke and fast-passing foliage. ‘I don’t like this,’ he said, returning to his seat.
‘Are we in danger?’
With the curve tipping the carriage, and the locomotive cresting the hill at full tilt, the answer was yes.
Smith could see it in his eyes. ‘What should we do?’ he asked, blanching.
‘If I were a religious man, I would suggest praying. Stay in your seat and hold on.’ Thomas rooted himself to the bench.
With his body trembling, and his heart pumping faster than the engine’
s pistons, he broke into a sweat. Somehow, he knew and expected what was to happen next, and the realisation came with a mix of fear and sadness. This was not how he expected his life to end, and he had left the Hall without saying goodbye to Archer.
The carriage tipped to the left, throwing several standing passengers against others, and the whistle blasted more urgently. Wheels hit the tracks with a metallic screech before the car bounced the other way with such force it threw people off their feet and Thomas from the bench. He was suspended in the air for a second before landing with a crash. Someone pulled the communication cord, but it made no difference.
Wheels thundered, the whistle shrieked, and a man tried to open the door.
‘Am eșuat!’ Smith swore and crossed himself. ‘Will it slow down?’
‘If it doesn’t,’ Thomas shouted over the cacophony. ‘We’re going to come off the…’
Four
Archer returned from his estate work, and having changed, left the Hall through the tower to step into a gloriously transparent afternoon. The sky was an endless wash of pale blue above the granite stables beyond the yard, and gravel crunched satisfyingly beneath his feet as he crossed the path, the sound dying when he reached the grassy slope. Heading downhill, the ruined abbey came into view, its plinths, all that was left of the once-grand nave, forming two lines either side of a flat strip of green. Broken walls and half-arches threw shadows across the grass, and the remnants of the great east window framed the horizon. Where once had been stained glass, the tracing now outlined faraway hedges, stone walls and the April sky.
Two figures danced in what was once the aisle, and the closer Archer came, the more he could hear their voices. A call of ‘Allez!’, the click of steel on steel, and the swish of foils through the air greeted him as he paused at the bottom of the slope to watch.
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