There was very little decorum and sobriety, though the party was yet young. Each marquee, even the one reserved for the upper-tier of the lower-tier guests, and in spite of Lady Hoyland’s cream linens and yellow orchids, was taking on the unwholesome character and appearance of a London tavern. Drinkers and diners sprawled at, on and under the tables, and gales of bawdy laughter and occasional, unharmonious attempts at song made ordinary conversation impossible. Outside seemed scarcely less crowded, though the fresh air had, at least, a bracing effect that was lacking in the increasingly fetid atmosphere of the tents. All attempts at social segregation had been abandoned by popular consent, the free-flowing ale having proved a great leveller. A small number of guests had left – including all the members of the local Temperance Society, who possibly should have declined the invitation in the first place, and the Methodist minister Wilfred Oxspring, who, while not actually disapproving of the merrymaking, felt he shouldn’t wholeheartedly condone it either. But hordes of people remained and as afternoon turned to evening they stood, sat or strolled on the grass and the gravel, their faces flushed with the ale and the cold. Folk who would ordinarily doff their caps and bow their heads in submissive deference to the earl and countess were making themselves at home, turned loud and confident by the free-flowing beverages.
Into this surreal and dissolute scene walked Eve Williams. It was 4pm and, though she had arrived at Netherwood Hall the previous evening, this was the first time she had stepped out of the servants’ quarters below the house. Even now, back in the kitchens, there was still work to be done – the cleaning of those vast rooms was like one of the twelve labours of Hercules, and it was all hands to the deck down there. But Eve had more than fulfilled her contract. Her mission now was to find her children in the mêlée.
This was easier said than done. Even before she could identify anyone by name, she could tell by their weaving, loose-limbed gait that most of them were pie-eyed; on the periphery of the main event, there even appeared to be bodies slumped on the grass and the gravel, sleeping off their first excess in preparation for the second. One of them resembled Amos who, if all had gone to plan, should by now be in charge of Seth, Eliza and Ellen, having taken over from Anna. Eve, anxiety rising in her breast, hurried over to the prone figure for a closer look but found she was mistaken; it was the earl’s gamekeeper Walker Spruce, scourge of the poachers and relentless guardian of the Hoyland estate. His wiry body was stretched out full length at the foot of a flight of stone steps, arms folded behind his head as if he were sunning himself on the chapel outing to Blackpool. Eve watched his beatific expression for a moment, marvelling at the power of drink to make a featherbed out of a gravel path.
‘I wish I were a poacher,’ she said to his sleeping form. ‘I’d miss t’party and bag enough game tonight to see me through to midwinter.’ Walker stirred at the sound of her voice, smiled stupidly but slept on, so she risked a scornful little poke in the ribs with the toe of her clog, on account of all the game pie she might have made if it wasn’t for him.
Eve moved on, pushing her way into the mass of people and scanning the crowd for Amos. She hoped to God that he was still standing and cursed him inwardly in case he wasn’t. It was a near-impossible task in the crush all around her, and the more people she asked, the more she despaired. There was no menace in the air, but still Eve felt waves of panic beginning to break over her; a crowd of this size in the pursuit of earthly pleasures was an unfeeling thing. Few of the folk she asked spoke sense, and those that did hadn’t seen Amos Sykes. Anna and Maya were nowhere to be seen, either. Eve cursed herself for a fool, for having stayed so long in the Netherwood Hall kitchens, for having failed to arrange a meeting place, for entrusting her children to a man when there was free ale on tap.
Then she saw Ellen, still some way distant but head above the crowds, up on Amos’s shoulders in a state of dishevelled bliss, clutching his hair with one hand and waving a thick slice of roast ox with the other. Eve pushed on, her heart light with relief, and as she drew nearer she could see Seth and Eliza too, both held safe by the hand and both laughing, their faces tilted up to Amos. He seemed to be telling them a tale, holding their attention in spite of the noise and the novelty of everything around them. Eve felt a surge of emotion that threatened to overcome her; she checked her progress and stood still, watching the cameo unobserved for a few seconds. She felt a mixture of emotions: relief at seeing her children, remorse at having thought so badly of Amos and profound and painful sorrow that he stood there, in Arthur’s place. Then Ellen saw her and squealed her approval, and Eve waved and began to move forward towards them.
Suddenly, she found her way barred by Harry Tideaway, glassy-eyed and swaying. He loomed large in front of her, peering at her as if through fog, then he steadied himself by placing his hands on her shoulders. She shrank away from the contact but he tightened his hold.
‘Now where you off to?’ he said, his face too close to hers, the aroma of roast meat and ale on his breath. ‘I’ve a mind to take a kiss from you, by way of payment, like.’
Eve, appalled and repulsed, forced his hands away from her and tried to step away, but he detained her again, clutching the fabric of her jacket in his fist. He’d seen plenty of others kissing and canoodling this afternoon, and he didn’t see why he should miss out.
‘You’re drunk,’ she said.
‘Never mind that. I think you’re forgettin’ what you owe me.’
‘What you talkin’ about?’ she said. ‘I owe you nowt.’
‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but ’ow did you end up ’ere baking pies for this party? On account o’ me, and my …’ he paused to belch, then returned to his theme ‘… recommendation. You’ve me to thank. So come ’ere.’
He seized her round the waist with both hands and pulled her close so that she was trapped against his body.
‘C’mon,’ he said, all but licking his lips. ‘There’s plenty o’ folk ’avin’ a fumble this afternoon, an’ no ’arm done.’
She kicked him sharply on the ankle, then brought her knee up into his crotch with all the force she could muster, and he immediately released her, doubling over in helpless response to the pain. And then Amos was there, standing between Eve and Harry, and he was baring his teeth like a dog and shaking with fury.
‘Touch ’er again, an’ you’ll be sorry,’ he growled. He gave the landlord a vicious shove, and he staggered backwards, still too absorbed by the pain in his testicles to fully comprehend the situation. ‘You ’ear me? You’ll wish you were dead, you miserable bastard.’
Then he turned to Eve.
‘Did ’e ’urt you? Are you all right?’
‘Aye, I’m fine,’ she said. ‘But thanks for askin’.’
And she bestowed on him a smile of such warmth and humour and loveliness that he knew for sure what he’d feared for a while now: that he loved her.
Inside the great house, the celebration lunch, which began at just after one, was at half-past five only just approaching its lavish conclusion. Toby had spent the entire meal seated between his grandmother – the forbidding Countess Gray – and his simpering maternal aunt, Lady Thomasina Boxwood, a seating arrangement that he surmised, correctly, had been devised to ensure his good behaviour. His grandmother had watched him with gimlet eyes, like an old buzzard hanging in the air above its prey. She noted every sip of wine he took, and seemed, unnervingly, to shake her head at every unspoken rebellious notion he entertained, as if his thoughts were just as clear to her as his words. Meanwhile Lady Thomasina had prattled on, providing an unasked-for commentary on each stage of the meal and detailing precisely how it was superior to the New Year banquet she’d enjoyed at Chatsworth House six months before. Toby felt the boredom like a physical pain, his limbs afflicted by a creeping ache, as if influenza was taking hold. From the moment the gong sounded in the marble hall, the monstrous boom of it bouncing off the cold, hard floor and frescoed ceiling so that there was barely a room in the house not penetr
ated by the noise, Toby had felt like a condemned man. He yearned to be outside, drinking with the lads and squeezing the luscious backside of Betty Cross, a Netherwood dairy maid and his latest favourite among the local girls. Earlier, as the titled house guests had gathered in the drawing room, he had glimpsed her in a crowd down on the lawn, pink-cheeked and bright-eyed, directing her come-hither laugh at Will Tucker instead of at him. When the family assembled en masse on the terrace before lunch, smiling and waving indulgently, the local royalty acknowledging their subjects, Toby had found himself assessing the drop from the balustrade to the ground, as if there was even the slightest possibility that he might spring free. Self-preservation, not obligation, had kept him in his place.
The meal, even by the standards already set on previous occasions at Netherwood Hall, had been astonishingly complex and accomplished. No detail had been overlooked as the twelve exquisite, tiny courses were served with balletic grace by liveried footmen bearing heavy gold tableware, every item of which was stamped with the Hoyland crest. The table was decorated along its considerable length with an intricate, plaited garland of variegated ivy, interspersed with white and yellow roses, which snaked artfully up and around each of the twenty gold candelabras it met along its path, and at its centre arched dramatically upwards on either side, all the way to the great chandelier. Crystal glassware cast diamonds of light on to the burnished rosewood table and motes of reflected light bounced from the solid gold cutlery, which was arranged outwards from each place setting with mathematical precision in meticulous order of size and function.
The menu, handwritten for each guest in copperplate, was entirely in French, an affectation that irritated the earl; it seemed to him an unnecessary complication when English served perfectly well in all other aspects of life. Such matters were outside his remit, however, and the countess hadn’t even thought of seeking his opinion. It very much pleased her to hear the guests’ admiring murmurs as they perused the menus placed before them. Caviar Frais, Consommé Froid Madrilène, Saumon en Croûte, Filet de Boeuf Charolais avec Sauce Béarnaise, Timbale d’Homard Royale – on it went, proof, if proof were needed, that the Hoylands could be relied upon to entertain elegantly, and in style.
The Duke of Bowlby, an extremely grand but limited first cousin of Lady Hoyland, who had been invited not so much for his own sake but for the suitability of his eldest son Charles for Henrietta, leaned across the table towards her.
‘My dear Clarissa,’ he said, in his unfortunate and much-imitated nasal drawl. ‘This is simply magnificent. But what on earth will you do for Bertie?’
She eyed him coldly, much resenting his impertinence. King Edward, in spite of his long-established reputation for lively sociability, had still to bestow his favour at Netherwood Hall. As Prince of Wales he’d been three times and had an exceptionally jolly time, but since his accession to the throne their little corner of the kingdom seemed to have been temporarily forgotten. It hadn’t yet gained the status of a full-blown snub, but soon that conclusion would be unavoidable. All this was an immensely entertaining state of affairs for the Hoylands’ friends and acquaintances, though as a topic of conversation at the Netherwood Hall table it was entirely taboo. Frederick Bowlby, who in fact was innocent of anything worse than a clumsy assumption that the royal visit was only a matter of time, had nevertheless shown a lamentable lack of form and discretion. Lady Hoyland, prevented by good manners from cutting him entirely, instead answered his question with another on an entirely unrelated topic.
‘Must you and Madeleine leave tomorrow?’ she said, with practised sincerity. ‘I do think the evening after a party is often more fun than the party itself.’
‘Ha! Indeed,’ said Lord Bowlby, quite distracted from the king. ‘Who said what to whom! I’ll speak to Lady B. So kind of you to press.’
Hardly pressing, you old fool, thought Clarissa, but she smiled, her mission accomplished, and turned her attention politely away. She wondered if, after all, Charles Bowlby was perhaps not quite the thing for her daughter. She gazed down the table to seek out Henrietta and found her laughing – a little too loudly than was entirely becoming, as usual – with Jonty Ogleby-James. Only a second son, thought Clarissa, but frightfully dashing. And there, a little further along, was poor Tobias having no fun at all. Poor darling. Countess Gray, catching her daughter’s tender expression, shot back a reproving, steely glance, which for all its familiarity to Clarissa had lost none of its power to chill. The old lady wore a dress of pale blue chiffon and a fine tiara in her soft, grey curls, but battledress – chainmail, perhaps, and a Norman helmet – might have been more apt.
On and on the miniature courses came, held aloft under golden domes until all the footmen were in place behind their pair of assigned diners, then placed and uncovered with unfailing symmetry of movement on to the table. A French pastry chef, with a team of unsmiling assistants, had been employed for the occasion for his continental flair and the cachet of his Parisian pedigree. Even the redoubtable head cook Mrs Adams, sceptical about the merits of foreigners in general and foreign chefs in particular, felt compelled to join in the spontaneous applause in the kitchens at the completion of Monsieur Reynard’s confection; sixty edible baskets, crafted from closely woven spun sugar to resemble wickerwork. Concealed beneath their delicate lids was a clutch of wild strawberries dipped in chocolate, resting on a pillow of strawberry mousse.
Lady Thomasina, on Toby’s left, bounced in her seat and squealed her delight when dessert was brought to the table; his aunt was long past the age when such girlish behaviour might have been excusable, but her essential silliness had proved to be a trait that hadn’t diminished with advancing years. Dickie, diagonally opposite and seated, maddeningly, between the famously beautiful Adamson twins, pulled a fleeting, cross-eyed face at Toby, a device the brothers had used since childhood to lift each other’s spirits in adversity. Toby appreciated the gesture, but he was too firmly in the clutches of gloom to smile. Though the meal was almost over – just savouries, fruit and coffee to endure – speeches would doubtless follow, and judging by the discreet activity at the end of the room, a string quartet was threatening to further prolong the agony.
Toby gazed wretchedly into the dregs of his wine glass. Another drink might ease the pain, but the sommelier appeared to be in cahoots with his grandmother and his glass hadn’t been refilled for half an hour. Meanwhile his aunt was leaning in to him with what she thought was a winning smile.
‘And how has the Birthday Boy enjoyed his luncheon?’ she lisped.
‘Very little, Aunt,’ said Toby, smiling pleasantly. ‘You?’
Lady Thomasina, confused by the contrast between content and delivery, was unsure how to respond, so merely giggled anxiously. The sommelier passed by once again without making eye contact. And at the head of the table, Lord Hoyland was rising to his feet and calling for quiet in order that the speeches might begin.
Truly, thought Toby, had anyone ever suffered as he did?
Chapter 24
Mary Adams had a reputation for being always formidable and occasionally fearsome, but in fact she was only ever either of these things when a situation demanded it. Her reputation may have had its origins in her size: she was an enormously fat woman – after all, no household should employ a skinny cook – with a belly that wobbled like a soft-set blancmange and a huge jutting shelf of a bosom. Added to this generous girth were fleshy jowls, hair the colour and texture of wire wool and large, mannish hands which were as scarred and calloused as a blacksmith’s, all of which amounted to an appearance that was somewhat alarming. But Eve Williams, presenting herself for duty on the eve of the party and expecting to be coldly received by a cook with her nose out of joint, had instead been met with not exactly a warm welcome, but a welcome of sorts, at any rate.
‘You must be Eve,’ Mrs Adams had said, before introducing herself. She had held out one of her huge, floury hands and Eve shook it. She wondered, in passing, why she was Eve and not Mrs Wil
liams.
‘I shan’t bother with any more introductions, because there’ll be no time for talking,’ the cook went on. ‘You and your pies’ll be over there’ – she nodded her head in the direction of a large, pine work surface – ‘and your flour an’ all that is over there’ – this time she nodded at an open door leading to a series of larders – ‘so if I were you I’d get crackin’. Forty-one pies teks some baking.’
‘Forty, isn’t it?’ said Eve.
‘Forty for t’ marquees, aye. An’ one for tastin’,’ said Mrs Adams. ‘We ’ave nothin’ but Lord ’oyland’s say as to your pies, and that’s all well and good but nothin’ leaves my kitchen that ’asn’t been tasted by me.’
I can see that, thought Eve. She smiled obligingly.
‘I wish we could give you more room, but as you can see’ – the cook waved a meaty arm in a general arc – ‘we’re ’ard pressed as it is.’
‘No, no, this’ll be champion,’ Eve had said, thinking as she gazed around that Mrs Adams should spend a day in the kitchen at Beaumont Lane to understand the meaning of hard pressed. The room – there was more than one, in fact, since the kitchens extended further than Eve was able to see – was vast. It was busy as well; there were enough people to pack the platform at Netherwood railway station: a whole descending hierarchy of cooks below Mrs Adams, too many kitchen maids and lads to keep count and a couple of little barefoot village boys in ragged shorts who kept the fires stoked and staggered out with pails of peelings, and waited, silent and cowed, for a clout round the head, or further instructions, whichever came first. In a cooler room, ventilated by open windows, the visiting French patisserie chef and his slavish entourage seemed to be spinning sugar into gold, the Rumpelstiltskins of the culinary world.
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