Netherwood01 - Netherwood

by Jane Sanderson

  ‘Madam?’

  She looked up from the counter to see a bright-eyed young man smiling at her encouragingly. Like the doorman, he was formally dressed, but his face was open and his expression perky and helpful. How important it was for the customer to be smiled at, thought Eve. She must pass that on to Nellie.

  ‘It looks smashin’,’ Eve said, returning the smile. ‘But I’m sorry, just lookin’.’

  ‘Don’t blame you,’ said the young man, sensing an ally and dropping his voice to a confiding whisper. ‘I wouldn’t buy anything either at these prices.’ He winked, rather saucily, and cut off a slender triangle from the veal and ham pie, offering it over the glass top of the counter on the blade of his knife.

  ‘On me,’ he said. ‘Finest veal an’ ’am pie in London.’

  Eve took it and popped it into her mouth with as much decorum as she could manage, which wasn’t a great deal since the slice was slightly too large to fit, and she felt crumbs and jelly threatening to spill through her lips as she chewed. The shop assistant watched her.

  ‘Well?’ he said.

  ‘Mmmm.’

  Eve swallowed.

  ‘Beautiful, thank you,’ she said, as soon as she was decently able. But as she bid farewell and retraced her steps to the door, she was thinking that, actually, the finest veal and ham pie in London had better not rest on its laurels because, though she wouldn’t have mentioned it for the world to that nice young man, it would come a rather poor second in Netherwood. Food for thought, though. Food for thought.

  Chapter 39

  Fulton House, the London home of the Hoyland family, stood in one corner of a fashionable square, detached from the terraces of grand houses on either side, but built in the same imposing, stucco-fronted style. The house had been bought newly built in 1826 by Thomas Hoyland, the fourth Earl of Netherwood, along with eleven other properties which formed the south side of the square; a stroke of speculative genius, since the annual rents they brought in now added many thousands of pounds a year to the family cause.

  The square had been laid out and built on open fields, bought from the scoundrel who owned them for an amount on which he was able to retire. In truth, it had been uninhabited and uninhabitable, and although at the time it was euphemistically known as the Meadows, which conjured an image of wild flowers and lush green grass, the reality was much darker and less inviting: a marshy hinterland between the western edge of the city of London, and the pretty village of Knights-bridge, and much feared locally as a haunt of robbers and ne’er-do-wells.

  These days, of course, it was a paradigm of elegant city living; a stylish and desirable address from which to enjoy London society. A combination of geography and circumstance had helped elevate the area into one of the very best neighbourhoods. King George IV had helped enormously by extending Buckingham House and calling it a palace. Then Queen Victoria took a house nearby for her mother, and before too long, there was no keeping the aristocracy away. It was safe to say that when the Earl and Countess of Netherwood were in residence, they were by no means the most exalted of the titled occupants all around them. Dukes and duchesses were ten to the penny, and even crown princes might be spotted at the right times of year. Certainly it was impossible now to imagine that these towering dwellings, porticoed and royaliced, were ever anything other than permanent features of the London landscape.

  There was a pretty, communal garden in the square, hemmed in by plane trees and black iron railings and much-frequented by nurses and governesses, who used the excuse that their small charges were in need of fresh air in order to meet, gossip and escape the formal confines of the schoolroom or nursery. But here was one detail in which Teddy and Clarissa triumphed over their grander neighbours: they had no need of the shared lawns, because behind their corner villa, beyond the staff mews and the stables, was a garden of almost two acres – enormous by London standards – which Thomas Hoyland had managed to secure for himself when the houses were built. The plot, at first marshy, difficult and suitable only for toads or wading birds, had been gradually tamed, drained and groomed over the past seventy or so years into the garden it was now: a treasure of a garden, the sort people would pay to visit, if only they were allowed.

  Daniel MacLeod, head gardener, rather regretted that they weren’t because there were times, as he toiled to maintain perfection for the countess, that he wondered why he bothered. When the family were in Yorkshire, many weeks might pass when he and his two under-gardeners were the only living souls – featherless, that is – to appreciate the splendours within these walls. It would be something wonderful indeed if members of the public were permitted entry; Daniel imagined answering the polite questions of genteel young women – they were always young women, these imagined guests, never old men – and modestly accepting their compliments on his skill and vision.

  And it was indeed Daniel’s vision, though Lady Hoyland had conveniently forgotten it, that had informed the planting and design of the Fulton House garden. He had come eighteen years before, taking the position of head gardener at the precocious age of twenty-one, full of ideas and energy and with six years already under his belt as under-gardener at a fine Stuart house on the Scottish borders. At Fulton House he had pursued his interest, which bordered on the obsessive, in the formal lines and symmetrical planting of the great gardens of the seventeenth century. Not for him the disingenuous informality of the English landscape movement; why strive for years to give the impression that nature has had more of a hand in the garden than the gardener himself?

  Like a Cordon Bleu chef producing dishes beyond the reach of the domestic cook, Daniel had made a garden of stunning complexity and accomplishment. There were four levels within the confines of his two-acre plot, accessed on both sides by smooth stone steps, wide and shallow. On one terrace were six rectangular grass plats, precisely bordered by white gravel walkways, on another an intricate lavender and boxwood parterre, then came a rose garden with pleached hornbeam arbours, and finally a terrace of immaculately cropped yew cones alternated with clipped and tamed flowering shrubs of an exotic and temperamental nature – hibiscus, pomegranate, anything that could not easily be grown. Down the middle of the whole, dropping into neat waterfalls at each new level, ran a narrow, ornamental canal. Its installation had been a great expense and indeed remained so as an electric pump had to continually work to send the water back up to the top to begin its journey again, but the effect was magical, the soft rush of moving water a constant musical accompaniment.

  There was no kitchen garden – no room and no need, since everything came down from Netherwood – but Daniel had planted a diverse and jewel-coloured cutting garden for the house, since flowers didn’t travel so well as fruit and vegetables. This was contained at the far end within mellow brick walls bearing occasional oval alcoves in which were displayed classical busts of ancient Greek poets and philosophers. These were an inheritance from an earlier Hoyland with a taste for rococo flourishes, and would not have been Daniel’s choice. He was not, however, displeased with the effect.

  He stood on the York stone terrace at the top of the garden now, surveying his domain, and he smiled at the view before him. Barney, the younger of his two lads, had spent the day on his hands and knees, crawling up the steps and around the paths, winkling out any stray shoots of weeds that had previously been missed. Tedious work, and mindless too, but it made all the difference to the overall effect and Barney was the sort of amiable workhorse who would simply do as he was asked, however menial the task. Fred, older and wiser than Barney, was given the greater responsibility of working his way through the flowering shrubs, carefully deadheading so that only buds and blooms remained. Tomorrow the lavender balls would be tidied, the box minutely clipped and the yew cones checked for symmetry. The earl and countess were due to arrive the day after that and, while Daniel never let his standards slip, he was especially scrupulous before an impending visit. But he was happy now with what he saw; he thought, not for the first time,
how very splendid it would be to have a real bird’s eye view, looking down from high above. From such a vantage point, the garden must surely look like a carefully embroidered tapestry.

  The great clock above the house announced four o’clock in its sonorous chimes. Staff tea would be laid out at the kitchen table; Barney and Fred, dismissed by Daniel half an hour ago, would be down there already, doubtless scoffing more than their fair share. Daniel wasn’t much of a cake man – he had a Scotsman’s taste for austerity, at least where food was concerned – but he felt a sudden craving for a mug of hot black tea and he turned away from the garden, leaving through the wide archway into the courtyard at the back of the house. As he did so, Samuel Stallibrass made a clattering entrance through the porte-cochère and on to the cobbles, hailing him cheerfully with his riding crop.

  ‘Give us a hand, Dan, as you’re there,’ he called, as he drew his horses to a standstill. ‘Latest fruits from Netherwood on board.’

  Daniel, looking at Eve, said, ‘So I see,’ and gave her his best engaging smile, which on any other woman might have had the desired effect but at this moment was a mistake because Eve, travel-weary and desperately homesick, was in no mood for light flirtation with this man with a strange accent and an unsettling direct gaze. She didn’t return his smile, didn’t really look at him at all, though she was forced to accept his hand as she climbed out of her seat and down from the carriage.

  ‘Daniel MacLeod, welcome to Fulton House,’ he said. He regretted his silly quip and wanted her to look up at him, so that he could show this lovely creature that he was friend, not foe. But it was Samuel who spoke, all paternal protectiveness.

  ‘This is Mrs Eve Williams,’ he said, all the emphasis on the Mrs. ‘And she’s fair done in. So leave her be, and give me a hand with the baskets.’

  Daniel grinned at him. ‘Ah, Samuel, you old charmer, how can I refuse when you ask so nicely?’

  A thin woman with a lugubrious face appeared from a door at the rear of the house. ‘Mrs Williams?’ she said. She had a bunch of keys hanging from her belt, like a gaoler.

  Eve nodded at her.

  ‘About time, Samuel Stallibrass. This way then, look sharp.’ This was all delivered unsmilingly, and her tone was brisk, and some way short of welcoming. Eve looked at Samuel, who smiled encouragingly.

  ‘Housekeeper,’ he said to her, sotto voce. ‘Mrs Munster. That’s Munster, not monster,’ he winked, confidingly. ‘She looks like she’s only recently been dug up, and she acts like a field marshal with toothache, but her bark’s worse than her bite.’

  Eve, reminding herself that wailing like a baby was not an option, braced herself and walked over to the door being held open for her by this woman with the cold voice and preternaturally unfriendly expression. Daniel watched her go.

  ‘Thank you,’ Eve said with pointed good manners and grace, then she disappeared into the house.

  A little dog planted itself at Eve’s feet where she sat at the kitchen table. It was some kind of terrier, a cross-breed, with a short muzzle, brindle coat and soft ears folded over on themselves. It nudged her skirts with its black nose, and she shifted her legs away. Dogs in the kitchen, she thought. What kind of place is this? Daniel, also seated at the table but a little further along, watched the little dog’s valiant efforts to be noticed, and could relate to its disappointment. Though he hadn’t gone so far as nudging Eve with his nose, he had tried various other ways to coax a smile from her. He had passed her the milk jug. He had offered her fruitcake. He had asked about the journey down. She had responded appropriately – accepted the milk, declined the cake, answered politely – but she looked so sad as she did so that Daniel had retreated for fear of provoking tears. In any case, the company around the table was lively, as ever, and he was soon distracted by the banter between the kitchen maids and the footmen, whose conversation was usually mildly scandalous and all the more entertaining for it.

  Eve couldn’t follow what any of them said. They spoke too quickly in a strange accent about people she didn’t know, and the lasses laughed coquettishly at everything the lads said. She drank her tea – it was weak and peculiarly fragrant, as if someone had introduced a few drops of scent into the tea caddy – and glumly took in her surroundings. The kitchen, she thought, wasn’t up to much, not compared to the one at Netherwood Hall or her own at the mill, although even in her bleakness she realised that bottomless misery was probably skewing the picture. Still, the work surfaces looked cluttered and floury, and in spite of the high ceiling the room felt airless. Not a pastry-making room, this. Not a single suitable surface. Perhaps she was expected to work in the scullery. She could see directly into it from where she sat; a soft heap of rabbits was piled on the stone floor, ready for a minion to skin and gut. Netherwood rabbits, thought Eve, wistfully. Must be. No chance of wild rabbits here in London, where all the fields have been swallowed up. The buildings might be soot-blackened up at home, and the workings of the pits might cast a shadow down the high street, but a short walk in any direction would soon bring you to open land. Eve had never felt fonder of Netherwood than she did now. She sipped her strange brew and surrendered entirely to despondency.

  Opposite her the cook, until now in close conversation with Mrs Munster, had decided the time had come to cross-examine the newcomer. Beryl Carmichael, a pleasant enough woman while her sovereignty remained unquestioned, could turn despot at the drop of a hat when she sensed a challenge. She had previous form in this regard; the countess, aware that the best families often employed a French chef to run the kitchen, had made two ill-advised attempts to tamper with the hierarchy. On each occasion, the highly trained messieurs had flounced back to Paris after only a short term, defeated by the redoubtable and, it has to be said, devious Mrs Carmichael, who had made their working lives entirely impossible, resorting even to childish sabotage where necessary. Cold draughts on risen soufflés, salt in the sugar bowl, that kind of thing. She managed all of this without alerting the suspicions of Lady Hoyland, who twice now had thrown herself gratefully – if metaphorically – back into the arms of her faithful cook. To be fair, Mrs Carmichael was not motivated by self-interest alone; she was mounting a rearguard action to protect England from insidious Gallic influence. The paucity of aristocratic old families in France, for which the proud republic only had itself to blame, meant a glut of overqualified French cooks. This was Mrs Carmichael’s view, at any rate, and in defending her kitchen, she felt she was doing her bit for King and Country. English cooks for English kitchens was her motto, and she would have had it stitched across the front of everyone’s apron if she’d been able. Meanwhile the countess seemed to have been persuaded that Parisian chefs were for occasional use only, and since the earl much preferred a good sirloin of beef or a saddle of mutton over anything fancier, there were no complaints from him either. But now perfidy was in the air again, in the form of this young intruder from Netherwood. It didn’t help that Lady Hoyland, innocent of kitchen politics and careless of feelings, had merely sent a blithe message to the Fulton House kitchen telling them to expect Eve on the seventh of May and to purchase any ingredients she might need.

  Mrs Carmichael pointedly cleared her throat, and Eve looked up bleakly from her reflections.

  ‘So,’ said the cook, loud and clear. ‘Mrs, erm, Williams. Why on earth are you here? What is it you’re meant to be so good at exactly?’

  It was so blatantly unkind, so clearly an attack, that it commanded the attention of the whole table. The scullery maid on Eve’s right actually gasped audibly with the drama of it, and for the rest of her life, she never forgot Eve’s response.

  ‘I don’t know why I’m so tired, Mrs Carmichael, since I’ve done nothin’ all day but sit on my backside,’ she said, in measured tones which took all her resolve to maintain. ‘Nevertheless, I find I’m too exhausted to bother tryin’ to justify myself to you. Tomorrow I may feel differently.’

  She was acutely aware, for the first time in her life, of her flat N
etherwood vowels, and she was proud of them. She stood, and her chair scraped back on the stone floor, loud in the near-silent kitchen. The terrier at her feet watched her closely, as if a walk in the park might be on the cards.

  Eve looked down the table at the assembled faces. ‘Perhaps someone would be kind enough to show me to my room,’ she said. This, she knew, was a gamble, since Mrs Carmichael’s influence on the household staff was clearly much greater than hers. Yet she didn’t wish to stalk out of the room alone; she might inadvertently walk into a pantry and lose any advantage she had gained. However, joy of joys, four footmen jumped to their feet in a race to open the door for the heroine of the hour. Eve carefully replaced her chair, nodded solemnly, once at Mrs Carmichael and again at Mrs Munster, then left the room accompanied by the victorious footman. He led her along a corridor, up a narrow flight of stairs and through a green baize door which gently swung itself shut in their wake with a series of soft flumps.

  Back in the kitchen, under the table, the dog slumped to the floor broken-hearted and Daniel almost gave in to an impulse to break the astonished silence by leading a round of applause.