Netherwood01 - Netherwood

by Jane Sanderson

  ‘I see,’ said Mr Paterson, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair and making a steeple with his bony fingers. ‘And let’s say we ordered a weekly consignment from, say, the beginning of August. How would you get them to us?’

  ‘Oh, we deliver,’ Eve said airily.

  ‘Nationwide?’

  ‘Mmmm.’ It was a small sound, but definitely in the affirmative.

  ‘Marvellous,’ said Mr Paterson. And they shook on the deal, Eve’s mind in turmoil. What had it come to, that she could smilingly commit to a contract she wasn’t even sure she could honour. It was all Anna’s fault, Anna and her blessed ambition. If it came to it, Mrs Rabinovich would have to cycle to London with the pies in a pannier.

  Chapter 47

  They walked back along Piccadilly, a respectable gap between them until a legitimate excuse could be found to be closer. Eve, he remarked, had a spring in her step and she admitted that, yes, she felt brighter and bolder for pulling off a deal with the grocer to the king.

  ‘What’ll the countess think of you selling fairy pies on the open market?’ he said.

  ‘She doesn’t own me,’ Eve said, a little tartly. It made her think of Amos, who, in the place he occupied in her head, was saying, ‘Ah but she does,’ in that implacable way of his. And, in fact, she wasn’t at all sure what the countess would think, though she was sure the earl would see the business sense in branching out.

  ‘Anyway,’ she went on, to convince herself as much as anything, ‘by the time my pies appear in Fortnum’s, they’ll ’ave served their purpose as far as Lady ’oyland is concerned. They’ll be old news by August. She’ll ’ave moved on to summat new.’

  Daniel laughed. This was an entirely accurate assessment of their employer’s character. Her whims and enthusiasms changed with the wind. It was only after years of working for her that he had established a relationship where his own expertise in the garden was acknowledged by the countess as superior to her own, and even now she would sometimes pull rank and insist that something be added to the scheme that offended Daniel’s eye. Her tastes, given full rein, ran to blousy excess.

  He changed the subject, all of a sudden.

  ‘Do you have to go back?’

  She was in no hurry to leave his side and there was nobody to miss her at Fulton House. This thought made her feel liberated rather than lonely.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘What did you ’ave in mind?’

  ‘A spot of refreshment, then, if you don’t mind a bit of a walk, there’s a place I’d like to show you.’

  She smiled her assent, and it required an effort of will not to skip like Eliza along the busy pavement. Forcing herself to walk sedately beside him, she wondered what it was about this man that made her feel like a girl, breathlessly excited and full of hope. He was handsome, certainly. He was tall. He was kind and funny. But it was something far less definable, something, somehow, to do with the way he looked at her; he turned his eyes upon her and she felt like a part of her was melting. She had never before felt this rush of pleasure under a man’s gaze; not when Amos blurted out his love for her, not even when, as a seventeen-year-old girl, she had happily accepted Arthur.

  Meanwhile there was Daniel, his heart beating a little faster than usual, his breath coming fast and shallow, feeling the strain of the continual effort of not kissing her; and each of them, keeping these thoughts to themselves, presenting a sensible, restrained face to the world and each other.

  It was a long walk from Piccadilly to the Chelsea Physic Garden, a small triangle of fertile land bordered on its two longer sides by the Thames on the left and the Royal Hospital Road on the right. As they walked, Daniel, like an enthusiastic academic, sketched a history for Eve, conjuring with his words the seventeenth-century apothecaries who founded the garden for their apprentices. There were plants there, he said, from remote corners of the globe, brought back to London by adventuring botanists in the interests of improving the human condition, advancing our knowledge of medicinal plants. It was, he said, his favourite place in London, aside from his own garden.

  ‘Is it very beautiful?’ Eve said hopefully. Her feet were hot and sore in her boots now, and still they hadn’t arrived.

  ‘Not in the way you probably mean,’ he said. ‘It’s a bit neglected these days. The Society of Apothecaries fell on hard times. But it’s a special place. There’s nothing grown there that doesn’t have some purpose. It elevates gardening to something akin to science. Left down here.’

  He turned into Swan Walk. There was a tall wrought-iron gate set into a high wall built of blond brick, and Daniel lifted the catch, pushed it open and stepped inside, inviting her in after him. It wasn’t a public garden, he said, but to date no one had ever challenged him when he visited. Today, it appeared deserted. Eve looked about her. A series of narrow paths separated small rectangular beds stocked with unremarkable-looking plants. The air was heavy with the scent of rosemary. Ahead, a stone statue towered on its plinth, the contours blunt and weathered. There was a scattering of different trees, and, here and there, slatted metal seats, not designed for lingering. It was a pleasant enough place, and quiet, but Eve was slightly at a loss. She’d expected more.

  ‘Come on, have a closer look,’ Daniel said. He crouched down by the nearest bed and pointed at the plants growing there. ‘Creeping cinquefoil, for griefs of the liver; marshmallow, good against bee stings; dwarf elder, to ease a viper bite.’ He looked up. ‘Do you encounter vipers in Netherwood?’

  ‘Plenty,’ she said. ‘I have two for neighbours.’ She crouched next to him now. ‘Feverfew,’ she read. ‘My mam used to keep that, dried in a pot. And verbena, look.’ She leaned in to read the small sign planted nearby. ‘Good for those that are frantic. Ha! I should keep some in my kitchen.’

  ‘Culpeper’s notes, these,’ Daniel said. ‘He catalogued hundreds of herbs, their names and uses, like an inventory of nature’s medical chest. But these are all common plants. Over here, look, there are imports.’ He stood and moved over to a neighbouring bed. ‘These didn’t grow here until some botanist on his travels found them and sent them home. Papaver somniferum, the opium poppy. Unsurpassed pain relief, but kind of habit forming. Withania somnifera, a tonic for fatigue or nervous exhaustion. Native to India.’

  He looked at her, and she smiled.

  ‘Am I being boring?’ he said.

  ‘You’re not,’ she said. ‘You just make me smile, that’s all.’

  ‘Come on, let’s stroll,’ he said, and they meandered up and down the grid of paths in the quiet seclusion, close enough together for their arms to occasionally brush against each other and each time they touched something physical seemed to pass between them which they stoically ignored, though the effort of staying apart was immense, as if they moved side by side in a powerful force field. Eve felt lightheaded. The afternoon sun was hot for so early in the season, and the air in the physic garden was heavy with the mingled fragrances of flowers, leaves and warmed earth. Wherever they turned, they saw no one else and this added to her acute sense of him, of his presence by her side, the sound of his breathing and his footsteps on the gravel. Finally, like a break in the weather and a sudden downpour after sultry heat, something changed. A small moment of pure understanding passed between them – nothing discernible to an observer, nothing that could be named as the word or the deed that altered everything, simply a glance or a sigh or a fractional movement. Even they couldn’t be sure. But suddenly he was holding her and they were kissing like lovers, slowly, intimately and with intent. He lifted her in his arms and moved her so that her back was cradled and supported by the low boughs of a yew tree, and he covered her face in kisses, murmuring her name. She held his face in her hands, directed his mouth back to hers and kissed him with passionate intensity. His hands roved her body and she welcomed them, shifting to allow him wherever he wanted to be. He lifted her skirts, sliding his hands along the length of her thighs, pushing between them, exploring all of her. She gasped and moan
ed, clutching his shirt in her fists, beside herself with what she was feeling. It was new to her, this liquid, wanton desire. She helped him in his quest, pulling at laces and loosening her undergarments, all the while kissing him and he her. His fingers met warm, damp flesh and she thought she might die with the ecstasy of his touch. He pulled roughly at the buttons of his trousers and she felt the agony of the wait, a desperate longing, then he was free and, with one hand under her buttocks he lifted her higher into the arms of the tree, and entered her with shuddering relief. She clung to him, moved against him, and was lost.

  Afterwards they stood welded together for a while, letting the yew take their weight, gathering themselves, allowing the tumult of their breathing to settle and quieten. He looked at her with love in his eyes and said her name tenderly once, twice, three times. She kissed him, more gently now that passion was sated. She knew she should feel ashamed but she couldn’t bring herself to. Peaceful was all she could manage. And happy. Then, at the far side of the garden, they heard the iron gate creak to admit someone else, and they hastily arranged themselves into respectability and walked sedately away. The young student they passed as they left nodded politely at them, and they nodded politely back.

  They took a deliberately circuitous route back to Fulton House. Neither of them spoke about what had happened; words, with all their limitations, might diminish it. Eve felt some great human truth had suddenly made itself clear, as if part of her – a feeling part, not a bodily one – had never been woken, until now. She knew her old self would have shrunk from such bold abandon, but her new self understood it was as necessary as it was natural. Under a tree, though! She allowed herself a small, private smile at the scandal of it. The base of her spine felt tender, as if bruised or grazed and she rubbed it discreetly, glad it was there. Daniel, for his part, felt nothing but the blessed relief of claiming her; he had not the slightest shred of doubt that she was his.

  They were entwined now, his arm around her shoulders, hers around his waist. They meandered along the Chelsea Embankment, anonymous in the throng of people, watching the industrious bustle of the river’s population. It seemed to Eve that half the country had congregated here, on and by the Thames; she said as much, and Daniel laughed.

  ‘It’s a good deal quieter than it used to be,’ he said. ‘Canals and railways are sharing the load these days.’

  ‘Well, it’s busy enough for me,’ she said. ‘I don’t know ’ow you bear it. The crush. The noise.’

  ‘London’s a wonderful city. Headquarters of the British Empire.’

  ‘It’s full of strangers. I like to greet folk and be greeted when I walk down t’street.’

  ‘Aye, right enough, I’ll grant you that one. You have to be happy with your own company in London.’

  ‘And are you?’

  ‘I am, yes. At least, I was, at any rate.’ He stopped walking and, without releasing her, he looked down into her eyes. ‘I think, though, that if you leave, I might feel very lonely.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and she couldn’t hold his gaze. ‘I can’t stay ’ere.’

  He leaned down and kissed her softly on her bowed head, because there was nothing to say. Then he began to walk again, slowly as before, keeping her close beside him.

  It was another hour and a half before they wended their way into the square, by which time they had pulled apart and were walking with a respectable six inches of daylight between them. From the end of the street they could see all the kerfuffle of a departure at Fulton House. Samuel Stallibrass was atop the landau, and while they couldn’t see who was inside as it drew away, there was a large leather portmanteau strapped to the back.

  ‘Someone’s leaving, and not just for the afternoon,’ said Daniel. ‘Strange.’

  It seemed no stranger to Eve than anything else that had so far happened since arriving in London, so she felt little curiosity. They turned left into the porte-cochère, where a stable lad was busy clearing a pile of fresh manure.

  ‘Very nice, Frank,’ Daniel said. ‘Another gift for my garden from the horses. Who was that in the carriage?’

  The lad ceased his sweeping. ‘Lord Hoyland,’ he said. ‘Called back up north. Eight of his men dead, they say. Accident at his pit.’

  All the joyous warmth of the day drained away from Eve with his words, as swiftly and thoroughly as if it had never been there.

  ‘Which pit?’ she said, in a strangled voice that Daniel didn’t recognise.

  Frank, sublimely innocent of the importance of his answer, shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Dunno,’ he said. ‘Is there more than one?’

  Eve staggered, just fractionally, and Daniel reached for her. She looked at him desperately, as though he could help her, then she looked away in despair when she remembered that of course he couldn’t. He understood entirely.

  ‘I’ll get the names for you, Eve. I’ll get the name of the pit and the names of the men. Is that what you need?’

  Mute and miserable, she nodded. But it was more than that. She was in the wrong place entirely. With every cell and sinew, she wished to be in Netherwood with her family and friends. This was punishment for betraying Arthur’s memory. For pretending she was someone else. She left Daniel, without a word or a glance, and entered the house, with no clear aim except to be alone. Watching her go, he felt helpless in the face of the life she had led without him, as if a yawning chasm had opened between them, and she stood out of reach on her side with the people she loved, in the place she knew best. Whose name, on the list of dead men, did she dread to see? Daniel envied him, this nameless miner with a hold on her heart. For the same honour he felt he would exchange places, whatever his fate.

  Chapter 48

  Daniel’s great friend in the Hoyland clan was the countess, but he knew her well enough to realise she would know nothing at all about a crisis in Netherwood beyond the inconvenient fact of her husband’s departure. Henrietta, on the other hand, would probably have been briefed by her father and would now be in possession of all the details; for a woman, she made an excellent right-hand man. Therefore it was she whom Daniel sought when he entered the house, hard on the heels of Eve.

  He spoke to a footman then waited in the elegant reception hall while his request was conveyed. The flowers he had sent up to the house in a trug, early this morning, rose from a blue china vase in a loose, unstructured arrangement at the centre of a highly polished walnut table. The choice of blooms – cornflowers, poppies, a few sprays of white blossom – had a natural, artless appearance, quite at odds with their formal setting, but all the more striking for that. Not Mrs Munster’s work, then, he thought. She took a more architectural approach, preferring tight floral structures with gladioli and irises – flowers with backbone, flowers more like her.

  ‘Mr MacLeod.’

  The footman, a handsome blond youth of the type favoured by the countess – matching footmen were all the rage in her set – had appeared soundlessly beside him.

  ‘Lady Henrietta can see you now,’ he said, indicating, as he spoke, the earl’s study. He led Daniel in, announcing him rather more formally than seemed appropriate, given that he was, after all, merely the gardener. Henrietta, however, welcomed him warmly, standing from where she sat at her father’s desk and walking around it to shake Daniel by the hand. She was dressed for riding in a handsome dark-brown habit with a velvet collar, and her hair was tamed and twisted into a thick plait. She rode hardly less in London than she did in the country, though her outings were more sedate in the city, restricted as they were to Rotten Row and other sections of the royal parks.

  ‘Daniel,’ she said. ‘What can I do for you?’

  He hesitated, suddenly aware that his request for the names of the dead Netherwood miners was going to seem peculiar in the extreme. But he was here now, and it would appear odder still if he backed out of the room without speaking, so he plunged right in, and explained that he was speaking on behalf of Eve Williams, who had learned of the colliery accident but not of th
e details.

  ‘She’s desperately concerned,’ he said. ‘She’s been very afflicted by the news and would benefit from knowing the names of the deceased, whatever additional sorrow that might bring. At least, so I believe.’ This was tagged rather belatedly to the end of his speech; he could see from her eyes that Lady Henrietta was wondering what Eve Williams was to him. However she was too kind, and too discreet, to ask.

  ‘Ah, good – so she’s back?’ she said.

  Daniel nodded, feeling somehow wrong-footed.

  ‘I did look for her earlier, but the kitchen staff were unable to help. Where is she now?’

  ‘I think she probably went up to her room. She wouldn’t head to the kitchen for comfort.’ This was excruciating. He felt riddled with guilt for keeping Eve away and for knowing where she was now. But Henrietta seemed unconcerned about the whys and wherefores – the last thing on her mind was an inquisition.

  ‘She must be desperate for news. I shall go directly to her.’

  He thanked her, bid her farewell and walked to the door of the study. As he opened it to leave she said, ‘And Daniel?’

  He turned. ‘Yes, m’lady?’

  ‘I shall comfort her, too, if I can. I mean, as well as inform her.’

  He was grateful for her understanding and felt a rush of emotion, but betrayed nothing of his feelings when he spoke.

  ‘Thank you, m’lady,’ he said evenly, and he took his leave.

  Eve sat on the edge of her bed, dry-eyed, white-faced. She would wait there, she had decided, until she heard. She could not continue with her day until she knew if Amos was dead, and if he was, she could not stay in London. The notion that she was perhaps being punished for today was persistent, though in her heart she couldn’t feel regret or any sense of sinfulness. She had on her lap the Bible from her nightstand, but it was unopened. Some memory of faith from her past had prompted her to reach for it, but her relationship with the Almighty was complex these days, since he had stood by and watched, as Arthur was smote down. Her fury with God had diminished with the passing of the months – she came to understand it wasn’t a personal vendetta – but still she felt she had turned her back on her old, unquestioning beliefs and had therefore forfeited the right to pray, now, for Amos’s safety. In any case, she thought, he was either dead or he was alive, and no one’s prayers could influence this fact.