She had to go, had to breathe fresh air, now. She stood and hurried from the room, out of the front door, standing in the crisp cold, staring out at the snow-covered fields. The clouds were a grey-blue, with pink at the edges. They were beautiful but she was unmoved. ‘What’s the point?’ she murmured, her breath visible. There was little wind. The smoke from Grace’s houses went straight up and she watched until it dissipated. Had Timmie dissipated? No. He was still here. She felt him all around.
Grace called from the hall and joined her, bringing a shawl which she placed round Evie’s shoulders, speaking low and firmly. ‘We have work to do. We need to reach people like Millie. If they had a stake in how they are governed it would enthuse them, motivate them, surely. Come with me on Sunday.’
Evie really didn’t care, one way or the other, so why not?
Grace collected her at the crossroads. Sally, the bay mare, was sweating lightly, and Evie gave her a carrot, courtesy of Mrs Moore. There had been further flurries of snow since Wednesday but today the sky was blue. Evie climbed into the trap and settled down opposite Grace, who clicked Sally on. Neither spoke as they trotted through Easton and out on to the Gosforn road. Evie didn’t chat these days. It took too much effort. Grace didn’t chat either. Evie looked at her. Grace smiled, but in a weary and sad way. They seemed to have no need for words, and gone was the gulf of older and younger, employer and employee. The bloom that had settled on Grace had gone. The joy inside Evie was gone.
The snow was banked up on either side of the track, but the advantage of having a Brampton looming over them all was that he paid to have his roads kept clear of snow, all the way to the railway station at Gosforn. Grace said, ‘The weather will keep the men away from the meeting anyway. They’re fair-weather bullies and will be in the pubs keeping warm over a beer.’
They talked about Tim, who was seven months old now, and smiling and laughing. ‘Will Millie ever leave?’ Evie wondered. ‘Or just sit there with her feet up for ever?’
Grace shrugged. ‘Tim is good for your mother and father, and Millie is quite helpful, Evie. You must be fair.’ She clicked the reins. ‘Besides, Jack seems to adore the child.’ Evie stared ahead. She thought she heard pain in her friend’s voice.
The trap rolled over a lump of snow that had tumbled from the bank. What had happened with Jack, or had anything? Perhaps she had imagined it. She gripped the sides of the trap, all the while picturing herself with Simon and their child. She could almost feel her in her arms, feel the grasp of a hand on her finger. She would be called Susie after Mam. It would cheer up both her parents to have their own grandchild. She might even have a look of Timmie about her. At the thought of her brother she felt the drenching pain, and knew that it would never go, but would eventually become more and more manageable.
‘I have to make 1914 a good year. I’m looking for small hotels already. We just need one at the right price; my cooking and household management are now as good as they’ll ever be,’ she told Grace.
‘It’s essential to have a dream, Evie.’ They were entering the outskirts of Gosforn and some of the pavements had been cleared of snow, some hadn’t. Who else had talked to her of dreams? She couldn’t remember.
‘What’s yours, Grace?’
There was silence. ‘Dreams are for the young.’
Evie reached across and gripped her friend’s hand. ‘You’re never too old for them. Never.’
They left Sally and the trap at the rear of the meeting hall along with several others, seeing the lights on, hearing the chairwoman talking. Grace grimaced. ‘Late again.’
‘As always we’ll head to the back,’ Evie smiled.
Grace laughed. ‘We know our place.’
They tapped lightly at the back door, which was locked as it should have been. Betty Clarke, who had often sat with them at the previous meetings, held her finger to her lips and handed them each a copy of the agenda as she let them in. Evie and Grace tiptoed to the back row. Some of the audience turned, and smiled. As they settled themselves Grace nudged Evie and pointed towards the front with her copy of the agenda. There she was, in the front row, but without Lady Margaret. Grace and Evie exchanged a look and Evie’s respect for Lady Veronica grew a little more.
February thawed unseasonably early and March came in with a blast of heat, and soon after snowdrops, then crocus and daffodils, bloomed in profusion. Mr Harvey announced in the servants’ hall that Lady Veronica would at last be marrying, in the local church. The reception would take place at Easterleigh Hall, if that was convenient to Mrs Moore and Evie.
He waited. Mrs Moore nodded. What else could she do? They could hardly say, ‘Well, actually, no. It’s too much bloody work.’ But in any event it would be a learning process for Evie, who would make sure that she bore the brunt of the workload, though the drink was now a distant memory as Mrs Moore’s rheumatics remained at bay.
Later, Lil came into the kitchen bursting with the gossip her position as Lady Veronica’s lady’s maid made her privy to. For once the kitchen was eager to hear it, because they had thought that Captain Williams would remain posted in India for ever, with Lady Veronica an engaged but unmarried spinster.
‘Well, what a barney there was,’ Lil said, standing there with her hair as always escaping from her cap. ‘There was Lady Brampton with steam coming out of her lugs and Lady Veronica as calm as you like saying that she wouldn’t marry the wretched man, even though he had returned unless . . .’ Lil paused. ‘Yes, that’s what she said, wretched man, unless they married here, in the village where Wainey was buried. What do you think of that, eh? Wretched man indeed, I don’t know about you all but I think he cuts a fine figure of a bloke.’
Mrs Moore stopped her there, with a wave of her hand. ‘You run along now. We’ve heard enough, it was nerves, that’s all. Just nerves.’ As Lil flounced off Evie asked Dottie to cast eggshells in the stock while she and Mrs Moore exchanged a look. ‘Wretched man, indeed,’ Mrs Moore mouthed. ‘Poor girl, poor him, what will the future hold?’
The wedding was planned for the merry month of May. ‘Well, that’s a laugh,’ said Annie.
Outside waiters and three extra kitchen staff had been set on for the day, and Mrs Moore had established her overall authority by 7 a.m. on 8th May, the day of the wedding, without ever raising her voice. There was, however, an uneasy sense that the bride would not appear at all. Mr Harvey would allow no chat, and insisted that preparations were approached as though it was to be the wedding of the century.
Household servants had started preparing the marquee and the ballroom several days in advance, the gardeners had readied urns of flowers, colour co-ordinated, pink and white, while the kitchen staff had spent the previous week cooking mountains of food.
It was to be a cold buffet, Lady Veronica had decided, in spite of Lady Brampton’s protests, and Evie had written the menus, ten a day until eighty were ready on the evening of 7th May. By this time preparations were complete for an eve-of-wedding feast for the bride and her visiting relations and friends. On the day of the wedding Evie and Dottie rose at four and made tea for the upper servants, and amazingly Mrs Moore entered the kitchen just five minutes after them. Dottie made porridge for the servants, all of whom were up and busy by four thirty.
Before preparing upstairs breakfasts Mrs Moore and Evie rushed to the big cool room and ticked off: salmon à la Genèvese, cold asparagus soup, red mullet, brill (with its sauce yet to be made), crimped salmon, ribs of lamb, veal and ham pies, roast saddle of mutton with asparagus (at Lord Brampton’s insistence, though they were thankful it was not rabbit pie), stuffed shoulder of lamb, lark pies, fowl au béchamel, tendrons de veau with purée of tomatoes, jellies, all to be placed down the middle of the table. Dishes of small pastries, compotes of fruit, blancmanges, fruit tarts, cheesecakes and small dishes of forced summer fruits were also ready.
By five thirty the servants’ breakfast was almost finished, and the servants’ hall remained cluttered with the guests’ v
alets, lady’s maids and chauffeurs. The kitchen staff thrust spoonfuls of porridge into their mouths while they prepared the upstairs breakfast, cursing the need for so many dishes. The house servants had disappeared as there were rooms to prepare for additional post-wedding overnight guests, as well as the ballroom and marquee seating to be finished.
By eight Evie had chased and caught the lobsters who had escaped from the buckets in the cool room, as usual, loathing their screams as they were plunged into the boiling water. By eight thirty she had finished the sauces, the mayonnaise, the collared eel. The lobster was cut up and would be served in cut-glass bowls. Dottie was at her elbow, learning, always learning, and Evie thanked her lucky stars daily that she had her and not Millie. It made for such a smooth-running kitchen, and they all treasured the change. The imported kitchen staff arrived and were quick and willing, and Mrs Moore instructed them with gusto.
By eleven the food was complete and the house servants had finished, and they all clattered up the back stairs to change into clean aprons, for they had been invited to sit at the back of the church for the ceremony. Lil’s voice could be heard rising above the hubbub. ‘She looks so lovely, I just hope she doesn’t lock her bedroom door and refuse to come out.’
In their room Evie checked Dottie’s hair, and Dottie hers. Dottie muttered, ‘What if she doesn’t come? Oh my heavens. All that food.’
Evie shrugged. ‘Can you imagine her parents if she doesn’t?’
Dottie laughed. ‘I’d rather not.’
Evie straightened her apron. Poor Lady Veronica, how lonely she must feel.
The carts were waiting in the stable yard to take the staff to the church, a church which some of them attended on a Sunday. Others went to chapel, or not at all, which was permissible due to the Bramptons unconcern about spiritual matters.
Edward was officiating at the wedding and the service had already begun by the time they all slipped in at the back, Mr Harvey leading. The church was decorated with greenery and pink and white forced roses to replicate the house decorations, and there, in a delicate long white gown, was Lady Veronica. Evie breathed a sigh of relief. She turned, trying to find Simon who had been down here already with Bernie and Thomas, putting the final touches to the flowers. He was on the right side of the church, and as always seemed to sense when she was seeking him. He smiled, mouthed, ‘We’ll likely be next, Evie, pet.’
She nodded and smiled too. Yes, soon, for a small guest house near Fordington was to be sold in December of 1914. They’d heard only last week. Da had registered their interest immediately, taking an afternoon to drive the cart to Fordington, but she had yet to tell Mrs Moore. She glanced at her as she sang at her side, knowing that the sea air would invigorate her, and that she’d probably want to help a little in the kitchens. Evie’s heart was full as the hymn soared, overwhelming the organ which was played by Grace. Poor Grace, she wanted to ask Jack if anything had happened between them, but from his demeanour she knew she must not.
Her thoughts turned to Simon. Lady Veronica had asked him to entertain her guests and sing with the professional band that had come from Newcastle and were setting up in the ballroom. Apart from Lady Veronica paying him five guineas, the experience would help him when he sought work. Why, perhaps he’d set up his own band with Bernie and Thomas, and of course he was right to want to keep the guineas for himself. It had just been a surprise, that was all.
Lady Veronica was saying, ‘I do.’ Mrs Moore looked at her and sighed. ‘All that food, I couldn’t have borne it to go to waste.’
Mr Harvey was waving them out of the church. Evie bit her lip to prevent the laughter spilling out.
Once James and Archie had led the team of waiters to the marquee, Evie and Mrs Moore fanned themselves in front of the ranges. It was done. Evie brewed tea, relishing the silence because everyone was up in the stable yard, or by the yew walk watching the excitement, and soon they’d be dancing to Simon and the band, hidden from the family.
‘Was Simon nervous?’ Mrs Moore asked, dunking a ginger biscuit, her glasses perched on her head.
‘A little, but looking forward to it. He has such confidence in himself.’ Evie leaned over and helped herself to a biscuit, dunking too, and sucking the tea from it before thrusting it into her mouth.
‘Lady Veronica will remain here definitely, Lil told us,’ Mrs Moore said, easing her back as she sat on the stool.
‘I suppose it’s a good idea. He’s posted down in Folkestone, isn’t he, so at least she’ll feel comfortable here. I thought she might go with him, but . . .’
Mrs Moore nodded. ‘Exactly. But. I don’t know, I really don’t. It does make you wonder if they’ll ever live here together, but then this class is different to us.’
Was this the time to tell her about Fordington? Probably not. What if someone else bought the guest house? Evie reached for another biscuit. ‘With this Home Rule thing in Ireland he could be sent over there, I suppose. Or even the Continent. Germany wants colonies, Jack said, and might try and take ours. Why don’t they go and find their own, or perhaps we could share. Or perhaps we shouldn’t have colonies?’
Mrs Moore slapped her gently. ‘For goodness sake, lass, stop worrying about the world, will you? If it isn’t votes for the masses, it’s world peace. We’re cooks in a kitchen, one of whom will have a hotel and a husband as soon as she can manage it, if I’m any judge of what’s what.’ She held her cup with both hands, unable to bend her swollen fingers.
‘What do we call our blushing bride?’ Evie asked.
‘She wishes to be known as Lady Veronica, as always, and he will be Captain Williams, and I’ll tell you what, pet, it will be a blessed relief to see less of Lord and Lady Brampton, who prefer London and Leeds anyway.’ Mrs Moore eased herself from the stool and placed her cup on the table. ‘You go and listen to your young man while I go and rest like the virtuous soul I am.’
Evie laughed, helping her to the door and watching her limp along the passageway. ‘I’ll make tea in a couple of hours.’
‘Yes, and then later we’ll enjoy the champagne with a little bit of lobster, there should be plenty left. Enjoy yourself.’ Mr Harvey had said that there would champagne for supper, by order of Lady Veronica.
‘I will.’ Evie ran up the stairs towards the yard. The weather was still set fair, with a blue sky and sunshine. In the stable yard the servants would be speaking in whispers and watching the proceedings, and some would have gone to the yew hedge where they could peer through in places. She stopped on the top step to listen to Simon, whose voice soared true and beautiful, enhanced by the backing of the professional band.
As she moved into the yard she heard a sound behind her, and turned, but too late. She felt hands on her arms, grabbing her from behind, pulling at her, dragging her backwards down the steps. She lost balance, almost crashed to the ground, but was hauled upright and dragged to the back door.
‘What?’ she gasped. ‘What?’ The grip was so tight that fingernails cut into her arms. Suddenly those hands swung her round. A man loomed over her. The smell of drink made her gag. It was Roger, of course, who thrust her away, but did not let go. ‘So, you bitch, my son won’t want me? We’ll see about that, and you? You’ll have me, whether you want me or not. A Forbes, eh? It was you who spread the word about the houses.’ He backed her to the wall, rammed his arm across her throat. She could hardly breathe. His hand gripped her chin, his mouth closed on hers.
She pushed at him, hit out, but he was feeling her breasts, panting in her face. She could still hear Simon’s voice soaring over everything and she should call out, but how could she with this bastard’s mouth over hers? Then his hand was moving down, lifting her skirt. He had rammed his knee between her legs and she still couldn’t breathe. And still Simon’s song soared, still Roger’s mouth was on hers and she was tight against the wall and couldn’t lever back to punch, or kick because his knee was pushing her legs apart and her skirt was to her waist.
She used
her head then, as Jack had always said to do. She butted him, hard across the nose. Blood spurted. His arm on her throat sagged. She pushed, he stepped back, his balance gone. There was a roaring anger now as she pummelled his chest, kicking, scratching, stamping, and finally driving her fist into his solar plexus. He fell on the stairs, his arms up. She followed up, hitting, kicking, and the anger drove her on because Timmie had died, louts had thrown tomatoes and bricks and there had to be an end to it all. She kicked again as he lay at her feet, huddled, his arms protecting his head.
At last she was done, the breath heaving in her chest, her hair loose, her cap God knew where. She stood over him, shaking now. She hissed, ‘When will you learn? Never touch me again. Never come near me or my family and leave your son alone. Now get out of here.’
She put her hands on her hips so that he wouldn’t see them shaking. It wasn’t fear, she didn’t know what it was, didn’t care. She waited while he scrambled to his feet, a scratch down the side of his face, his clothes smeared with grime. He didn’t look at her as he lurched up the steps and stumbled across the yard towards the garage. The chauffeur would be with the servants, but in Len’s sleeping quarters he’d find a brush and sort himself out. She watched him all the way and only when he had entered did she turn and hurry up the back stairs, the shaking now taking over her whole body, the pain in her back and hips from jolting down the stairs catching with each step.
In her bedroom she stripped off her uniform, poured water from the jug into the bowl and washed, dressed in her second uniform, fumbling as she tied her apron, then repaired her hair, her arms aching as she lifted them above her head.
She started towards the door, and then her legs failed. She staggered, made herself hold firm, and managed to reach her bed. A wave of sickness caught her, the shaking grew worse. She sank her head into her hands, heaving. But no. She thrust her hands into her lap, fisting them. They hurt. She smiled. Jack would be proud.
Easterleigh Hall Page 27