by Betty Neels
When Henrietta got up to go she was told to come again whenever she wanted to. ‘Tibbs is the name. My old man works for the builders over at Thaxted and the boy’s working on a farm in Shropshire. It’s a bit lonely in the winter.’
‘I’d like to come again,’ said Henrietta. ‘Not next week, though, for I must go into Thaxted and buy one or two things, but I’ll come again soon! Can I bring you anything when I come? I don’t know what the shops are like there...’
‘Good enough for me—there’s a supermarket and any number of small shops. There’s nothing I need, but you never know—thanks for the offer.’
Henrietta went back to the lodge then, and set the table for their supper, fed Dickens and Ollie and accompanied them into the garden for a while. It was chilly still and she went indoors to light the sitting-room fire, presently to sit by it with Dickens and Ollie lying in her lap. She sat there daydreaming, until a glance at the clock reminded her that Mrs Pettifer would be back soon and it was time to get some supper.
‘Enjoyed your day?’ asked Mrs Pettifer as they sat down to scrambled eggs and mushrooms and a pot of tea.
Henrietta told her where she had been, and said that yes, she had had a lovely day.
‘Mrs Tibbs is a very good sort—does well with her teas in summer, but she must be a bit lonely there at this time of year. There are mostly old folk in the other cottages.
‘Lady Hensen wants me to start on repairing the curtains in the big hall; I’ll want you to come along and give me a hand. It’s close work, so we can do only a few hours at a time, but the tourists don’t come in any numbers until Easter.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ said Henrietta. It would be a pleasant change from being at everyone’s beck and call. Not that she minded that—everyone had been very kind and helpful, even the housekeeper, who was probably not as severe as she looked.
* * *
THE CURTAINS WERE very old, and almost threadbare where the heavy striped silk was stitched to the lining. Henrietta perched on a carved oak armchair of great age, spread the curtain on the Pembroke table before her and set to work.
Mrs Pettifer, coming in presently, said nothing and started on another curtain, but later, when it was time for them to go to the kitchen for their mid-morning coffee, she came over and inspected Henrietta’s work.
She took off her spectacles and looked at Henrietta. ‘A rare thing, to find a girl who can sew. Lady Hensen will be pleased.’
Henrietta, long used to Mrs Carter’s depressing comments about her work, glowed with content.
She was finding her feet by now, not only around the house but among its occupants. Mrs Pettifer was hardly a domestic; she was head guide during the tourist season, she was in charge of the rooms open to the public, and she was entrusted with the cleaning and the care of the silver and porcelain on display.
The housekeeper ruled the staff with a firm hand—with the exception of the butler, Feathers, whom she consulted on any knotty problem which might arise. The housemaids were friendly and so were the two gardeners and the odd job man, who came up from the village each morning. In the season, Mrs Pettifer had told her, several ladies in the village helped with the guide work and helped in the small tearoom in the grounds.
* * *
HENRIETTA WAS TOLD to go to the housekeeper’s room on Friday morning and was given her weeks’ wages. She went back to her sewing, her head filled with delighted thoughts. No rent to pay, no bus fares, no food to buy—on her next day off she would go to Thaxted and spend a little of the money in her pocket. The rest she would put away; there was always the chance that Lady Hensen would decide that she wouldn’t do and she must add to her tiny capital so that she had some security against being out of work again.
She had still seen nothing of Sir Peter or Lady Hensen, and although Mrs Pettifer was kind and friendly she hadn’t passed many opinions on Henrietta’s work.
‘I didn’t tell you, did I?’ said Mrs Pettifer that evening. ‘You are free on Sunday morning—’ Henrietta nodded. ‘You know that. I’m free from one o’clock. Do what you like in the morning—I’ll have breakfast as usual, but you get yours when you like. Church is at eleven o’clock if you would like to go, and midday dinner is at half-past twelve on Sundays. It’s quiet at this time of year and there are no guests this weekend.
‘You’ll be needed to sit in the office leading from the entrance hall, to answer the phone and listen for bells. Everyone else will be off duty until about half past three, when one of the maids will get the tea if anyone is home. You’ll have your tea as usual, and stay in the office until six o’clock.
‘Supper is in the servants’ hall on Sundays—half past six. You’re free after that. I think you might take some work to do while you’re in the office. That torn cushion cover from the great hall...’
Henrietta said, ‘Yes, Mrs Pettifer,’ and added, ‘Might I be allowed to come here to feed Dickens and Ollie? They usually have something directly after midday dinner.’
‘I don’t see why not, as long as you tell someone where you are and don’t stay too long.’
* * *
SO WHEN SUNDAY morning came she didn’t get up until Mrs Pettifer had left the lodge, when she went downstairs and, with the cats for company, had a splendid breakfast before tidying up, making her bed and getting ready to go to church. She had no hat, which bothered her a bit, but she looked tidy if nothing else. Besides, there was no one to see her and she would sit at the back of the church.
It was a ten-minute walk, and the bell ceased to ring as she reached the porch. The church was quite full but she slipped into a pew by the door, said her prayers and then looked around her.
Almost under the pulpit was an enclosed pew with a little wooden gate and a coat of arms on it. Sir Peter and Lady Hensen were sitting there—she could see Lady Hensen’s hat and Sir Peter’s grey head—and on the other side of the aisle was Mr Ross-Pitt. Her heart gave a lurch at the sight of him and then dropped to her shoes at the sight of the lovely, elegant young woman sitting beside him.
Although why I should be surprised I don’t know, reflected Henrietta. Of course they’ll be going to marry... Her thoughts were brought to an end by the entry of the choir and vicar, and by dint of singing hymns very loudly and listening to every word the vicar said she was able to dismiss Mr Ross-Pitt completely from her head.
She’d intended to slip out of the church before the rest of the congregation, but she hadn’t reckoned on the fact that everyone waited until the Hensens had led the way. Mr Ross-Pitt, waiting his turn like everyone else, saw Henrietta and made shift to follow the Hensens’ progress, taking his companion with him, so that by the time they had left the church he was close behind them and in time to prevent Henrietta sliding away before he spoke to her.
She looked better already, he reflected while deploring her drab clothes. There was a healthy pink in her cheeks, however, and her uncertain smile made her almost pretty.
‘Henrietta—how nice to see you. How are you?’ He smiled, his voice as kind as his words. ‘You look splendid...’ He turned to his companion.
‘Deirdre, this is Henrietta Cowper, who works for Sir Peter. Henrietta, this is Miss Stone.’
Miss Stone looked Henrietta over. ‘Oh, really? One of the servants?’
‘Yes,’ said Henrietta before Mr Ross-Pitt could speak. ‘How do you do?’ She spoke frostily, and then turned to Mr Ross-Pitt.
‘I’m very happy—you have no idea—’ She stopped; he wouldn’t want to know more than that. ‘I have to go back for my dinner. It was nice to see you again.’ She added ‘sir’ in a defiant little voice, which made him wince. She smiled at them both, and slipped past them and out of the churchyard.
Deirdre said languidly, ‘Really Adam, what odd people you know.’
He said placidly, ‘There is nothing odd about He
nrietta.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘We will go back home and I’ll get the car out—we’re due to go for drinks with Lady Hensen.’
Deirdre took his arm. ‘Darling, what a bore, and I suppose Mother will want to come as well...’
‘Why not? She has been invited.’
* * *
MRS STONE WAS sitting by the fire, a wisp of a woman, dominated by her daughter. She looked up as they went in; Deirdre looked petulant, and she sighed.
She hadn’t wanted to visit Adam; she was aware that Deirdre was determined to marry him and she was also aware that he had no intention of doing so, but, since she and his mother were old friends and it had been suggested that she and Deirdre should break their journey on their way north, she had reluctantly agreed to spend a night on their way. A waste of time, she considered; Adam had been a perfect host, but if he felt anything more than casual friendship for Deirdre he was concealing it very skilfully.
He would be, of course, a splendid catch, and Deirdre had so far failed to find herself a husband, but Mrs Stone knew better than to point that fact out to her daughter. Life was sometimes difficult living with her; Mrs Stone promised herself that one day she would speak her mind to Deirdre, but so far the worm hadn’t quite gathered enough courage to turn...
* * *
HENRIETTA, RELIEVED to have escaped from Miss Stone’s malicious eyes, walked back to the lodge, attended to Dickens and Ollie, and went up to the house for her dinner. The food was good and ample; she was tucking into Cook’s treacle pudding when the housekeeper, who had her meals in her own room, came into the servants’ hall.
Agnes—one of the maids—had tripped on the back stairs and hurt her ankle, she informed them, and Lady Hensen had asked any number of people back for drinks. Feathers couldn’t manage by himself, and Addy the second maid was off duty.
‘Henrietta, go along to the drawing room and make yourself useful.’
Henrietta swallowed a mouthful of pudding and got to her feet. No one argued with the housekeeper.
There were a dozen people standing around the drawing room. No one I’ve met before, reflected Henrietta thankfully, bidden to carry a tray of sherry to a group at the other end of the room. Too late she perceived that she had been mistaken; Mr Ross-Pitt was there, and Miss Stone.
She offered the drinks, and when she proffered the tray to the pair of them, who were standing a little apart from the others, she kept her eyes on Miss Stone’s expensive leather belt, and then on his waistcoat buttons.
‘Hello again,’ said Mr Ross-Pitt easily.
She ignored that; it didn’t seem right to offer drinks and say hello to guests at the same time, not when she was doing her best to look like Agnes.
‘Oh, it’s that domestic we saw in church,’ said Deirdre languidly. ‘Well, I suppose it makes a change to see how the other half live.’ She laughed, and Henrietta’s hand tightened on the glass she was offering.
Inured to rudeness though she was, having to leave her half-eaten pudding and serve drinks without being given a moment in which to powder her nose or tidy her hair and, on top of that, meeting Mr Ross-Pitt again was too much for her normally level-headed nature.
‘No, no, Henrietta, don’t,’ said Mr Ross-Pitt softly, and she uncurled her fingers and offered Miss Stone the tray of drinks. That lady had been looking at him, expecting him to share in her amusement, and she was gratified to see the smile lurking at the corners of his mouth. Only his smile wasn’t for Deirdre.
Henrietta slid away back to Feathers. He sent her to get a napkin for the vicar’s wife, who had spilt her sherry on her dress, and while she was mopping her up Lady Hensen crossed the room. She commiserated politely over the stain, recommended remedies and turned to smile at Henrietta.
‘What a treasure you are, Henrietta.’ She looked at the vicar’s wife. ‘Adam Ross-Pitt recommended her to me, and I shall never cease to thank him.’ She raised her voice to say ‘Adam,’ so that he turned round enquiringly.
‘Come here and say hello to Henrietta; you will be pleased to know that she is everything you said of her.’
He came unhurriedly. ‘We met in church this morning...’
Henrietta had had enough. ‘Excuse me, Lady Hensen, but Feathers is beckoning me...’ Her vague, polite smile embraced all three of them.
She never wanted to see him again, she told herself fiercely as she trotted to and fro under Feathers’ eagle eye, horribly conscious of her unsuitable clothes. She wasn’t likely to get the chance either. The guests went presently and he with them, without so much as a glance in her direction.
* * *
SITTING IN THE office later on with the big house quiet around her, Henrietta had time to think. Clothes, she decided. Not for the world would she risk again having to appear at a moment’s notice in the clothes she had bought so hopefully in London. They would do well enough for her daily chores, but there had to be one decent garment that she could get into, and shoes other than the useful lace-ups she wore.
Recklessly she decided to spend the whole of her fifty pounds on her day off. Her mind made up, she turned her attention to the cushion cover. Inevitably her thoughts returned to Mr Ross-Pitt.
The jangling of a distant bell disturbed her. She knew which one it was—the old-fashioned contraption which hung beside the little door at the side of the house. It opened from the garden onto a passage which led to the main hall and was used by the family and servants and no one else.
Henrietta went to answer it; one of the staff had gone for a walk, she supposed, and forgotten to take the key kept hanging in the passage. She took it from its hook now and pulled back the bolts as the bell rang again.
She unlocked the door with a breathless, ‘Sorry you had to wait,’ and found a young man—a stranger—standing there.
He smiled at her in a friendly fashion. ‘This place is like a tomb on Sunday afternoons out of season. You’re new, aren’t you?’
He made to come into the house, but Henrietta stood solidly in his path.
‘Yes, I’m new. Would you tell me who you are? Did you want to see someone?’
‘You’re as fierce as Mrs Pettifer; she terrifies me, but somehow I don’t think you’re fierce at all. I’m Mike Hensen—Sir Peter’s my uncle. Now may I come in? He’ll be in his study having a nap, so you can come with me and make sure that I’m not intent on carrying off the family silver!’
She stood aside then. He seemed genuine—well-dressed, pleasant voice and manner, good-looking too. She wasn’t sure if she liked him, but that wasn’t to say that he wasn’t a perfectly nice person with nothing to hide.
It had been pleasant to be spoken to as his equal, she reflected as she led the way to Sir Peter’s study. She paused outside the door. ‘Sir Peter doesn’t like to be disturbed—’ she began.
He grinned at her. ‘Scared to knock?’ he asked.
Henrietta said, ‘Certainly not,’ and thumped on the door rather harder than she had meant to. Sir Peter’s voice, coming thickly through its solid panels, sounded impatient. She opened the door then and stood aside to let the visitor in. ‘Mr Mike Hensen to see you, sir,’ she said, giving what she hoped was a good imitation of Feathers’ manner.
Sir Peter got up. ‘Come in, Mike—this is a pleasant surprise.’ His eye fell on Henrietta. ‘Thank you; bring tea in half an hour will you, Henrietta?’
The kitchen was deserted. She laid a tray, and wondered about cake and sandwiches, and felt relief when Cook appeared.
‘Sandwiches,’ she said crossly. ‘And that means there’ll be two teas to get, for Lady Hensen won’t have hers a minute before half past four. Drat the man.’ Cook began opening cake tins. ‘Run along to the office, my girl, I’ll see to this. Come back in half an hour to carry the tray.’
Young Mr Hensen was lolling in a chair when she went back with her lad
en tray. He made no move to help her, and the thought that Mr Ross-Pitt would have got to his big feet and taken the tray from her flashed through her mind. She must stop thinking about him, she told herself, speeding back to the kitchen, where Cook had poured her a cup of tea.
‘Take it with you, and there’s a plate of sandwiches.’
Henrietta thanked her and went back to the office once more. The tea was hot and strong, and Cook had been generous with the sandwiches. She ate the lot, carried the tray back, washed her hands and went back to her mending—an occupation conducive to thought.
Because she didn’t want to think about Mr Ross-Pitt she thought about young Mr Hensen instead. It wasn’t fair to judge someone by first impressions, she told herself; he had been friendly, not like that awful Miss Stone.
She wondered if Mrs Patch liked her, and what about the dog, Watson? Deirdre didn’t look the sort of person to enjoy a dog’s company.
I’m being mean, Henrietta decided. I don’t know a thing about her; she might be perfectly charming. But I don’t like her.
* * *
THAT EVENING, when supper was over and she and Mrs Pettifer were sitting comfortably by the fire in their little sitting room, that lady told her a little about young Mr Hensen.
‘A nephew,’ she explained. ‘His parents live in the States but he chooses to live in England—he’s got some kind of job to do with computers and suchlike. Sir Peter has a son at Cambridge, but I think Mike hopes for some part of the estate when Sir Peter dies. He has several very profitable farms. Mike comes here a good deal; it’s his second home.’
She stroked Ollie, lying in her lap. ‘Did you get the cushion cover mended?’
Henrietta took the hint; she was to be told nothing more about the Hensens. ‘Very nearly; I was hindered for a while.’
‘Yes, of course, I was forgetting. You managed very well.’