When she now suddenly put her horse into a gallop and they entered another bridle path that led towards the back drive, which in its turn led towards his house, he allowed her to take the lead.
At the beginning of the nineteenth century the account books showed Highfield Manor’s staff amounted to thirty-two people in all; this included six gardeners and four in the stable yard. Today the account books named only thirteen on the staff, which numbered a coachman and three gardeners but did not take into account Mr Burgess, the tutor, and Miss Mabel Venner Price, who was Mrs Sopwith’s companion-maid.
The depletion of the staff showed itself not only in the ornamental gardens that surrounded the house but in the house itself. Mr Pike, the butler, who had been with the family for sixty years no longer appeared in the hall whenever Robert Simes, the footman, answered the doorbell, for he was mostly otherwise engaged doing, as he mournfully stated, the work of lesser men; nor did Mrs Lucas, the housekeeper, make her appearance from nowhere, as her predecessor would have done, to greet her master. When Mrs Lucas appeared it was usually to say in her own stiff, polite, guarded way that she could get no help from the mistress or that she herself couldn’t be expected to run an establishment like this on such a depleted staff; or, would he order Mr Burgess, the tutor, to come down to the staff room for his meals? It would be one less to take up to the nursery floor. But generally when she waylaid him it was to complain about the children: they were entirely out of hand; the nursemaid had no control over them, nor for that matter had the tutor. Would he speak to Master Matthew because where Matthew went the others followed?
Of late, Mark had dreaded entering the house because from the ground floor to the top he was met with complaints. He looked back with deep nostalgia to the time when in London, or abroad, or even at the mine, all he longed for was to get back to his home. Now at the mine, all he wanted was to get away from it; and the same feeling was in him with regard to his home.
He stood aside and opened the door to allow his elegant visitor to enter the hall, and as he did so he looked about him. Then calling across to where the footman was disappearing into the dining room, he shouted, ‘Simes!’ and when the man turned and walked towards them across the marble-tiled floor he pointed to Lady Myton who was holding out her riding crop and gloves, then asked, ‘Your mistress, is she still in her room?’
The man blinked once before he answered, ‘Yes, master,’ and Mark knew he could have added, ‘Does she ever leave it?’
‘Will you come this way?’ He now led the visitor across the wide hall and up the broad faded red-carpeted staircase and on to a wide gallery, also carpeted in the same fading red, and of which the walls were almost obliterated by ornately framed paintings, mostly portraits. He glanced at her as they crossed the gallery and there was a twinkle in his eye as he noted the fact that she wasn’t, as was usual, carrying the train of her riding habit over her arm, but was allowing it to trail the floor. She was determined to be different, this lady.
He was about to lead the way down a long corridor when a succession of high squeals caused them both to look towards the far end from where a staircase led upwards; and now scampering down it and into their sight came three children. Two were boys, the third, a smaller girl. It was she who was screaming the loudest, and apparently she had cause to, for from the top of her head streaming down her face and on to her frilled pinafore was a thick blue substance.
‘Matthew! Luke! Jessie Ann!’
For a moment he appeared to forget about his companion and, striding to the children who seemed oblivious of them and who were now making for the main staircase, he brought them to a halt with another loud bellow: ‘Stop! Stop this minute!’
As if governed by one mind, they skidded to a stop that brought them into a huddle, and the younger of the two boys, Luke, a dark-haired, dark-eyed, mischievous-faced seven-year-old, now flapped his hand wildly in the air to get rid of the blue substance that he had picked up from being in contact with his sister’s pinafore.
‘What is this? What is the meaning of this? Jessie Ann, what have you done?’
‘Oh, Papa. Papa.’ She came towards him now, but, backing slightly from her, he cried, ‘Get yourself away! Where is Dewhurst?’ He was now speaking to his elder son Matthew and he, endeavouring to keep a straight face, muttered, ‘In the nursery, Papa, crying.’
Mark closed his eyes, then was about to issue another order when Lady Myton’s voice, threaded with laughter, broke in. ‘Somebody’s been having a game,’ she said. She was standing by Mark’s side now, bending slightly forward, looking into the three upturned faces, and Jessie Ann stopped her snivelling for a moment when the lady said, ‘Was it from the top of the door?’
As Jessie Ann nodded slowly the boys shrieked in chorus, ‘Yes, yes, ma’am! It was for Dewhurst, but she had Jessie Ann alongside her.’ They remained now staring their admiration at the lady who had been clever enough to guess how Jessie Ann had become covered with the paste.
‘I never thought of using paste, I never got beyond water.’
The boys now giggled and the small girl sniffed, then screwed up her face and sneezed violently in an effort to rid her nostrils of the paste.
‘Get upstairs, all of you! And don’t dare leave the floor again until I see you. Understand?’
‘Yes, Papa.’
‘Yes, Papa.’
Jessie Ann couldn’t make any retort, she was still sneezing, but her brothers, each grabbing an arm, pulled her towards the nursery stairs again and as they did so Mrs Lucas appeared at the end of the corridor.
Going quickly towards her and his voice seeming to be strained through his narrowed lips, he said, ‘Mrs Lucas, will you kindly attend to your duty and contain that commotion upstairs’ – he pointed towards the disappearing figures – ‘and also see that they don’t come down on to this floor unless they are escorted. You may remember that we have been over this particular matter before.’
Mrs Lucas, her hands joined at her waist, pressed them into it so causing her already full breasts to push out her black alpaca bodice and puff out a small white apron that appeared like a patch on the front of her wide skirt, and looking straight at her master and ignoring the visitor as if she weren’t there, she said, ‘My various duties take me from one end of the establishment to the other, sir; I cannot spend my time in the nursery. Moreover, there is a nursemaid, and a tutor there.’
‘I’m well aware of that, Mrs Lucas’ – he endeavoured to control the tremble of anger in his voice – ‘and I was under the impression that the nursemaid at least came into your province. But no more! No more!’ He wagged his hand almost in front of her face. ‘Go up there this moment and restore order!’
The housekeeper stretched her neck out of the narrow white-starched collar that bordered her dress; she inclined her head just the slightest; then with a step that expressed her ruffled indignation, she passed between her master and his guest and went towards the staircase.
Now Mark, turning and walking slowly towards a deep-bayed window in the corridor, stood for a moment with his hand across his eyes; then turning again and looking towards where Lady Myton still stood, he made a helpless gesture with his shoulders and outstretched hands as he said, ‘What can I say? I’m . . . I’m very sorry you have had to be subjected to this scene.’
‘Don’t be silly!’ She moved towards him and when she stood opposite him she smiled openly into his face as she said, ‘I’ve enjoyed every minute of it. It took me back; I used to do the same. I loathe nursemaids, governesses and all their kin. They were always changing my nursemaids. I led them a hell of a life.’
He was looking into her eyes and seconds passed before his chest jerked and there came from the back of his throat a low rumbling, and now he was laughing with her. But it was a smothered laughter, and after a moment, still looking at her, he said softly, ‘You’re a very refreshing person. But I suppose you know that?’
‘No, no . . . well, I’ve never been called refres
hing before; it sounds like one of those fizzy drinks. And that takes me back to the nursery too because when I used to belch, and I did often and on purpose’ – she nodded her head now – ‘I had a nurse who used to squeeze a lemon into a glass of water, then put a great dollop of bicarb in, and when it fizzed, which it did straightaway, she used to make me drink it, almost pouring it down my throat. But no, I haven’t been referred to as refreshing; exciting yes, enticing yes, amusing yes, and—’ she paused, and pursing her lips ended, ‘and one great lump of a bitch. The last, I may say, is a purely female comment.’
He said nothing but continued to gaze at her, with open admiration in his look now, then giving a little huh! of a laugh he took her arm and turned her about and led her further along the corridor, and when he drew her to a stop opposite a grey-painted door he glanced at her for a moment before tapping twice on it with his knuckles.
Having entered the room, he immediately stood aside to allow her to pass him, and he closed the door deliberately before leading her across the room towards the window where, on a chaise longue, lay his wife.
Eileen Sopwith was thirty-seven years old. She had a fair complexion, grey eyes, a delicate tint of skin, and hair that had once been a very fair blonde but which was now of a mousy hue. She had taken to this couch four years ago, and had not put her foot outside her apartments since. She only moved from the couch to be helped to the water closet and to bed in the adjoining room at night. She passed most of her time reading or doing embroidery – she took great pains in embroidering pinafores and dresses for her daughter – and the most trying moments of her day were when her four children were filed decorously in to greet her. It took only five minutes for them to say their ‘Good morning, Mama. How are you, Mama?’ and for her to answer them and to add, ‘Be good children,’ but even this exhausted her.
The expression on her face rarely altered, mostly showing a patient resignation, as did also her voice. Her visitors were few and far between, and then they were nearly always members of her own family.
So when her husband now ushered into her room the startling looking stranger in a riding habit, her mouth was brought slightly agape and her head up from the satin pillow. For a moment she was on the point of calling, ‘Mabel! Mabel!’ because very few people got past Mabel, but here was her husband leading a woman, a healthy, vigorous striding person, towards her.
She wasn’t called upon to speak because Mark was saying, ‘This is Lady Myton, Eileen. She had called earlier but you weren’t quite ready for visitors, so when I came across her on my way home I assured her you would be pleased to see her. They have taken Dean House you know.’
As Eileen Sopwith took her eyes from her husband and lowered her head in a slight acknowledgement of the visitor, Agnes Myton held out her hand, saying, ‘I’m delighted to meet you. I had called to bring you an invitation to a little dinner we are putting on next week but perhaps it would be too much for you.’
‘Yes, yes, I’m afraid it would.’
‘That’s such a pity. You being our nearest neighbours, I had hoped—’ she shrugged her shoulders. ‘Well, what’s a dinner party, I can always call.’
‘Please be seated.’
She turned and smiled her thanks at Mark as he pressed a chair under her thick riding skirt and after she was seated there was a moment’s silence before, laughing now, she said, ‘I’ve made the acquaintance of your charming family.’
Eileen Sopwith now turned a quick enquiring glance on her husband and he, smiling down at her, said, ‘Yes. Yes, they made their presence felt, up to some prank.’ His head bobbed.
‘Have . . . have you any children?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. But there’s plenty of time, I’ve only been married just over a year.’ She ended on a laugh as if she had expressed something amusing.
Eileen Sopwith stared at her visitor but said nothing, while Mark put in quickly, ‘I suppose you find this part of the country very stale after London. I am, of course, taking it for granted you did live in London?’
‘Yes, yes, we had a house there, and another in Warwickshire, but he sold them both up, Billy, you know. His people originally came from this part, so I understand, a hundred years or so ago. He’s always wanted to live up here, he says he finds more to do here than in London. He came up at the back end of last year in all that terrible weather just to be here for the Mansion House sale in Newcastle; there were some pieces he wanted for our place you know. Moreover, he’s very interested in engineering; and there were some bridges going up at the time. I’ve forgotten the name of them.’ She shrugged her shoulders and glanced up at Mark, and he said, ‘Oh yes, the railway viaducts over the Ouseburn and Willington Dean.’
She nodded at him and said, ‘Yes, those are the places; I can never remember names . . . The first place he took me to when I came up here was the New Theatre at Newcastle, rather splendid, and it was a great evening. I’ve never laughed so much for a long time, not only at the play but at the people. Really’ – she glanced back up at him – ‘you’ll likely get on your provincial high horse when I say this, but I could hardly understand a word any of them said.’
When Mark made no immediate reply to this because the word provincial had annoyed him somewhat she cried loudly, ‘There! There! I told you.’
‘Are . . . are you returning to London soon or are you making this your permanent home?’
The quiet question from the chaise longue cut in on her laughter and she answered, ‘Oh no, no, we’ve just come from there, well, only a fortnight ago. We were to come up much earlier but then the King died and the Queen was proclaimed and Billy had to be there. I think Billy is going to love it here, in fact I’m sure of it, but as yet I cannot speak for myself, except I know I am going to enjoy the riding, the land is so open and wild . . . like the people.’ She turned her head again and glanced up at Mark and her expression invited contradiction.
It was at this point that the door opened and the companion entered, and her hesitation and the look on her face as she stood with her hand still on the door handle showed her surprise, and also her displeasure.
The latter was immediately evident to Mark, who, bent on mollifying her, put out his hand towards her while looking at Lady Myton, and saying, ‘This is Miss Mabel Venner Price, my wife’s companion, Lady Myton.’
The title, lady, seemed to have little effect for Miss Price’s countenance didn’t change; her mouth opened, the square chin dropped and she dipped the smallest of curtsies as she said, ‘Your Ladyship.’
Lady Agnes acknowledged the salute by a mere inclining of her head, which gesture reminded Mark of the look she had bestowed on young Bentwood. Apparently she had a manner she kept precisely for menials, and the condescension was, to his mind, overdone.
She was a madam all right, but a very likeable madam, oh yes, a very likeable madam.
He watched her now making her farewells to Eileen and it was apparent that Eileen had been stirred slightly out of herself by her visitor. Well, that was a good thing an’ all. There were times when he had his doubts about his wife’s malaise, yet both Doctor Kemp and Doctor Fellows had said she must have no more children, something to do with her womb; and the man he had brought down from Edinburgh had gone further, stating that the pain she had in the sides of her stomach were from her ovaries and that there was really no cure unless nature took a hand and settled things internally, which it often did. Well, nature was a long time in taking a hand and he had asked himself often of late, would he know when it had? He missed the warmth of her body – she no longer allowed him to lie beside her at night. When he explained he could love her without taking her she had been shocked.
How was it, he wondered, that the common woman managed to carry on? There were women in his mine crawling on their hands and knees, pulling and shoving bogies full of coal less than a week after giving birth. Often when he had gone down the mine with the manager they had come across couples sporting and more in a side roadway on the bare roc
k earth, and while Yarrow scattered them, crying, ‘I’ll cuddle you! Begod, I’ll cuddle you!’ he himself had been filled with envy. He often thought about the word cuddle. It was a beautiful word, warm in itself.
‘Shall we be going then?’
‘Oh yes, yes.’
He hadn’t been conscious of staring at her all the while he had been thinking, but he was now conscious of his wife’s eyes being tight on him as he turned to her and said, ‘I’ll be up shortly.’
When Mabel Price opened the door for them he smiled at her but her cheeks made no answering movement.
They had reached the main hall before they spoke again. Looking at her, he said, ‘I feel very embarrassed, you have been offered no refreshment whatever,’ and she put out her hand and gently tapped his sleeve with two fingers as she said, ‘Please don’t apologise, there is nothing to apologise for. The visit itself has been refreshment enough.’ Then her head on one side, she asked, ‘Can I depend upon you coming to dinner a fortnight tonight?’
There was the slightest pause before he answered, ‘Most certainly. I shall be pleased to.’
Their eyes held for a moment longer, then she turned about, walked towards the door where the footman was now standing with her crop and gloves, and taking them from him as if she had picked them up from a hallstand she went out and on to the broad terrace, then walked down the three shallow steps on to the grass spattered gravel and to where Fred Leyburn, the coachman-cum-groom-cum-handyman was holding her horse.
Tilly Trotter (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy) Page 4