In Distant Fields

by Charlotte Bingham

Partita’s eyes narrowed with a mischievous gleam, but since no boy was forthcoming in answer to her first whistle, she was about to repeat the offence, only for Jossy to quickly beat her to it with an infinitely louder and altogether more impressive whistle.

  Perhaps because the boys being summoned knew how to differentiate between one whistle and another, or perhaps because like the dogs of the house they knew an old timer’s whistle as well as their mother’s bark, less than half a minute elapsed before two pages emerged at the double, coming to a halt by the pile of luggage, which they set about sorting out between them.

  ‘If that’ll be all, Lady Tita, I’ll be off for me tea,’ Jossy said, touching his cap. ‘The lads’ll take your things into servants’ quarters, miss,’ he added, addressing Bridie, who for once in her life seemed speechless. ‘You’ll have a boy assigned you to show you what’s what and where’s where, because make no mistake, folks has a habit of gettin’ lost here, and not always on their first visit neither.’

  He nodded while at the same time giving Bridie an appreciative look, which, to Kitty’s surprise, was returned with a smile brighter than Bridie had ever shown anyone in London.

  Partita went ahead of Kitty up the shallow stone steps and into the house, suddenly increasing her pace as did the two pages following with Kitty’s luggage.

  At first Kitty could not understand what the hurry was. Then she felt the bitter cold eating into her as they scurried through a labyrinth of dimly lit corridors even colder than the freezing weather they had left behind outside, their breath coming in little wispy trails on the air.

  ‘When the weather gets like this we don’t only wear coats between rooms,’ Partita sighed. ‘We sometimes even wear them in bed!’

  Finally they reached a large studded door at which Partita stood back, waiting for the page boys to push it open, which they very promptly did in the accepted manner of page boys everywhere – backside first.

  ‘This, Kitty, is my room,’ Partita announced proudly. ‘And I did it all myself.’

  Kitty went in and looked round. She had no difficulty in believing that Partita had designed the large purple-painted walls, the Bakst-style drapes looped around her ancient bed, the shell-encrusted mirrors and sparkling boxes encrusted with stage jewels. Nor would it have taken a genius to realise that Lady Partita Knowle’s passionate love was the theatre.

  Kitty gazed upwards to the great lantern that hung in the centre of the room, the only light source for the immensely high ceiling, and as she surveyed the extraordinary room she felt oddly disconcerted. Partita’s boudoir was such a dramatic contrast to her own modest room in South Kensington, decorated as it was in light floral wallpaper, with hangings around the bed of a pale primrose, and small brass-fitted electric lights, but here in this vast and astonishing room there was no sign of the twentieth century, no hint of modernism, no electricity or even gas, just a host of dark tallow candles casting a medieval glow on the room.

  ‘Your room is through here,’ Partita announced, leading the way through another large studded door to an adjoining room. ‘You will have to keep your coat on until your bath is drawn,’ she added factually. ‘In weather like this you should keep your coat on at all times, but we can leave the adjoining doors open and talk all night – which I know we will.’ She gave Kitty’s arm a quick affectionate squeeze. ‘Now we must go down to the library where everyone will be having tea. I shall instruct Wavell to tell Dixon to send your maid up to unpack for you. It really is so unendurably lovely that you are here, Kitty Rolfe!’

  Kitty smiled in return, in spite of a sudden feeling of melancholy as she remembered the sacrifice her mother had made for her.

  ‘To tell you the truth,’ Partita was saying, ‘I thought I would never make a friend at Miss Woffington’s, although I simply had to do or Mamma would not be allowed to be in London giving her At Homes and enjoying the kind of intelligent conversation which is not always available at Bauders, so when I suggested asking you, she thought it would be such a good notion, because my older sisters have each other for company while I have no one, because I am so much younger, and Mamma says that is so sad. Allegra has come out, and might soon become engaged to James Millings, once he has inherited, but Cecilia has no one, and has not been presented at court.’

  She stopped to tilt her pretty head to one side as she examined Kitty’s travelling clothes. ‘I shall be changing for tea in the library, by the way,’ she added diplomatically. ‘So when you are ready, give a scratch on my door.’

  Kitty smiled and, taking the hint, went immediately to change. By now, due to the miracles that Kitty would soon come to accept happen out of sight in grand establishments, Bridie had appeared in Kitty’s room and was busy unpacking her cases, out of which Kitty took an appropriate change of clothes.

  ‘I’ve never done this before, so I haven’t,’ Bridie muttered as she tried to help her lay out the right clothes. ‘Would yous be wanting some kind of a belt to go with this, Miss Kitty, dotie?’

  ‘No, no – thank you, Bridie, I will wear a sash. You’ll soon get used to all this,’ she added in a kindly tone.

  ‘That’s all very well, Miss Kitty, but sure, yous no idea how stiff it is down there. Surely to heaven, Miss Kitty, when I tells yous,’ Bridie sighed, applying a clothes brush to the back of Kitty’s immaculate new afternoon dress, a tightly tailored lace-trimmed blouse with gathered sleeves and a most becomingly cut dark skirt, ‘when I tells yous I have a page of my very own, down there, the Lord save us. And what would my poor old mother – God help her indeed, if she were alive today – what would she be thinking of her little Bridie with her own page? She’d lather me with kisses, so she would.’

  As Kitty started to feel Bridie’s increasingly determined mood through the administration of the clothes brush she moved tactfully out of range of her heavy handed attentions, going instead to tap on Partita’s bedroom door in the approved manner.

  From the look in Partita’s eyes it was immediately obvious that Kitty’s new outfit had met with her approval, much to Kitty’s relief, since she knew that the next few hours would be sure to determine her future at Bauders, that whether she liked it or not, the Knowles and their guests would be weighing up everything about Partita’s guest. Partita herself was wearing a cream silk blouse with guipure lace at the neck and wrists, and a skirt of dark green velvet with a back pleat, which Kitty was able to appreciate as she followed Partita and they began the descent to the hall below, Partita chatting happily.

  ‘Papa always says that this staircase is wide enough for eight people to pass down together; but then Mamma says that really only comes into play if you have a whole army staying. All those, by the by,’ she went on, waving an artless hand up at the rows and rows of portraits hanging on the walls above them as far as the eye could see, ‘they’re all our ancestors. Most of them were a pretty dull lot, but one or two did do some rather tremendous deeds. Mamma says the rule is never to talk about one’s ancestors unless to be funny, and even then not for long. Come on!’ she urged all at once. ‘You have to hurry through the Great Hall or you will be found frozen to death unable to utter a word, ready only for the next world!’

  Taking her pace from her friend, Kitty began to run through the marble-floored hall set about with huge tapestries depicting medieval scenes, for despite the vast log fire burning brightly in the decorative fireplace, the temperature could not have been far above freezing point. Kitty found herself envying the attendant footmen in their heavy uniforms as she trotted after the figure of Partita, which was fast disappearing through two large doors being held open by those same footmen.

  Once through the doors Kitty found herself in an immense room with mahogany ladders reaching far up to the ceiling, propped against innumerable shelves housing what she imagined must be thousands of beautifully bound books. The room was illuminated by a vast selection of yet more candles, set not only into sticks and candelabra on the furniture, but also in the enormous chandelier that hung
high above from the domed ceiling, leaving Kitty to wonder how long it took the servants to lower, light and replenish them at what must be all too regular intervals. Set everywhere were vast bowls of fresh flowers, perhaps supplied from hothouses on the estate, while yet another enormous log fire warmed those gathered for tea, most of whom seemed to be only too eager to stand within range of its heat.

  Despite its being only tea-time, the women were beautifully dressed, their fashionable gowns being worn with discreet jewellery, their hair only recently dressed by their maids. Kitty watched them, momentarily fascinated, as they appeared to be listening to each other with interest, while all the time keeping constantly on the move within the area surrounding the fire, some choosing to sit to talk, others forming small groups to laugh quietly together, or to exchange quick asides. Perhaps because when they moved they took only small steps, and spoke in low and carefully modulated tones, their demeanour seemed almost geisha-like, certainly feminine and subtle, and quite obviously determinedly set on fascinating the men present, who, in their dark suits, provided an effective and sombre backdrop to the bright silks.

  Of course Kitty knew none of the guests, the only person familiar to her being the Duchess. Partita walked her across to her two older sisters.

  ‘Allegra, Cecilia,’ she announced proudly,’ may I introduce Miss Katherine Rolfe?’

  ‘How do you do?’ both the older girls murmured vaguely, while their eyes examined Kitty keenly.

  The two older girls were both dark-haired and grey-eyed, in contrast to Partita’s blonde hair and blue eyes. They were both also very pretty, but unlike Partita, they were not beautiful. Kitty realised that this, perhaps more than anything, was why Partita might be her mother’s favourite. Out of all three girls she looked the most like the Duchess, who was now seated behind a magnificent silver tea service that included a gently steaming teapot and a fine samovar. She had obviously put herself in charge of pouring the tea, a custom that had become fashionable some time ago, but which, as Kitty now learned from Partita, still managed to shock the Duke.

  ‘Papa is so medieval,’ she moaned quietly. ‘He takes absolutely no account of progress – which Mamma, being an American, accounts as absurd. She says we must progress or we will simply die out, and that is most certainly what my elder brother, Almeric, thinks. For instance, as Almeric says, we really have no need for a nightwatchman, but Papa told Almeric that he would be absolutely confounded without a nightwatchman. If he wakes in the night he must know the time. When Al succeeds Papa he will do away with poor old Birdie, the nightwatchman, which I do also find a bit sad, because, between you and me, I also enjoy hearing him calling out the hours through the night. But Almeric says it belongs to the age of jousting, which I find a little exaggerative, although I sometimes wish they did still joust. For I would certainly enjoy seeing a knight dying for my favour.’

  At that moment, however, Kitty felt comforted to see the Duchess doing something as ordinary as pouring hot water from the samovar into her large ornate silver teapot, because it made Kitty feel at home in the grand house, although the guests had not the same sort of refreshment as she and her mother in South Kensington, where a thin slice of bread and butter was the order of the day. Here, Queen Alexandra sandwiches and small French gateaux were being presented to everyone by the footmen.

  Kitty was put even more at ease when, having been presented to the Duchess, she found herself being lightly kissed on the cheek by her hostess, who then proceeded to walk her round the assembled company.

  ‘Julia?’ the Duchess enquired of one of her friends. ‘May I present Miss Rolfe. Miss Rolfe – Mrs Wynyard Errol.’

  Kitty curtsied, carrying her curtsy off so delightfully that both the Duchess and Mrs Wynyard Errol beamed approval.

  ‘Delightful,’ Mrs Wynyard Errol said, turning to the Duchess and lowering her voice. ‘She is just as delightful as you said, Circe. One always fears the worst when it comes to gels one’s children might meet at a school.’

  The Duchess smiled and the two friends’ eyes met in a vaguely conspiratorial manner. They both knew that really the Duchess could not have cared if Miss Katherine Rolfe looked and behaved like an organ grinder’s monkey, since it was thanks entirely to Partita’s refusal to study at Bauders with governesses that her mother was now able to live in London during the term time, enjoying the kind of intellectual and artistic company in which she revelled.

  ‘I do most sincerely hope that is not for me,’ Mrs Wynyard Errol murmured, noticing the butler approaching her with a telegram on a tray. ‘Although I fear it might well be,’ she added.

  ‘For whom is that telegram, Wavell?’ the Duchess asked.

  ‘It is for Mr Wynyard Errol, Your Grace,’ the butler replied. ‘Newly arrived.’

  ‘Like us.’ Mrs Wynyard Errol sighed, glancing at her husband, who was now opening the proffered telegram.

  ‘Why is it that telegrams so very rarely contain good news?’ the Duchess wondered out aloud to no one at all.

  The ladies formed an anxious little circle around Ralph Wynyard Errol, a tall, good-looking man, a theatrical manager, as Kitty soon learned, with a particularly mellifluous voice that, according to gossip, he used to great effect on the ladies, most especially those of the chorus.

  ‘Oh dear,’ he sighed, folding the cable up and addressing his wife. ‘It seems my dear mamma has had a relapse. This is from her doctor. He advises I return at once.’

  ‘How sad for you,’ the Duchess offered. ‘And how sad for your poor mother too.’

  ‘I have to go, of course, Circe,’ Ralph replied. ‘You know how it is.’

  ‘Indeed. Such a shame, with the festivities about to get under way. Wavell? Please be good enough to inform Mr Wynyard Errol’s valet that Mr Wynyard Errol is leaving for London.’

  ‘Yes, Your Grace.’

  ‘And, Wavell? Be sure to tell Cook to prepare a picnic for his journey – something warming to counter this inclement weather.’

  ‘Yes, Your Grace.’

  As Ralph Wynyard Errol took leave of his hostess and his wife, Kitty marvelled at his behaviour, his impeccable style and manners. Mr Wynyard Errol made no fuss nor showed any undue emotion, nor indeed the disappointment he must surely be feeling at being forced to return to London and miss much of the festivity at Bauders.

  ‘When Valentine arrives will you tell him that Grandma is not at all the thing, lovie?’

  ‘Of course, Ralph dearest,’ Julia replied. ‘We shall all miss you quite dreadfully. It is all too dreadfully disappointing, and at this time of year too, it really is all so dreadful.’

  Ralph took one of his wife’s hands and squeezed it gently, and so, so lovingly, before turning on his heel and going. As she watched him, Kitty found herself wishing her own father showed as much consideration for her mother as Mr Wynyard Errol was showing to Mrs Wynyard Errol.

  ‘Upon my word, how dreadfully, terribly sad, Ralph Wynyard Errol having to go back to London to spend Christmas with his ailing mother. And so unusual.’

  Kitty looked round in surprise to find Partita pulling a comic face at her.

  ‘Is it not unusual?’

  ‘I would say not. Not in the least unusual. Rayff, dear Rayff, keeps a little poodle in Putney, doncha know,’ Partita murmured, straight-faced. ‘And as for the way Wavell deals with it, I do wonder how he gets through the little pantomime every Christmas,’ Partita continued, lowering her voice still more, while not losing the look of mischief in her eyes. ‘Each year the same – the old lady’s doctor advises Mr Wynyard Errol’s most immediate return – upon which news everyone becomes positively suffused with concern, and her son departs at once to return to his poor mamma’s bedside.’ Partita paused. ‘Her doctor must be a medical genius, the way he has been keeping her alive over these last few years – and always with the same good effect, because once the New Year is upon us, et voilà, old Mrs Wynyard Errol is once more as right as rain.’

  Kitty would have loved to
hear more, but perhaps suspecting that her youngest daughter might be spreading scandal, the Duchess now looked across to where the two girls were standing and, with that particular look that all mothers know how to give, silently beckoned her youngest daughter over.

  ‘Here is Valentine newly arrived even as his father has to take his leave, Partita. Be so good as to introduce him to Miss Rolfe, if you will.’

  ‘You must be so worried about your grandmamma,’ Partita said to Valentine after they had been introduced to each other.

  ‘We are very worried about Grandmamma,’ Valentine stated bravely. ‘She is getting really quite old and her health is very delicate.’

  ‘She seems more than anything to be allergic to Christmas, would you not say?’ Partita continued mischievously. ‘She has a habit of falling ill at Christmas.’

  ‘Papa believes it is something chronic,’ Valentine stated, not looking at Partita.

  ‘Let us hope she gets better in time for the New Year.’

  ‘So worrying always when an elderly relative becomes ill …’

  Kitty was rescued from any more conversational essays by the arrival of Partita’s brother, still in his hunting clothes.

  ‘Forgive me, everyone,’ Almeric said, making a dramatic, mud-spattered entrance. ‘Forgive me, Mamma, but we have had such a day and I am thirsting for a cup of your delicious tea, and some cake.’

  Almeric Knowle padded in bootless feet across to the fireplace where he collected a cup of freshly poured tea from his mother.

  ‘We shall forgive Almeric for his déshabillé, shall we not?’ Circe wondered, watching with affection as her son tucked into his tea while warming himself in front of the welcoming fire.

  ‘Everyone forgives Almeric,’ Partita sighed. ‘He is the son and heir.’

  ‘Not quite true, dearest, not quite true,’ Circe said, smiling.

  At home Kitty would have helped pass round sandwiches, if there were any, but at Bauders she could only stand, one of a group, while footmen in their country tweed livery, their carefully padded stockings making their often sadly thin legs look flatteringly muscular, circled with plates of delicacies. Everyone talked and laughed as they were meant to do. The truth was, she felt as if she was taking part in a play but, as yet, did not quite know her lines, and yet wanted nothing more nor less than to learn them, before the curtain fell.