“Oh ya ’ave t’ go so soon?” Dottie had not expected this, now she would miss her chance.
“Err…r I have an errand to run before I go back. Sorry.”
Mallory splashed her face and washed her hands thoroughly before heading for the back stairs and checked that her clothing and boots were clean. This time she knew her way and would soon be delivering her report.
Lady Patchford had been at work with her social secretary, Francine Hewitt. Miss Hewitt, the middle daughter of a very good family was unmarried. Her father, a clergyman, had been grateful to Lady Patchford that she had been prepared to take her on. Spinsters could be a serious problem for a family of modest means and he definitely did not want his daughter to be forced into menial work. There was teaching of course, at a ‘good’ school for young ladies, but her parents had felt this would be only as a last resort. Fortunately, Lady Patchford had warmed to Francine and the association had already lasted almost a year.
For the past hour, heads together over an assortment of papers spread out on the satinwood table, they had dealt with the final order of seating for the hunt dinner; always such a complicated business. No matter, Lady Patchford was acutely aware that it was essential to pay attention to these particulars. A mistake in the arrangement of place cards could make or break the success of any house party. This weekend she was hostess to almost twenty guests. Lord Patchford had included a senior politician in the Colonial Office, down from Bayswater, and two important industrialists, the new breed of risk taking entre-preneur, in coal she was guessing. I’d better find out.
Lord Patchford’s mother, the Dowager Lady Patchford would also be in attendance tonight. Another added strain. It annoyed Lady Glencora that Grandmama would not make the change to the fashionable styles of the new century and still clung to her full skirted dresses, beloved by the late Queen. Also, she never went anywhere without that little black lace cap on her head, with its trailing satin ribbons. Those silly, black crochet, fingerless gloves also made her impatient. Amazingly robust for her years, the only failing she could detect in the old lady seemed to be a slight hearing loss. Nonetheless, Grandmama Patchford would uncannily call for a repeat of the sotto voce aside, only meant for private ears. The whole table would fall silent, trying to decide the best way to recover. By then of course, the damage was done.
Not only were the seating arrangements a trial, but she must agonise over the allocation of the bedrooms. The question of their disposition always gave cause for anxiety. Francine was such a help with this. She had a sure, copperplate hand and was writing the name of each guest on a card to be slipped into the tiny brass frame on the bedroom door. Tact and discretion; not that Lady Glencora did not have these, but Francine’s second opinion was invaluable. She sat quietly while she worked.
The devoted couples she could confidently place in a central location. Lovers she would sequester in adjacent chambers at either end of the west wing. The ‘in-betweens’ she kept available for the unattached females, to provide opportunities for a tryst with their current beau. At the same time they must not be too obvious.
In these quiet moments she remembered her own evenings at country house parties. Ah the tyranny of appearances. Hypocrisy must be dressed at all times, ready to meet every occasion in the cloak of social respectability and even, political responsibility. Many of the Lotharios involved in these sexual intrigues, sat in the House of Lords. However, Lady Glencora knew from the other side that this very necessity of keeping up appearances made these ‘dangerous liaisons’ even more exciting. Her social behaviour had had to follow the rigid disciplines demanded of her position, never to be transgressed, except in those secret places behind locked doors. She had been raised to embrace the credo of loyalty to her class whatever the cost. She shook her head and what a cost it had been.
With the wisdom of hindsight, Lady Glencora believed much of the immorality, even profligacy, currently prevalent in high society lay at the door of the system of ‘arranged’ marriages. Her own parents, in consultation with their lawyers, had been desirous of a union between the two great estates of Anstone and Guilfoyle. Her position had been weak. Whereas the Broadhursts were labouring under crushing death duties, despite their fifty-six thousand acre estate in Derbyshire, their country house in Salisbury and London house in Mayfair, the Patchfords were still handsomely solvent. For her parents this marriage had been the ideal solution.
Eustace and Edward had been pleasant young men, perfect products of their private education, but in her youth she had been attracted to the more debonair style of the continental aristocrat, or that of the dashing career soldier. A dutiful wife always, until sixteen years ago when her path had been crossed by Captain Hugo Carreros of the Guardia Civil: Barcelona Division. He had been impossible to resist; excitingly different from Eustace, deliciously forbidden. She had fallen to excess, completely infatuated whilst still locked in a passionless marriage. Divorce of course was out of the question, but in the end the affair had been terminated. She sighed heavily. They both had lived the lives society had demanded. She already had two children. Not for her a bolt abroad in the arms of her lover. Anyway, his family would never have countenanced that. If anything the Spanish were even more rigid than the British.
She had hoped everything would work out. The baby was adorable. Happy and healthy, always gurgling at whoever would pay her attention. Even Eustace was captivated. With the other two he had been more remote, but when Nigella came into the world he was older and perhaps therefore, more appreciative.Oh Eustace, how would you love her if you knew the truth?
Everyone had considered her so fortunate. If only she had known then what she knew now? She speculated for the umpteenth time what would have been the best course. She could have tried to have the baby adopted out, sold even. But she had had no-one to turn to. No help from her parents. Just the very thought of them knowing about her affair and the baby made her heart clench and her head ache. She pressed her fingers to her temples as she imagined the devastating consequences. How impossible it had all been. She would have been completely undone, an outcast from society and she was not strong enough to be so independent. There was no tolerance for youthful indiscretions which ended as hers had. All very well if it can be hushed up. Now she feared someone had accessed the story and could be out to blackmail her through her daughter.
What am I to do? I didn’t have the fortitude then, I don’t have it now. And what of Nigella! As she gets older the truth becomes more inescapable. It won’t be blackmail … it will be shame and ruin on the Patchford name.
At Mallory’s arrival she put down the papers next to a most sweet smelling arrangement in a crystal vase, of jonquils and amaryllis. Dismissing Miss Hewitt, she informed her she would ring when she was ready.
“Very well, Ma’am.” Francine was dressed in white and navy, blouse and skirt. To Mallory they looked much like an office uniform, neat and efficient. She received a friendly smile from the secretary as she quietly left the room.
Today, with so much to attend to, Lady Glencora had chosen to wear a functional outfit: sensible white blouse, but still adorned with buttons from neck to waist and tight, mutton chop sleeves, hands free: Scotch Tartan skirt, along the same line as a man’s kilt, with plain front panel and pleats round the back, falling full length. This may be her working gear, but Mallory reckoned she was a knock-out.
Lady Glencora rose from her escritoire to stand at one of the tall, narrow windows which permitted shivers of sunbeams to stream over her face. In the halo of light Mallory detected a look of strained anxiety about her hazel eyes. She was also surprised by her height, indeed quite statuesque. Brown, glace kid, house shoes with a delicately curved heel had added to the impression. The extremely pointed toe and buckle on the instep made her even more elegant.
She was drawing back the sateen curtains to look out over the garden. From this room she had an excellent view of the orangery, which was coming to the end of its flowering and soon the fruit
would begin to set. It had been a hot summer with just the right amount of rain. Now, with the colder nights drawing in, the little trees could put all their energies into fruiting.
The orangery was located on the south wall of this wing and from here she could let her eyes wander over the rise of the woods to the spire of Saint Austell’s. Four beautiful christenings she had had there. Both families had been so happy for them. She sighed, such a long time ago. The last one had been at this time of year and remembering always demoralised her, fracturing her resolve in the face of these debilitating torrents of emotion. There would be no more babies now. The death of her second son had brought to an end her ability to go through another pregnancy.
Get out of this, Cora. Hear what the young man has to say. Dredging up the past and lamenting over it does you no good. She turned back to the room and the present moment. “Yes?” The enquiring eyes gleamed with an uneasy torment from a pale face, strangely devoid of colour.
Mallory told her as much as she could, while observing the cheerlessness of her listener’s face. Stark lines running from nose to mouth gave a somewhat austere appearance, especially as the mouth was held in a thin line, as though life were the heaviest burden to bear. Surely not, a woman of wealth and privilege!
“Very good, if all has gone well there will be no need to report back. Mason, what I want you to do is to accompany Lady Nigella when she takes her exercise … but don’t let it look like you are spying on her, I …”
“Your Ladyship, I apologise for cutting in, but I cannot possibly get away from the chores people have lined up for me, I have no …”
The Lady’s eyes now flashed with indignation. “You will not interrupt young man when I am speaking.” Her glare was icy as she lifted her chin. An aristocrat all her life, such disrespectfulness was intolerable. “My daughter rides after the stable chores have been completed. We know the routines. If you can get her to tell you where she intends to go, you might not need to accompany her, only watch from a distance, but I cannot control her destinations.” She gave a prolonged sigh, accompanied by a doleful twist to her expressive mouth. “Sometimes she is anything but compliant. It will be best if you report to me after all. I will need to know of your success.”
Accepting this as dismissal, Mallory once again took her leave on a quiet note of acquiescence.
* * *
Late afternoon, just as the sun was dipping low behind the trees, the hunters returned. The stables were total chaos: the jangling of harness, hooves clattering over the cobbles and impatient shouts adding to the uproar and confusion. Mallory had never before contended with such disorganisation. There was much to be done in too short a time. Everyone wanted everything at once. However, she was relieved to learn that the fox had been too wily for them and still lived to run another day. Poor bastard!
She did accept Burrow when Lady Nigella came in, flushed and exhilarated, but there was no way she could exchange words, beyond asking what time he should be ready for tomorrow? Distractedly, the girl had waved her hand only to tell her: “The usual,” as she rushed away. Great help!
Lady Nigella’s head was too preoccupied, with hardly any time to complete her toilette before everyone assembled at eight o’clock. This was her first evening with the grown-ups. ’Til now she had always been banished to the school room, only sometimes allowed to watch the guests arriving. Now she was sixteen and would be presented next year. Mama had thought this would give her good exposure to the adult world, but she had had to promise to be ‘seen and not heard’. All her life she had been bidden to follow this injunction. Would it never end? No matter, it was too, too thrilling. Her abigail was to dress her hair up and Mama had agreed to let her braid it with a matching ribbon. Her sister would wear her pale green mousseline-desoie, trimmed with lace and pearl embroidery. The decolletage was very low, filled in by a ribbed plastron of white ninon. The draped over bodice cut away from the waist to reveal a darker green charmeuse satin underskirt. Nigella thought it suited her so well. It slimmed her hips which could appear quite prominent, but her secret hope was that one day she might have curves like Ramona’s.
She would be in her new, pale blue nansook evening dress which Mama had had specially made for tonight. It was only of thin cotton with a muslin weave, but it had beautiful appliquéd trimmings along the small, scooped neckline. Round her neck she would wear a double rouched, lace neckband, threaded with pale blue and deep blue, satin ribbons tied in a big bow to one side. For the first time she would be wearing the new, short corset that laced up the back. It would lengthen her waist without drawing it into an unnaturally small dimension and at the same time give full expansion to her breasts. Ramona would be wearing her horsehair bustpad, covered in pink pongee silk, but she was not allowed one yet.
She could not wait for the ticking hand to reach eight o’clock as she caught up with the Lady Ramona who, although three years older and already ‘out’, was no less excited for her sister. She remembered how special her first dinner had been and could empathise with Jellie. She wanted everything to be perfect for her.
“When Millie has finished with you, come to me before you see Mama. I’ll make sure you are her exquisite jewel.” She laughed and slid her arm around her waist.
“Oh Mona, I do so want Mama to be proud of me.” Her head turned abruptly. “She wouldn’t put me next to the Vicar do you think, just to keep a close eye on me?” She gave a deep sigh then continued in a wistful voice: “I would so dearly love to be next to Ambrose’s friend.”
“Which one is he?”
“He has those lovely dark eyes.”
“Jellie, what sort of identification is that?” Arm in arm, long skirts aswish, they continued to the house, entering by a side door which led directly to the drawing room, which was a quick way to access the main stairs to their chambers. “There’s Lionel Shoebridge, he’s dark. There’s Myles Stafford-Clarke, who’ll be here tonight too.” Ramona was momentarily lost in her own thoughts. She really liked Myles. He and Ambrose, although reading different subjects had both been residents of Pembroke College, while at Cambridge.
“They’re staying over because tomorrow they’ll meet up with Sedgewick to play golf. They’ve taken it up now they can manage to direct the rubber-covered ball that was invented last year. There’s a new links that’s all the rage they plan to try out, not far from Aston. I wanted to go, but you know how Ambrose can be.” She pulled a face, turning down the corners of her mouth. “They have to leave early to catch the train so Higgins will take them to the station in the carriage before Reynolds needs it for the other guests.”
Nigella looked sheepishly from under her black lashes. “I don’t know his name. I just saw him today on the ‘run’.”
By now they were outside their rooms with just time enough to bathe and get ready, so Ramona smiled indulgently at her sister and gave her a quick hug. “See you later.”
* * *
It was about the same time as yesterday when Mallory set out on her return to the village, but today she was in company with some of the other stable hands. The sky was a blaze of streaking colour and the church clock could be heard striking the lateness of the hour. They were eagerly talking of meeting at The Punch Bowl where they would make one pint last the night. This was their weekend routine and they cordially invited the new help to join their darts’ team. It would be fun, but her day had been so long she did not think she could stay the course. Apart from which, there were no funds, even though a pint of draught only cost two pence. She had to decline.
Mr. and Mrs. Pogue had a visitor when she got in. They had thought to wait for her, so tonight she squeezed in next to Mr. Pogue senior. It appeared this was how they spent their Saturday evenings. He had sent over a brace of rabbits that afternoon and they were all looking forward to Mrs. Pogue’s tasty stew.
Their favourite topic of conversation was the children. Mallory learned that Arnold had an older brother James Edward, whom they called Ted and a younger sister
Ann, who was called Nancy.
“Ted ’as done very well for ’iself,” Mr. Pogue informed her. “When the Main pit was sunk to the Barnsley seam, under the magnesian limestone, about four year ago now, the colliery owners started to build a model village in the next parish to the designs of Percy Houghton. ’ave you ’eard of ’im?” Mallory shook her head.
“These new, sprawlin’ colliery towns exist alongside pretty estate villages, like Guilfoyle and spread out, deep into our countryside. A real eyesore! Well, this Houghton fella ’ad a ’ole new concept. ’e built terraced ’ouses, very low density. None ’as fewer than three bedrooms, all with a bath an’ ’ot water. Ted was able to get onto Brodsworth’s books an’ ’e wouldn’t change for anythin’, would ’e Thora?”
Albert warmed to his theme: “The squire of Brodsworth Main is a successful businessman, ’iself. ’e invested in canals and ’e made sure, from the start, there would be social societies and clubs for the residents. There’s a full-time social worker to ’elp run everythin’ an’ all.”
“Now that sounds like due corporate diligence,” Mallory agreed.
They looked at her in surprise not understanding her words, yet not prepared to seek clarification from this relative stranger. Breaking the uneasy silence, Thora was moved to add that for recreation there was a cricket pitch and football ground too.
“Ted’s favourite is the cricket.”
“Absolutely,” Mallory agreed. “Cricket is very much the players’ sport, whereas soccer lends itself more to spectating.”
This time they expressed open-mouthed astonishment.
Til Morning Comes Page 8