‘Well, I was kind of expecting…’ he began dully, then spotted his grandmother coming straight towards him, a secretive smile on her lips. ‘Expecting what?’ asked Winnie as he broke into a grin and squared his shoulders. ‘I hope I’m not interrupting you two lovebirds,’ said Thomasin, taking Nick’s arm and steering him aside. ‘I won’t keep him two seconds, Winifred. Erin, dear! Come and keep Winifred company for a moment.’ She led Nick over to a quiet corner where they sat down. Over Erin’s shoulder Winifred watched her fiance’s changing expression and wondered what was transpiring, while at the same time making polite nods to Erin’s conversation. When Nick returned to take his aunt’s place his mien was one of bad humour. ‘Nick, what’s happened? What has your grandmother said to make you like this?’ Winifred snatched a drink from a passing tray and pressed it into his hand.
‘You and my grandfather should get on well.’ He smiled tightly and downed her offering. ‘Nan was just giving me her birthday present – a cheque for two thousand pounds.’
‘How generous!’ Winifred’s gloved hand stroked the breast of his jacket.
‘Yes, wasn’t it?’
The hand withdrew. ‘Nicholas, I’m sorry but I don’t understand your grumpiness and if you don’t tell me I’m going to walk right out of here for good!’ She felt it was something she had done – Nick often made her feel like this. But she worshipped him.
Instantly he became more affable, ‘Oh, I’m sorry I’ve been such a bore this evening,’ and put his arm around her. ‘It’s nothing to do with you – and you’re right, two thousand is a very generous gift… it’s just that I was expecting a rather different reward.’ He told her then about his hopes for a directorship, the tests his grandmother had set him. ‘How long does she intend to wait, Win? She asked for a thirty per cent increase and I gave her it. Still she holds out. It’s not fair, the work I’ve put in. I’m beginning to think she’s just using me.’
‘I don’t suppose one of the stipulations for this directorship could have been to find yourself a wife?’ She smiled at the pink flush that crept into his cheeks. ‘No, I rather thought my father’s balance sheets interested you more than I did. You’re a fine one to talk about using folk.’
He had not credited her with a brain but now, looking her in the eye, he realised that though Win might be pliable she was in no way stupid. ‘Win… I’m not just marrying you for your background – I do care about you.’ He felt a surge of genuine affection.
She studied his face, then laid her head against his shoulder. ‘Perhaps you’ll get your directorship next year. Perhaps,’ she became contemplative, ‘this two thousand pounds isn’t just a reward, but another of her tests – the final one?’
Yes, that would be just like his grandmother. She was waiting to see what he did with the money. ‘Win,’ he said, squeezing her, ‘you’re a gem.’ And he meant it.
* * *
There were two other events that year – unfortunately for Win neither of them was a wedding – Belle’s coming of age and the birth of Josie’s son, Patrick John, on the last day of the year. It looked to Winifred as though the engagement was to be a long one; a year after the announcement there was still no hint of wedding bells. Nick was far too busy putting his grandmother’s gift to best use to devote any time to matrimony. It infuriated him that he couldn’t come up with anything spectacular. Win, loving him as she did, saw that the only way to bring the date nearer was not to nag but to be patient and sympathetic.
Sadly, the only celebration that took place in eighteen ninety-seven was the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee when Nick’s grandmother threw a party at York – two, actually. The one held during the afternoon was mainly for the benefit of the children and the servants who, for the event and with the aid of staff from two other households, had made a huge pie twenty-five feet long, full of apples and mincemeat and other fruit which, even after the hundred guests had been dealt a hefty slice, was still not half-consumed.
Patrick sat on one of the wrought-iron chairs on the terrace, smiling as Belle’s young charges hared about the garden waving Union Jacks and blowing whistles. She’d done a good job with them, had the lass. Like Lol, Cedric was employed at the factory now. Young Sam, now back at home with his mother, had been reunited with them for this celebratory affair – his mother with him. According to Belle he was a near-genius. She was continuing to give him lessons free of charge, not wishing to put to waste the amount he had learnt while in her care. Patrick waved to his little ginger-haired grandson whom he had been holding until a moment ago when Josie had repossessed him. His birth had cheered Patrick up no end, though he was still prone to occasional bouts of depression when the weather kept him indoors.
Fortunately, the weather was behaving itself today. Because there were so many guests the party was being held outside. His eyes searched the crowded lawn for his wife. Among the white dresses and frilled parasols he spotted her talking to Francis who leaned on a cane, nodding attentively. Ah, Fran, you’re a lucky old chap, came the dispirited thought after watching them awhile. She must’ve been talking to ye for all of ten minutes. I’m lucky if I get ten seconds – an’ me so good at laying off the juice. Almost eighteen months it had been since that Christmas night when he had humiliated her and he had kept his promise never to have more than a nightcap.
Lifting his glass he swilled his mouth with lemonade, washing it noisily through what teeth he had left – No, you’re right, he told himself suddenly – why should ye bother? All this effort ye’ve made to stay sober, poisoning yourself with this muck an’ all ye get to see is her backside.
‘More lemonade, sir?’ Vinnie and the others had been given the afternoon off – the eating arrangements were of a help-yourself variety – but feeling naked up here among the upstairs folk she had armed herself with a tray to hide behind.
‘God love ye, no.’ Patrick made a face, then looked at her properly. ‘Why, Vinnie, ’tis a picture you look if I might make so bold.’ Her hair was glossed back and fashioned into a teapot handle. Only a fringe of curls invaded the now blushing face. The girl had a fine figure too, thought Patrick, unaware that this close scrutiny was the reason for her blush, funny how he’d never noticed before. Maybe it was the pinny that always hid her charms, for the mauve dress she wore now was, to say the least, well-filled.
‘Are you sure you won’t have owt, sir?’ begged Vinnie.
Patrick suddenly noticed what his stare had done to her complexion and apologised, deepening her blush. ‘Well, if you don’t want anything, sir…’ she began to turn away.
He caught one of her huge sleeves. ‘Come an’ sit with me, Vinnie.’
‘Sir.’ She indicated the tray.
‘Sure, I thought ye’d all been given the afternoon off.’
‘We have, but…’
‘Then put the bloody tray down an’ come sit by me.’ The fact that he wouldn’t let go of her sleeve forced her to comply, but under protest.
‘I shouldn’t be sitting here with you, sir.’
‘I’ve not got leprosy, ye know.’
‘I meant the mistress wouldn’t like it.’
‘Herself is off talking to whoever takes her fancy, why shouldn’t I? ’Tisn’t fair that everyone here should be enjoying themselves an’ not me. I mean, look at them, Vinnie. Can ye show me one man here who hasn’t got himself a woman to talk to. Can ye?’ She shook her head. ‘No, only Soft Old Mick here. So you can be my partner, Vinnie.’ After a drawn-out silence he prompted her. ‘Well, come on girl, talk to me.’
Vinnie appeared how she felt – nervous. ‘What should I say, sir?’
‘Say anything – what d’ye think to this party for instance?’
‘Oh, it’s lovely, sir. I’ve right enjoyed meself.’
‘Enjoyed yourself, among this lot? Come on, Vinnie, you can do better than that. Tell me what ye really think of my wife’s friends. Faith, will ye look at them. I’ve never seen so many stiff little fingers in all me life. There’s a bloo
dy forest of ’em out there, all supping their lemonade an’ sayin’, “Oh, Thomasin, how wonderful y’are an’ what a marvellous gown you’re wearing an’ what simply beautiful parties ye give…” They’re all on the bloody take, ye know, Vinnie. Haven’t got two farthings to rub together. They come to us for a free binge, then go home calling us from pigs to dogs. Everybody gets free booze ’cept Yours Truly.’
‘Oh, I think I see Mrs Howgego waving for me, sir,’ stammered Vinnie and shot out of the chair.
He sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Vinnie. I didn’t mean to use you as my sounding board. I just get so bloody mad when I see your mistress being all polite and refined to these two-faced leeches.’ He saw her discomfort. ‘Ah, go on with ye, Vinnie. I’d not want to waste your time listening to a silly old fool like me.’
There was concern. ‘Oh, no, sir… I don’t think you’re silly. I think… I think you’re very nice.’
‘Thank ye, dear.’ But the compliment had fallen flat. He watched her scurry across the terrace to where Cook was applying her mouth to another slice of pie. Even the bloody servants didn’t want to know, he thought bitterly. Then curling his lip at the glass of lemonade he placed it firmly on the table and went into the house.
‘I didn’t know where to put meself, Cook,’ Vinnie was whispering excitedly. ‘Fancy him saying a thing like that to me – an’ that weren’t all.’
Cook brushed the flakes of pastry from her lap. ‘This is where I’m meant to prick up my ears, is it?’
‘Mrs Howgego, his eyes were all over me. Honestly, if there hadn’t been a garden full o’ people I don’t know how I’d’ve kept his hands off. The old devil. You’d think he’d be past all that, wouldn’t you?’
‘You’re a daft cat, you are. He’s lonely, that’s all. I mean, is there any wonder with the missus flitting about all over the place? She’s hardly ever at home.’
‘That weren’t loneliness I saw in them eyes, Mrs Howgego,’ said Vinnie definitely.
‘You wouldn’t know a cross-eyed kipper if it hit you in the face. I tell you he’s lonely. Least you could’ve done was to lend the poor old gentleman your ear – ’cause he is a gent despite your fanciful spoutings. He’s never said a wrong word to me in all the time I’ve been here, nor you neither, I’ll warrant. No. Nor anybody else in this house, upstairs or down, lest they deserved it.’
‘But he shouldn’t’ve said what he did about them lot though, should he, Cook?’ said Vinnie, angling for forgiveness. ‘I mean, it’s not done.’
‘I’ll ’llow you’re right, Vinnie.’ Cook inclined her greying head. ‘But you see he’s not himself.’
‘Who is he then?’ giggled Vinnie, then at Cook’s sharp expression said: ‘Sorry.’
‘See, the master isn’t really one o’ them,’ Mrs Howgego gestured to the gathering on the lawn. ‘And much as her ladyship reckons she is – she in’t. But, whereas she doesn’t mind ’em looking down their noses at her long as she gets their business – skin like an elephant she has – the master, he feels it. Mindst, some of it’s his own fault for the way he treats them – one or two of them are very nice people. No, the master can be a bit of a snob himself, but the other way round, if you understand me. He looks down on the posh folk.’ She craned her neck around Vinnie, eyes in the direction of Patrick’s chair. ‘See, he’s gone.’
Vinnie glanced over her shoulder. ‘I’ll bet he’s gone to raid the drinks cabinet.’
‘You want to watch your tongue, my lass. You’ll be tripping over it.’
Vinnie grinned. ‘Eh, he isn’t half funny when he’s slewed, in’t he, Cook?’
‘I’m sure the mistress thinks so,’ said the other ironically. ‘Eh, up, she’s looking for him; seen his empty chair.’
‘I don’t know what she sees in that old stick,’ murmured Vinnie, studying Francis. ‘The master’s a much better-looking bloke. Eh, Cook, I wonder if they…’
‘Don’t you dare say it, my lass,’ interjected Cook. ‘It’s wicked of you even to think it. Anyroad,’ she stretched her back, ‘I think I’ll allow you to fetch me another piece o’ that pie.’
‘What, another? How many’s that you’ve had?’
‘If it were thirty-six it’d still be none o’ your business, an’ somebody’s got to eat it otherwise we’ll be celebrating Her Majesty’s next Jubilee with it. Silly bloody idea it was to bake it anyway. But ’course, the mistress has to impress. Go on now, an’ I’ll have a glass o’ that red stuff them lot are drinking. Never mind the lemonade – I’m on holiday.’
At Vinnie’s departure Cook turned her eyes once again to Patrick’s seat and, finding him reappeared, nodded and smiled deferentially.
Patrick held his glass aloft and smiled back, the half-bottle of whiskey stacked neatly in his stomach. Whilst Cook and the maid had been talking he had found time to nip over to The Black Swan and join festivities there. The juice of the barley helped to make him a wee bit more charitable towards his wife’s abominable friends. Thomasin, seeing him back in his chair, smiled relievedly and winked, unaware that ‘the problem’ had returned.
* * *
At five o’clock the dismembered pie was harrowed off to the larder along with the other remains of the afternoon party and everyone retired to change into their evening wear for the continuation of the festivities which were to take place outside the home. Thomasin had hired a ballroom and made catering arrangements, the latter in order that the servants could enjoy their time off to the full. It was, after all, only once in sixty years that a Queen celebrated a Diamond Jubilee. She was extremely satisfied with the way the celebrations had gone and Patrick was behaving impeccably.
She hadn’t really believed her husband when he made that Christmas promise of abstention, but she was pleasantly surprised when he kept to it. She knew that as a certainty – because of the marks on the decanter and the close inventory she had made of the wine cellar. If Pat was getting the stuff from anywhere outside then he was carrying it remarkably well.
It wasn’t the fact of his actual drinking that upset her but that it made him so garrulous, and when Patrick’s tongue ran away with him she usually ended up being humiliated. But looking at him now she decided that if the hired staff followed instructions and performed a detour round him with their trays the evening should remain unsullied.
A liveried footman was admitting other guests. Thomasin rolled her eyes to herself. Trust Belle to wear something like that. You’d think it was a funeral, not a party. But the dress which had at first appeared uninspiring was transformed as Belle limped into the light of the crystal chandelier. The taffeta was of the darkest green and with the aid of illumination took on the sheen of abalone. Little rainbow puddles nestled in its dark folds, like oil on water. Its wearer’s shoulders, as usual robed in her luxuriant hair, stiffened as many eyes alighted upon her. At the defensive expression Thomasin sighed, bewailing the girl’s self-doubt. What a shame she was blind to the admiration in the brown eyes of the man accompanying her. The woman glided across the ballroom to welcome them. ‘Belle, how splendid you look. Doesn’t she, Brian?’
‘I’ve never seen her look lovelier,’ he replied warmly. ‘You’ll have to be careful,’ Thomasin warned him. ‘I’ve noticed a lot of eyes turning when she came in. You should snap her up while you can.’
‘Now Nan, don’t embarrass the doctor,’ said Belle.
‘On the contrary,’ replied Brian. ‘I’m not at all embarrassed. And, Mrs Feeney, I would be delighted to snap up your grandchild if she’d consent.’
Belle tutted. ‘I’m off to sit with Gramps. Come and join me when you know which side your bread’s buttered.’
‘She’s a funny girl.’ Thomasin wafted her face with a black-feathered fan. ‘You’d think she’d bite your hand off, wouldn’t you?’
Brian watched Patrick’s face light up as his granddaughter reached him. ‘She doesn’t look upon me as a very good catch. I can’t say I blame her.’
‘Oh, come on now, Brian.
You’re in an excellent profession, you’re good-looking – yes, you are, don’t be modest. I don’t know what’s wrong with the girl. The Lord knows she won’t get many chances of matrimony – and certainly not a better one.’
‘I think you underestimate your grand-daughter,’ he answered warily.
‘Oh, I wasn’t lying when I said she looked gorgeous. But you know how people are, Brian. Anyone a bit out of the ordinary… they’re not exactly queueing up to court her, are they?’
Brian watched the dead hummingbird on Thomasin’s fan. The increased rapidity of her hand caused it to appear as if hovering, the minute purple wings outstretched in flight. ‘I really must defend my sex, Mrs Feeney. We men aren’t all the shallow creatures you depict, and I find the manner in which you regard my affection for Belle as slightly offensive. I’m not some sort of noble hero who wants to marry her out of pity…’ He shook his head, lost for words. The fan stopped, suspending the humming bird in mid-flight, rendering it merely a pathetic, dead jewel.
‘Well, I hardly think I deserved that!’ gasped Thomasin.
‘Yes, you did.’ Brian’s indignation mustered the words he had been seeking. ‘I know it might be neither the time nor place to say it but since the opportunity has arisen I feel I mustn’t waste it. You talk about Belle being grateful – well, tell me, why should she be? Look at her, Mrs Feeney,’ he gestured at Belle who was laughing with Patrick. ‘The girl is absolutely enchanting. She’s no cause to be grateful that a fuddy-duddy old spec-eye wants to make her his wife.’
Erin’s Child Page 68