The Buttonmaker’s daughter

by Merryn Allingham

‘And when will that be?’

  ‘I’m driving him to Worthing this morning. He’s off to collect some antique he’s bought – a Japanese vase, Imari, or something like that. He’ll be in a good mood. I’ll do it then.’

  ‘And mebbe at the same time you could ask for a couple of days off after the wedding?’ Her voice was gentler now.

  He put his polishing cloth down and got to his feet. ‘You don’t stop, do you?’ He grinned down at her, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. ‘I’m beginning to wonder what I’m marrying. I’ll be pecked to bits before I even get to the altar!’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I get anxious.’ She looked around then, and seeing the coast clear, reached up and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I don’t mean to nag, Eddie, really I don’t, but I get that worried things won’t work out for us.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t they? We’ll have a bang-up wedding and a bang-up home. The jammiest, you’ll see.’ He narrowed his eyes against the sun. ‘And I’ve a mind to ask an extra favour.’

  ‘Yes?’ Her gaze widened with anticipation and that made him laugh.

  ‘Don’t get too excited. But I’ve been thinking. My ma can’t come to the wedding, you know that, but what if we went to my ma?’

  Her face fell. ‘How would we do that? She lives miles away.’

  ‘How else?’ He turned and pointed at the sleek green beast dozing in the wedge of sunlight.

  Ivy gasped. ‘You’d never dare to ask!’

  ‘Watch me, girl. For you, I’d dare anything.’

  He laughed again and his arms went round her waist, cradling her tight, and swinging her so high into the air that he lost his footing and they tumbled to the ground, landing on the cobblestones in a giggling heap.

  ‘You’ll want to keep your jobs, I’m supposing.’ It was Ripley glaring at them from the rear door.

  Hastily, they scrambled to their feet. ‘Yes, Mr Ripley,’ they said in unison.

  *

  Elizabeth looked wistfully out at the busy scene below. A large marquee had already been erected on the huge spread of lawn and a stiff breeze was whipping to a frenzy the flags flying proudly at each of its corners. A sprinkling of smaller tents, too, had begun to lace the perimeter of the grass, the noise of mallets on wooden staves sounding clearly through the first-floor window. If she pressed her forehead hard against the glass, she could just make out Cornford working at his bench, sawing the planks with which he’d construct a temporary dais. And to her right, Mr Harris teetering on the tallest of ladders with one of his boys holding its feet, while he strung bunting from tree to tree. There were men everywhere, it seemed – scurrying, carrying, calling to companions. A few women, too, who had come from the village and were setting up stalls from where tomorrow they’d sell toys and fruits and home-made sweetmeats.

  This morning her mother had insisted on her company in the morning room, and she had spent the last few hours reading while Alice sewed. But every so often, she had laid aside the book and glanced longingly through the window. If she were not allowed to escape completely, at least she might do something practical. Perhaps join the scene unfolding below. She could run errands for the women on their stalls or organise refreshment tables for the big tent. Mrs Lacey was busy enough without having a marquee foisted on her – the housekeeper would welcome her help, she knew. But she was not allowed to be useful. Her function was purely decorative and her mother’s morning room was where she must spend the day.

  Her spirits had been high when earlier she’d watched Joshua leave for a drive to Worthing. He had wanted her to go with him, but she’d excused herself on the pretext of a lengthy journey. His pursuit of another precious vase for his collection was likely to take some time. With her father absent and the gardens filled with noise and movement, she’d hoped to slip from the house and make a swift visit to the temple. But her mother had swooped on her directly they rose from the breakfast table, and she’d had no opportunity. She wanted to speak to Aiden, wanted that he attend the fête tomorrow, for amid the hustle of the fair they could surely meet and talk unnoticed. She had barely seen the young man these last few weeks, now that her walks had been curtailed and Joshua’s presence constant. Her father seemed always to be just out of sight but sufficiently near to be aware of her every move.

  Unless she could get a message to the young architect, he wouldn’t come. Perhaps it was as well that he didn’t; she found herself wanting to see him a little too much, and it worried her. Last year, she’d returned from London clear in her mind that her world needed no man. She certainly didn’t want to marry. She looked at the Pankhurst women – they led splendid lives, lives of power and excitement, and not a man in sight. And really, why should she want to see Aiden Kellaway so much, since she’d met him for a matter of minutes only? Yet she knew she did.

  She was fascinated. He was like no other man she’d encountered: not the awkward boys at the few local dances she’d been permitted to attend, or the fulsome young men of the London Season with their smooth tongues and uncaring hearts. Aiden stood apart and his difference entranced her. She loved his misty green eyes, his soft brown hair, the lilt in his voice. Or was it his intelligence, the way he could cut through pretence and divine what was real, what was important? He was clever, that was certain, but it wasn’t that either. Was it then his enthusiasm for life? Or the sadness she’d glimpsed behind the things he didn’t say? Perhaps it was all those things.

  She had drifted through the past few weeks wearing what she hoped was an impassive face, but all the time she’d been fighting a joy, that despite her best efforts, bubbled within. It was silly, ridiculous, but oddly liberating. Liberation, though, could play false, and her new sense of freedom might well end in disaster. If she doubted the danger, she had only to remember that the friendship with Aiden was not one she could admit to, let alone proclaim. She would do well to stay heart whole.

  ‘Come away from the window, my dear,’ Alice urged. ‘If you lack employment, why not work on your embroidery? It’s an age since you last took it up.’

  She looked with dislike at the half-finished tablecloth tossed to one side. French knots and satin stitch had long ago lost their appeal and she couldn’t prevent an audible sigh.

  ‘What is it?’ Her mother was immediately anxious.

  ‘Nothing, Mama. I am a trifle tired, that’s all,’ she lied.

  Alice was nested comfortably deep in the wing chair that was her favourite, but at this she put aside her crochet work and folded her hands in her lap. She is preparing to offer me unwanted advice, Elizabeth thought in irritation, but still she could not prevent a stab of pity. Her mother looked old and careworn beyond her years.

  As a child, she had instinctively sided with her father. He’d been the one to pet her, to buy her the most expensive toys or take her to the most exciting places. Once, when they’d been living in Birmingham – though now she could hardly remember it – he’d taken her to a factory he owned. The noise of the machines had been like thunder in her ears but it was a thunder that produced miracles – the smallest, most beautiful buttons she had ever seen: tortoiseshell and jet, ivory and glass, silk and abalone, the latter hand-crafted from the fragile Macassar shells fished from East Indian seas. She still had a linen bag full of Joshua’s exquisite designs. No wonder she had thought him king of the world.

  It was her mother who had been the enemy, who had made her do things she didn’t want to do, or stopped her from doing things she did: Pull up your stockings, Elizabeth; Smooth out your dress; stop running; sit quietly. For years, her mother’s unhappiness had barely touched her. Until lately. Lately, she had begun to realise just how much Alice had suffered.

  She picked up the hated tablecloth, hoping to deter any homily, and had placed just one listless stitch when the door flew open and her father marched into the room. He was back already. The excursion to Worthing had been unusually swift and this visit to her mother’s morning room even more unusual – she couldn’t remember th
e last time she’d seen him here. Almost certainly, there was more trouble brewing. She had a moment of panic, thinking someone had told him of the few meetings she’d had with Aiden, a chance observer that neither had noticed.

  It was not the young architect, though, that was on her father’s mind, but Henry Fitzroy. Joshua strode across the room to glare down at his wife. At any moment, she thought, Alice might disappear from view, shrinking into the very fabric of the chair.

  ‘He’s coming, did you know that?’ When his wife did not answer, he raised his voice. ‘Henry Fitzroy. Your dear brother. He’s coming to the fête.’

  ‘That is surely good news,’ Alice said at last. There was only the slightest tremor to her voice.

  ‘And how do you come to that conclusion?’

  ‘If Henry attends, it will say he is happy for us to hold the fête. It will be an endorsement. An approval of Summerhayes.’

  ‘What kind of rubbish is that?’

  Alice blinked. ‘It’s hardly rubbish. If Henry attends a fête that his family has hosted for centuries, he will recognise our right to be here, your right to create the gardens. Recognise that it’s just for us to take water from the stream.’

  Elizabeth was unconvinced by her mother’s logic, but at least it seemed to be circumventing Joshua’s immediate rage.

  ‘If you like to see it that way.’ He grunted in a dissatisfied fashion.

  ‘I think we should. Being at odds with Amberley is pointless, and if we have the chance to talk to Henry, it could prove useful.’ Elizabeth saw her mother give him a meaningful look, but Joshua merely grunted again.

  She must interrogate Alice on that look, and was deciding on the best time to broach the subject, when the heavy crash of a body against the wood panelling of the morning-room door brought the conversation to an abrupt halt.

  ‘What the devil!’ Her father spun round.

  ‘I’ll find out what’s going on,’ she said quickly, abandoning the embroidery to a nearby chair.

  On the other side of the door, she almost tripped over Oliver’s prone body. His face was pink from exertion and he had a rugby ball clutched between his hands. William’s head was just visible at the top of the stairs.

  ‘Go outside,’ she ordered. ‘At once. And take that ball with you.’

  ‘They don’t want us outside.’ William arrived on the landing, out of breath.

  ‘And why would that be?’ She could take a fairly accurate guess.

  ‘They said we were getting in the way,’ Oliver offered, scrambling to his feet. ‘They were quite cross, actually.’

  She tried to look severe, but couldn’t prevent a smile. ‘And people in the house will be quite, too, if you make much more noise. Why don’t you go to the Wilderness – lose yourself there? I’ll come and call you when lunch is ready.’

  Oliver shrugged his shoulders. ‘I suppose. C’mon on, Wills.’

  ‘Before you do…’ Elizabeth looked at their innocent faces and took a decision. ‘William, could you do something for me?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Come to my room and I’ll explain. Oliver can go down to the kitchen. Cook has made at least a hundred pork pies for the fête. Tell her I said you could have one each.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Olly enthused. ‘You’re a top-hole sister. I wish I had one.’

  She wondered whether William would think so once she’d spoken to him.

  Chapter Eleven

  Ten minutes later, William emerged from Elizabeth’s room pushing a small piece of white paper as far down his trouser pocket as he could. He wasn’t at all sure that he agreed with Olly’s claim of her being ‘a top-hole sister’. Right now, he wished he were sister-free. He loved Elizabeth – when he was very young he’d worshipped her – but what she wanted him to do was wrong. Yet she had asked him so plaintively that he’d had no alternative but to agree.

  He met Oliver coming out of the kitchen, his right cheek bulging with pork pie. ‘Here, I’ve got one for you. Let’s go to the retreat and stuff ourselves.’

  They skirted the lawn, making sure they kept a distance from the men who were still hard at work, then bounded along the path that led beneath the pergola, eager to get to their hideaway. It was another warm day and the slight breeze was welcome. In addition to the pork pies, Oliver had managed to secrete two large bottles of lemonade and filch a chunk of plum cake from the larder when Cook had her attention elsewhere. Evidently, there was serious eating to be done.

  In front of them rose the beautiful curved wall, dear to William since infancy, its face to the south, its espaliered apricots, pears and plums beginning to form their fruits for a late-summer picking. He felt a swell of love for the garden. Life at Summerhayes could be dull and, when it wasn’t dull, his father’s short temper made it unpleasant. But the garden never failed to calm. It was what he missed most when he packed his trunk for a school that knew nothing of the beauty his father’s despised money had created. And it was the garden he enjoyed most when once more he returned home. Wandering its acres, noticing new flowers, trees that had grown, bushes that had spread. It was like getting to know an old friend all over again.

  ‘What did your sister want?’ Olly asked, as they jogged past the outbuildings.

  ‘Just something she asked me to do for her.’ He tried to sound unconcerned.

  ‘What?’

  ‘A message. She wanted me to take a message.’

  ‘Sounds exciting. Where is it?’

  He trundled to a stop and pulled from his pocket the scrap of paper, already dented and a little dirty around the edges. Before he could stop him, Olly had reached out and plucked it from his fingers.

  ‘“I hope to see you at the fête tomorrow. I’ll be there. Elizabeth,”’ he read aloud. ‘Not much excitement there.’ He sounded disappointed.

  William retrieved the message and stuffed it back into his pocket. But his friend hadn’t given up. ‘Who’s it for, anyway?’ Then, as the truth dawned on him, added, ‘Not that chap – the chap working on the temple?’

  He nodded miserably. Olly gave one of his low whistles. ‘Why are you looking like that? It is exciting, after all.’

  ‘It’s not exciting, it’s wrong,’ he said stubbornly.

  ‘Don’t be a spoilsport. True love and all that. We have to help.’

  ‘You’d better not get involved, Olly.’ He was alarmed. ‘My father will send you packing at the slightest excuse.’

  ‘I know. That’s why it’s exciting. Come on, let’s have an adventure. Let’s help your sister find the love of her life.’

  Unwillingly, William allowed himself to be dragged along the path through the Wilderness and towards the Italian Garden. He glanced over his shoulder, looking longingly in the direction of their retreat. He should be there, eating plum cake, not playing at messenger. It would lead to trouble, he was sure.

  They had almost reached the laurel arch, when an unearthly howl filled the air, overwhelming the small, friendly sounds of the gardeners at work beyond the hedge. He clutched at his friend’s arm.

  He saw Olly look at him curiously. ‘It’s only dogs. Where are they, do you think?’

  ‘There are dogs at Amberley. It must be them.’

  ‘They sound much nearer than that.’ As they stood beneath the arch, the howling intensified and then there was the sound of threshing undergrowth and of branches being broken.

  William’s face had grown white.

  ‘Hey’, Olly said, ‘it’s just hounds by the sound of them.’

  ‘I hate dogs. Any dogs.’

  ‘Do you?’ His friend sounded genuinely interested. ‘I’ve never met anyone who hated dogs.’

  ‘Well, I do. They give me nightmares. Let’s go.’

  ‘But what about the message?’

  ‘That can wait.’

  ‘The animals are nowhere near,’ Oliver protested. ‘We can whizz into the garden, find this chap, and whizz out again.’

  There was a louder sound of trampling a
nd then one of the gardeners working on the beds around the lake let out a yell. ‘Them blasted hounds. They’m got out somehow.’

  ‘See them orf, Joe,’ another voice joined in. ‘I don’t want them buggers in here.’

  That was enough for William. He turned on his heel and rushed a few yards back along the path, then threw himself into the middle of the Wilderness, barging through high grass, between palms and beneath tree ferns.

  ‘William!’ Olly called out. ‘You’re going in the wrong direction.’

  But he had been made heedless by terror and charged on unthinkingly.

  ‘It’s over there,’ Oliver was yelling, pointing in an easterly direction, but his friend did not hear; his mind filled with a compelling need to reach the retreat and hide within its shelter. Not that it would have hidden him for long. Any hound worth its weight would have nosed him out in no time. But he wasn’t thinking straight, and when at last he looked up and saw where Olly was pointing, he quickly changed direction and leapt over the last few yards of long grass and literally threw himself into the small cave they had constructed.

  A bewildered Oliver had started to follow his friend when a rumbling ahead stopped him in his tracks. The various pieces of wood they had gathered and so carefully lashed together appeared to be wobbling dangerously. And then they were tumbling. Like a waterfall. Planks, branches, enormous logs, came crashing to the ground, until half of the retreat was no more than a pile of timber, with William lying beneath it.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ Oliver breathed, rushing towards the mound of wood, yelling at the top of his voice for help. He grabbed the nearest plank and tried to manoeuvre it away but it had stuck fast beneath so much other heavy timber. ‘Help!’ he yelled again, his voice verging on tears.

  Within seconds, one of the men working in the Italian Garden was bounding towards him, shoulder to shoulder with Davy, a fellow gardener and a huge wrestler of a man. And behind them, Joe Lacey and Aiden, still holding the theodolite he had been fixing into a new position.

  ‘We’m a problem here, and all,’ one of the men said, coming to a panting halt beside Oliver. ‘Young master’s beneath that lot. How do we get him out without hurting him worse?’