Clarissa Hoyland, in bed, draped in Flanders lace, propped up on three fat pillows, turned a petulant face towards her husband. It was the same expression her youngest daughter used when early signs indicated she might not get her way: brows puckered, bottom lip jutting, the suggestion of tears in her eyes. But of course, Isabella was only twelve. The child was away from home for a few weeks, staying with cousins in Suffolk, but Teddy Hoyland felt her presence now in the bed before him.
‘I simply can’t see the difficulty,’ said the countess. ‘And I wonder at you, Teddy, presenting me with obstacles at every turn, when already there is so much to be organised.’
‘Obstacles! I hardly think so.’
The earl, standing at the foot of his wife’s bed, was already dressed and replete with breakfast, ready for the day’s business, while Clarissa still lay dishevelled and rosy in a tumble of bedclothes. She was slow to surface in the mornings, unfurling delicately each new day like a fern, while her husband woke like one of his black Labradors, bounding with gusto from sleep into wakefulness. His rude health and sturdiness seemed almost an affront here, in his wife’s room. The countess was tiny, bones like a bird, wrists you could encircle with room to spare between index finger and thumb. Lying there under the satin counterpane she looked fragile and vulnerable, and though he knew that any suggestion of weakness was an illusion – that she was, in fact, armed with a will of iron and nerves of steel – still she made him feel like a cad, a tweed-clad brute, denying his charming wife the smallest happiness. This was how she triumphed, always.
‘Very well,’ she said now, arranging her face into a mask of brave resignation. ‘We shall put him off.’
She picked up her novel and began to read, though it was upside down. For a short while he watched her, more amused than annoyed. Then he said: ‘Now, Clarissa. That won’t be necessary.’
She looked up.
‘Oh, you’re still here! Well, I beg to differ, Teddy. Far better the king doesn’t come to Netherwood at all, than to come and find us lacking.’
The Earl of Netherwood knew well enough what the royal visit meant to his wife. As Prince of Wales he had visited three times: as king, not at all. Now that the monarch was at last expected, Teddy knew how important it was, in Clarissa’s opinion, that Bertie should leave with the impression of having enjoyed limitless hospitality at the finest, most gracious country house in the whole of England. But still. To insist upon a programme of complete and lavish redecoration was one thing: to declare the bathrooms – all of them – as unfit for use was quite another. And this, just four weeks before King Edward and his entourage were due. Lord Netherwood decided to make one last appeal to reason.
‘My dear, the house has never looked so spruce. You’ve done a magnificent job’ – this to appeal to her vanity – ‘and your instincts in matters of style and taste are unsurpassed.’ She looked at him askance now, because even she detected flattery and flannel. ‘But there is neither the time nor the need to tear out perfectly good bathroom furniture for the benefit of Bertie. A lavatory he sat on as Prince of Wales will serve him just as well as king.’
‘Teddy!’ she said.
‘Well it’s true. We entertained him in grand style before, without any real upheaval at all. I’m perfectly confident we shall do the same again.’
She put down her book.
‘I’m sorry, Teddy. New baths, new basins, new lavatories, or I shall declare us indisposed. Something dreadfully infectious, perhaps. A polite letter to the horrid Knollys warning of a risk to the king of scarlet fever.’
Of course he knew, as she knew, that the ultimatum was preposterous. Clarissa would sooner run naked through the streets of Netherwood than write such a letter to the king’s man. In any case, if it suited Bertie to visit Netherwood Hall – and it did, as he was coming from Doncaster and the St Leger – then visit he would. An outbreak of scarlet fever, real or imaginary, would be of no account. He pleased himself, did Bertie, and on this occasion he had done as he always did by blithely announcing his intention to visit, entirely at his own convenience, leaving the honoured hosts to a tumult of anxious preparation. However, standing before his beautiful, pouting, manipulative wife, Teddy decided – not for the first time, nor for the last – to cave in. It was certainly his quickest route out of the countess’s rooms and into the fresh air and it wasn’t as if they couldn’t afford the work. And if Clarissa was happy, generally speaking, they all were happy. She had, after all, already been forced to concede the vexed point of Dorothea Stirling’s invitation to Netherwood Hall. No small concession either, given her initial opposition to that particular scheme.
‘Very well,’ said the earl. ‘Talk to Motson. If he believes the work can be achieved in the time available, go ahead.’
‘Thank you, Teddy,’ she said, briskly now that her mission was accomplished. She blew him a kiss by way of dismissal so he took his cue, exiting his wife’s room just as a housemaid arrived with lemon tea. The girl stepped back and bobbed a respectful curtsey, and the cup rattled in the saucer in her trembling hand. She should save her awe for a figure of actual authority, thought the earl wryly as he strode off down the long corridor. Underfoot, the pile of the new carpet felt soft and rich – not that the old one had ever seemed unsatisfactory to him. New bathroom furniture indeed. He wasn’t sure who was the bigger fool: his wife, for inventing the project, or himself for sanctioning it.
In her room, the countess lay back on the pillows and picked up a writing pad and pencil that she kept at all times on her nightstand. She had many of her best ideas in bed, in those unstructured moments just before sleeping or just after waking, when the mind loosened itself from the shackles of daily routine. In bed, she had imagined any number of wonderful dresses for herself and the girls that had subsequently been realised by her dressmaker in chiffon or satin or cotton lawn. In bed, too, she had visualised garden schemes – the famous wisteria tunnel, the pagoda in the Japanese water garden, the precise combination of blooms in the white border – and last night, just before she succumbed to sleep, she had seen in her mind’s eye the exquisite rope of tightly plaited orchids in magenta and cream that must grace the table for the forthcoming royal party. She had sat up at once and sketched these and would hand them on later today to Mrs Powell-Hughes, the housekeeper. Now, though, she took up the pad and wrote ‘Motson’ to remind herself to send word that he should begin work immediately on the main bathrooms of the east wing. She had every faith in him and his small army of workmen to complete the work swiftly and, in any case, everything they needed was ordered already; stylish pieces with sleek, modern lines in white porcelain with chrome accessories. For while she felt it was only polite to seek her husband’s permission, the process was, in fact, just a formality; she had not had even the smallest doubt that her wish would be granted.
Henrietta was waiting for the earl at the bottom of the main staircase, where the graceful curve of the banister concluded its journey with a flourish in the form of a fine, intricately carved newel post. She was leaning against it with her back to her father as he began his descent. Unnoticed by her, he paused. His eldest daughter was dressed for riding: habit, gloves and boots on, her thick blond hair caught up in a knot, and he knew at once that the fact she hadn’t yet gone meant she must have something to say – to him, doubtless. Something pressing. Something that would either complicate his morning or reflect badly on his character. The shameful notion crossed his mind that he might yet retreat and take the servants’ stairs instead. He didn’t, though, dismissing the idea even as it was conceived and, as if to make up for the unrealised slight, he called cheerfully to her as he bounded down, two stairs at a time as always.
‘Morning, Henry!’ He almost sang the greeting.
She turned and smiled, but it was tight and brief, with no accompanying twinkle, which meant – as he had feared – that she had something in particular on her mind and, indeed, she wasted no time on pleasantries but launched straight in to the f
irst item on her agenda.
‘I have to say, Daddy, the very least you might have done is read it.’
Merciful heavens, he thought to himself, would his womenfolk give him no peace? He tried a rueful smile but she regarded him sternly without a hint of forgiveness; this young woman – forceful, determined, robustly argumentative – would make a splendid governess, he thought, if ever they fell into penury. She waggled under his nose a wad of papers loosely bound in a buff-coloured folder, which had sat on his desk for three days now, growing ever less visible under the gradual accumulation of newspapers and other matters pending, but which Henry had obviously ferreted out this morning. He did wish she wouldn’t make quite so free with his study: like his club and the outside lavatory, it was no place for a woman.
‘Here,’ she said, handing over the document. ‘Look at it now. It’s fascinating.’
He flipped it open and held it out at arm’s length, which was the only way he seemed to be able to read anything these days. ‘The West Riding Colliery Centre for Training Men in Mines Rescue – bit of a mouthful,’ he said. He looked at his daughter. ‘And who is this chap, did you say?’
‘Mr Garforth. The safety-lamp man. He’s quite local. We could meet him, visit the centre. People do, you see. Mining engineers and whatnot.’
‘Whoa, now,’ said the earl, as if steadying his hunter. ‘Let’s not run ahead.’
‘Daddy, what possible argument could you have against making our mines safer?’
None, of course, when she put it like that. But life was never as simple as Henrietta liked to make out. First of all, the king’s visit was imminent and, while the earl baulked at using that as an excuse to his principled daughter for postponing this particular issue, it was nevertheless a consideration, and a major one at that. Second, he doubted if any of the miners at his collieries would take kindly to going back to school and in their own time, too. Third, he was in any case sceptical about the need for any kind of extra training for his men when all they really needed to know was how to extract coal. In this they were expert practitioners.
‘Thank you, Henry,’ he said, reining her in firmly. ‘Please don’t begin one of your moral monologues. I will read this, but in my own time, if you please, because just at this moment I have other more urgent business to attend to.’
She made as if to speak, then thought better of it. She knew her father well: no progress would be made if he felt harried. But this fellow, this Garforth, he sounded simply splendid. It seemed to Henrietta a foolish, backwards-looking thing to resist innovation in their own field of industry.
Behind her and with a decisive clunk, the oak door of her father’s study swung shut and Henrietta, taking her cue, strode through the hallway, seized her riding crop from the umbrella stand, and left the house for the uncomplicated pleasures of the saddle.
Downstairs in the kitchens, the hubbub caused by the preparation of breakfast had subsided. All that remained were the mingled smells – grilled meat, poached haddock, fried tomatoes, coddled eggs – and the dirty skillets, crockery and cutlery now piled high on the board by the sink. These, however, were no concern of Mary Adams, who had years ago done with tedious jobs such as dishwashing. As cook, it was now her perfect right to take the weight off her swollen legs and sit down on the carver – her throne, the scullery maids called it, out of range of her hearing – and eke out what little gossip there was with the nearest available body. Unfortunately for Mrs Adams, this morning it was Elizabeth Powell-Hughes, who had a habit of nipping an opening gambit smartly in the bud. The cook’s defensive tone and thwarted expression suggested that this frustrating process was already under way.
‘Well ’islop never made a moment’s trouble, that’s all I can say. Nob’dy easier to please than ’im,’
‘Now, Mary. Hislop could be a cantankerous old devil, and well you know it.’
Mrs Powell-Hughes regarded the cook sternly over the top of her gold-rimmed spectacles; she was a cut above Mrs Adams in breeding and status and was the only person in the household – other than the family, though they rarely used the privilege – who got away with calling her Mary. She herself, however, was Mrs Powell-Hughes to everyone – had no memory, in fact, of the last time anyone called her Elizabeth, as these last thirty years had been spent in service at Netherwood. There was no Mr Powell-Hughes, of course. Never had been. But Miss wouldn’t do for a housekeeper, so Mrs Powell-Hughes she was. Mrs P-H to the family and, very occasionally, to Parkinson the butler, but only when he’d had a sherry at Christmas, and even then he felt he was probably overstepping a line.
‘Aye, but that was out there, on ’is own territory.’ Mrs Adams swung a fat arm towards the garden. ‘In ’ere, ’e was as quiet as a mouse.’
The cook was rewriting history again, thought Mrs Powell-Hughes. She did this when it suited her story. No matter what the evidence was to the contrary, she would concoct her own version of events and present it as gospel. In fact, Hislop, the retired head gardener, had been – and still was, no doubt – a sharp-tongued, ill-mannered gnome of a man, too easily rattled and too ready to curse. His replacement, a tall, good-looking fellow with a Scots burr and an easy manner, was a more than satisfactory exchange. And the newcomer’s crime, in Mary Adams’s book of kitchen law, had been to reject the cup of tea he’d been given because he preferred to drink it without milk.
‘Pushed it away, like it was poison,’ said the cook, working herself up all over again, though it was two weeks, now, since the atrocity took place.
Mrs Powell-Hughes said: ‘Mary, I was there at the time, so think on,’ and Mrs Adams, while determined to cherish and nurture the offence, nevertheless held her tongue. She would save her indignation for a more receptive audience, since it was clearly wasted on the housekeeper. Still, she huffed a little, inwardly. Tea without milk. Who could trust such a man?
Mrs Powell-Hughes reached for her fob, checked the time, let it drop. She wore it like a medal on her chest, with a black grosgrain ribbon to hide the pin.
‘Linens,’ she said, standing up. Always the first to finish a sit-down, thought Mrs Adams, truly out of humour now with her colleague. Always leaping to her feet as if she was the only one with work to do. The kitchen door swung open and a pink-cheeked housemaid entered, carrying the now-empty china cup and saucer she had taken upstairs, full of tea, to the countess ten minutes ago.
‘Slowly, Agnes,’ said the housekeeper. ‘The next cup you chip through carelessness comes out of your wages, remember.’
The girl said: ‘Sorry Mrs Powell-’ughes. Mrs Powell-’ughes?’
‘Yes?’
‘’er ladyship gave me this, for Mr Motson.’
She passed a note to the housekeeper, a sheet of thick vellum paper, folded in half but without an envelope. There was no doubting for whose eyes it was intended, since it had ‘Mr Motson’ written on it quite clearly in Lady Hoyland’s distinctive hand, but who wouldn’t sneak a look, in those circumstances? Certainly Agnes had, in the privacy of the back stairs, and now she and the cook watched as Mrs Powell-Hughes flicked open the writing paper and quickly scanned its contents. Her expression was inscrutable. She folded it back, and placed it in the pocket of her skirt.
‘Well?’ said Mrs Adams. ‘What is it?’
‘More work for my girls, that’s what,’ she said, tight-lipped, and left it at that. Mrs Adams watched in deep umbrage as the housekeeper swept from the room, all dignified restraint and self-importance. The cook turned to the girl.
‘Well?’ she said, again.
‘All t’bathrooms are coming out. Before t’king comes,’ she said.
Mrs Adams smiled. Comeuppance, she thought to herself with immense satisfaction. Comeuppance. That’s what that was.
Chapter 3
‘Runners, peas, lettuce, caulis, onions, plums, raspberries and goosegogs. Where do you want ’em?’
Amos Sykes stood in the open doorway of the kitchen, bearing in his arms with visible effort a large, muddy b
ox of newly harvested produce. His handsome, craggy face, ruddy from the sun, had rivulets of sweat running in lines from under the brim of his cap, and he blinked in an effort to redirect them away from his eyes. It was a long walk from the allotment, and hot enough outside to crack the flagstones. A drink wouldn’t go amiss, he thought, and flashed a bright, winning smile at Nellie Kay. She was chopping onions as if she bore them a personal grudge, and she didn’t look up from the task but said, ‘Somewhere folk won’t fall over ’em.’
She said this grimly, as if it happened all the time, as if Amos carelessly depositing his veg boxes in people’s paths was a regular occurrence. He rolled his eyes at Alice Buckle, who blushed and looked away, afraid of taking anyone’s side against the formidable Nellie. Alice was stationed this morning at the sink, peeling potatoes with the swift efficiency that came from years of practice, and Amos walked over to leave the vegetables on her side of the room.
‘Eve in?’ he said.
‘Aye,’ said Alice. ‘Upstairs.’ She tilted her head upwards, to underline the point, but she didn’t look at him or stop peeling. The big sink was full of potatoes, and there was another sack on the floor. Leek and potato soup on the menu today, though they were calling it by a strange foreign name she couldn’t remember and serving it cold, which seemed like an odd business to Alice. The weather would never be so hot that the Buckles didn’t warm their soup on the stove, but Eve had come back from her spell in London with new ideas, and not just chilled soup, though that was probably the most outlandish. You could still order it warm if you wanted to, though, and Alice was comforted by this nod to normality. There were fishcakes today too, new for the summer menu but reassuringly familiar. The cod was waiting for her in the cold store, wrapped in the fishmonger’s blue and white paper; when the potatoes were done, the fish had to be skinned and pin-boned and Alice’s nimble fingers seemed better suited than anyone else’s to this delicate task. She would work like a blind woman, gazing ahead while her fingertips ran swiftly up and down the fish fillet feeling for the tiny bones, thin and flimsy as eyelashes, and whipping them out with a surgeon’s precision. These jobs – the peeling, the skinning, the boning – were always performed with a single-minded dedication that left no room for chitchat. She knew, for instance, that everything in the dinnertime service would be skewed if the present job wasn’t done by half-past ten and she would rather plunge the paring knife into her heart than fail at the task. Alice, plucked last year from domestic obscurity and placed here, in the working hub of Eve’s Puddings & Pies at Mitchell’s old flour mill, would do anything for Eve Williams, and would rather die than let her down. True, in coming to work for her she had simply swapped one kind of drudgery for another, but here, in this professional kitchen, Alice felt more valued than she ever had at home, where her taciturn husband Jonas was king and her own place in the family hierarchy was some way beneath the children, the dog and the racing pigeons that Jonas kept in the back yard. More than that though, Alice somehow felt that Eve had made her part of a great venture, a new chapter in Netherwood’s history. This wonderful idea – too grandiose and self-regarding ever to be shared with anyone else – was what sustained her as she peeled her way through the potato mountain.
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