Ravenscliffe

by Jane Sanderson

  ‘Oh come off it,’ said Tobias. ‘Aren’t you all?’

  ‘Speaking only for myself, no.’

  ‘Odd girl. Well, there’ll always be a place for you here when Thea and I are earl and countess. You can be Mad Aunt Henry in the West Wing.’

  Henrietta nodded graciously. ‘Thank you,’ she said. She held up her glass and Tobias clinked his own against it to seal the deal.

  ‘Mama will be raging, of course,’ she said. ‘She can’t stick Americans, especially attractive ones who’re out to snare her sons. Not that Thea has the least notion of snaring anyone.’

  ‘Mama must overcome her prejudice. In any case, she’ll be entirely diverted by the presence of the king,’ said Tobias, then, changing tack: ‘Lovely Mimi Anderson and Dickie. What an unlikely match.’

  Henrietta snorted with laughter. ‘Toby, mind what you say against your brother. He’s the image of you.’

  ‘Minus my charisma and irresistible charm,’ said Tobias.

  ‘Minus your staggering self-regard, you mean.’

  ‘That too,’ he said, and grinned. ‘Right. Last one in the pond’s a rotten egg.’

  And he was up and off, leaving Henrietta to trail in his wake and wonder at her brother’s simple and limitless appetite for frivolity.

  Chapter 7

  You’d think a man might take off his jacket and loosen his tie when the thermometer on the wall outside the estate office showed seventy-two degrees. Jem Arkwright, the earl’s land agent, had his sleeves rolled up past the elbows and no collar on his shirt, and he made no apology for it. But there was Absalom Blandford, sitting behind his desk, buttoned up tight to the Adam’s apple and still wearing the immaculate black worsted jacket he favoured for work. Jem stuck his head round Absalom’s door and the bailiff looked up as if affronted by the intrusion. His eyes were the interesting burnished brown of new conkers and on anyone else they might have been a winning feature; but now they alighted on Jem with their customary cold indifference. Miserable little sod, thought Jem, but he said: ‘Morning, bailiff. Those leases on t’Harley End fields expire next month, isn’t that so?’

  ‘Michaelmas Day,’ said Absalom immediately, without recourse to any paperwork.

  ‘Aye, as I thought,’ said Jem. He could have looked this up quite easily but why bother when the human compendium of estate facts occupied the neighbouring office?

  ‘If t’master asks after me, that’s where I shall be, then.’ He waited for a second, wondering if he might elicit a response, but Absalom was back at his ledger, scratching figures in columns, his lips moving as he wrote, but without making a sound. Jem left him to it and whistled for his terrier, which came barrelling out of the stables with joyful alacrity.

  ‘You been eating ’orse muck again?’ said Jem cheerfully, and the little dog responded in the affirmative with a short series of excited yaps. It came to summat, thought Jem, when a man’s dog was a better conversationalist than his colleague.

  He sauntered out of the courtyard and Absalom listened with satisfaction to the sound of Jem’s boots receding on the cobbles. It pleased him to know he was alone now in the estate offices. If he had appeared affronted by Jem’s appearance at the door, it was because he most certainly was. The land agent, with his bluff manners, disconcerting directness and incurable habit of never knocking, was an irritation at the best of times, but today – dishevelled, informal, coated in perspiration – he was beyond the pale. Absalom sniffed the air cautiously for traces of body odour and his worst fears were confirmed. He trailed his fingers through a bowl of pot pourri that he kept on the desk for just these emergencies, and brought them up to his nose. Bergamot and citrus filled his nostrils. He breathed deeply, in and out, and he savoured the aroma and the silence: his equilibrium, so grievously disturbed by Jem’s visit, began to settle back into place.

  An hour passed. Two hours. Accounts were cross-referenced, inventories amended, figures adjusted. Once, years ago, the earl had suggested that his bailiff have an assistant to share the administrative load, but this idea was repellent to Absalom. His office was his sanctuary: he would as soon share his bathtub.

  Presently a new footfall became audible outside. There were no appointments in his diary and few people – other than Jem, or perhaps the earl – dropped in on Absalom unannounced, so he sat poised, his pen aloft, his head cocked, waiting for the footsteps to move on but they did not. Instead they stopped by his door, and there came three sharp raps. Oh well, he thought: at least this individual knew how to seek admission in the proper manner.

  ‘Come,’ said Absalom with chilly authority.

  The door opened and a man entered, well dressed and debonair, a stranger, who carried himself with graceful authority. He smiled and approached the desk with his right hand extended, which rather forced the bailiff to take it and shake, an activity he preferred to avoid unless he was wearing gloves. When he spoke, the stranger’s voice was pleasant without being obsequious, and there was no trace of a Yorkshire accent. This immediately elevated him beyond the ordinary: the bailiff’s own origins were in Hertfordshire and every dropped aitch and flat vowel he was forced to listen to in the course of a day reminded him of his own superiority in this county. Absalom listened attentively as the man, urbanely and without unnecessary preamble, introduced himself and explained his business: he would be a few months in Netherwood and needed a permanent base.

  ‘There’s a house set apart from the town,’ he said. ‘A little neglected, perhaps, but its size and location are very much to my taste.’

  Absalom nodded. ‘Indeed. I believe you mean Ravenscliffe. A fine dwelling, currently empty. Would you like to view the property?’ He spoke with calm professionalism, which disguised a rising swell of grim satisfaction. Here was an opportunity indeed. He had two days ago declined an approach from Mrs Williams for the said property and this fact had since weighed heavily on his mind. Not because of any sense of unfairness on his part, not remotely: Mrs Williams had forever forfeited her right to fair play at his hands. But it ran counter to all his bailiff’s instincts to keep a house empty when it could be filled, and it was not beyond the realms of possibility that Mrs Williams might take her application to the earl, with whom she was on distressingly friendly terms. Absalom had imagined a hideous scenario in which he must attempt to defend his position to Lord Netherwood while Mrs Williams looked on, triumphant. He had given her the power to humiliate him when he offered – and she rejected – his suit: he had feared, when he lied and told her Ravenscliffe was taken, that he had made himself vulnerable again. Now, however, it seemed she was to be denied the pleasure of belittling him professionally as well as personally. A lease could be arranged with this impressive gentleman, Mrs Williams would be thwarted and Absalom’s integrity could not be called into question.

  ‘Actually, I don’t think so. I’ve seen all I need to and I’m happy to proceed,’ said the man now. ‘I can make a down payment on the rent immediately, if you wish, and supply references as to my character and liquidity.’

  ‘Well, payment in hand would be desirable but as to references, no, no, I think that won’t be necessary,’ said Absalom, barely able to credit his good fortune and anxious to hasten the completion of this timely transaction. ‘How long do you wish the tenancy to run?’

  ‘Shall we say twelve months, renewable, from the end of September?’

  ‘Twelve months. Renewable.’ The bailiff opened a drawer and withdrew a pristine new tenancy agreement on which he wrote, in his impeccable hand, Ravenscliffe, Netherwood Common and alongside it the date. He signed it – Absalom Blandford, Bailiff, Netherwood Estate – then slid it across the desk and offered his tight, unsettling little smile which the stranger returned, but warmly.

  ‘You’d like my signature?’ he said.

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind. Just above my own.’

  The man signed. Silas Whittam, he wrote. Then he smiled again.

  ‘What a very great pleasure it has been, Mr Blandford.’<
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  ‘Indeed Mr, er’ – he looked at the signature – ‘Whittam.’

  ‘Does this conclude the paperwork?’

  Absalom nodded. ‘Indeed,’ he said again. He was still a little stunned at this fortuitous turn of events.

  ‘In that case,’ said Silas, ‘here’s a down payment against the rent.’ He produced a soft calfskin wallet and slid a slim fold of banknotes across the desk towards the bailiff. ‘Perhaps I might have a key, in return? I’d like to have a look inside; acquaint myself properly with the property.’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Absalom. He stood, and from a wall-mounted wooden box he took four keys. ‘Front and back doors, two sets,’ he said. ‘Always wise to have a spare.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Silas. ‘I shall inspect it directly. Just as soon as you’ve had it cleaned, that is.’ He laughed lightly, and Absalom, appalled, attempted to do the same. How to say, without giving offence, that it was customary for incoming tenants to clean their own property?

  ‘Ah, well, now let’s see,’ he said.

  Silas looked at him enquiringly and said: ‘Shall we say by the end of the week?’

  The bailiff, helpless, caved in. ‘End of the week. Absolutely. Even if I have to do it myself,’ he said, in a rare attempt at humour.

  Silas acknowledged the jest with a generous laugh, bid the bailiff farewell and beat a retreat. He crossed the courtyard just as Jem returned from Harley End and the two men nodded a greeting as they passed each other then, as Silas disappeared from view, Jem opened Absalom’s office door – infuriating fellow – and said: ‘I see you’ve met Silas Whittam, then?’

  The bailiff, piqued that Jem seemed to know the man, agreed grudgingly that yes, he had indeed met Mr Whittam – had in fact just agreed the tenancy of Ravenscliffe, the vacant property on –

  ‘– Netherwood Common,’ said Jem, interrupting. ‘Interesting. Next thing you’ll find is that number five Beaumont Lane is being vacated.’

  ‘The Williams’s property? I hardly think so,’ said Absalom.

  ‘Oh aye,’ said Jem maddeningly. ‘Sure as eggs’s eggs.’

  A black dot of dread swam across Absalom’s vision. ‘Because?’ he said, in a voice that betrayed his discomfiture.

  ‘Because,’ said Jem, ‘you just let Ravenscliffe to ’er brother.’

  ‘So it’s ours?’

  ‘Well it’s mine, strictly speaking. But I shall graciously let you live there.’

  Anna was sitting with Eve and Silas at a table in the courtyard of the mill. She was perched on the edge of her chair as if poised to spring; her hands were clasped together, her face and eyes alive with pleasure. She may have bounced a little, in her effort to contain her excitement. Eve laughed.

  ‘You look like Eliza on Christmas morning,’ she said.

  ‘I feel it!’ said Anna. ‘Ravenscliffe is gift for us all. Just you wait to see.’

  ‘And see,’ said Eve automatically. ‘Wait and see.’

  ‘Slimy little toad, that bailiff,’ said Silas. He looked very at home, his legs stretched out and crossed before him, his hands clasped behind his head. Around them was the hum and bustle of the lunchtime service. People travelled some distance to eat here these days; Eve’s café, from its humble beginnings in Beaumont Lane, had by degrees raised the tone of the town, bringing to Netherwood a steady supply of affluent outsiders. This café, in the charming surroundings of the old mill, was where they came when the possibilities of Victoria Street and the market place had been exhausted. There was a continental feel to the courtyard: the round iron tables and lattice-backed chairs had been painted pale green, and there were cream canvas parasols casting a modicum of shade over the customers. Silas, in his linen suit and fine shoes, seemed to complete the picture; he looked like an advertisement for the French Riviera.

  ‘Cheek o’ t’man,’ said Eve. ‘Sat there as cool as a cucumber and told me it wasn’t available.’

  ‘Couldn’t let it to me fast enough,’ said Silas.

  ‘I wonder if he knows he’s had wool pulled over eyes?’

  Silas roared with laughter.

  ‘What is funny?’ she said.

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ he said, though he looked quite the reverse. He adopted her heavy Russian accent: ‘Vool pulled over eyes. You don’t sound much like a local.’

  She shrugged. ‘I like to stand out,’ she said.

  She did, too. Anna, haughty, diminutive, bright as a button, had come to Netherwood as a charity case, moving in to Eve’s house in Beaumont Lane when she and her baby daughter had nowhere else to turn. And yet, as Netherwood folk often put it, to look at her you’d think she was somebody. It wasn’t that she was unfriendly, not at all. Anna would pass the time of day with anyone – liked to, in fact, since she saw any conversation as an opportunity to brush up her command of colloquial English. But she had an air about her, an assuredness, and she’d had it since the day she arrived. There was no patronising Anna: she wouldn’t suffer condescension.

  It wasn’t just self-confidence, though, that set Anna Rabinovich apart from the crowd: it was the way she looked, the way she dressed. She set no store by convention – quite the opposite, in fact. Today she had on a sky-blue, slim-cut cotton skirt, which barely skimmed her ankles, and a white poplin sleeveless blouse, which managed to be daring and prim in equal measure. She made everything herself at the Singer – for Eve and the children too – and she could look at the weather at eight in the morning and be wearing the perfect, seasonal outfit by ten. Today’s garment was an earlier model, adapted for the Indian summer: the leg o’ mutton sleeves now lay folded in her bag of scraps, waiting for their certain reincarnation. She’d offered to do the same for Eve, but her friend had demurred: skirts cut on the bias and scoop-necked blouses were quite avant-garde enough without unpicking and removing sleeves as well. She looked at Anna now, her bare arms turning pink in the sunshine, and she smiled.

  ‘You should watch yourself,’ she said. ‘You’re pink as a boiled shrimp.’

  Anna shrugged. She didn’t mind the heat of the sun on her skin: soon enough, she’d be wrapped up against the autumn cold.

  Silas delved into a pocket in his jacket, which he had slung over the back of the chair. ‘Keys,’ he said, and he passed them across the table to Eve, though it was Anna who took them.

  ‘When can we move?’ she said.

  ‘Just as soon as Mr Blandford has finished cleaning it.’ Silas’s face was a study in solemnity, but at his words Anna and Eve erupted into noisy hilarity, so that the ladies at a neighbouring table turned to stare and Ginger came out from the kitchen wondering what on earth she had missed.

  Chapter 8

  The secret – or one of them – to entertaining the king was to create an illusion: that the levels of comfort and luxury he encountered were entirely standard and, had he dropped in unannounced, there would have been no discernible difference in hospitality. This was Lady Netherwood’s belief, but two days before the monarch’s arrival it seemed less than certain that her aim could possibly be achieved. On the upper floors the detritus of recent renovation – the paint pots, brushes, ladders, wallpaper remnants and dustsheets – were still in the process of being removed, and the great house’s interior was redolent with the smell of freshly applied paint. Mrs Powell-Hughes was near demented with the demands being made upon her and her staff; the countess had taken to her room with a cold compress and had made it clear that by the time she emerged she expected perfect calm and order to have been restored; and now one of Mr Motson’s team of lads had carried his equipment out of the house from the upper floors with white paint on the sole of one of his clogs. The evidence of his crime – a regular series of ever-diminishing stains from a second-floor landing to the main staircase – was currently being attacked by an under-housemaid armed with a turpentine-soaked rag and this method, though effective, did nothing to improve the prevailing aroma.

  Mrs Powell-Hughes had the unpleasant and unusual sensation of being not quite
in control. Her reputation for running an immaculate house hung by a thread: if Edward VII arrived to paint fumes and dark patches of turpentine, then she might as well hang up her keys, pack her trunk and go and spend the rest of her days with her sister in Filey. She was rushing through the kitchens on her way to the stillroom when she ran full tilt into the butler. The shock of the impact threatened to overcome her as if here, finally, was the last straw she’d known was coming. She stared at Parkinson white-faced and wild-eyed and he was profoundly moved by her evident plight.

  ‘Now, now, Mrs Powell-Hughes, come and sit down for a moment,’ he said, responding to the extraordinary with the ordinary. Then, turning to the nearest kitchen maid, he mouthed ‘tea’ at her, before opening the door to his sitting room, his inner sanctum, and ushering in his unlikely charge. In itself, this act of kindness underlined the gravity of the situation. Mr Parkinson’s private quarters were so rarely breached by anyone other than himself; the trappings of his solitary leisure hours – a pipe, a tobacco tin, a Bible, a bundle of letters – lay about the place, and even the housekeeper, exalted among the staff, felt a little awed.

  He sat her down in a brown plush chair, pushing her gently by the shoulders, as she looked likely to resist. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘Lottie will bring us a cup of tea – no, Mrs Powell-Hughes, it’s ordered, it’s on its way, it’s useless to protest – and we shall take five minutes together to take stock.’

  ‘But I really don’t have the time, Mr Parkinson, though I appreciate your concern.’ Her voice was strained from barking orders at the girls under her command.

  ‘A cup of tea and a moment to order your thoughts will make all the difference,’ said the butler. He was a good man and he acted through genuine kindness. If Mary Adams had stood here ministering to her, or Florrie Flytton, the countess’s lady’s maid, they would have certainly, somehow, betrayed a consciousness of their own ordered existence and a smug satisfaction at the housekeeper’s distress. Both women were capable of kindness, but their kindnesses came with a subtext: you have deserved your present misery, yet I shall be magnanimous and comfort you. Mr Parkinson was different. His pale blue eyes were full of real concern, his face, oddly unlined for a man in his mid-fifties, a study in sympathy. He had always looked younger than his years: once, in the early days of service, he had thought he would be for ever a footman, hampered in his ambitions by his well-formed calves – as essential in a footman as his discretion – and an adorably cherubic face. Even now his looks didn’t quite suit his position: his wavy blond hair refused to thin or to turn grey, his face had no severity or pallor. He looked rosy and amiable: when he addressed his ranks he had their absolute respect but still it wasn’t hard to picture him in a cassock and ruff.