For a tantalising moment, the earl considered this, then: ‘Doubt it,’ he said. ‘I wanted to make over the mill to Mrs Williams – wedding present, y’know. There’ll be papers to sign.’
This was said so casually that Absalom was certain he’d misheard.
‘Make over …’
‘The mill. That’s it. Struck me some time back that she should have the business, lock, stock and whatnot.’
He was beaming at the bailiff, whose own face was losing the struggle, his smile reduced to a tight, thin line, white-rimmed and unnatural. Left to his own devices, he would have screamed and raged and hurled foul expletives into the October sky. By what dark art had Eve Williams wormed herself so effectively into the earl’s affections? That she was to marry in the family’s chapel had been a blow of near-unendurable impact, so sure had Absalom been that the brutish gardener was wildly, risibly, contemptibly mistaken. The earl had confirmed the arrangement with a casual apology for his forgetfulness – ‘I should have mentioned it earlier, Absalom, but hey ho’ – as if all he was discussing was an overlooked detail, barely worth the mention. But now here he was proposing an act of such wildly flamboyant generosity that it was surely Absalom’s duty to prevent him.
‘But, your lordship,’ he said, feigning calm professionalism. ‘The business at the mill turns a tidy profit for the estate.’
‘Neither here nor there,’ said Lord Netherwood pleasantly. ‘In fact, all the more reason to let her have it. Reward her industry.’
Absalom cleared his throat, wiped his brow, swallowed hard.
‘I do feel, your lordship, that as your bailiff I should urge you not to act rashly in this regard. The present arrangement benefits all concerned.’
The earl laughed.
‘Why Absalom! Are you defying me?’
It did appear so, and indeed the bailiff found himself unable to refute the charge; his mouth worked to no audible effect and he tugged at his collar as if it choked him. Lord Netherwood, alarmed at his evident discomfort, said, ‘Are you quite well, old chap? You look a little below par.’
‘I do feel somewhat unwell, your lordship,’ Absalom said, thinking it was a wonder, in fact, that he hadn’t vomited on the earl’s brogues.
‘Well, look here, I have plenty to do and I don’t doubt you do too. A sentimental old fool I might be, but oblige me and send that telegram to Jackson, what? Let me know when he’s coming.’
‘I just wonder if Mrs Williams is worth the gift,’ the bailiff said, reckless in his desperation.
‘I beg your pardon?’
The earl sounded displeased now, and little wonder. Absalom flailed around inside his conniving head, desperately seeking some small fact to support his statement, knowing all the while that there was none. It was imperative, however, that this scheme be dashed to pieces before it gained momentum.
‘I mean to say, that is, perhaps …’
The earl watched him struggle to frame a sentence, irritated beyond measure that his bailiff, previously unfailingly helpful and efficient in all matters, appeared to be attempting to thwart his wishes.
‘… Perhaps the gift might look inappropriately generous to the wider world.’
‘Ah, the wider world,’ said the earl, in a deceptively measured voice.
‘Yes, your lordship,’ Absalom said, encouraged. ‘One must exercise caution in regard to the giving of gifts to lower orders. People may jump to unfortunate conclusions about, shall we say, your relationship with the recipient.’
Oh, how unwise was Absalom Blandford in his counsel. How rash and ill-advised were his words. He realised, too late, that in trying to gently show Lord Netherwood the error of his ways, he had merely succeeded in provoking in him a wave of profound indignation; it manifested itself in a dark red flush, which now rose rapidly upwards from the earl’s tweed collar.
‘You have over-reached yourself, Mr Blandford,’ he said coldly and loud enough for an eavesdropper to catch every word. ‘I will not be swayed from my resolve by the frankly dubious threat of tittle-tattle among the locals. You surprise me. Surprise me, and disappoint me. Please do as you are bid, and do it at once. Thank you.’
He turned, and in doing so saw Jem Arkwright, who was halfway across the courtyard, ruddy faced and dressed like a farmer, his terrier bouncing maniacally at his heels.
‘Ah, Jem,’ said the earl, relief evident in his voice. ‘A word, if you will.’
He strode away from his bailiff, who stood immobile for a few moments, rooted to the cobbles by the weight of his shame and resentment, before stirring himself into motion and dipping, head bowed, into the sanctuary of his office. To his alarm, his body shook convulsively and his skin felt hot and damp, like a man in the grip of an ague. He sat down at his desk to steady himself and to think. The earl, whose reliance on Absalom’s talents these past years had been the greatest joy of the bailiff’s life, had turned on him like a viper, rewarding his loyalty and professionalism with a humiliating rebuke, an ignominious dressing-down. For all Absalom knew, the stable lads may have heard every word: they would delight in his disgrace, embellishing the incident in the retelling with vulgar additions and hoots of cretinous laughter. Oh God, Jem Arkwright may have caught the gist of it, too. The bailiff, pale and sweating, reached into his desk for a linen pouch stuffed with dried lavender flowers and pressed it hard against his nose and mouth, taking deep, fortifying inhalations of its calming scent. Slowly, his breathing steadied and his humiliation began to harden into a bitter determination not to be vanquished. He would apply his superior mind to this conundrum because Eve Williams must not triumph. The battle this morning may have been lost, but the war could yet be won. Hell had no fury like Absalom Blandford scorned.
Chapter 31
The wedding was to take place at ten o’clock in the morning, which meant that Daniel, waking early, had three clear hours to spend in his garden before sprucing up. He needed to occupy himself, needed to lose himself in physical labour, so that thoughts of Eve’s body naked beneath him before the day was out didn’t drive him stark raving mad at the eleventh hour and prevent the ceremony taking place. The enforced abstinence that Eve had infuriatingly placed upon them had certainly invested this day with profound significance, though for him it was carnal, not holy. He lay in Hislop’s single bed – it was still Hislop’s, to Daniel: never felt like his own – and indulged for a while in distracting fantasies, then with an effort of will he threw back the blankets and the cold dispelled his ardour in short order. Ducking to avoid cracking his head on the beams, he pulled on last night’s discarded clothes and went downstairs. His escape from this miniature dwelling was coming not a moment too soon; any longer and he’d have had a permanent stoop. Also, it was an ill-lit place with too few windows, and those badly positioned. Daniel had never met his predecessor, but in his mind Hislop was more mole than man. He pictured him snuffling around this burrow in the half-light, scowling, when he ventured into the garden, at the brightness of the outside world. Daniel flung open the door now in spite of the chill, to let the grey dawn light into the kitchen while he made tea and buttered a slice of yesterday’s bread. He would skip breakfast up at the hall – the talk would be all spicy innuendo for a groom on his wedding day – and have a wee bit of time to himself on the banks of the Grand Canal. He smiled and let his mind drift to this work in progress. The project was storming ahead, the long, wide basin of the canal already almost dug. A complicated system of hydraulics was planned for the thousands of gallons of water that would be needed to fill it, but the area Daniel had chosen lay relatively low, and water from natural drainage as well as from the principal fountains in other parts of the grounds would feed into the new feature; great iron pumps, housed in their own brick buildings and hidden from view by the estate reservoir, were poised, ready to be called to duty. Lady Netherwood wanted a new fountain, this time a stone Neptune rising with sea nymphs from the centre of the canal but this, Daniel argued, would defeat the object and despoil th
e beautiful, glassy stillness of the water. This was their latest tussle: there was always at least one. The countess’s tastes inclined towards rococo flourishes, while Daniel was for discipline and clean lines; they had been horticulturally incompatible for twenty happy years.
A rap on the low, mullioned kitchen window made Daniel jump, and he peered down to see the brown-toothed, sloppy grin of Stevie Marsh pressed up against it. Thirty-four gardeners beneath Daniel, and Stevie was bottom of the heap; if there’d been sixty-eight it would have made no difference.
‘Mornin’ Mr MacLeod. Tha ready for thi nuptials?’ he said slowly and gormlessly; he couldn’t help this, but it irritated people and this morning it irritated Daniel.
‘Away and mind your own business,’ he said, and was instantly regretful.
Stevie stared through the glass. The open doorway was two feet to his right, but he hadn’t the sense to find it.
‘Tha what?’
‘Och, it doesn’t matter, Stevie. What is it you want?’
‘Nowt really.’ He looked up at the sky then back again. ‘Looks like rain,’ he said.
‘Away you go then, and light that bonfire while it’s still dry.’
Stevie smiled a smile of fond recollection, remembering his mountain of leaves, the product of yesterday’s labour. This was all he was really fit for – raking and sweeping – but he performed the task with unmatched thoroughness. No leaf was safe if Stevie was charged with the task of clearing them.
‘Right you are,’ he said happily, then: ‘Mr Macleod?’
‘Aye, what is it now?’
‘Do you ’ave folk comin’ to t’wedding?’
‘Folk?’
‘Aye. Fam’ly, like?’
‘No, no. Just me. There’s no one left in Montrose who’d trouble themselves to make the journey, I’m afraid.’
‘Poor do.’
‘Aye, I suppose it is.’ He honestly hadn’t considered a guest list. He was a man with tunnel vision where this wedding was concerned.
‘I might look in at t’chapel when you wed. Through t’window, like, not inside.’
‘Be my guest,’ Daniel said. ‘Come in if you like, take a pew.’
Stevie shook his head emphatically.
‘No. Tha dun’t want an oaf like me in theer.’
Daniel opened his mouth to contradict him, then thought better of it. Oaf, sadly, was about right. It would be altogether odd to have simple Stevie representing the groom’s family.
‘Right you are then, Stevie.’
‘Ta-ta then, Mr MacLeod. I’ll be off now.’
‘On your way, then.’
Stevie loped away like a cheerful ape and Daniel let him make some headway before following him out of the door. He took a great lungful of crisp autumn air – the best kind, and nobody could persuade him otherwise – and smiled at nothing and everything. Stale bread for breakfast and no one for him at his wedding but the village idiot, but life was sweeter now than it had ever been, and was about to get sweeter still.
Eliza’s dress was the most precious thing she had ever owned: no, ever seen. The most precious thing in the world, but it was hers. It was made from shot silk and was the same shade of deep pink as raspberry ice cream. It was snug in the bodice, full in the skirt, and there were layers of cream tulle beneath that made her feel like a ballerina, especially when she wore the cream satin slippers and pranced about her bedroom to the music, and before the audience, in her head.
‘Oh, it’s you. Thought there were an elephant in ’ere,’ Seth said, sticking his head round the door. ‘What you doin’, anyroad?’
Eliza carried on dancing. ‘Dancing,’ she said. Seth could say what he liked this morning. Her happiness was inviolable.
‘Should you be wearin’ that yet?’ he said.
Probably not, thought Eliza. It was only six o’clock and she hadn’t washed her face or had breakfast. But obviously – really, truly obviously and who would say otherwise? – she needed to wear the dress for as long as she possibly could today. It was still unfastened at the back – there were twelve fiddly little silk-covered buttons that needed an extra pair of hands to manage – so it bagged out at the front, but still she felt utterly lovely in it. She ignored her brother’s question and spun so that the skirt swelled around her like a full-blown rose.
‘Show-off,’ Seth said.
Eliza’s spinning slowed and stopped. She smiled at him.
‘You can’t be a show-off if you’re on your own,’ she said, reasonably. ‘An’ I was on my own till you poked your nose in.’
‘Tha’ll be for it when Mam catches you,’ Seth said, but he left her to it. He thought she looked grand, actually, but he had never complimented Eliza in her life, and he wasn’t about to start now.
By nine o’clock they were all ready, apart from Eve, who was still upstairs with Anna. The children were in the parlour, which was filled with the sweet scent of lily of the valley because a trailing bouquet had been delivered for Eve from Daniel earlier that morning, along with a note that she wouldn’t let them read, because, she said, it was private. They had been instructed to wait quietly and on no account go outside to play; this last instruction was for Ellen and Maya, though. No mud pies, was the message.
Seth wore a proper morning suit, nipped and tucked to fit his skinny limbs. Eliza was now legitimately buttoned into her raspberry dress and though she’d stopped dancing, she still held herself regally and moved with a consciousness of an invisible audience. She stood straight-backed by the long sash window in the parlour like a ballerina awaiting her cue. Ellen and Maya were in cream cotton sateen with pink collars and sashes. They were uncharacteristically motionless, waiting side by side on the couch in the parlour; they understood that something special was going to happen and they had to stay clean, but that was all they knew. At least they had something to look at, because in front of them Seth paced the floor and bit his nails, overcome with anxiety at the role he was to play at the wedding. The glory of the offer had mutated into folly. He wished he could just sit in the chapel and watch, like everyone else. He wished he’d kept his trap shut when Uncle Silas first spoke up. And that was another thing – Seth had thought his uncle would have been here this morning, but he’d said not on your life, he’d see them at the chapel and he hoped Seth knew what he’d taken on, getting five women to the church on time, and rather Seth than him. His mam had laughed at the joke, but Seth hadn’t. He felt he’d made a dreadful mistake and underestimated the burden of responsibility; its weight was making him feel very small.
Anna ran down the stairs and into the parlour and when she saw Seth she said: ‘Cheer up, it might never happen.’ She looked pretty, he thought. She’d almost run out of time to make herself something new to wear, but now here she was in a shimmery green frock, which changed colour in the light, like a mermaid’s tail. It was longer at the back than at the front so you could see the pale green shoes she wore and a hint of her narrow ankles. She wore a wide hat, too, which she’d decorated with leaves but it didn’t look daft, it looked champion. Seth recalled a school pageant where the top class had dressed up as the seasons and Miss Mason was Spring. That’s what Anna looked like. Spring, personified.
‘Where’s Mam?’ he said. ‘It’s time we went.’
She smiled at him.
‘Well, we can’t go until cars come. We’re not walking there.’
He sighed in a weary, careworn way and sat down heavily next to Ellen and Maya so that they bundled into him helplessly, which was apparently hilarious. He scowled at them.
‘All will be well, Seth,’ Anna said. ‘Really. You know what to do at chapel. We can practise again if you like?’
She had been so pleased with him for asking to give Eve away at the wedding that she’d completely finished painting the tree on his bedroom wall and had added an iguana to one of the low-lying branches. This had been the one good thing to come out of his big-mouthed moment in the kitchen a few days back.
‘No
,’ he said.
‘I go in and you wait for five minutes with your mam and girls. Then you give—’
‘—a signal to t’minister an’ just after t’music starts we walk in. I know.’
‘Well then.’
‘Well, I know what’s meant to ’appen. But it’s just, what if I trip an’ fall flat on my face? All them folk thinkin’ what a blitherin’ idiot I am.’
‘You won’t trip. When do you ever trip?’
‘Be just my luck to do it today.’
‘If you race down aisle as if chasing tram, you might trip. But you’ll walk down aisle at snail’s pace. Have you ever seen snail fall over?’
From her imaginary stage by the window Eliza laughed at Anna, then gasped and said: ‘Oh Mam,’ and everyone looked at Eve, who was somehow standing in the room, though no one had heard her on the stairs. She was ready.
‘Well?’ she said to the assembly.
Eliza, who was seeing Eve’s finished wedding dress for the first time, graciously and instantly conceded the spotlight.
‘Mam, you look absolutely more beautiful than anybody in the world,’ she said.
Anna, creator of this vision, smiled with satisfaction at the finished effect. The dress was entirely from her imagination and in it Eve looked ethereal, celestial, quite shockingly exquisite. Her hair was loose – no bun, Anna had said, not even a loose chignon – but it was held back from her face by a slender silver band onto which Anna had secured a row of perfect, waxy jasmine blooms. She wore no jewellery, no rouge, no lip colour, but the dress and the simple adornment to her hair were together so lovely that on the couch the two little girls began to clap and cheer heartily, so Anna and Eliza joined in. Seth, who suddenly felt he’d never really looked at his mam properly before, found he had nothing useful to say and simply stared.
Ravenscliffe Page 23