Ravenscliffe

by Jane Sanderson

  ‘Golly, did you really? May I see?’

  ‘The house?’

  Thea nodded. ‘May I? I’d love to view your handiwork.’

  Anna cut her a sidelong glance.

  ‘You think I’m odd, I suppose,’ Thea said. ‘And I suppose I am.’

  She laughed, apparently delighted by her oddness, then was suddenly all seriousness again.

  ‘Have you ever met a person with whom you feel an instant connection?’

  ‘Yes I have,’ Anna said at once. ‘Eve.’

  ‘Eve MacLeod, really? Right, because, you see, I met her down at the hall once or twice and while she seems very nice, I didn’t feel it at all. But then that’s the thing, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it?’ Anna was utterly perplexed.

  ‘Chemistry. Here it works, there it doesn’t, and not one of us can say who’s going to spark it off. Do you agree?’

  Anna had barely time to frame a response when Thea took off again.

  ‘So when I met you, I just knew you would be significant to me somehow. There you were, the very spirit of independence, and I recognised something of myself in you.’

  ‘The very spirit of independence,’ Anna said. She was rather enjoying this conversation.

  ‘Yes! So plucky and pretty, and capable. Who are you? I mean, you know – where are you from?’

  They were at Ravenscliffe now – it really was very close – and Anna led Thea through the garden gate.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, distracted by the house’s sturdy presence. ‘This is something, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is,’ Anna said. ‘What you said about connections, I felt it here too. It can happen with houses, just as it happens with people.’

  ‘It can, yes it can,’ said Thea. She nodded her head vigorously. ‘And I don’t have it at all with Netherwood Hall, which is a shame because I have to live there. Fulton House comes closer, but still … my favourite house in the entire world is a white clapboard beach house on Long Island. I spent every summer there until I was sixteen and I long to go back. So, you were saying?’

  ‘Was I?’

  ‘Yes, at least, you were about to. I want you to tell me about yourself. Where are you from – that accent, is it Polish?’

  ‘Russian,’ Anna said. ‘Kiev.’

  ‘Kiev! How wonderful. Was it wonderful?’

  ‘Not entirely,’ said Anna. She took out her key and turned the lock, pushing the door open. The walls of the entrance hall were golden, rich and mellow, the colour of hay in the August sun; they glowed with warmth. Anna’s spirits always lifted when she entered the house, and they did again now. Thea, distracted once more from her interrogation, said: ‘This colour – where did you find it?’

  ‘I mixed it, from two other colours.’

  ‘You did? How did you know to do that?’ She didn’t wait for an answer but walked down the hallway until she reached a closed door. ‘May I?’ she said, and Anna nodded. Thea turned the handle, opened the door, looked inside. Green, this time, but almost blue too, with a damask-style repeated pattern in silvery grey. Thea stepped inside and again her fingers traced the wall. I do hope they’re clean, Anna thought.

  ‘Did you do this as well?’ Thea said. She meant the silver-grey; it was clear, on close inspection, that it had been applied by hand to the painted wall. Anna nodded.

  ‘Easy enough, when you have printing block,’ she said. ‘There’s place in Barnsley sells bric-à-brac: junk, really. But I found crate full of old blocks there, bought them for one shilling, cleaned them up. Good as new. I used this one in here, because it had traditional feel, you see?’

  ‘I do see.’ Thea walked the perimeter of the room, examining the pattern, admiring its consistency. ‘And where did you learn to do this?’ She expected to hear about a college in Kiev, intense instruction from fiery Russian artists, so when Anna shrugged and said: ‘Here. At Ravenscliffe,’ she stopped walking and stared in open wonder. She still had on her beret and jacket; I should take them, thought Anna, and offer tea, but Thea said: ‘Will you show me the rest?’ so instead, she led her upstairs.

  They toured the bedrooms – which could have been tidier, though who would have foreseen the need? – and Thea was enchanted. In Seth’s room, gazing at the fantastical menagerie revealed among the leaves and branches of the oak tree, she hatched a plan; she wanted Anna to redecorate her private quarters at Netherwood Hall. Anna must set a price per hour, and add to that the cost of whatever materials she needed. She wanted to take her up there at once to see the rooms, but Anna demurred; tomorrow would serve just as well, or the next day. Thea was all animation, full of excitement for the scheme; Anna was hesitant, cautious. It was one thing to daub one’s own walls with a quirky mix of colours and styles: quite another to do the same for someone else, particularly when that someone else happened to live in one of England’s greatest houses. But Thea would brook no objections. She had seen in Anna’s work a wonderful way to make her own mark in the great ancestral home of the Hoylands. And why limit the scheme? Perhaps the drawing room or the dining room might be their next project? It struck Thea, bidding Anna a breathless farewell in the marvellous mellow glow of the entrance hall, that there might be no better reply to the dowager countess’s hostility than to reinvent the principal rooms of the house in a style utterly her own. Well, utterly Anna’s, at any rate. This thought, however, she kept to herself. She had the strong impression that Anna would refuse to set foot over her threshold if she felt she was a pawn in a power struggle.

  ‘You’ll come tomorrow, though? Please do – and then, when we all head off to London, you can get started in an empty house.’

  This was all so hasty, Anna thought, so impetuous. And what did this young countess know about her? Nothing, except that she could copy an iguana on to a boy’s bedroom wall.

  ‘I know this might seem crazy,’ Thea said, as if Anna had spoken out loud. ‘But I always follow my instincts. Gosh, why do you think I’m in Netherwood in the first place? I should be back in New York State, almost at the end of my freshman year at Cornell.’ She laughed brightly and her expression invited Anna to join her in marvelling at life’s unexpected twists and turns. However, Anna looked grave.

  ‘There’s much to consider,’ she said. ‘Practical matters to think about, other people’s opinions to seek – so I can’t say yes, I can’t say no.’

  Thea’s giddiness dissipated under Anna’s sober influence and she clasped her by the hand. ‘But please do come,’ she said. ‘Give it some thought, by all means, but please do come in the end. Look, I’d better get back to Toby – I’ve been gone for so long that even he might be alarmed. But it’s been such a pleasure, Anna. And such a revelation.’

  Anna said: ‘It’s just paint, and imagination.’

  ‘It’s a gift,’ Thea said. ‘Don’t you forget it.’

  She stepped towards the door, and Anna hurriedly rushed forwards to open it. It occurred to her that perhaps a little more ceremony might have been in order, but nothing about this woman invited it.

  ‘I never offered you tea,’ she said, suddenly aghast.

  ‘Oh pish,’ Thea waved a hand. ‘I’m awash with the wretched stuff. It’s all anyone ever seems to drink down at the hall.’ She leaned forwards, confidingly, though there was no one to overhear. ‘Breakfast on my first ever morning, right? I’m at the long, long dining table munching toast and Parkinson leans in to me and says’ – she adopted the butler’s fruity baritone – ‘“Darjeeling, Earl Grey, Pekoe or Lapsang, Miss Stirling?” and I say, “Coffee, please” and honestly, Anna, from the look on his face you’d have thought I had uttered an unspeakable profanity.’

  Anna smiled at her, a fellow foreigner in a strange land; when they parted, she felt she had made a friend.

  The night was mild enough to sit outside, even now that the sun had long ago dipped from view, and Eve and Anna were side by side on the wide wooden seat of a swing, rocking almost imperceptibly back and forth and mulling over the ramificatio
ns of the countess’s visit. The swing was Daniel’s work – long ropes slung over a high, straight branch of an oak tree and a flat seat of cedar, sanded smooth – and it was a snug fit for the two women, though a perfect place for contemplation. It was quiet now that the fairground noises had finally ceased, though the rides were visible still, their hulking great shapes dark against the moonlit sky. Inside the house the lamps were burning and a soft glow from the windows pooled on the stone paths. Daniel was in the kitchen with a seed catalogue and a cigarette. Amos had been and gone, back to his lodgings and a pile of paperwork. The children were in their rooms, asleep at last after a rumbustious evening – fuelled by the day’s candyfloss and toffee apples – that had scuppered any chance of meaningful adult conversation. This was why she hadn’t mentioned it to Amos, Anna said; this was why he’d gone home still not knowing that she’d been offered work by the countess at Netherwood Hall. Eve gave her a look.

  ‘Right. Nothing to do with ’ow ’e might react, then?’

  Anna was silent. Eve took her hand.

  ‘I don’t think ’e would stand in your way, really I don’t.’

  Anna said: ‘Well, as for that, I wouldn’t let him. But he has strong feelings about these matters. He might feel betrayed. I don’t want to hurt him, Eve.’

  ‘No, of course not. But it’s not betrayal; it’s business. This is a wonderful opportunity for you, Anna. You must seize it, not shrink from it.’

  They looked at each other. There was something very familiar about this conversation and it struck them both simultaneously.

  ‘Boot’s on other foot now, isn’t it?’ Anna said. They smiled.

  ‘It is,’ Eve said. ‘And if you hadn’t badgered me into seeing t’earl, I would never have gone to London or met Daniel or moved to Ravenscliffe. So many good things came to me because I listened to you.’

  ‘And Amos was furious.’

  This was true. Amos had stormed in a rage from the little kitchen at Beaumont Lane, livid with Eve for taking Teddy Hoyland’s money: for being bought so easily by the enemy’s filthy lucre.

  ‘Well, aye,’ said Eve, for there was no denying it. ‘But whatever Amos thought about it then, time’s passed and proved ’im wrong. I’m quite sure Amos lives and learns like t’rest of us.’

  A pause and then Anna said: ‘She’s very nice, you know.’

  ‘I’m sure she is. So was Lord Netherwood. I’m not sure Amos ever fully believed it, but he was a good man, in spite of all that wealth.’

  Anna nodded. She thought about Thea’s words – ‘the very spirit of independence’ – and she thought, too, about those fine, high-ceilinged rooms, flooded with natural light. This was a true opportunity: daunting, thrilling, full of promise.

  ‘I shall go,’ she said.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘And I’ll catch Amos first thing, before I see her.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I shouldn’t like to go without at least telling him.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And then, at least he’s been involved in my decision.’

  ‘That’s it. Even if ’e’s not best suited, you’ve talked it through.’

  ‘Yes. And he might think it a good idea, as I do.’

  ‘He might, yes.’

  They sat on for a while in silence, each of them thinking how very unlikely this was, but soothed by the gentle motion of the swing and the creak of the rope against the branch, until a chill finally began to steal up on them and they walked together back into the house for the inestimable comforts of the warm kitchen range and a pot of tea.

  Chapter 45

  Henrietta’s mornings now followed much the same pattern as her father’s had done. She rose early, breakfasted alone with a pristine copy of the Telegraph, then retired to the study to deal with the day’s business. The fact that this role had fallen to her and not to Tobias was questioned by no one, least of all him. It might have looked odd – indeed it did look odd – to the outside world that the heir to the Netherwood lands and title had no more to do with the running of the estate than thirteen-year-old Isabella; but to the family, the new status quo was perfectly natural. Even the dowager countess had stopped looking for suitors for her daughter, since marriage for Henrietta would necessitate her removal from Netherwood Hall and then where would they be? No, her place was now head of the family in all but name. Occasionally she needed Toby’s signature; more occasionally still she sought his advice. But by and large, the family’s interests were entirely in her hands and this fact conferred upon her a new status that called for authority and respect. All of them understood that between nine o’clock and eleven o’clock in the morning, Henry mustn’t be interrupted in the study unless the matter in question was so urgent as to be life-threatening. This rule didn’t apply to Thea, of course, but then it was rapidly becoming clear that no rule applied to Thea, however sacred or ancient or downright practical it might be.

  Henrietta had made the study her own in her six months of stewardship; she had added her own books to the shelves, altered the position of the desk so that it faced the fireplace, hung Sargent’s portrait of her father on the adjacent wall, looking sternly out across the room from his gilt-framed canvas. Now it was quite her favourite room in the entire house, but even before her father’s death, Henrietta had loved his study. It was small, relatively speaking, and with only one window it was a little dark, too. But these were the very characteristics that had drawn Henrietta here since childhood. Even in the summer the desk lamp had to be lit, and this gave the room a permanent festive cosiness. The book-lined walls were a barrier to sound and, with the door closed, the household’s comings and goings could be forgotten. Sometimes the young Henrietta would creep in here undetected and sit at her father’s desk, crafting an imaginary letter, holding in her inexpert hands a prized goose quill, though never quite daring to dip it into the inkwell. It was only for show; he wrote with a fountain pen and had done so for years. But the quills were displayed on a shelf by the desk: goose, owl, swan and turkey. They had belonged to Henrietta’s grandfather, and they were at once worthless and priceless. She still sometimes stroked the soft fronds against her mouth and nose, inhaling the past.

  No time now for such indulgences, however. The Mines Inspectorate had at last published its report into the explosions at Long Martley, and the detailed findings were on her desk, requiring her full attention. Head down, brow furrowed, she read of a catalogue of failings, laid ultimately at her father’s door. Witness statements, site inspections, the regrettable number of fatalities: they all stacked up with grim relentlessness to make the case against the colliery owner. There was clear evidence, it said, of a fire which, though it had started many years earlier, had never been entirely extinguished; neither had it been effectively sealed off, and therefore it had remained a hazard, as evidenced by events on the morning of 16 September 1904. Tribute was paid to the bravery of the rescuers, but their operations were hampered by poorly organised systems, inadequate manpower and a shortage of safety equipment. The management of the colliery – Harry Booth and his deputies – were exonerated of blame; they had done their best in difficult circumstances. However, the pit district where the explosion had occurred was unfit to be mined, being in dangerous proximity to the aforementioned fire. The inquiry had heard from four separate witnesses, including Mr Booth, that the Earl of Netherwood, to their certain knowledge, knew of the risk of explosion but had failed to act on the information.

  Henrietta stopped reading. She looked up from the dense type, rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hands. None of what she read was entirely surprising, except this last detail; she hadn’t thought her father would wilfully ignore a warning. Perhaps he hadn’t fully understood the risks. She turned to look at his handsome, solemn face, gazing above and beyond her, but it revealed nothing. He had been a fundamentally good man, she thought, within the limitations of his generation and class. At least, he had been better than many. And yet he had failed the men whose
lives depended on the safety of his collieries. Accidents, of course, would continue to happen; supports and props would continue to buckle under the weight of the earth; toxic gases would continue to ignite and explode; a pit could never be a safe place to earn a living. ‘But we have to be as sure as we can be,’ said Henrietta out loud to her father’s portrait, ‘that at the final reckoning we are not found wanting.’

  She often spoke to him, here in the study, though it was rarely with this tone of reproof. She glanced back down at the document open on the desk in front of her and continued to read. The Long Martley disaster had claimed eighty-eight lives, and yet the Netherwood Collieries Company, while roundly condemned by the inspector, was not in breach of its statutory responsibilities; therefore no legal action would be taken against the owner. However, the Home Office would appoint a departmental committee to review mine rescue operations: specifically, the obligation of mine owners to provide efficient – and sufficient – rescue equipment.

  She closed the report. Mr Garforth would be interested to see it; she would request a meeting with him, perhaps at Long Martley, where the rescue training centre was now fully operational. He had written to her, when her father died, a kind and generous letter of sympathy: My heart goes out to you, Lady Henrietta. You will miss your father terribly, but be assured his memory lives on, and his reputation as a good man will endure the passing of time.

  He was entirely sincere, for he was not a sycophantic man. But he had only known the late earl for a few months, in which short time her father had striven with the zeal of the converted to improve the safety of his pits. He had achieved more than most colliery owners manage in a lifetime, but still, thought Henrietta, it was too late for the eighty-eight men and boys whose names were listed here at the end of the document. She read them aloud in a sort of impromptu, private tribute and felt the burden of their passing like a lead weight in the pit of her stomach; their deaths could have been prevented if her father had heeded the concerns of his men. What had he been busy with instead, she wondered? What pressing concerns had distracted him: a hectic round of engagements in London, perhaps, or the impending visit to Netherwood Hall of the king?