Ravenscliffe

by Jane Sanderson

  She stood and walked out of the study. She needed fresh air, and the company of an uncomplicated, guiltless man. She took the servants’ staircase and rushed through the kitchens and out of the back door, and then she crossed the courtyard to the estate offices, from where Jem Arkwright was just emerging.

  ‘Mornin’ your ladyship,’ he said, tipping his tweed cap. ‘Is it me you’re after?’

  ‘Are you busy?’ she said.

  ‘Fences broken down by t’brook.’

  ‘May I come with you?’

  ‘Aye. Long walk, mind.’

  He whistled and his terrier streamed across the yard, followed more sedately by Min and Jess who were too old, or too dignified, to rush anywhere. Henrietta smiled.

  ‘Do you think they miss him, Jem?’ she said.

  ‘More’n likely. I know I do, anyroad.’

  ‘Me too. Every day.’

  They set off through the courtyard. Oddly, Anna Rabinovich appeared, nodded politely at them, then rang the bell for admittance at the back door. Then they crossed paths with Absalom Blandford, who feigned distraction with a bootlace to avoid conversation. But for the rest of the morning they didn’t encounter another living soul, which was exactly what Henrietta had hoped for. By the time they returned three hours later, her oppressed spirits had recovered almost entirely.

  The Wire Trellis Inn on May Day Green served an exceptional pint of Samuel Smith’s bitter and, since Enoch was buying, he had managed to persuade Amos to join him for half an hour away from the office. They could talk more freely here: neutral territory, said Enoch. At the Yorkshire Miners’ Association people listened at doors, he said. He’d yet to catch anyone in the act, but he could sense these things.

  ‘Too many conflicting views, y’see,’ he said. ‘We’re all engaged in t’same mighty struggle, but there are myriad ways and means to achieve t’same end.’

  ‘You’ve been reading again, then,’ Amos said, doggedly unimpressed. He was out of sorts, and not much company. He would have done better to take a solitary walk, but Enoch wouldn’t have it.

  ‘Writing, actually,’ he said. ‘Fabian Society article on nationalisation.’

  Amos looked at him over the rim of his tankard, though he said nothing.

  ‘Nationalisation of t’collieries, to be precise,’ Enoch said. ‘Premise being that coal belongs to t’nation, not to t’landowners.’

  Amos placed his glass carefully on the cardboard beer mat. There were dark rings where previous drinkers had set their pints and he lined his up on one of them with particular care, as if how and where he rested his beer was of utmost concern.

  ‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘Let me know when I can claim my share.’ Out of sorts with Anna meant out of sorts with Enoch and, for that matter, with the Fabian Society too. Enoch took it mildly.

  ‘Right you are,’ he said. ‘Will do.’

  ‘If you want to waste your time, that’s none o’ my concern. But I think there are other issues to tackle before we can give t’country’s coal deposits to t’government.’

  ‘Aye, but Fabians like to indulge in a bit o’ dreaming.’

  ‘First things first. Old-age pensions for them who can’t work. Widows’ pensions for them whose men are killed at work. Compulsory free schooling for every child up to t’age of fourteen. Decent health provision for everyone, whether or not they ’ave t’means to pay.’

  ‘Aye, but ’ow do you pay for all that? By nationalising t’pits, that’s ’ow. And while we’re at it, let’s nationalise t’railways an’ all.’

  ‘Now you’re talking soft.’

  Enoch smiled as if he knew something Amos didn’t. They sat on for a while in the comfortable fug of the inn: cigarette smoke, beer fumes, damp wool. Then Amos said: ‘What would you say if I told you Anna was pally wi’ t’countess?’

  Ah, thought Enoch, now we’re getting somewhere. ‘Well, and are you telling me that?’ he said.

  ‘Aye. All of a sudden they’re like this,’ he held up two fingers, plaited around each other.

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Beats me. First I ’eard was early doors today. She was on ’er way down to Netherwood ’all. Turns out t’countess’s been to Ravenscliffe, wants Anna to do some painting for ’er. She said she wanted to ask me what I thought – as if it’d make any difference to what she does.’

  ‘Painting?’

  ‘Aye. Decorating, like.’

  ‘So will Anna do it for nowt?’

  ‘No, she’ll get paid. But still …’

  ‘Well, if money’s changing ’ands, it’s a professional arrangement.’

  ‘Not good, though, is it, what with me being a Labour candidate. Could be embarrassing, I reckon.’

  Enoch pondered.

  ‘Will Anna do it?’

  ‘Aye, she’ll do it. She reckons she ’asn’t made ’er mind up, but she’ll do it.’

  ‘Well then, we shall do what politicians ’ave always done – we’ll turn it to our advantage.’

  ‘Right. Labour candidate’s intended ’ob-nobbing with aristocrats. Pardon my dim wits, but I’m not seeing a bright side.’

  Enoch tapped the side of his nose knowingly and said, ‘’ave faith, my friend.’

  Infuriating little bugger, thought Amos.

  ‘If your intended is an independent working woman with a mind of ’er own,’ Enoch said, ‘that reflects very well on you, I’d say.’

  Amos looked at him. Enoch was his political litmus paper: he detected acid, alkaline and neutral in any given situation. Now, having issued his verdict, he returned Amos’s look with mild eyes and an untroubled brow. Amos began to relax.

  ‘Same again?’ he said, nodding at Enoch’s empty glass.

  ‘That’s my boy,’ said Enoch.

  Chapter 46

  Mrs Powell-Hughes led Anna through the warren of servants’ hallways that skirted the kitchens and up the back staircase. The housekeeper had kept her waiting in the boot room while the countess was located; Anna had detected a stony scepticism in Mrs Powell-Hughes’s face and voice when she heard that, while Lady Netherwood wasn’t exactly expecting her, neither would she be surprised to see her.

  ‘We had sort of arrangement,’ Anna had said.

  ‘Sort of arrangement?’ repeated Mrs Powell-Hughes, unfamiliar with Anna’s particular brand of English.

  ‘Yes,’ Anna said, and left it at that. She saw no reason for lengthy explanations when she was certain that she would be vindicated. The housekeeper, impressed by the young woman’s dress and demeanour, if not by her unscheduled appearance, had bid her wait, and bustled off. She came back, still flint-featured, not five minutes later.

  ‘If you’d like to follow me, Miss …’ and there she faltered. Anna had introduced herself but Mrs Powell-Hughes had no memory for exotica.

  ‘Mrs Rabinovich,’ Anna said, slightly rolling the R for effect. She made conversation as they progressed through the servants’ quarters, remarking on the sparkling condition of the copperware and the evident industriousness of the kitchen maids.

  ‘Like beehive,’ she said. ‘Very busy. Do you enjoy your work here?’

  The housekeeper was nonplussed. She didn’t indulge in small talk with strangers as a rule, but no one had ever asked her that question before: indeed, she had never asked it of herself. Enjoyment was neither here nor there, though now, when required out of politeness to consider the issue, she realised the answer was a complex one: complex even before the late earl’s passing, more complex still under the new order. However, she had to say something, so: ‘Indeed,’ she said, in a clipped voice intended to establish distance and repel further conversational overtures.

  ‘I have always wondered,’ Anna said, entirely undiscouraged, ‘why all servants in great houses wear black. It is as if they’re in permanent mourning.’ Silence. They reached the staff stairs but had to stand back for two bashful housemaids, who cascaded down towards them bearing long-handled feather dusters.

  ‘Steady n
ow,’ said Mrs Powell-Hughes as they passed. ‘More haste, less speed.’

  Their words tumbled out in their anxiety – ‘Yes Mrs Powell-’ughes, sorry Mrs Powell-’ughes’ – and slowed to a self-consciously sedate pace.

  ‘Yet more black,’ Anna said.

  ‘White aprons, mind you,’ said Mrs Powell-Hughes, drawn into speaking. She felt unsettled and defensive as she set off up the stairs.

  ‘Mmm, but wouldn’t royal blue frocks be nice? Or mid-green.’

  The housekeeper sniffed. ‘And show every speck of muck. I don’t think so. Here we are.’

  She pushed open the heavy green baize door and held it for Anna to come through. Thea rushed at them from apparently nowhere, spilling forth a warm welcome.

  ‘Anna, you came, I am just thrilled, come, come, follow me, I’m so sorry you had to stand around, you should’ve come to the front door, next time do that, just walk on in and someone’ll come find me, my – I just adore that jacket, is it really oriental or a clever copy?’

  Unobserved, Mrs Powell-Hughes winced. The young countess was so untutored in restrained elegance.

  ‘Will that be all, your ladyship?’ she said. Her tone was measured, by way of an example.

  ‘What’s that? Oh! Sure, Mrs Powell-Hughes. Bye now.’

  Thea swept Anna away on the wave of her enthusiasm, whisking up the stairs, firing questions, which Anna answered with amused patience. Yes, she had made the jacket herself. Of course she could make one for the countess. No, she didn’t have a carriage; she had walked here. No, she much preferred to walk; too much of her life was spent indoors already. Anna was older than Thea by only three years, but she felt like an adult answering the insistent questions of a child. It was endearing though, this avid interest in detail. Better, by far, than chilly indifference or tedious self-absorption. She tried, as she spoke, to take in her surroundings: richly patterned Turkish hall carpet, occasional tables bearing glossy pot plants, oil paintings, a series of them, all of hunting dogs in various stages of the chase. The walls and woodwork looked pristine, newly decorated. This puzzled her. Thea chattered on – such a long walk, thought Anna, to her bedroom! – about this and that and then she stopped, abruptly. The dowager countess stood ahead of them.

  ‘Good morning, Clarissa,’ Thea said. Her voice had altered now, and a new, guarded tone was evident, even to Anna.

  ‘Dorothea,’ said the dowager countess, by way of greeting. She turned to Anna and smiled graciously. ‘Mrs Rabinovich, what an unusual pleasure.’

  Clearly, some explanation was in order. However, Thea looked at the floor, so Anna said: ‘We’re on way to see how I can improve countess’s rooms,’ and Lady Netherwood smiled.

  ‘In what sense?’ This was so plainly directed at Thea that she looked up.

  ‘In the sense that I would like to put my stamp on them,’ she said. ‘I feel I’m living in an hotel.’

  Clarissa laughed in a show of disbelief. ‘But my dear girl, they were redecorated not quite a year ago, for the king’s visit. The whole house was redecorated. Are you proposing to fritter our money on something so fundamentally unnecessary? You surprise me. I had thought, with your background, that thriftiness would come naturally to you.’

  An unpleasant silence descended. The countess and the dowager countess locked eyes and Anna stood, supremely awkward, by the side of them. She coughed, and Thea said: ‘How rude we are, airing our private spats in front of visitors.’ She took Anna’s arm, tucking it snugly against her own. ‘Come,’ she said, ‘I’m just down here, on the right,’ and she moved off, taking Anna with her. The dowager countess called after them.

  ‘Before you run away, Dorothea—’

  Thea stopped and turned her head, glaring at her mother-in-law.

  ‘Thea!’ she said. ‘I prefer to be called Thea.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Clarissa, mildly. ‘Have you spoken to Monsieur Reynard this morning?’

  Thea coloured. ‘No, I forgot,’ she said. ‘But anyway, I’ve no idea what to say to him. I don’t care what we eat.’ She sounded very young again.

  ‘I see. Then I shall have to see him at once. Goodness, Dorothea, how you overlook your responsibilities, and how fortunate for all of us that I don’t.’

  She smiled, nodded at Anna, then glided away down the corridor. Thea and Anna watched her go, then, when she turned and began to descend the stairs, Thea flopped back against the wall. Her eyes had filled with tears, though she wasn’t quite crying.

  ‘Hateful crone,’ she said. ‘Just hateful.’

  ‘Should I leave?’ Anna said.

  ‘Absolutely not. She wouldn’t expect you to, either – she’s just taking a pot shot at me. She never had a taste for blood sports until I married her darling boy. Now she goes for my jugular on every possible occasion.’

  ‘How very difficult that must be,’ said Anna. She thought of her own small battles with Silas; at least his visits were few and far between. To live permanently, like Thea did, with someone who thought so badly of you that she would humiliate you in front of another person – how could any amount of riches or material comforts make up for that? Anna felt a rush of sympathy for Thea.

  ‘Come,’ she said kindly, ‘show me your rooms.’

  Clarissa summoned Monsieur Reynard to the morning room where they discussed the menus. She found this more of a tussle than it had ever been with Mrs Adams. There was the language barrier for a start: he was dogged in his refusal to improve his spoken English, and often referred to cuts of meat or types of fish by their French names. Some of these had become familiar enough to Lady Netherwood that she didn’t bat an eyelid – saumon was nice and easy, and truite – but this morning he had proposed petite friture for the fish course at dinner and she found herself quite in the dark. He had made no effort at all to summon the English word, though Clarissa was certain he must know. She had ended up saving face by pretending it had just come to her – ‘Ah! Yes, of course, lovely’ – so that now she had no idea what she had approved. Quite ridiculous. It was as well Teddy wasn’t here to witness this rigmarole; long after Mrs Adams died he had continued to lament the absence of her good, plain cooking. Pies and mashed potato were Teddy’s idea of culinary heaven. Really, his palate had never developed beyond the nursery.

  Also, Monsieur Reynard was dreadfully easily distracted. His mind seemed to wander, mid-conversation. One might even suspect he was bored. He had a way of lolling in the chair that suggested he might nod off at any moment: a most unnerving habit, which quite sapped the confidence of the speaker. He lacked any natural respect for his superiors; indeed, Clarissa wondered whether he in fact regarded himself as her equal. He brooked no objections. What he said seemed to go. If she suggested other than he did, he simply shook his head and said ‘non’ – not rudely, but nevertheless emphatically. He made Clarissa feel somewhat surplus.

  But then, wasn’t she? She was alone now in the morning room, the chef having loped off with a – frankly – insolent smile and what might have been a wink, though she couldn’t be sure. She sat at the oval table with her dainty chin supported in one cupped hand, and allowed melancholy to steal over her again. She had, she knew, been beastly to her daughter-in-law and would – she knew – be beastly again. It came as naturally to her as breathing. No part of her was ready to relinquish her role in this family to anyone, least of all Thea Stirling, and every unkind word or dismissive gesture, every carefully enunciated ‘Dorothea’, was Clarissa’s way of continuing to assert her position. She was young still: only forty-four. She was not ready, not at all, to take a back seat. When her arrival had been announced at a small Chatsworth dinner last week as ‘the Dowager Countess of Netherwood’ she had all but looked behind her, to see if Teddy’s old mother had risen from the grave. Of course, by the time Teddy’s father had died, his mother had been quite batty and harmless as an infant, confined to her rooms with a nurse and a bedpan; and earlier countesses had politely died, making the path as clear as possible for their s
uccessors. There had never been a Dower House at Netherwood Hall, because there had never been the need, not that Clarissa would have submitted to living in it, even if one existed. But here she was, beautiful, vital, full of health – if one discounted her migraines, and if she was entirely honest they could be discounted – and yet she was expected to play second fiddle to the jumped-up, drawling daughter of a small-town American industrialist.

  Clarissa sighed now, because her thoughts had drifted to Teddy – or rather, to his absence. It was so maddening of him to get himself killed, and in such a silly, unlikely way, because look where it had left her – a reluctant member of the audience at the Thea Stirling show. Well, she thought, we are not amused. And could she bear to continue soldiering on here while Thea played at being a member of the aristocracy, stealing the limelight at every opportunity and charming everyone with her wild ideas and famously fun-loving personality? Clarissa shuddered. No, she thought. She really didn’t think she could.

  For a little while she sat on, deep in thought, and then all of a sudden she stood and crossed the room, with the purposeful aspect of a woman with a plan. She reached for the brass handle set into the marble surround of the fireplace and turned it vigorously, then waited for a footman to appear from the servants’ hall. She would take a cup of coffee, and then, duly fortified, she would take control of her life.

  Chapter 47

  At the top of Market Hill in Barnsley stood the elegant stone edifice that was Butterfield’s Drapery Market, the town’s highly esteemed emporium of fine cloth, haberdashery and other quality bits and bobs. There was also a café – ‘Dainty Meals’ promised the advertisement, ‘served in pleasant surroundings’ – and this was where Eve now sat, with Silas, sharing a silver pot of Assam tea and a tiered platter of tarts and triangular sandwiches with the crusts cut off. She wasn’t impressed.