Ravenscliffe

by Jane Sanderson

  ‘Indeed,’ he said.

  Still she watched him, waiting – perhaps – for an apology.

  ‘The deeds to the house,’ he said, speaking carefully, ‘are recompense for last year’s unfortunate misunderstanding. We understand you would prefer the business to remain a joint concern for the time being. However, we trust you will accept the house as a gesture from the family, in the late earl’s memory.’

  It wasn’t contrition, but it was as near as made no difference. But though Absalom clearly thought his ordeal was over, Eve had other ideas. As he made to move out of the office, she stepped smartly between him and the open door.

  ‘Not so fast,’ she said. Ginger and Nellie, out in the kitchen, made ready to snare him should he bolt.

  ‘Last October you told me Lord Netherwood never meant to give me t’business. You made me feel very small, Mr Blandford, and very, very foolish.’

  Almost imperceptibly, he nodded. There was no emotion in his lizard’s eyes, but his bearing betrayed discomfort, at which she silently rejoiced.

  ‘Are you telling me now that I was right and you were wrong?’

  He looked at her and something of his old contempt seemed to colour his features as if, having been forced to abase himself before her, he took heart from the fact that he could fall no further. Indeed, the journey back to full-blooded superiority had already begun.

  ‘The only thing I am telling you,’ he said, ‘is that Ravenscliffe is now yours. That, Mrs MacLeod, is the end of my business here. Good day.’

  He left then, sidestepping Nellie and Ginger, and beating a hasty retreat through the courtyard. Behind him, in place of a visiting card, he left an astonished silence.

  There was no journal, never had been. Teddy Hoyland had been the sort of man who was too busy living his life to spend any time writing about it. But Henrietta had realised, as she looked into her bailiff’s cold eyes, that some sort of evidence must be produced to shock him into a more confessional frame of mind: that, and a direct threat of the termination of his employment. Do not think, she had told him, that you are unassailable here. Do not think that the years of service you have given this estate give you, in return, the power to flout my wishes. Unless you right this wrong, this will be your last day as Netherwood bailiff.

  Absalom Blandford had thought, just for a moment, that perhaps dismissal would be preferable to the alternative. But a glimpse of a future stripped of his status was a terrifying thing, and was not to be borne. He was the Netherwood bailiff, and that was all he was; there were no other layers, no other strings to his bow or facets to his personality. He was useful to the estate, certainly: but the estate was essential to him. So he would survive this blow to his pride – had survived it; already it was history – and he would rise again. By midday he was seated once more at his desk and only the keenest observer of his habits and appearance would have noticed an occasional facial tic that now and then broke the surface of his composure; a sort of incomplete wink of the left eye which came and then was immediately gone. A sign that beneath his habitual expression of haughty disdain lay a positive tumult of carefully suppressed yet conscientiously nurtured bitterness.

  Chapter 57

  The gentlemen of the press had been invited to view the new fleet of passenger liners and since champagne had been mentioned, attendance was high. There were three new vessels, larger than their older siblings but bearing a distinct family resemblance: silver-grey hulls, buff-coloured stacks with a broad navy band and a thinner band of red immediately below the blue. They were distinctive ships, the most easily identifiable of any sailing under the Red Ensign. Silas had named them for constellations – Cassiopeia, Orion and Pegasus, romantic names with popular appeal but touched by greatness. Silas and Hugh, immaculate in evening dress, stood at either side of a gangplank, welcoming their visitors like society hosts at a London club. Up on deck an orchestra played the ‘Britannia’ overture and vigilant waiters – the dining-room staff that had been hired by the company for the inaugural voyage – offered flutes of Dom Perignon to each new arrival and immediate refills when glasses were drained. The journalists were decked out in dinner jackets too, though Wilberforce Trencham wore tweed, as he always did. A professional assignment was no place for dress shirt and tails, in his view. He eschewed the champagne, too; with a glass in one hand, how was one to take notes? He badgered the hosts with questions, not about the fine marquetry ceiling of the ballroom or the inlaid marble floors of the bathrooms, but about fuel consumption and tonnage and the relative merits of comfort over speed. How many knots, he asked, would Cassiopeia make? A ship this size must surely be forced to keep under twenty knots to avoid the massive incremental increase in fuel?

  ‘Thank you for your concern, Mr Trencham,’ Silas said. ‘But please rest assured that we have coal aplenty in our own Yorkshire colliery.’ There was an appreciative titter from the champagne-fuelled audience.

  ‘And so how many knots would you expect your liners to make? Forgive me for repeating myself, Mr Whittam, but I don’t believe you answered my question.’

  ‘Our commitment is to luxury, not speed,’ Silas said. He smiled at the journalists collected around him. ‘The ship does not exist that betters our fleet in the quality of its accommodation. First-class only and, waiting for them in Jamaica, a first-class hotel.’

  ‘Yes, yes, but how many knots will this vessel make?’

  This was how it was with Wilberforce Trencham. His head could not be turned by the trappings of luxury on the new Whittam liners when all he wanted to know was how fast they would sail.

  ‘Sixteen knots,’ Silas said, though he had hoped to evade a direct answer, for reasons that were immediately exposed.

  ‘Quite slow, then,’ said Mr Trencham. ‘Slower than Cunard’s vessels. Awfully long journey to Jamaica.’

  ‘We’re not after the Blue Riband, Mr Trencham.’

  ‘Happily for you.’ The journalist sniffed and pocketed his notebook, as if he’d seen all there was to offer and was sorely disappointed. Hugh, who had been silent until now, said: ‘Mr Trencham, our aim is to provide our passengers with a voyage they will wish to prolong, not one that they long to be over. These ships will redefine first class.’ A low buzz of agreement emanated from the crowd, though Mr Trencham didn’t add to it.

  ‘And how much has the Colonial Office put forward to support the new venture?’ he said. This was an impertinent question, and both Silas and Hugh ignored it, instead steering the pack away from the ballroom where they currently stood and up the magnificent central staircase to the upper deck.

  ‘Irritating bastard,’ Silas said sotto voce to Hugh.

  ‘Next time he asks a question, just answer it,’ Hugh said. ‘You make it appear we have something to hide. Who cares about knots? Or, for that matter, how pally you might be with Alfred Lyttelton and the Colonial Office. The paying passenger doesn’t. Stop being so evasive.’

  Silas took the point, but grudgingly. He rubbed his temple, where a headache threatened. The strain of the past few months had been immense: the Pegasus would set sail at the end of September and all the cabins were fully booked. Two weeks later the Cassiopeia would leave harbour, and then, two weeks after that, the Orion. And yet the Whittam Hotel, when he had left it at the end of his last visit, still lacked shutters at its windows and mosquito screens at its doors. It was highly possible that he might have to accommodate his passengers in the Mountain Springs Hotel, though it would half kill him to have to admit defeat and ask. The Whittam staff, all recruited locally – a prerequisite of the deal with the Colonial Office, otherwise Silas would certainly have recruited in London – persisted in an insolent refusal to appear in any way helpful. They lolled about the hotel as if Silas had built it for their own leisure. That, or they weren’t to be found at all. One could be forgiven for thinking that the cheerful ping of the brass bell on the reception desk was a signal to the staff to lie low. It was all a source of immense concern. He thought he might yet have to
sail ahead of the Pegasus to reassure himself.

  ‘I hear there are difficulties with the hotel.’ This was Mr Trencham again, settling with uncanny accuracy on the least welcome of questions. He was so close that Silas could see the hairs that sprouted unchecked from inside the journalist’s ears.

  ‘From whom?’ On his other side, Silas heard a hiss of irritation from Hugh, which he ignored.

  ‘I never reveal my sources, Mr Whittam, but your answer confirms my suspicions. They do say that only the Americans can manage the Jamaicans. Apart from anything else, they’re a sight closer to the island than you are.’

  ‘Can’t fault your geography, Trencham. But do tell your spy from me that the Whittam Hotel will be a flagship resort, and the Americans are welcome to watch and learn.’

  The journalist laughed. He so enjoyed needling Silas Whittam. There was no spy, in fact; but something was troubling the man, and since the ships looked quite remarkably beautiful, he had surmised that the hotel must be the problem. He delved for his notebook and scribbled a few words, glancing up to see Silas rub once more at his temple. Mr Trencham smiled. There was nothing personal in his satisfaction; he had no grievance against Silas Whittam at all. But in his experience, life never ran smoothly for anyone for as long as it had apparently run smoothly for Whittam. Wilberforce Trencham just wanted to be there, notebook in hand, when the great man fell.

  The town hall office was festooned with pink roses; the blousy, wanton kind that spilled forth their petals and their fragrance with wild abandon. Frederick Sidebottom, the registrar, raised an eyebrow at the sight. All very well, he thought, but who’d be sweeping up the mess when today’s comings and goings had knocked petals and leaves all over the floor? Not the bride and groom, that was for sure. Mind you, he thought, the room looked grand, all trussed up with flowers like this. Most of the civil weddings he presided over were drab affairs, a quick in-and-out, ring offered and accepted, register signed and a forced smile for Mr Mainwaring and his box Brownie, then on their way. Today, though, Mrs MacLeod had come first thing with armfuls of blooms and foliage and had spent a good two hours stringing them up on the walls and the backs of the chairs. Then her husband had come in with a trellis affair, a metal arch, which he’d stood at the head of the aisle between the rows of chairs, and then watched as his wife twisted flowers and leaves through that as well. She’d sprayed them all with water so that tiny droplets still hung on them now like morning dew, giving them a freshly picked appearance. They’d taken liberties, strictly speaking, and Mr Sidebottom would have been well within his rights to ask them to take their flowers elsewhere, but although he wasn’t the most romantic of individuals, some small neglected corner of his heart softened at the effect, and he held his peace.

  He cast an eye over his desk. Polished to a high shine, with his name nailed to it on a brass plaque. Mr F. J. W. Sidebottom. Many were the times he’d had cause to silently thank his parents – long departed now, of course – for their wisdom and ambition in giving him three fine Christian names, a string of initials to elevate him in his chosen field and confer upon him gravitas and import. Plain Fred Sidebottom couldn’t have ever been a town registrar; Fred Sidebottom would have had to be a coal merchant or a chandler. But Frederick Jeremiah William Sidebottom – now there was a man who was destined to preside over a register of births, marriages and deaths, the solemn rituals of a town’s population.

  He walked to the double doors at the back of the room and flung them open with aplomb. A collection of guests had assembled in the galleried entrance hall, and their animated chatter subsided at the sight of Mr Sidebottom, big-bellied and broad-chested, imposing in a pin-striped three-piece suit. He scanned the gathering and his eyes alighted on the Countess of Netherwood and Lady Henrietta Hoyland, whose presence at the town hall was so remarkable that Mr Sidebottom momentarily forgot himself and stared at them in a foolish, round-eyed manner. The striking of the clock’s bell on the hour brought him to his senses. He took command once more, reordered his features into a dignified half-smile, and without words but with a considerable flourish, he invited them into his inner sanctum.

  ‘Did you think of asking Eve and Daniel here today?’

  Hugh and Silas were still on the Cassiopeia, but they were alone now. They reclined like overdressed holidaymakers in two cream canvas deckchairs on the upper level of the ship. On the floor between them stood an open bottle of Dom Perignon which Silas reached for now and, holding it to his mouth, took a copious swig.

  ‘Indeed I did,’ he said. He belched, handed Hugh the bottle, then leaned back in his chair with his eyes closed. ‘Not only did I think of it, but I also acted upon the thought. Invited Evie, the gardener, Seth, and the girlies. However, they declined.’

  He looked rather sorry for himself, Hugh thought: Silas was full of arrogant confidence and pride, but he was also a younger brother who wanted his sister to see what he’d achieved.

  ‘Shame,’ Hugh said. He lifted the bottle to his mouth and took a swig too. ‘Another time, perhaps. What kept them away?’

  Silas looked at him and grimaced. ‘The wedding of Anna Rabinovich to that dreadful union agitator. What she sees in him I do not know. Mind you, she’s a handful herself. Just as well they marry each other. Spare some other poor devil the fate. Hugh?’

  Hugh had stood up, apparently in some agitation, and was now standing at the rail, gripping it hard and staring at the row of warehouses on the dockside.

  ‘What have I said? Don’t tell me you wanted to go to the wedding.’

  Silas laughed, but Hugh, when he turned, looked grave.

  ‘I proposed to her,’ he said.

  Silas gaped at him. ‘To the Russian?’ he said.

  ‘To Anna, yes.’

  There was a silence. Gulls wheeled overhead and threw obscene cries into the empty sky. Silas and Hugh looked at each other, neither of them knowing what to say.

  ‘I had no idea,’ Silas said at last.

  ‘No. Neither did I, really. But then I saw her again on that last visit and …’

  ‘Lucky escape, old chap. She’s a wilful little harpy who thinks far too much of herself.’

  ‘Stop it.’ Hugh’s voice was harsh. ‘She’s a better person than you and me, that much I know.’

  Silas gave a sceptical laugh. Hugh glared. He felt, in this moment, that Silas Whittam might benefit from a good old-fashioned thrashing. He didn’t look like a man who had ever taken a punch, or thrown one; his perfectly regular features had an almost womanly delicacy and Hugh imagined the pale skin splitting like a peach as his fist drove into the beautiful, mocking face. He turned away again, to keep himself from temptation.

  ‘I was going to sail back to Kingston,’ Silas said, moving instinctively into safer territory. ‘Soon. Before Pegasus leaves harbour. I thought I’d stay until the first guests arrive, just to be sure they get what we’ve promised. But you could go in my place. What do you think?’

  ‘Fine,’ said Hugh. ‘As you wish.’ He didn’t turn around.

  There was very little ceremony in the event, in spite of all the roses. Anna and Amos met with a smile on the town hall steps and waited together until the small collection of friends and family were seated inside. She wore a cream two-piece, which she’d made from a Butterwick’s pattern, adapting the unadventurous cut of the skirt to give it more swish and flair. Amos surprised everyone by appearing in a new, rather well-made suit in dark grey wool, which he wore with a white waistcoat and a navy and white dotted necktie. He carried a soft grey Homburg.

  ‘Nice,’ Anna said, when she saw him.

  ‘You expected my old tweeds and a flat cap, didn’t you?’ Amos said. ‘You’re not t’only one with a bit of an eye, you know.’

  He took her hand and pressed it to his lips in a moment of silent communication. Then, still holding hands, they went side by side into the room, down the short, carpeted aisle and under the bower of blooms. There, with the utmost simplicity and economy of words, they pled
ged their love for each other and became man and wife.

  Chapter 58

  Afterwards, at Ravenscliffe, they all gathered in the September sunshine and ate as if they’d spent the morning in hard labour. The spread consisted entirely of Russian delicacies: pirozhki, blinis, caviar – which had arrived by train from Fortnum & Mason – potato salad, pickles, smoked fish and borscht, ladled into tiny cups and served with dark, grainy bread. The health, wealth and happiness of the bride and groom were toasted with vodka, poured again and again from bottles that Anna had packed into an ice-filled tub. Mrs Powell-Hughes, knocking back her third, had an uncharacteristic flush to the face and a marvellous, inexplicable sense of wellbeing. She had manipulated the staff rota to give herself a half-day holiday, and to feel part of this merry band of well-wishers was beyond price, as unfamiliar a sensation to her as the particular saltiness of the black fish roe on her tongue or the rush of heat in her throat as the vodka slipped down.

  ‘Are you having fun, Mrs Powell-Hughes?’ Anna said, slipping an arm through hers and giving it a squeeze.

  ‘I certainly am, dear. I’ve eaten enough to sink a battleship, but I couldn’t name a single thing.’ She laughed brightly, full of the joy of the unpronounceable.

  ‘This is food of my childhood,’ Anna said. ‘It makes me think I should perhaps go back – to visit, I mean.’

  Mrs Powell-Hughes, who had travelled – just once – from Netherwood, to her sister’s boarding house on the East Yorkshire coast, nodded sagely.

  ‘You do that, dear. Take your husband. Travel broadens the mind.’ She hiccupped twice.

  ‘Bit hair-raising in Russia at the moment.’

  This was Henrietta. She had come with Thea to the wedding because Tobias had refused, on the grounds that he knew neither bride nor groom from Adam. ‘Have you read the papers? Sounds rather brutal. I should wait until things pipe down.’