CHAPTER THREE
Mallory was ready and waiting when Mr. Jenkins came by and fell into step with the four other lads. There were still two more to be picked up on their way to the foxes’ dens. Tonight the air had a chilly crispness to it and Mallory began wishing for more than just a jacket. From time to time, above the scuffling of their hurried feet, which beat a steady rhythm, the thin, mournful calls of a pair of tawny owls could be heard; the female’s to-whit followed by her mate’s oo-oo, which would hang in the nocturnal silence. The moon, riding high, cast long shadows in the woods making the going under foot treacherous. ‘Alert’ and ‘agile’ were the watchwords.
They wasted no time in stopping up the many earths they encountered, using whatever scrub could be found. Mallory made it back to the stables just as the distant glimmer of dawn was illuminating the horizon and gold-edged, mauve clouds in the eastern sky were beginning to tone into a deep purple. She slipped easily into the stable routine and by now was feeling far from cold.
It was well before eleven o’clock, but already the field had begun to assemble in the forecourt, adjacent to the stable yard in preparation for their ‘run’. The yapping hounds, milling about and sniffing at whatever they could find, were in full voice leaving no doubt this was the day they had been waiting for. There must have been twenty couples, Harry Flegg in their midst, in earnest conversation with his whipper-in, standing out in their pink coats and black hats.
Club members had been depositing their hacks in the spare stalls for some time and were now mounting their hunters, who had arrived separately with the grooms. Mostly geldings made up the field with a few mares, however some still favoured the stallion. Everyone seemed infected by the colour and excitement of the event, their loud hails of greeting competing quite successfully with those of the dogs. She was just giving her final check to Burrow, when she heard another greeting, light and vivacious, at the stall grill: “Hello my handsome prince! Are we ready for the ride of our lives?”
The Honourable Lady Nigella stood ready to receive her mount, so different from when Mallory had last laid eyes on her. The glossy jet of her dark hair still shone vibrantly, caught as it was in the net below her little hat, but this time the green eyes sparkled up at Mallory in impetuous animation.
“Oh sorry, I was expecting to see Jake.” She peered around then turned back and hastened to give her thanks for yesterday’s timely rescue, in a bubbly torrent of gushing words. Now Mallory could see that she was indeed young, perhaps only fifteen or sixteen; still slender, no puppy fat as yet to herald the curves of maturity.
And this slip of a thing can handle Burrow? Perhaps they grew up together from when he was her pony? Oh yes, girls and their horses.
“You’re welcome, my Lady. I was there at the time and I tried to do whatever was needed, to be of help.”
She led Burrow out to the yard and gave assistance to the girl to mount, wondering how she could keep tabs on this independent spirit. “My Lady may I suggest you bring Burrow back to me personally, at the end?” An impish grin tugged at her lips. “After the ride of your life, I think he may need some extra careful handling,” then she threw back her head and laughed outright, showing the strong muscles of her neck as it rose from the open collar of the shirt.
Mallory was standing in a shaft of dazzling sun, feet planted astride, highlights shimmering from the coppery strands scattered through her hair. She looked up with a conspiratorial glint in her violet eyes as her open mouth revealed a very red tongue between perfectly white, even teeth. Lady Nigella enjoyed sharing the moment with this unusual young man, totally captivated by the dancing eyes and totally surprised by that very circumstance; she, the daughter of The House and he, a groom whom she did not know. But she could not help herself. He was not speaking to her like the other servants. She could not help noticing too, how those deep set eyes, such a sparkling, dynamic blue, gazed up so frankly into her face like he truly shared the excitement of the ride. Her survey took in the firmly boned hand which still held the halter, keeping control of the horse during the heightened stimulation all around them. Then her eye snagged on the colourful tattoo over the rippling muscles, making it appear that the little creature would run up the forearm. Pulling her eyes away she asked: “What is your name?” the question out almost before she had time to think.
“Mallory Mason, my Lady.”
“Well … Mason, I think Burrow will be glad of your ministrations, thank you.”
She began to turn her mount’s head and Mallory let go the bridle to watch her canter up to the assembled throng. She felt strange as her eyes followed her progress, as though with this departure she had suddenly lost something very special. She shook her head to clear away such foolishness and saw that in particular, the Honourable Lady Nigella had singled out the handsome young man whom she now knew to be the Honourable Lord Ambrose. They rode together towards an imposing gentleman holding a magnificent black hunter on a tight rein, keeping its head high: Viscount Lord Patchford no doubt.
She watched the field follow the Master and his hounds as they disappeared in the direction of the covert, where he thought the fox would be. These hounds were keen to start the draw and Mr. Flegg would see them through their paces. Once out of sight she turned her attention back to the stalls. Guest grooms would attend to the visiting hacks and have them ready for the return journey.
She did not see Jake until their break for lunch, when he sought her out to tell her she was to go up to the Big House and Cook would have something ready. He said it was not usual, but seeing as how he had nothing extra today, he guessed an exception had been made. This was great. She washed up in the scullery and pushed through to the kitchen. A big plate of sandwiches had been laid out on the servants’ table with a bowl of mixed pickles, onions and gherkins. There were many things she was missing, but this was better than grabbing a plastic cup from the water cooler and a plastic sandwich from the dispenser. Mrs. Cummings told her to take a seat.
“Mistress wants to see you in her boudoir as soon as maybe lad, so don’t dally.” As she ate, she could see Mr. Baldwin in his pantry, assiduously polishing the silver, his once spotlessly white gloves becoming black with tarnish. He probably has a pair specifically for each job, she surmised.
Shortly, Mallory was joined by Dottie who had been helping to get everything organized for lunch. She could not believe that people could eat so much in the middle of the day when they had hardly finished breakfast. Mrs. Aldred had hired two extra chefs and their sous-chefs, who specialised in catering to house parties and this morning she had been busy supervising the setting up of the breakfast room for the non-hunting guests. What an impatient mood, as she had shown her what was needed on the small sideboard: a row of silver dishes, kept hot by spirit lamps, offering devilled kidneys, haddock or plaice and for any who had missed breakfast, sausages and poached eggs. Each dish had required its specific serving utensil and the appropriate napery.
Why do they ’ave to be so fussy? So much ‘make-work’!
Then she had to move on to the larger sideboard which was to provide a choice of cold meats, pressed beef, ham or tongue. A separate section was devoted to the gelatines: cold roast pheasant, grouse, partridge and ptarmigan. She had asked Mrs. Aldred about that one. She remembered the look of superior disdain the chatelaine had bestowed on her as she declared that no luncheon would be complete without ptarmigan, hot or cold. She had grumbled to herself that she could not be expected to know everything.
Anyway, she was glad that was over and to be away from the housekeeper at last. She did not like her, but moving up to housemaid was a darn sight better than being stuck in the scullery. Whilst she had been doing that, Edna had stocked the side table, heaping it with all kinds of fruit: melons, peaches, nectarines and raspberries. Then she was told, if anyone should be hungry between meals, there must be scones and toast available with marmalade, honey and jam.
Yes, those imported one’s they like to drool over. Such snobs, what’s wrong with ’oney?
Mrs. Aldred was quite the martinet. It would be their job to return and check on supplies including the beverages, pots of coffee, teas from Ceylon and India and various cold drinks, also a fresh supply of napkins and suchlike. At least she would not have to wait table tonight. When they had guests, then the footmen, under the supervision of Mr. Baldwin, would be responsible. Lunch went from one-thirty, so she had a little time to relax before Edna came down.
Seeing who was in the servants’ hall, Dottie happily sat herself opposite, ready to enjoy this special company. She and Mallory nodded to each other, but said nothing, too busy eating. She was keen to see if she could get him interested in the choir she had joined. They were always looking for new voices and it would be so such a lark if she could get this fellow to go along. Won’t Millie be that envious? When they had finished she would ask him.
“Nice seeing you again,” Mallory said as she rose to leave.
“Oh ya ’ave t’ go so soon?” Dottie had not expected this, now she would miss her chance.
“Err…r I have an errand to run before I go back. Sorry.”
Mallory splashed her face and washed her hands thoroughly before heading for the back stairs and checked that her clothing and boots were clean. This time she knew her way and would soon be delivering her report.
Lady Patchford had been at work with her social secretary, Francine Hewitt. Miss Hewitt, the middle daughter of a very good family was unmarried. Her father, a clergyman, had been grateful to Lady Patchford that she had been prepared to take her on. Spinsters could be a serious problem for a family of modest means and he definitely did not want his daughter to be forced into menial work. There was teaching of course, at a ‘good’ school for young ladies, but her parents had felt this would be only as a last resort. Fortunately, Lady Patchford had warmed to Francine and the association had already lasted almost a year.
For the past hour, heads together over an assortment of papers spread out on the satinwood table, they had dealt with the final order of seating for the hunt dinner; always such a complicated business. No matter, Lady Patchford was acutely aware that it was essential to pay attention to these particulars. A mistake in the arrangement of place cards could make or break the success of any house party. This weekend she was hostess to almost twenty guests. Lord Patchford had included a senior politician in the Colonial Office, down from Bayswater, and two important industrialists, the new breed of risk taking entre-preneur, in coal she was guessing. I’d better find out.
Lord Patchford’s mother, the Dowager Lady Patchford would also be in attendance tonight. Another added strain. It annoyed Lady Glencora that Grandmama would not make the change to the fashionable styles of the new century and still clung to her full skirted dresses, beloved by the late Queen. Also, she never went anywhere without that little black lace cap on her head, with its trailing satin ribbons. Those silly, black crochet, fingerless gloves also made her impatient. Amazingly robust for her years, the only failing she could detect in the old lady seemed to be a slight hearing loss. Nonetheless, Grandmama Patchford would uncannily call for a repeat of the sotto voce aside, only meant for private ears. The whole table would fall silent, trying to decide the best way to recover. By then of course, the damage was done.
Not only were the seating arrangements a trial, but she must agonise over the allocation of the bedrooms. The question of their disposition always gave cause for anxiety. Francine was such a help with this. She had a sure, copperplate hand and was writing the name of each guest on a card to be slipped into the tiny brass frame on the bedroom door. Tact and discretion; not that Lady Glencora did not have these, but Francine’s second opinion was invaluable. She sat quietly while she worked.
The devoted couples she could confidently place in a central location. Lovers she would sequester in adjacent chambers at either end of the west wing. The ‘in-betweens’ she kept available for the unattached females, to provide opportunities for a tryst with their current beau. At the same time they must not be too obvious.
In these quiet moments she remembered her own evenings at country house parties. Ah the tyranny of appearances. Hypocrisy must be dressed at all times, ready to meet every occasion in the cloak of social respectability and even, political responsibility. Many of the Lotharios involved in these sexual intrigues, sat in the House of Lords. However, Lady Glencora knew from the other side that this very necessity of keeping up appearances made these ‘dangerous liaisons’ even more exciting. Her social behaviour had had to follow the rigid disciplines demanded of her position, never to be transgressed, except in those secret places behind locked doors. She had been raised to embrace the credo of loyalty to her class whatever the cost. She shook her head and what a cost it had been.
With the wisdom of hindsight, Lady Glencora believed much of the immorality, even profligacy, currently prevalent in high society lay at the door of the system of ‘arranged’ marriages. Her own parents, in consultation with their lawyers, had been desirous of a union between the two great estates of Anstone and Guilfoyle. Her position had been weak. Whereas the Broadhursts were labouring under crushing death duties, despite their fifty-six thousand acre estate in Derbyshire, their country house in Salisbury and London house in Mayfair, the Patchfords were still handsomely solvent. For her parents this marriage had been the ideal solution.
Eustace and Edward had been pleasant young men, perfect products of their private education, but in her youth she had been attracted to the more debonair style of the continental aristocrat, or that of the dashing career soldier. A dutiful wife always, until sixteen years ago when her path had been crossed by Captain Hugo Carreros of the Guardia Civil: Barcelona Division. He had been impossible to resist; excitingly different from Eustace, deliciously forbidden. She had fallen to excess, completely infatuated whilst still locked in a passionless marriage. Divorce of course was out of the question, but in the end the affair had been terminated. She sighed heavily. They both had lived the lives society had demanded. She already had two children. Not for her a bolt abroad in the arms of her lover. Anyway, his family would never have countenanced that. If anything the Spanish were even more rigid than the British.
She had hoped everything would work out. The baby was adorable. Happy and healthy, always gurgling at whoever would pay her attention. Even Eustace was captivated. With the other two he had been more remote, but when Nigella came into the world he was older and perhaps therefore, more appreciative.Oh Eustace, how would you love her if you knew the truth?
Everyone had considered her so fortunate. If only she had known then what she knew now? She speculated for the umpteenth time what would have been the best course. She could have tried to have the baby adopted out, sold even. But she had had no-one to turn to. No help from her parents. Just the very thought of them knowing about her affair and the baby made her heart clench and her head ache. She pressed her fingers to her temples as she imagined the devastating consequences. How impossible it had all been. She would have been completely undone, an outcast from society and she was not strong enough to be so independent. There was no tolerance for youthful indiscretions which ended as hers had. All very well if it can be hushed up. Now she feared someone had accessed the story and could be out to blackmail her through her daughter.
What am I to do? I didn’t have the fortitude then, I don’t have it now. And what of Nigella! As she gets older the truth becomes more inescapable. It won’t be blackmail … it will be shame and ruin on the Patchford name.
At Mallory’s arrival she put down the papers next to a most sweet smelling arrangement in a crystal vase, of jonquils and amaryllis. Dismissing Miss Hewitt, she informed her she would ring when she was ready.
“Very well, Ma’am.” Francine was dressed in white and navy, blouse and skirt. To Mallory they looked much like an office uniform, neat and efficient. She received a friendly smile from the secretary as she quietly left the room.
Today, with so much to attend to, Lady Glencora had chosen to wear a functional outfit: sensible white blouse, but still adorned with buttons from neck to waist and tight, mutton chop sleeves, hands free: Scotch Tartan skirt, along the same line as a man’s kilt, with plain front panel and pleats round the back, falling full length. This may be her working gear, but Mallory reckoned she was a knock-out.
Lady Glencora rose from her escritoire to stand at one of the tall, narrow windows which permitted shivers of sunbeams to stream over her face. In the halo of light Mallory detected a look of strained anxiety about her hazel eyes. She was also surprised by her height, indeed quite statuesque. Brown, glace kid, house shoes with a delicately curved heel had added to the impression. The extremely pointed toe and buckle on the instep made her even more elegant.
She was drawing back the sateen curtains to look out over the garden. From this room she had an excellent view of the orangery, which was coming to the end of its flowering and soon the fruit would begin to set. It had been a hot summer with just the right amount of rain. Now, with the colder nights drawing in, the little trees could put all their energies into fruiting.
The orangery was located on the south wall of this wing and from here she could let her eyes wander over the rise of the woods to the spire of Saint Austell’s. Four beautiful christenings she had had there. Both families had been so happy for them. She sighed, such a long time ago. The last one had been at this time of year and remembering always demoralised her, fracturing her resolve in the face of these debilitating torrents of emotion. There would be no more babies now. The death of her second son had brought to an end her ability to go through another pregnancy.
Get out of this, Cora. Hear what the young man has to say. Dredging up the past and lamenting over it does you no good. She turned back to the room and the present moment. “Yes?” The enquiring eyes gleamed with an uneasy torment from a pale face, strangely devoid of colour.
Mallory told her as much as she could, while observing the cheerlessness of her listener’s face. Stark lines running from nose to mouth gave a somewhat austere appearance, especially as the mouth was held in a thin line, as though life were the heaviest burden to bear. Surely not, a woman of wealth and privilege!
“Very good, if all has gone well there will be no need to report back. Mason, what I want you to do is to accompany Lady Nigella when she takes her exercise … but don’t let it look like you are spying on her, I …”
“Your Ladyship, I apologise for cutting in, but I cannot possibly get away from the chores people have lined up for me, I have no …”
The Lady’s eyes now flashed with indignation. “You will not interrupt young man when I am speaking.” Her glare was icy as she lifted her chin. An aristocrat all her life, such disrespectfulness was intolerable. “My daughter rides after the stable chores have been completed. We know the routines. If you can get her to tell you where she intends to go, you might not need to accompany her, only watch from a distance, but I cannot control her destinations.” She gave a prolonged sigh, accompanied by a doleful twist to her expressive mouth. “Sometimes she is anything but compliant. It will be best if you report to me after all. I will need to know of your success.”
Accepting this as dismissal, Mallory once again took her leave on a quiet note of acquiescence.
* * *
Late afternoon, just as the sun was dipping low behind the trees, the hunters returned. The stables were total chaos: the jangling of harness, hooves clattering over the cobbles and impatient shouts adding to the uproar and confusion. Mallory had never before contended with such disorganisation. There was much to be done in too short a time. Everyone wanted everything at once. However, she was relieved to learn that the fox had been too wily for them and still lived to run another day. Poor bastard!
She did accept Burrow when Lady Nigella came in, flushed and exhilarated, but there was no way she could exchange words, beyond asking what time he should be ready for tomorrow? Distractedly, the girl had waved her hand only to tell her: “The usual,” as she rushed away. Great help!
Lady Nigella’s head was too preoccupied, with hardly any time to complete her toilette before everyone assembled at eight o’clock. This was her first evening with the grown-ups. ’Til now she had always been banished to the school room, only sometimes allowed to watch the guests arriving. Now she was sixteen and would be presented next year. Mama had thought this would give her good exposure to the adult world, but she had had to promise to be ‘seen and not heard’. All her life she had been bidden to follow this injunction. Would it never end? No matter, it was too, too thrilling. Her abigail was to dress her hair up and Mama had agreed to let her braid it with a matching ribbon. Her sister would wear her pale green mousseline-desoie, trimmed with lace and pearl embroidery. The decolletage was very low, filled in by a ribbed plastron of white ninon. The draped over bodice cut away from the waist to reveal a darker green charmeuse satin underskirt. Nigella thought it suited her so well. It slimmed her hips which could appear quite prominent, but her secret hope was that one day she might have curves like Ramona’s.
She would be in her new, pale blue nansook evening dress which Mama had had specially made for tonight. It was only of thin cotton with a muslin weave, but it had beautiful appliquéd trimmings along the small, scooped neckline. Round her neck she would wear a double rouched, lace neckband, threaded with pale blue and deep blue, satin ribbons tied in a big bow to one side. For the first time she would be wearing the new, short corset that laced up the back. It would lengthen her waist without drawing it into an unnaturally small dimension and at the same time give full expansion to her breasts. Ramona would be wearing her horsehair bustpad, covered in pink pongee silk, but she was not allowed one yet.
She could not wait for the ticking hand to reach eight o’clock as she caught up with the Lady Ramona who, although three years older and already ‘out’, was no less excited for her sister. She remembered how special her first dinner had been and could empathise with Jellie. She wanted everything to be perfect for her.
“When Millie has finished with you, come to me before you see Mama. I’ll make sure you are her exquisite jewel.” She laughed and slid her arm around her waist.
“Oh Mona, I do so want Mama to be proud of me.” Her head turned abruptly. “She wouldn’t put me next to the Vicar do you think, just to keep a close eye on me?” She gave a deep sigh then continued in a wistful voice: “I would so dearly love to be next to Ambrose’s friend.”
“Which one is he?”
“He has those lovely dark eyes.”
“Jellie, what sort of identification is that?” Arm in arm, long skirts aswish, they continued to the house, entering by a side door which led directly to the drawing room, which was a quick way to access the main stairs to their chambers. “There’s Lionel Shoebridge, he’s dark. There’s Myles Stafford-Clarke, who’ll be here tonight too.” Ramona was momentarily lost in her own thoughts. She really liked Myles. He and Ambrose, although reading different subjects had both been residents of Pembroke College, while at Cambridge.
“They’re staying over because tomorrow they’ll meet up with Sedgewick to play golf. They’ve taken it up now they can manage to direct the rubber-covered ball that was invented last year. There’s a new links that’s all the rage they plan to try out, not far from Aston. I wanted to go, but you know how Ambrose can be.” She pulled a face, turning down the corners of her mouth. “They have to leave early to catch the train so Higgins will take them to the station in the carriage before Reynolds needs it for the other guests.”
Nigella looked sheepishly from under her black lashes. “I don’t know his name. I just saw him today on the ‘run’.”
By now they were outside their rooms with just time enough to bathe and get ready, so Ramona smiled indulgently at her sister and gave her a quick hug. “See you later.”
* * *
It was about the same time as yesterday when Mallory set out on her return to the village, but today she was in company with some of the other stable hands. The sky was a blaze of streaking colour and the church clock could be heard striking the lateness of the hour. They were eagerly talking of meeting at The Punch Bowl where they would make one pint last the night. This was their weekend routine and they cordially invited the new help to join their darts’ team. It would be fun, but her day had been so long she did not think she could stay the course. Apart from which, there were no funds, even though a pint of draught only cost two pence. She had to decline.
Mr. and Mrs. Pogue had a visitor when she got in. They had thought to wait for her, so tonight she squeezed in next to Mr. Pogue senior. It appeared this was how they spent their Saturday evenings. He had sent over a brace of rabbits that afternoon and they were all looking forward to Mrs. Pogue’s tasty stew.
Their favourite topic of conversation was the children. Mallory learned that Arnold had an older brother James Edward, whom they called Ted and a younger sister Ann, who was called Nancy.
“Ted ’as done very well for ’iself,” Mr. Pogue informed her. “When the Main pit was sunk to the Barnsley seam, under the magnesian limestone, about four year ago now, the colliery owners started to build a model village in the next parish to the designs of Percy Houghton. ’ave you ’eard of ’im?” Mallory shook her head.
“These new, sprawlin’ colliery towns exist alongside pretty estate villages, like Guilfoyle and spread out, deep into our countryside. A real eyesore! Well, this Houghton fella ’ad a ’ole new concept. ’e built terraced ’ouses, very low density. None ’as fewer than three bedrooms, all with a bath an’ ’ot water. Ted was able to get onto Brodsworth’s books an’ ’e wouldn’t change for anythin’, would ’e Thora?”
Albert warmed to his theme: “The squire of Brodsworth Main is a successful businessman, ’iself. ’e invested in canals and ’e made sure, from the start, there would be social societies and clubs for the residents. There’s a full-time social worker to ’elp run everythin’ an’ all.”
“Now that sounds like due corporate diligence,” Mallory agreed.
They looked at her in surprise not understanding her words, yet not prepared to seek clarification from this relative stranger. Breaking the uneasy silence, Thora was moved to add that for recreation there was a cricket pitch and football ground too.
“Ted’s favourite is the cricket.”
“Absolutely,” Mallory agreed. “Cricket is very much the players’ sport, whereas soccer lends itself more to spectating.”
This time they expressed open-mouthed astonishment.
“Of course …” she added hastily, “… the ‘one-dayers’ have made cricket more amenable to watching and the 20/20’s even more so.”
They were at a complete loss as to where she was heading with this so Albert could only revert to what a hard business coal was. “Ted tells me there’s over three ’undred men an’ boys employed at that mine.”
“Don’t they have mechanisation?” Mallory asked. “This is industrial Britain after all with the proud, but let’s face it justified boast of being the workshop of the world.”
“You’re right there, lad,” Albert agreed readily. “But fancy machinery ’as transformed the factories up north. It’s not ’ad much impact on the coal fields; the old can still be found alongside the new.”
“’e also says they work with pads strapped to their knees,” Thora added, “to ’elp prevent them swelling up from the constant bendin’ an’ kneelin’ on the ’ard floors, or from bein’ in the water.”
Finally, Mr. Pogue senior contributed his opinion. “Good luck to ’im, I says. ’e’s earnin’ a darn sight more than if ’e’d stayed in farmin’.” He turned to his daughter-in-law. “Thora, you got my tin of Carter’s Little Liver Pills?”
“Oh sorry, Dad,” she got up to fetch them and returned saying: “You still gettin’ those pains in your stomach?”
“What of your daughter, Mrs. Pogue? Where is she now?” Mallory enquired.
“My youngest ’asn’t done quite so well for ’erself, she’s not married an’ she didn’t want to go into service. She moved up north too an’ works at a big textile mill, in the windin’ an’ drawin’ looms.”
“It’s long ’ours worked under close supervision,” Albert supplied. “Not as much money as on the weavin’ looms and cardin’ machines, but she says it isn’t as dusty or noisy. She doesn’t really like the cotton mill that much, but it smells a lot better an’ she’s made some good friends.”
“Livin’ in Oldham, they can go out on the weekends an’ enjoy the theatre or concerts. She says there’s so much more life there. Still I miss ’er,” Thora added, sorrowfully.
“They’re goin’ to try to get back for Christmas, this year,” Albert informed her. “All of ’em can get a train to our station an’ I can borrow the cart to pick ’em up.”
“Oh, that will be a lovely reunion,” Mallory exclaimed as she realized there would be nothing like that for her. It impacted with wrenching force, just how much she had lost. A stab of home-sickness so barbed, pierced through her. Having finished their plates she grabbed the opportunity and jumped up to give Mrs. Pogue a hand with the pudding. Any action was preferable to wallowing in useless self pity. Mrs. Pogue had baked an apple charlotte encased in bread. The bowls served, she recounted that she had in fact lost two children before they reached the age of five.
“They thought it was due to gastro-intestinal disorders,” she explained. “I blame the open drains an’ cesspools. There was an awful lot o’ flies buzzin’ about. We ’ave ’em now, but not like then. Once they got ’em all cleaned up we raised our two lovely boys and Nancy.”
Her eyes took on a faraway look as she continued: “Such a ’elp they was, with all the chores. They never tired o’ running errands for me. Their dad didn’t need to use the strap near so much as Granda.” Pogue senior went on steadily eating. He had heard all this before.
“Well … now they ’ave some legal protection against the worst abuses since the Children’s Act got passed last year. I remember my parents was much more authoritarian than we ever was. Absolute obedience was demanded, equally at ’ome an’ at school.”
Still a sociology student at heart, Mallory’s interest was stimulated. “Why do you think corporal punishment was so prevalent then, Mrs. Pogue?”
At this point Mr. Pogue senior looked up. “I can tell ya why. There was too many little ’uns runnin’ loose. There wasn’t the same pressure there is today to avoid unwanted pregnancies, so we ’ad a very young population. Somethin’ ’ad to be done to keep ’em in line so by common assent, we ruled with the rod. But I’ll say this …” he fixed each one in turn with an austere eye: “… badly behaved kids came from only the most disreputable families. In them days most children were obedient an’ ya didn’t need to strong arm ’em … much.” Now he looked sternly at his daughter-in-law, as if to imply a degree of exaggeration on her part that was totally unwarranted.
“You have a special interest in children, Mrs. Pogue?”
“In a way, it’s babies, really.”
This took Mallory by surprise. Mrs. Pogue was obviously past her child bearing years.
“My wife acts as unofficial midwife to the village an’ local neighbourhood.”
“Yes, for some years now I’ve ’elped deliver babies. I ’ad enough experience of my own so I was ’appy to ’elp others.”
“Don’t the women want to go to the hospital?”
“Just to ’ave a baby?” she protested: “We ’ave all we need at ’ome. Anyway, who ’as money for a doctor? I provide a neighbourly service and it’s free o’ charge.”
“Now I do remember in ‘02 …” Mr. Pogue interjected, “… they passed the Midwives Act, tryin’ to suppress the ’elp these good women offer to those in need.”
“That seems a shame,” Mallory observed, intrigued again. “Why would they want to stop women from being of service to others?”
“Said they was ignorant … an’ dirty.”
Thora shook her head in disbelief at the thought.
“The first part of the Act was enforced up ’til 1905, after then, unofficial midwives ’ave been allowed to register their names. Thora’s on the registry now and is permitted to go on with her good works … without official qualifications.”
Impressed, Mallory looked across at this woman, so unassuming in her manner. Here was a generosity of spirit much to be admired. Then Thora drew her eyebrows together, furrowing her brow and remarked: “All well and good Albert, but I see the writin’ on the wall. There’s been rumblin’s that startin’ next year, all midwives will ’ave to ’ave authorised trainin’ to practice and that will mean costly fees which we can’t afford.”
Not unlike her own time Mallory thought. Discord between obstetricians and midwives still existed. She remembered her studies from her first year: Human Rights and Social Issues. In the twenty-first century the difficulty was to have one’s baby by ‘home’ delivery, with the assistance of a lactation consultant on hand. Even, it seemed, Caesarean sections would be holding sway.
Albert held up his hand. “Don’t go jumpin’ the gun, Thora. You don’t know that for sure an’ anyway, if it comes to that, we could possibly find the money. You can’t foretell the future.”
Mallory reflected privately: Give thanks to Providence that you cannot. It’s a burden no-one should have to bear. In five years’ time it will be 1914. 1917 and they will be hit with the Spanish ‘Flu, only to lose more young men than they did in the war!
With the clearing away of the remnants of their supper, the evening came to an end. Albert would walk his dad back to his cottage and Thora would see to the kitchen. Mallory thanked her hosts and retired. She had found the exchanges quite diverting. These were generous, honest people whom she felt fortunate to know.
* * *
Lady Glencora was giving herself a final check in the cheval glass when she heard the discreet knock at her chamber door. She was pleased with her reflection and felt that Eustace would approve. It was so hard this ‘keeping up’ all the time. She found fashion and the social round made for ferocious task masters. Privately, she believed her life to be more wearing and highly disciplined than a recruit in the Grenadier Guards.
Tonight she had chosen a high waisted Directiore style gown in rose satin, with a cashmere finish. An Irish guipure Toby frill at the neck set off her elaborate pearl-drop earrings. The long sleeves were ruched from the heavily embroidered shoulders to the narrow wrists. The same embroidery totally encompassed the skirt of the dress from the knee to the finely pleated hem, finished off with the finest seed pearls.
Maisie had dressed her hair up over large rolls, sweeping from the forehead to the nape of her neck and rising high in the crown. This was the latest style and she felt it suited her. Certainly it was different from her usual mass of curls.
Maisie opened the door for the girls who came swishing in, full of excitement. They stopped when their mother turned round, the words dying on their lips. She looked so lovely. Sitting carefully on the two spindly occasional chairs, they arranged their skirts to their satisfaction as they watched Maisie pick up the blue crystal spray bottle with its red silk tassel. It was Mama’s favourite perfume Shalimar. Ramona liked Gardenia, but Nigella was still only allowed a few drops of Lavender water.
“Wait Maisie. The girls might need something.”
“Yes my Lady.”
“Stand and let me look at you.”
They were both so beautiful, each in her own nature and disposition. Ramona, now reflected three ways in the bevelled glass panels of the dressing-table, such a perfect English rose; a delicate almost alabaster translucency to her fair skin. Her silvery blonde curls emphasized the blueness of her pale eyes, so like Eustace’s and she had his mouth, wide and full. She had gained the Patchford height too, like Ambrose.
“Turn for me.”
And now, here was Nigella. Looking very young still, for all her sixteen years, but there was no mistaking she would never be tall. This one would be a dark beauty; those waves of almost raven locks, the emerald eyes beneath her gracefully arched eyebrows, so direct and piercing. Who could miss them? There was no mistaking the mouth though – a small rosebud like her own. In contrast, she was so colourful. Even a pale blue dress could not change that.
Lady Glencora was full of foreboding and her heart spasmed in an anxious beat. Family would notice nothing, so used were they, having seen her grow up. But Dyllis, Lady Ashcroft, she did not miss much. Virgo, Lord Bromley, he could be surprisingly observant if the evening did not wear on too late. No doubt about it, she would give a few people cause for a second, searching glance. A low, deep breath escaped her lips; nothing to be done now except face the world in a united front. Society’s introduction to her youngest had to be accomplished at some time and it was imperative it occur before the launch of her season. She would be seventeen in three months’ time. She swallowed back an efflux of emotion.
“Yes my petals, you will do us proud tonight. You may sit.”
The girls resumed their seats and Lady Glencora dismissed Maisie.
“Now Nigella …” She looked at her youngest sternly, wishing to enforce the gravity of the situation, before she might take some wild notion into her giddy head.
“Yes Mama.” Still her eyes twinkled with suppressed delight.
“When we go in for drinks, you may receive one glass of the Jerez from Reynolds. If he forgets and returns with the tray, do not take a second.”
“No Mama.” She kept her hands in her lap her pose demure, determined to be the perfect daughter, but she could not hide her wonderful smile at this exciting prospect.
“This is for your own good, dearest. At dinner, you may have one glass of Beaujolais. After that I have asked Baldwin to serve you cordial. I suggested raspberry, so it will still be a red liquid in a wine glass.”
“Yes Mama. May I ask … might I have wine with the fish?”
“Certainly not, Baldwin will pour you water. Remember, don’t ask for anything and accept what you are served.”
“Yes Mama.” She would not permit even one quiver of impatience, as her eyelashes shaded her downward gaze.
“Mama …?”
“Yes Mona.”
“May I ask … who is taking us in?” She held her breath: Please not Uncle Edward.
“Your father is taking you. Jellie, you will be on the Reverend Jobling’s arm.”
The girls exchanged complicit glances, trying not to let their faces betray the slightest affect then looked down. Neither said anything.
“One more thing, Nigella …”
“Yes Mama.” She looked up, her features once more appropriately composed.
“… You are to listen and learn.” Another admonishing look: “I do not expect to hear your voice … even if you know the answer. As the evening wears on, brains become slower and tongues looser. This is what happens with dinners. It is for you to observe. No-one likes a precocious child, especially a female one. Promise me you will resist any impulse to correct an error.” Her mouth retained its chiselled outline.
“Yes Mama.” Was all her pleasure to be taken away?
“Ramona.”
“Yes Mama.”
She looked hard at her daughter then softened her lips to an endearing curve. “You will be sitting on your father’s left, next to the Honourable Sir Myles Stafford-Clarke.”
Again the girls exchanged glances and this time smiled broadly. Nigella was happy for her sister, even if not for herself. However, such high spirits could not be depressed for long. It would all be so stupendous, just being there. Can we go down now?
* * *
The dining table sparkled under the brilliant crystals of two fin de siecle chandeliers, suspended from the elaborate roses in the high ceiling. Lord Patchford had spared no expense to install the latest in electrical technology. He considered himself in the forefront of taste and fashion. Yes, there may be all this new wealth from the industrialists and financiers, but still it could not put the old wealth, that is, of the great families of landowners, in the shade. Sir Eustace held himself ready to proclaim, whenever he saw the need, that this was not to be forgotten. It was his society, representing birth and bloodline which held the greatest influence. Not these jumped up Johnnies. They did not invest in land. Rather they chose the less secure route of stocks and shares. Pah! He could barely contain his impatience. Only yesterday, had he not read in The Times that it was the top 1% of British society who owned 69% of the nation’s capital. This, the report had stated, represented the highest concentration than at any other time in Britain’s history. After that he had sat back and surveyed the rolling hills of his estate through his study window, very contented. Indeed, he could claim himself to be truly primum inter pares and in his life, England was the most affluent country in the world.
The guests entered the richly, wood panelled dining room two by two with elevated spirits, well lubricated from their pre-dinner sherries. Lady Glencora observed this degree of animation with satisfaction; the deep voices of the gentlemen and the high, tinkling laughter of their fair companions. Gowns of every colour filled the spaces; gems of every stone added adornment, emphasising the sartorial contrast of the escorts in severe black and white compared with their ladies, wrapped in the rustling folds of eye-catching skirts. Later, their pursuit of pleasure would know no bounds, with desire flowing like an agitating current just below the surface.
Against the white linen, so elegant in its drawn thread work even on the napkins, the cut glass goblets and silver flatware reflected light with a radiance that positively shimmered. This glassware so exquisite, when touched, its delicate rim would continue to reverberate with pleasing harmonics. The opulent assortment of cutlery, chafing and serving dishes on the huge side boards, generated an air of expectancy which could only add to the heady promise of a fascinating evening ahead.
The number for dinner had swollen to twenty-four, but the dimensions of this room were more than adequate to cope and each guest sought their place card and took the offered seat in excited anticipation.
* * *
“I say Eustace your black stallion looks to be a fine, mettlesome beast. He’ll take some handling, I’ll warrant.”
“We’re still getting to know one another, Theodore. Today worked well for both of us.”
“What time for the battue, tomorrow? I hope you’ll give a chap a bit of a sleep-in.”
“You’ll be all right, Condon. I’ve called Higgins for ten-thirty. We’ll make lunch at one-thirty. Anyone who has to get away in the afternoon will have more than enough time.”
Fish platters were being served and everyone looked comfortable. At last Lady Glencora felt she could relax. She had kept Nigella close to her end of the table, on the opposite side, a good distance from those who could be likely to raise comment. However, she had already detected a few discreet glances directed her way.
At the other end of the table, she was happy to note that Mona and Myles Stafford-Clarke were in constant animation. He was a likeable young man. She and Lady Arial, his mother, had come out together. They had moved in overlapping circles, including Ascot and Lords, for enough years for her to know that Ramona would be well taken care of. The only drawback was that Myles was one of the younger sons. Still, she was sure Eustace would settle a handsome dowry to make up for that. For herself, she rather favoured Lord Sedgewick Knowlesworthy. A pity he could not attend tonight. Eustace liked him and he had the right pedigree. He was the eldest son of the Earl of Ettington and still available. The drawback was his age, possibly too mature for Ramona? Continuing her ruminations, she speculated it was strange he had not yet been married. Both his siblings were already well established. Lord Mansfield had better see to it soon or else tongues will wag. But there was no doubt he did have style.
Another sigh escaped her. Marrying off daughters was such a complicated business. Perhaps she should be more charitable to her parents. It could not have been easy between herself and Eleanor, but they had managed pretty well. Eleanor was now Countess Granville. She had married new money, one of the titles bestowed by Queen Victoria. She had raised over three hundred men with financial and industrial interests, to the peerage before she died. Again the Broadhursts had been able to take advantage of their daughters’ alliances to help restore their fortunes. Poor Ellie, for all that, she still had the machinations of the marriage market ahead of her just like the rest of them.
She regarded her end of the table once more. Reverend Jobling was a reliable trooper. He was dividing his time between the Dowager and Nigella very successfully, as she had been sure he would. Nigella looked to be in transports, not saying much, but obviously absorbed in all that was going on. Her temperament could be daunting at times, but really she was a delightful child.
The young chef was renowned for his lobster salad which would be next. It had required the row of nine hen-lobsters which she had not thought ever to find, but Mrs Aldred had done sterling work. However, the piece-de-resistance would be Monsieur Arnoud’s coq-au-vin. He was able to cook birds of increasing size, one inside the other, like the little folk dolls from Russia. He had assured her that no guest would be left unimpressed by such a feat.
Nigella was having a wonderful evening. She was beginning to put a face to the names she had heard many times. It was funny; the ladies looked older than she had expected, except of course for Mona’s friend Phyllida, the Honourable Lady Stockwell. The gentlemen were like Papa, rather stiff and very formal, but not Lionel Shoebridge, he was perfect.
They had just savoured a spectacular roast venison and she did not think she could consume another mouthful when polite applause erupted. A large silver platter was borne aloft by a footman bearing a magnificent fowl. Decoratively surrounded by pumpkin quarters interspersed with mange tout and sprinkled over with shaved truffles, it was obvious Monsieur Arnoud had been at great pains to select only the most delicate flavours which would not dominate his wine sauce. As the guests were being served, she came to realise that the gentlemen were taking over the conversation, their voices more assertive; booming almost.
“Have you noticed how out of step Balfour is these days?” Sir Roland Fairweather asked, finally putting down his fork.
“The Liberal landslide of ’06 was not only a massive defeat for the Tories, but it changed the whole mood and membership of Parliament,” Sir Eustace replied.
“How’s that?” queried Myles, who was just now beginning to take an interest in the daily proceedings of the House.
“Well, in the old days, the aristocrats and members of the great mercantile families, men of public spirit, thought of Parliament as a calling … not a job,” Sir Edward supplied with undisguised censure.
“Yes, remember how Campbell-Bannerman used to dismiss Balfour as of no consequence, despite his great legislative achievements. Parliament is now a place of work,” Sir Gerald Fitzsimmons responded, disparagingly. His face creased in a scowl as he added: “Now working men sit on the government benches.”
“Campbell-Bannerman’s resignation and Herbert Henry Asquith stepping into his shoes – we’re going to have a real fight on our hands.” Sir Eustace breathed in and out slowly and delivered with a sneer: “He’s sympathetic to this new Labour.”
“Indeed, fifty-three members of the House call themselves ‘Labour’,” Ambrose denounced, keen to show support to his Pater.
“Balfour may be a brilliant scholar and the most influential Tory we have, but he personifies the dedicated dilettante,” Sir Roland persisted, a grim expression pulling his lips tight. “If the Conservatives are to regain the reins of power, he will have to change his outlook. Time has moved on and in this new century there’s no room to behave as though politics is a gentleman’s pastime.”
“Look, Fairweather, the British economy is strong. We’re still the world’s major economic power. It’s our tramp ships sailing from port to port. We pick up cargo throughout the Empire,” Sir Eustace was moved to point out, shrugging his massive shoulders.
Peter Kefford, one of the invited industrialists whom Lady Patchford had discovered owned a brewery in Birmingham, could see it was time a more modern note was sounded. “But it’s not expanding at the rate of our competitors, Germany for example. Its growing might is being anxiously followed by the Admiralty. There’s no doubt, they’ve started a race for supremacy on the high seas,” he stated bluntly, concern shadowing his eyes.
If they were about to embark on this subject, Lady Glencora was relieved there were no German accents at the table tonight. With King Edward’s accession, minor and major German aristocracy were to be heard everywhere. One could hardly attend any social function these days without having to struggle through some form of grotesque mangling of the English language. Silently, she congratulated herself on her fluency in French; she had a good ear.
Now they were onto a subject dear to Myles’ heart and it gave him a chance to remind the gentlemen of the launching of HMS Dreadnaught. “Don’t forget, the facilities at the dockyard in Portsmouth are in a class of their own,” he stated boldly. “Dreadnaught is powered by steam turbines and can carry a crew of 800. Yes, Germany is a threat, but the Huns won’t be able to beat that!”
“Well said, my boy,” Sir Eustace encouraged. “And don’t forget too, we have the greatest armoury the world has ever seen right here in Sheffield. Vickers leads the way in the manufacture of every type of war material, from the largest naval projectile to the bullet of a rifle.”
James Reed, an associate of Mr. Kefford’s felt impelled to lend support to his friend’s point of view. “Remember gentlemen, it was only four years ago that Germany built its first Unterseeboot. We have not yet matched that technology. Do we have sufficient expertise to counter that, if threatened?”
The challenge was undoubtedly aggressive. Delivered in his broad, brummy accent it also sounded out of place. For his troubles, he received several haughty, even angry glances. Unmoved, he maintained a steady gaze and continued: “Since the Boer War opened our eyes to the deplorable physical state of our nation, I think there has been a marked cooling on the Imperialist attitudes of the Tories.”
Kefford was emboldened to speak out. “I don’t see our Empire as being the source of national pride it once was. I see a greater concern for consolidation and defence.”
Sir Roland had seen this coming and looked about, his bushy eyebrows raised: “Yes, we’re back to what seems to be, at the moment, that insurmountable dichotomy of Imperial preference versus free trade.”
Lady Dyllis was impatient to have her say and the Ashcrofts were not ones to hold back. “Add to that Roly, all over the country, working men and women are beginning to agitate for a greater share of the wealth we generate.” Her rejoinder was sharp. “I fear we’re moving into an age of social and economic revolution.” That should give them something other than Empire to think about, she thought self-righteously.
Kefford, in his interaction with the men at the brewery could endorse this view. “Our degree of prosperity has reached a point where most working men and women have enough to eat. A substantial section of the working class, conservative voters included, are no longer willing to be ruled as they were … unquestioningly.” He stopped and surveyed the faces that surrounded him. He had their attention and continued with asperity: “They want to play some part in determining their own destiny. This industrial unrest is more the result of changing attitudes, rather than ‘not enough brass in pocket’.”
An unexpected voice came from the far end of the table. “Perhaps our survival as a world power requires a better educated working class?”
All heads turned and stared at the speaker. A miscellany of expressions, from affronted pique to amused indulgence, were directed at the Honourable Lady Nigella.
Lady Glencora was horrified. Tension was making her head ache as she felt the dark weight of the situation settle, physically crushing her. How could she? Nigella had allowed herself to be carried away by the debate, despite her strict injunctions. Her damask napkin had been wrung to a rope as her expression became one of the severest disapproval. A silent admonition was telegraphed: Speak no more – there will be consequences from this.
Now everyone was paying Lady Nigella close attention, just the very circumstance she had prayed to avoid. Heads were nodding together; seeds of doubt were being sewn. It was all too awful and her nerves could not stand this torment. She would have to settle this. Make Nigella understand she was not a free agent. There were rules.
Sir Eustace however, was willing to tolerate his daughter – to a degree. Ah, the ideologies of the young, what do they know? Rather vague and immensely optimistic. She’ll learn.
“Come now Nigella, don’t tell me you want to make this the century of the common man?” He looked about him, a dismissive smirk to his patrician features. This time she did not respond, only set her eyes to her plate, feeling her face hot with embarrassment. The criticism had stung. If Papa reproved her then her deflation was total.
But she had been so impressed by the precepts of ‘Guild Socialism’. These were the new credos of thoughtful people, rebelling against the old complacencies. The ideals, advocated by luminaries of distinction like Bernard Shaw, H. G. Wells and Hilaire Belloc. Yes, their sentiments were to the left, but they promoted hope for a reformed society. She too, liked the concept of giving absolute self-government to the producers themselves. She thought it was for the good that these free thinkers would abolish paternalism in industry. Half way through Edward Morgan Forster’s A Room with a View, she had not expected to be too involved, but to her surprise had found herself enlivened by the stir and provocation of his ideas. How could Papa dismiss them so cavalierly? This publication had arrived on the literary scene only last year. Wasn’t everyone still discussing it? She wanted to be a part of this eager enthusiasm. Was that wrong?
Lord Bromley jerked forward, his shoulders rigid: “It has already started Eustace. Trade Unionists, Irish Nationalists and these new-fangled Suffragists, or whatever they’re called, are all campaigning with renewed vigour for what they regard as their ‘natural rights’. If we don’t pay heed, I fear we could be in for some sort of national strike.” He had felt the threat of these new ideologies for some time. “This could lead to a political revolution.”
“I say, Virgo, don’t you th-think th-that’s taking it a bit to-too far?” Condon Fitzpatrick protested, his stutter reappearing in his alarm.
“Let’s not forget gentlemen, this Home Rule business has raised its ugly head once more. Gladstone’s Bill in 1886 did not get up, due to a split in his party and the fierce resistance of the Ulster Protestants. The same could happen again, since it’s the majority population in Ulster that has the stronger voice.
James Reed knew it was stating the obvious, but believed it needed to be brought out. “Since Asquith and David Lloyd-George rule over a minority government, they cannot afford to lose the support of the Irish Nationalist politicians. What choice do they have?”
This was getting all too much for Sir Eustace. Temper flared up his already flushed cheeks and his fist banged the table. “We must stand firm against these onslaughts. We have withstood them in the past and we can do so again.” The guests could feel the discussion had gone far enough for their host, but without resolution these topics would still be aired a few times more.
“Ah dessert,” Lady Glencora announced with relief. Everything would become light-hearted again when the men smoked and relaxed with a brandy, or their whiskey. A few rubbers of bridge would settle the ruffled feathers. She was going to end Nigella’s evening with the meal’s termination. However, she would not speak to her until after the guests had left tomorrow. She believed that sleeping on it would do her no harm.