It was another perhaps foolish whim of mine, having seen the world below stairs, to leave via the circular entrance hall, its height enhanced by the domed ceiling. Inside one had no sense of how inappropriate it seemed from the outside; all was elegance, indeed grandeur. I was halfway across, the footman hovering there ready to throw open the grand front doors, when I realized that my hat remained wherever young Maggie had hung it when I arrived. I could easily have walked back. But the footman would have thought the less of me if I had. Having despatched him on this most trivial of errands, I wandered round, looking at the portraits decking the walls. Had they been more easily visible under their years of accrued grime – I must be able to find an expert capable of cleaning them properly – perhaps they would have been impressive, though personal beauty did not seem to be part of the Croft inheritance.
Raised voices were so out of place here that I felt it was my business to see what was going on. But the echo that characterized the hall baffled my ears – were the shouts coming from the top of the double staircase, or from the dining hall corridor? It was a man’s voice I heard most of, then the higher tones of a woman. Frustratingly the echo distorted them even more than the bass notes; try as I might I could not positively identify the participants in what seemed a very unpleasant argument. Surely they could not be his lordship’s and his mother’s? But here was the footman – Broomfield? – back with my hat. It would not do for me to ask him what was going on.
When I had agreed to show Mrs Faulkner the work on the nearest part of the estate, I had forgotten about my appointment with the rector, whose belief in the perils of drink had clearly not endeared him to Mr Bowman. If I rode to the rectory, and if I cut short discussion of what I had to say, I should not be late. I told Luke to have Esau brought round.
One of the no fewer than six servants I encountered at the rectory took Esau to the stables. Six! And no doubt more unseen below stairs. My parents would have been either amused or enraged at such pretension in a bachelor man of the cloth.
The Reverend Theophilus Pounceman received me in his study, with a handshake fit to break my fingers; clearly he was a believer in muscular Christianity. He gestured me to sit opposite him as he retreated behind his extremely handsome desk. I did so, laying my papers between us. He must be roughly my age, in his mid-thirties. Like me he was a bachelor. Tall, broad-shouldered and handsome, with the most flourishing of lamb-chop whiskers, he surged through life as St George might have done, looking for a dragon to slay – but not perhaps for a maiden’s sake; I had a constant sense that no woman would ever be good enough for him. In one or two of his sermons he had been so disparaging about what he called ‘the weaker sex’ that I had had to point out after the service that more than half his congregation were women, who between them did a great deal of good, however poor they might be.
‘You have come about my plans,’ he said, observing the rolls of paper.
I bowed, without irony, I trust, at his swift deduction of the obvious. ‘Yes. About Stammerton.’
‘St Stephen’s,’ he said in a tone of patient correction.
Stammerton was a sad huddle of farm labourers’ dwellings scarce deserving of the term cottages. His late lordship had accepted Pounceman’s proposal that the workers should have their own church nearer to where they lived; in Mr Pounceman’s mind, it was clearly already dedicated to the first martyr. On face value, a new place of worship was a very generous idea, but I could not see why a building for the worship of the Almighty should have such lowly ambitions. It was to be built in the least desirable location in the village, with steep steps leading from a lych-gate to the rather perfunctory porch. The building itself was a simple rectangle, with a tiny bell-tower a couple of feet high, and a roof that reminded me of nothing more than a barn. At best, the edifice recalled the humblest non-conformist chapels, whose plainness reflected less the spiritual aspirations than the sheer poverty of the community devoted enough to erect it.
It was only as I opened my mouth to condemn the meagreness of the design that Pounceman’s opening words took on any significance. My plans. Could it truly be he wanted such a dismal little place? Could he really believe it would raise hearts and minds heavenwards?
‘I am interested to see what can be done about the whole of Stammerton, including, of course, the church,’ I said. ‘I see that his late lordship was prepared to be very generous and I am sure that his heir will honour his commitments.’ He almost certainly would if I blithely assured him that his father had agreed the expenditure was necessary. ‘Those apologies for cottages – leaking roofs, earth floors, shared stinking privies – they must and shall be improved, replaced, for preference. Imagine it, Pounceman: two or three tidy rows of decent houses, all with pumps and privies, and each with a decent-sized garden. Or perhaps small cottage gardens, with allotments within easy walking distance, might be preferable.’
Despite my passion – perhaps because of it – his face was impassive. I was implying a criticism, to be sure, but in his place I would have been more enthusiastic. A moment’s reflection would have told him that he was dealing not with the old lord and his lickspittle agent, but with the new lord and his equally new but very eager representative.
‘My interest is the villagers’ spiritual lives,’ he declared grandly.
I bowed. My grandfather had taught me a variety of such movements. With a flex of his spine he could denote any emotion from gratitude to cold anger. I trust that my inclination showed a polite acquiescence but a hint that I did not consider the matter closed. ‘Of course.’ Grandpapa would have nodded approval if he’d heard the wealth of meaning behind those two syllables.
But Pounceman seemed to have accepted them at face value. ‘I assume you are here to tell me when building can begin.’
Grandpapa would have applauded my ambiguous smile. ‘I am here to ask if you might want to make any amendments to the design. Architects do not always put on paper what we who commission them actually envision.’
‘But you mentioned cottages and goodness knows what else.’
‘So I did. Let me show you.’ I unrolled another sheet of paper. ‘This is how the village is now, with the new church here.’ I pointed. ‘This is what I sketched out the other day – I hope you will forgive its amateurishness. I thought that in addition to the houses I mentioned we might turn that patch of mangled grass into a village green, with – why not? – a dew-pond for ducks just here. I would hope there is enough space for a game of cricket.’ I might not share my father’s somewhat extreme view that the fact that English gentlemen played cricket in the same teams as their hired hands prevented an English Revolution to match the French one, but I certainly knew from my own experience that the summer game enhanced the spirit as well as the body of those involved. ‘Decidedly a school, with a house for the master or mistress.’ My grandfather had changed village life when he had appointed a teacher; Stammerton deserved nothing less.
‘Surely that is not necessary.’
‘Reading and writing, Pounceman!’
‘And what might they read? The scurrilous notion that we are cousins to chimpanzees? Never.’
‘There are other things to learn,’ I said mildly, feeling that discussion of the eminent Mr Darwin’s theory would not be fruitful. The information that my father regularly corresponded with him would certainly not be.
‘Of course. And these children could learn them at Sunday school when not required elsewhere.’
‘They could, if there were one. But – correct me if I am wrong – there is no Sunday school here in Thorncroft, though there must be sufficient demand.’
‘Do you not recall the words of the charming children’s poem, sir?’ – I did not like his smile as he recited it – ‘“The rich man in his castle, The poor man at his gate, God made them high and lowly, And ordered their estate.”’
‘I do not recall reading those words in the Bible,’ I said repressively. ‘But back to the matter in hand. The village plan. Why not – forgive me, my dear Pounceman – why not place the church here, where it would add its benign presence to the village at all times? A clock on its tower. Some trees which would grow to provide comfortable shade—’
‘And where will the poor, benighted men and women worship while all these castles in Spain are built?’ he demanded.
‘Why, here, of course. Here in Thorncroft. As they have done for generations.’ If not, I had tacitly to admit, in great numbers.
‘Here? Amidst all the gentlefolk? No, Mr Rowsley, I venture to suggest that you fail to understand the dangers of envy. Think of Chartism. Think of Peterloo, of the Swing Rebellion, of the Tolpuddle Martyrs – we do not want their like here!’
‘Indeed we do not. This is why I contend that we need to attend to the bodily as well as the spiritual needs of these people. Pounceman, I have sprung all this upon you. Pray, cast your eyes – cast your mind! – on my poor scribbles and see what the future could be, in as little as five years perhaps.’ I got to my feet, picking up my hat. ‘I regret I cannot continue our discussion now. I have another appointment.’
Mrs Faulkner appeared wearing not a bonnet to conceal her face but a flattish, wide-brimmed hat, which somehow offset the spread of her crinoline. She did not demur when I offered to carry one of the two baskets she had filled with necessities for the Kenton family. She handed me the heavier one, from which the neck of the bottle of port protruded. Hers contained linen and knitted garments, she said.
I noticed something else. ‘Will the baby need tops and whips?’ I asked quizzically, but genuinely confused.
‘No, to be sure – but it seems to me that Kenton’s other children may not view the new arrival with unalloyed pleasure, and to have a new toy may distract them. Everyone will coo over the baby, but few will talk to the children.’
‘Do I gather,’ I asked with a smile, ‘that that will be my role?’
‘If you are prepared to take it on, Mr Rowsley. Now,’ she added, adjusting her shawl, ‘since both baskets are heavy, shall we deliver them before you show me the alterations to the grounds?’
‘An excellent plan, Mrs Faulkner. Now, in view of what you said about toys, might my gifts include bats and balls?’
She beamed. ‘They might indeed!’
Half an hour later, having distributed the gifts and promised more, we set out again, approaching the lake. It was so pleasant in the sun that I had forgotten the shouting incident I had overheard earlier. Introducing the topic out of the blue might give it more importance than it merited, and might also reduce me to the status of a common gossip. I realized that I must bide my time.
‘Where do you put all the waste?’ Mrs Faulkner asked, pointing at a cart being loaded with the dripping, stinking sludge from the bottom of the lake.
‘It will be added to compost heaps all round the estate. Some people like to apply it direct to the soil – in fields, for example, where the odour will not offend.’
‘Unless you live near them, of course.’
‘Indeed! However, I was taught that it is advisable to mix it with other rotting matter, such as dead leaves and even the waste from the kitchens, so that is now the practice I observe. The sludge will stay in the heaps for months, in some cases years – at least until everything smells sweet and, if you run it through your hands, you find it light and friable. If you can tell what it once comprised, it is too soon to use it.’
‘You will need a lot of compost heaps!’
‘We have them. At present many are just piles of dead leaves, which take a long time to rot down, so the sludge will be a boon.’
‘And there is so much if it!’ She waved away a sudden gust of the foul miasma. ‘So soon his lordship will be able to sail – or at least row – down here.’
‘He will have company. The lake must have been sadly neglected for years; the men have found no fish to speak of, so I propose to restock it. With carp.’
She raised her hands in mock horror. ‘Dear me, I have never found a cook or chef capable of making the wretched fish even barely palatable. Yet they say it used to be a popular dish. Did I not read that monasteries relied on carp ponds?’
I had never expected the study of history to be part of a housekeeper’s leisure. Yet I rebuked myself immediately. My dear mama was as widely read as most of my masters at Harrow, and, I suspect, far shrewder in her understanding. ‘Perhaps it was part of their determination to make life as harsh and unappealing as possible!’
‘A culinary hair-shirt, perhaps?’
‘Precisely,’ I agreed with a smile. ‘So if Mrs Arden is in agreement, I think I shall encourage the notion that many fishermen seem to have, that it is wrong to eat carp, so they must immediately be thrown back whence they came.’
Laughing, we walked on, heading gently towards the former meadow. ‘Of all his lordship’s improvements,’ I said, ‘in the grounds at least, this is the one that gives me most pleasure. My father was a very keen player, like his father before him. Whenever he was unhappy or in doubt, he would oil his cricket bat. I suspect he still keeps it for that purpose even today.’
‘And you, Mr Rowsley? Can we look forward to applauding you as you stride out to the wicket?’
‘It will be the only applause I get, while I hold a bat. But put a ball in my hand and I would hope to acquit myself better.’
Her gaze dropped, as if she was looking into the past. At last she smiled. ‘Once, when I was very young, I had to learn to bowl. The eldest son of the house where I was then employed fancied himself a master batsman in the making. One of my duties – I know not how it came about – was to spend hours bowling for him.’
‘Indeed! Like the great Christiana Willes!’
‘You have heard of her!’ For a moment her face was beautiful with joy. Then it closed again, as she resumed her anecdote. ‘Eyebrows were raised, of course, by both my employers and my fellow servants, until an enthusiastic house guest, who also wanted to practise, asked if I was related to the great Miss Willes, at which point my credit and indeed my wages went up!’ Her smile waxed and swiftly waned. ‘But indeed, Mr Rowsley, I would be grateful if I might ask, in confidence, for your advice on a very delicate matter.’
‘In my experience, simply listening to the problem is often better than giving advice,’ I said quietly. I stopped and turned to her.
‘I would welcome both. I am anxious about Maggie.’
‘The plump little maid?’
‘Exactly. I have spoken to Mrs Arden, who is, I think, inclined to think I am worrying unnecessarily. But she has been weeping a lot recently – though she claims she’s suffering from a summer cold; if she is, it has been going on for a long time. I have asked her – because with girls that age, one always fears the worst! – but she insists, “They always puff up my eyes, Mrs Faulkner, ma’am. And put me off my food something shocking”.’
‘Yet she appears to be blooming – rosy cheeks, pretty hair. I should imagine half the footmen are in love with her.’
‘Exactly,’ she said dryly.
‘Does she have a particular follower?’ I was reluctant to spell out the problem more clearly, lest I embarrass her.
‘There’s young Harry Kenton, who has been sweet on her for months. But it seems to me that she’s cooled towards him, as if someone has told her she could do better. I’ve not seen her exchange so much as a glance with any of the indoor staff, or self-consciously look away from any of them either, which is more significant than a smile, in my book.’
‘Who does that leave? One of young Harry’s fellow labourers? Someone she met in church? Surely not: those horrible bonnets her ladyship insists on for all the maids keep them as close as Quakers and mean there’s little possibility of a chance encounter there. A tradesman delivering to the door?’
‘No: it’s only Mrs Arden’s kitchen staff who would have a chance to meet and flirt with a butcher’s lad, and when they call young Maggie would be busy making beds and dusting the Family’s rooms.’ She stopped abruptly as one of the workmen marched over.
‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ he began, ‘but it’s the sludge.’
‘We will discuss this tomorrow, Partridge,’ I declared curtly.
‘But Gaffer—’
‘I can see the matter is urgent.’ With a slight curtsy, Mrs Faulkner excused herself and was gone.
As Partridge spoke, his attention to minutiae as pedantic as any schoolmaster’s, I speculated. If poor Maggie had been betrayed, could it be one of the young gentlemen that his lordship used to bring along, before his father’s illness and death put a stop to that? No: that would be too long ago. And now of course the House was in mourning, with no guests. Should I speak to his lordship? Not without Mrs Faulkner’s express permission. In any case, he was what my old nurse would have called a hey-go-mad young man, throwing his money at any scheme that took his fancy. I could not imagine him to be interested in moral problems. As for her ladyship, it was a brave person who tried to make her speak on any topic she had not chosen.