IT WAS HER first morning at Easterleigh Hall. Monday, the day the miners hated. The clock chimed on the wall of the corridor outside Evie’s bedroom. It was 5 a.m. and she’d barely closed her eyes, so worried had she been that she’d not hear the corridor clock chime the time and not be down to light the range furnace at five thirty. Annie was still asleep, the blanket pulled up around her head. She had put her two shawls over the bed for extra warmth, just as Evie had done.
Evie lay quite still listening for the noises of the house. There were none. At home in her box room she would have heard coughs from the men’s bedrooms, a stirring from her mother downstairs, the barking of a dog further along the terrace. A sense of loss drenched her, but she had no time for that.
She crept to the washing bowl, the wooden floor like ice. She’d bring one of her mam’s proggy mats and let Mrs Green try and stop her. She poured in bitterly cold water from the jug which she’d lugged up last night. It was midnight before she’d finished clearing the kitchen with Annie, but what did that matter when her clear soup had been acceptable, and her vegetable-chopping adequate, or so Mrs Moore had said with a smile before retiring to her room further along the corridor from the servants’ hall.
The clock chimed five fifteen, by which time she was washed and dressed. She’d left her corset looser than was thought desirable, but she couldn’t see the point of agony. She dragged on her boots, tied her hessian apron, then shook Annie. ‘Come on, lass, time to get up and at ’em.’
Annie groaned. ‘In a minute. It’s your job to get the furnace going, not mine. So get it going.’ She turned over, her face puffy from tiredness and her light brown hair a bird’s nest.
Downstairs Evie hurried into the kitchen and mice scuttled in all directions. She froze, but within a few seconds they’d disappeared. ‘Darned beggars.’ She hated them, always had, always would. She dared the furnace to misbehave, though Mrs Moore had said it would be fine if there was a brisk wind to draw it. And when wasn’t there hereabouts, even in the valley? Dropping to her knees, she cleared the ash into the buckets left by Kev the hallboy. She heard him coming in from outside with the coal. He slept in the bell corridor on an apology for a bed, but had told her yesterday evening that one day he’d be a butler, and he’d show his beggar of an uncle in Consett who’d wanted him in the steelworks.
‘Here’s your kindling too, Evie.’ He had not washed, or if he had the coal had worked its magic and left its usual coating. Paper and kindling laid, she carefully placed the coal, finding the familiar smell comforting. What was more, it was top grade, not a trace of shale anywhere. She opened the flue, lit the paper and prayed.
Kev laughed. ‘You don’t need that sort of help, the wind’s fierce today.’
Annie said from behind, ‘He’s right, you know. It’ll go like the clappers.’
Kev disappeared back into the bell corridor to clean the shoes, all twenty or so pairs of them including those of the upper servants. Annie had soaked the blacklead for the ranges overnight, and they worked until Evie’s hair was sweat-soaked. Finally the ranges gleamed, but not as much as Evie’s mam’s. ‘They’ll do,’ Annie groaned. ‘Old Moore can’t see too well, even with her glasses.’
They tackled the fender with emery paper and by then their hands were sore and smudged, their nails torn. At Miss Manton’s, Susan from Hawton had sculleried for her and Evie realised just how lucky she’d been. The kettle was boiling and it was time for biscuits and tea for Mrs Green, Mr Harvey, and Mrs Moore.
As instructed, Evie left the sustenance on the occasional table in both Mrs Green’s sitting room and Mr Harvey’s parlour, which was opposite Mrs Moore. She tapped lightly on the cook’s parlour door, and put her tea and biscuit on her table. It was a nice room but cold, with a fireplace laid but unlit, and photographs on the wall. Evie glanced at these as she headed for the bedroom. She saw a young woman who must have been Miss Manton sitting in a garden, alone, smiling into the camera. She radiated joy.
Evie kicked something as she was about to knock on the bedroom door. It was an empty gin bottle. Mrs Moore had asked her to make sure she knocked long and hard. She left the bottle where it was, because to move it would show that she knew. She knocked again, and again. At last she heard Mrs Moore call, ‘Enough. I’m awake. Leave the tea, get out. Just go. Get out.’
She went, wanting to bang the door shut on the canny old witch, but did not.
Evie checked her list of ‘things to do’. Some of the copper pans had been left from the night before, though Mrs Moore had written that they should not be. Annie had already started on them in the bitter cold of the scullery and Evie rushed in, dipping into the mixture of silver sand, salt and vinegar and starting to rub the largest, gasping at the stinging of her raw flesh. ‘Quick, she’s awake and not happy.’
Annie looked up at her, her face still puffy, a Woodbine hanging from her mouth. ‘Never is in the morning. Don’t know why, except I’m not either. She’s got a touch of the rheumatics is all. No need to make such a do of it, is there. Don’t worry, she’ll be half an hour yet and by then she’ll expect this kitchen to be on the way to being perfect, with the table laid up. But that’s your job, not bloody mine. How it can all be done just by us two I don’t bloody well know.’ Her ash dropped into the pan, her cigarette clung to her bottom lip. How could she talk with it in her mouth? The same way Jack and his marras did.
They worked on, and any skin on their hands that had survived was soon as raw as the rest. Evie felt the stinging right up through her arms as far as her eyebrows. Nonetheless, by the time Mrs Moore appeared the pans were hung up on the hooks and gleamed enough to satisfy the pickiest of souls. But not Mrs Moore. ‘They’re a disgrace, take ’em down again and finish them properly and stoke up that furnace, for God’s sake. And I’ll expect them to be cleaned every time we use them today.’ She had the same frown that Jack had after a night at the pub, the same faint tremble of the hands, and that smell.
She slumped down on her stool. ‘We need the porridge ready for the staff, don’t you forget that, Evie, and I’ll have more tea. Miss Donant, the lady’s maid, will be in hotfoot for her bloody highness’s cuppa and then for Miss Veronica’s, and Archie will have to take up Mr Auberon’s now he’s home, so hoy that down to the butler’s pantry. God almighty, as though we don’t have enough to do. And this table isn’t laid properly. Get the ladle, or are you expecting Mrs Green to serve with her hands? But why haven’t you stoked up the furnace, or is there something wrong with your lugs? Didn’t I say sort it? Let’s get some proper heat.’ As Mrs Moore spoke she was flexing her hands, moving her shoulders, and her face was creased with more than a hangover. Pain was too mild a word. Well, Evie thought, flexing her own hands. Well, what about my pain?
She exchanged a look with Annie. Mrs Moore eased her back, rolled her shoulders more gently and glanced at Evie. ‘Come on our lass, pour me a cuppa and ignore me for the moment. I’m sorry my pets, grumpy old woman, I am.’ There was sweat beading her forehead as she sat.
Evie lifted the teapot, wincing at the pressure on her raw hands, and for a moment paused, her eyes fixed on Mrs Moore’s swollen knuckles, and her heart ached for her. ‘You’ve a right, I’d kick every cat in sight and so would Annie if I had your rheumatics.’
Annie mouthed, ‘Stop buttering up the old hag.’
Evie poured Mrs Moore’s tea, shovelled more coal into the huge furnace. Within moments the heat had upped enough degrees to ease a million joints, but as Evie looked more closely at the cook she saw what she had not seen before. It was not just pain, but fear. Evie remembered how she had felt on Saturday when she thought her da had lost his job. What would happen to Mrs Moore if she lost hers? Perhaps she could live with Miss Manton, or would it be the workhouse? Evie shook herself back into the moment. It wasn’t going to happen; she, Evie Forbes, would not let it.
She put the kettles on to boil for the upstairs tea. Along the corridor between the kitchen and the servants’ hall Lil was rushing towards the broom cupboard, tucking her hair into her cap. Archie and James, the footmen, were heading off towards the butler’s pantry where Evie should by now have taken Mr Auberon’s tea. Well, she couldn’t do everything and kettles didn’t boil while you watched them.
Annie had taken down the copper pans again, and was banging about in the scullery. Evie joined her, out came the mixture, along with the elbow grease, scouring their hands again as much as the copper while Annie’s curses accompanied them.
‘The kettles have boiled, so make that tea for Mr Auberon now, Evie, if you please.’ Mrs Moore stood in the scullery door, her tone soft. Evie did so, and carried the tray to the butler’s pantry. Young Archie nodded, his face one big scowl that leaked into his shoulders. In fact his whole being was crunched up into one big sulk. ‘Afternoon tea, is it, for heaven’s sake?’ He raced off with the tray while Evie hurried back to the kitchen, wanting to kick him up the backside.
Miss Donant was there, by the kitchen table, tapping her foot, her hair immaculate, her face scrubbed clean, her mouth pursed into a sparrow’s bum. ‘I need that tea, now. This minute. Her Ladyship shouldn’t have to wait.’
Mrs Moore was studying her recipe book and without looking up said, ‘If there’s a problem then suggest to her Ladyship she reviews the employment policy, if you wouldn’t mind.’ Miss Donant’s mouth pursed tighter still as Evie provided the tea, wanting to pour it over her head and to do the same to her Ladyship. ‘I’ll return for Lady Veronica’s,’ snapped Miss Donant. She swept from the kitchen.
So it went on until Evie and Annie had finished the pans, Evie had prepared Lady Veronica’s tray, and both had swept the stone floor clear of mouse droppings, and then scrubbed it. It hurt Evie’s pride as much as her knees. She rushed to collect up knives, spoons, ladles, bowls, plates, and checked everything against the list. They matched, heaven be praised.
She flicked a clean hessian apron from the hooks on the back of the door whilst Annie took the other along the corridor to the laundry. Evie made porridge for the servants’ hall while Mrs Moore finished her tea, sitting on her stool with her back to the ranges, tapping her pencil against her teeth. At last she closed her recipe book and wrote up the lunch menu. At eight the house staff came down, having sorted the upstairs fires, and begun the brushing of the carpets. The dusting would continue during the upstairs breakfasts, along with all other chores that consumed the day.
Putting on clean white aprons, Evie and Annie spooned porridge into bowls for themselves and Mrs Moore, then lifted the huge earthenware pot and staggered into the servants’ hall, setting it down in front of Mrs Green as instructed. Evie, Annie and Mrs Moore sat around the deal table in the kitchen eating their porridge, and all the while Evie waited for Simon and the other under-gardeners to arrive, for they’d have to pass through the kitchen. They didn’t. Perhaps they cooked for themselves in the cottage? But they’d be back at lunchtime, surely?
Mrs Moore nodded at Evie. ‘Good porridge, no lumps.’ Annie grimaced. ‘Better than Charlotte’s, bloody hopeless she was.’
Mrs Moore tapped the table. ‘No need for language, thank you Annie. At least Charlotte was another pair of hands.’
Annie shook her head. ‘We can’t manage, Mrs Moore. We need another two girls, or get Edith back at least. Look at her smirking with the housemaids, silly cow. Can’t you do something? And anyway, you use language.’
Evie watched as Mrs Moore dug her spoon into her porridge again. ‘I do and I shouldn’t. So do what I say, not what I do. So less of the cow, Annie, less of your cheek and yes, I can do something, but at the right moment. Remember that, girls, you go in at the right moment. Until then we have to manage.’ Mrs Moore’s colour was coming back, her hands had steadied but were still so swollen that Evie winced again on her behalf, and almost forgot her own stinging pain.
They had twenty minutes for breakfast, and then Annie and Evie collected the dishes from the servants’ hall and Annie set to in the scullery washing yet more pots, plates and cutlery, sinking her hands into the soda-rich water, the very thought of which made Evie want to hug the poor wee bairn. Meanwhile she and Mrs Moore cooked bacon and eggs, sausages, kidneys, finnan haddock. ‘We won’t do kedgeree but we’ll have to when his Lordship returns,’ Mrs Moore told her.
‘It’s a feast,’ Evie said, thinking of her family and those others in the village and all the pit villages around. ‘It is indeed,’ said Mrs Moore. ‘For just two people.’
‘Two?’
‘Yes, her Ladyship takes hers in her room, just a slice of toast and “I’ll keep my figure thank you very much”, but Lady Veronica takes hers in the dining room, as she’s not allowed the luxury of lounging about. That has to wait until she “comes out” and has done her duty by snagging a husband. Not to mention that we have Mr Auberon, so we have to fill the sideboard. Lady Veronica was happy with a kipper.’ Mrs Moore had some of her smile back now. ‘The lad’s been busy with the demon drink and too fruity with the cards, I gather. He’s wasted his father’s money and that is the number one sin for this family. Can’t say I blame him, poor him, poor Miss Veronica. They’ve been without their mother for so long, and then Miss Wainton, their nanny, who stayed on, died recently.’
Mrs Moore fell silent, her eyes filling. Kev brought in ice to replenish the icebox, clattering through the kitchen in his boots, then down the central passageway to the cool room. ‘Off you go, pet. Fetch bones from the icebox for stock.’ Evie did so before setting the stockpot on to the range and putting in water, bones, root vegetables and a small lump of salt. She then turned the bacon and tossed the kidneys, while Mrs Moore sniffed and sorted out the haddock and toast.
At eight thirty Mr Harvey, Archie and James took up the trays for the dining room and Evie set out the table again for Mrs Moore, who settled down on the stool and thumbed once more through her recipe book for dinner this evening, nodding towards the cupboards beneath the internal windows. ‘Fetch us the sieves from there. We’ll need them for luncheon, and the cutlery. Hurry up now.’ Evie found big long carving knives, small ones for fruit, palette knives, huge spoons, small spoons, and dug out sieves from the bottom cupboard. She placed the wire ones and the hated hair ones side by side. It was anything but a labour of love to force meat or fish through those. She added flour sifters, egg whisks, graters, and in between fed the furnace. It went on and on and Evie felt she’d run a million miles, for she was indeed running, not walking.
‘Draw breath, Evie,’ Mrs Moore said, pulling out the stool next to hers. ‘They won’t be back down with the dishes for twenty minutes at least, then you’ll have to start running again.’ She pushed across the lunch menu while she continued to leaf through her recipe book. ‘I said, sit down and have a look at these, they’ll do for luncheon, don’t you think? You get off and get herbs from Simon, Annie.’
Damn, Annie was getting Simon and she was left with clear soup, and what else? Ah, chicken in aspic and a cold dessert.
‘No fish course?’ Evie queried, her mind still on Simon.
Mrs Moore shook her head. ‘Five courses at dinner, only three for luncheon. It’s a different matter when they’re shooting, or have guests, or Lord Brampton is in residence, but we’ll sort that out when we come to it.’
Evie rested her elbows on the table but wanted to sink her head on to her arms and sleep for England, and the upstairs breakfasts weren’t even down yet. ‘Don’t the under-gardeners eat in the servants’ hall?’
Mrs Moore licked her finger and turned the page of her bible. Evie looked across at the chicken quenelles recipe Mrs Moore was perusing, and her heart sank. The hair sieves would have to come into play. But the page was turned and she sighed with relief and repeated, ‘Don’t the gardeners eat with us? And what happened to Miss Wainton?’
Mrs Moore placed her bible down carefully, looking out to the corridor. Evie followed her gaze, but there was no one there. Mrs Moore removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes. ‘Miss Wainton brought them up after their mother died. Lady Veronica was ten and Mr Auberon was twelve when that happened. It was before they bought Easterleigh Hall. The family made their money with the steelworks really, and a brickworks, and then bought into the collieries. Mrs Brampton was a lovely woman, they say. Kind, sensible and brought those children up to be decent people, or she would have done. She got it started, let’s say.’ Mrs Moore hesitated. ‘Now, don’t go tittle-tattling this all over the place, young Evie. I’m telling you because I know Miss Manton is a good judge of character.’
Evie touched Mrs Moore’s arm. ‘I won’t, I promise.’
‘Well, as I say, she died. Miss Wainton stayed on and really mothered the children. She came with the family to Easterleigh Hall when that jumped-up bully was made a lord. Can’t imagine what the Liberal Party was thinking of, but they say he gave them a big donation so that explains it. The Tories probably got his jumped-up measure and wouldn’t play his game when he was toadying up to them. It’s a disgrace, the sort of people who buy titles these days.’
Evie smiled. ‘I can see you really like this man.’
Mrs Moore grunted. ‘If I did I’d be the only one.’
Evie saw Mrs Green walking along the corridor from the stairs. Mrs Moore picked up the bible again and replaced her glasses. Evie fetched the chopping boards, saying quietly as Mrs Green opened the linen cupboard alongside the entrance to the servants’ hall, ‘Except for his present wife, presumably? Wives usually like their husbands, don’t they?’
Mrs Moore laughed so loudly that Mrs Green turned round, her arms full of linen. Mrs Moore ignored her and Mrs Green continued on her way. ‘You’ve a lot to learn, young Evie.’
‘Oh, didn’t you like your husband then?’ The moment the words were out Evie knew they should have stayed in.
‘A husband? Why would I want one of those? Not many men I could stomach looking at over the breakfast table day in and day out. All cooks are called Mrs. Don’t know why and don’t need to know why. No, this Lady Brampton is of the proper aristocracy and her family haven’t a bean. She followed her nose and it took her to Brampton’s trough. He wanted the kudos of marrying aristocracy so it’s a marriage made in heaven you could say, except she didn’t like Miss Wainton any more than did his Lordship, and when Mr Auberon went to university Lord Brampton gave the poor woman her cards. Last year it was. She . . . Well, she died. I miss her. She was my friend. The children lost their second mother and gained Lady Brampton. What a prize that must have been.’
Mrs Moore flexed her hands again and glanced at the clock over the dresser. It was nine fifteen. ‘They used to come down for a cuppa in the afternoon with Miss Wainton, but not when Lady Hoity-Toity was in residence. Sometimes they still do, but not often.’ Mrs Moore crossed her arms and hitched her bosom. ‘Now, have you finished the laying up? We have a lot to do. And no, the gardeners don’t eat here. They have a good plain cook from Hawton who cycles over to do for them in Southview Cottage, except when we have someone new, like you yesterday, for them to gawp at. And don’t go getting too stuck on one or you’ll be out of your job. No followers allowed.’
The trays were brought into the kitchen from upstairs and still Mrs Moore hadn’t told her how Miss Wainton died. Mrs Moore waved at the trays. ‘Throw the leftovers into the bucket for the pigs, and make a start on these dishes, pet, until Annie gets back. She’ll be chatting to the gardeners. Anything in trousers and she lights up, and I don’t mean cigarettes, though she’ll likely be having a Woodbine an’ all.’ Mrs Moore wiped her hands across her apron.
Evie wanted to run out and haul Annie back, well away from Simon, but took the trays into the scullery, disposed of the food in the bins and ran hot water into the sink, something that she still could not get used to. At Miss Manton’s she had heated it on the range. In went the soda crystals, followed by her hands, and she winced but was glad because it took her mind off Simon, but just for a moment. Were his eyes on Annie’s, his hand on hers? What would it feel like to hold a man’s hand, to feel his mouth on hers? She shook her head and washed the plates and bowls first, and then the cutlery, determined to leave the pots until last, by which time wretched Annie should be back. She was, smelling of her cigarettes. She flounced into the scullery with a flea in her ear from Mrs Moore, replying, ‘Well, I wasn’t that long.’
Evie said nothing, just wiped her hands and left the scullery. She wanted to ask where she’d been but didn’t want to hear the answer. There was rosemary and sage on the table, and Mrs Moore stood near the door to the internal corridor with her arms akimbo, her face grim, listening to Mrs Green who was whispering in her ear. Finally, she nodded and Mrs Green left.
Mrs Moore swung round. ‘Evie, take all these things off the table and find a clean tablecloth from the cupboard drawer over there.’ She hurried to the table, closing her recipe book and brushing her apron smooth. ‘Be quick now, we have a visit from her Ladyship for which we must send up prayers of eternal gratitude.’ Her sarcasm could hardly have been thicker.
Evie just stared at all the knives, sieves, spoons and Uncle Tom Cobley and all. Off the table? Mrs Moore clapped her hands. ‘Come on, we can’t have anything that reminds upstairs of the frantic little legs paddling away to keep them gliding on their bonny lake. She’ll want to talk about a dinner party, it’s the only time she deigns to visit the bowels.’
Evie felt her stomach twist with nervousness. Her Ladyship? Here? Soon a pristine white cloth covered the scarred pine. ‘Evie, into the scullery with you now, and listen and learn how to get what you want. Did you hear that, Annie? Not a sound from either of you. Everyone else will stay out of the way until she’s been.’ Indeed, the corridor was deserted.
Annie and Evie silently dried up the dishes, leaving the door into the kitchen strategically ajar. Now they could see but not be seen. There was a brisk knock on the kitchen door and in her Ladyship swept in her elegant grey morning dress, her hair freshly dressed by Miss Donant. Evie and Annie stood quite still with the dishes and tea towels in their hands. Mrs Moore offered Lady Brampton the stool. She refused. Well, of course she would, Evie thought. She wouldn’t want to place that upper-class bum on something used by the servants.
Lady Brampton stood tall, but rested a hand on the tablecloth and looked at Mrs Moore’s forehead. ‘Now, Mrs Moore, his Lordship will have returned in just under two weeks, Saturday, and I just wanted to warn you personally that we have dinner guests on that same evening. I have a few ideas for a menu. It could be twenty-two, but at the moment it’s twenty. I have informed Mr Harvey that we’ll need all the leaves in the table and I will discuss flowers with him. I would like colour co-ordinated food – cream and white.’ She was speaking as though she was working her way down a list which only she could see.
Evie and Annie stared at one another. Colour co-ordinated food? Cream and white? For heaven’s sake, what next? Mrs Moore’s face was a picture and her bust impressive as she drew herself up to her full height, which slightly topped Lady Brampton’s. ‘That is perfectly all right in theory, Your Ladyship, but I would like to think you have not yet sent out the invitations because I cannot guarantee to be able to cater for fourteen guests, let alone twenty-two.’
There was an appalled silence. Evie felt her own jaw sag. Lady Brampton looked as though she had been slapped around her chops. ‘I beg your pardon, Mrs Moore? I don’t believe I heard you correctly.’
‘Let me repeat myself then. I cannot guarantee that we can any longer cater for fourteen guests . . .’
Lady Brampton gestured sharply. ‘Yes, I heard that. But I don’t understand.’
Mrs Moore crossed her arms and said firmly, ‘We should have two kitchen assistants and two scullery maids at the very least. We are without one scullery maid and have no kitchen assistant. I gather it is a question of cost. May I respectfully suggest that we cease importing provisions from Newcastle and Durham which require packaging and cartage costs and return instead to supporting the local co-operative store and the farmers, not to mention Home Farm whose task and duty it is to provide for the house, rather than concentrating on your London and Leeds establishments. To buy locally would not only be cheaper but the produce is fresh and good. It will also act as a symbol of support from Lord Brampton to the area. With the money we save we can pay for three more girls, which should suffice for now. This will facilitate any number of dinner parties.’
An even more appalled silence fell. Mrs Moore was sweating: it beaded her forehead, cheeks and chin. Evie hoped that this wonderful woman would hold her nerve in the face of her outraged employer, whose colour was high. Nothing was said now, not by either woman. But then, Lady Brampton spoke, her voice high and tight as though someone had stuck a pin in her bum. ‘Yes, very well, you will organise the change in delivery arrangements and discuss with Mrs Green and Mr Harvey your staff requirements, and be mindful that they must be in place by the end of April. I will approve two new staff, not three. One kitchen assistant only.’ She marched to the door and then stopped, turned. Evie held her breath. ‘I will expect exemplary food from this moment forth.’
‘You will receive exemplary food, Your Ladyship, as always. Colour co-ordinated for the dinner party.’
Lady Brampton swept from the room, clutching her skirts close in case she brushed against something or someone unpleasant. For Evie this was one of the best and most triumphant moments of her life, and proof that the lady of the house would do anything to keep a cook who created exemplary food. Annie nudged her and they grinned. Annie whispered, ‘Better not let the food go downhill.’ Well, it wouldn’t, for no matter how bad Mrs Moore’s rheumatics became she, Evie Forbes, would cover for her and keep the standard as it should be. At that moment Simon entered from the bell passageway with a basket full of flowers.
Evie came from the scullery, smiling at Simon. Mrs Moore asked her to clear the tablecloth. Conscious of Simon’s eyes on her as she did so, she said, ‘I’m sorry you will only have two more girls.’
Mrs Moore tapped her nose. ‘Always ask for more than you need. They’ll never agree and will always offer under, it makes them feel they’ve won, when in fact we have. We only needed two, I can’t have silly girls cluttering up my kitchen.’
Evie laughed, Simon too, though he looked puzzled. ‘What’s the joke?’ His eyes really were the most vivid blue.
Lady Veronica sat in the window of the Blue Drawing Room overlooking the formal gardens at the back of the house. The cherry blossom was wonderful after such a winter, but when wasn’t it harsh? She looked beyond the box hedges, seeing daffodils and plants that had yet to flower. She loved it here, harsh winters or not; however, she did not love luncheon with her stepmother. She did not love luncheon full stop. What on earth was the point of trying to stuff three courses into a gut that was pinched into nothing by a ridiculous corset? It was not something Wainey had thought sensible or right; she had hooked her own and Veronica’s stays up as loosely as possible.
At the thought of Wainey she swallowed, hardly able to bear the misery. Why had she done it? Her vision blurred and she could no longer see the balcony outside the long windows. In the summer it had always been glorious to sit there as the last of the heat fled the day, but she didn’t know how she could ever enjoy it again.
She turned at the sound of her stepmother’s voice. ‘Really, where is your brother? There is no need for him to slouch so long over the luncheon table after we withdraw. Look at the time, it’s now early afternoon and he could be occupying himself in some way.’
Veronica said, ‘I expect he is occupying himself, probably enjoying a cigarette.’ Her voice was carefully neutral.
‘He enjoys a sight too many things, and always at the expense of others.’ Lady Brampton was sitting at the end of the sofa, reading The Times while she drank her coffee. Veronica said nothing. What was there to say?
Her stepmother lowered the newspaper, peering at Veronica, the hint of a scowl beginning. ‘Is that a sullen silence, my dear? If so, it’s not as a lady should behave.’
Veronica said, ‘It is merely a silence. I have nothing to contribute to our scintillating conversation.’ She wondered if her stepmother noticed her hatred, or if she did, whether she cared, so preoccupied was she with herself. What on earth would her mother think of her husband’s choice of a wife who was everything that Wainey and her mother had considered a disgrace to women? Auberon had told her that their mother would have stood her ground on the purchase of a title and asked how one could possibly buy status, because such a thing needed to be earned? Veronica wondered if perhaps their father had earned it with his various businesses, because for all his faults he was a worker. She thought not and returned again to the views over the garden.
Her stepmother hadn’t finished. ‘Veronica.’ It was a command. Veronica turned. The newspaper had been left to fall to the floor. No doubt some wretched minion would be expected to pick it up, re-iron it and leave it on the table in case it was required later. Lady Brampton said, ‘I see my task as bringing you up to par. Miss Wainton was too lax, too full of silly ideas and has let you down. We need to determine on a schedule of visits to your Northumbrian contemporaries and not lose sight of the fact that within two years you will come out. We will, at that time, circulate you amongst your London contemporaries to be viewed. Nineteen will be ideal. We’ll have to find you a husband, one with prospects and a suitable rank.’
Veronica stared anywhere but at this impossible woman with her immaculate hair and clothes, sitting there as though she was a set piece in this house she had refurbished as a backdrop to her own perceived brilliance.
It was a house that was too big, too unlike anything Veronica or Auberon needed, or in which her mother would have felt comfortable. ‘I don’t want a husband,’ she said. ‘I want a life. I want a career but I just don’t know what yet.’ She stood and walked to the window, longing to rush down the stairs and outside, to run across the lawn as she used to before this woman became her stepmother five years ago and forbade such unladylike behaviour.
Her stepmother was staring at her, leaning forward as though to hear better. ‘I don’t believe I heard correctly.’
‘I’ll repeat, then. I don’t want a husband, not yet. I want a life.’
Lady Brampton shook her head, her eyes narrowing. ‘That Wainton woman has a lot to answer for, indeed she has. I mean, just what do you intend to be, a shorthand writer? How absurd you are, and how can you consider taking a job from someone who has need of it? I absolutely forbid it, Veronica, and don’t want to hear any more about it.’
The door opened and Auberon entered. Veronica shook her head in warning. He nodded, walked to Lady Brampton, bent over her hand and said, ‘Delightful luncheon, Mama.’
It was water off a duck’s back. Lady Brampton leaned away from him. ‘I can smell brandy. Sit down and be quiet. You deserve bread and water when I think of the way you’ve behaved, and how on earth can you put your father through this endless worry and embarrassment?’ She was now waving him from her, her eyes as cold as ice. But when weren’t they, the witch. Was that why she had been a spinster for so long, wondered Veronica, not for the first time. Or had her heart been broken somewhere along the line? But no, that couldn’t be so, for that would assume she possessed such a thing.
Auberon sat opposite his stepmother on the other sofa. From the set of his head Veronica knew that he was only a short step from disaster. She intervened, walking towards them and taking her place alongside Auberon. ‘How long are you remaining at Easterleigh, Mama?’
‘Don’t change the subject.’ Lady Marjorie Brampton had a ramrod-straight back and it was the one thing Veronica admired about her. Her stepmother continued, ‘Auberon, you insisted on university and I supported you because it’s so much more suitable than the grubby world of business, but you’ve made me out a fool. Therefore this is where you’ll remain. There’ll be no more drinking, no more gambling. How dare you when we are economising, when we are threatened on all sides by this lunatic Lloyd George who is attempting to redistribute our wealth to pay for his absurd welfare reforms.’
‘But Stepmama . . .’
‘Do not interrupt, Auberon. For heaven’s sake, boy, can’t you understand the severity of the situation? They demand a much higher income tax from those with our wealth, plus an inheritance tax, and land tax, and all for these workers who threaten us on all sides, wanting more. If it isn’t your father’s steel workers, or the brick workers, then it is the miners, and it’s not just his workers. Read the newspapers. What is the world coming to?’
‘We’re hardly threatened, Mama. We have more than a little bit in hand, haven’t we?’ Auberon’s tone was dry.
Veronica knew it was the brandy talking, but whatever it was it was a step too far. She spoke loudly to gain her stepmother’s attention. ‘Have you received replies to your dinner invitations?’
Lady Brampton forced herself to turn to Veronica. ‘Yes, I have indeed and I think that you must attend. You are not yet “out”, but Lady Esther will be coming with her parents and perhaps Lady Margaret with hers. They are both from good Northumbrian families and it really is quite time you learned some polish. That dreadful Wainton has quite worn out your brain with all this book-learning.’
Veronica stared. Next this stupid woman would be telling her that to think would leave her in a state of hysteria. Find the crinolines immediately.
Lady Brampton continued. ‘Listen well, Veronica, because you will one day have a household of your own to run. I have solved the latest servant problem and have suggested that we change provision suppliers in order to budget for the full complement of kitchen staff.’
She rose, brushing past her stepchildren with her usual disdain. ‘I will change and then I am to call on Lady Taunton. Tomorrow, Veronica, we will both call on Lady Margaret while her mother is in Paris. Let me repeat myself. When you are nineteen you will come out, and you, at least, must, and will, enhance our family name. I expect you to marry well.’ She swept from the room.
For a moment neither Veronica or Auberon spoke, then she turned to her brother. ‘Don’t inflame her. You have ground to make up. It doesn’t help, it really doesn’t.’
He sighed, his fair hair flopping across his left eye as it always did. He brushed it aside. ‘I can’t help it.’
‘Yes you can, it’s simple, just don’t open your mouth.’ Veronica shook his arm. He shrugged. ‘Then it’s called dumb insolence.’ They both laughed.
‘What’s wrong with putting a few crinklies on the horses, Ver?’
She shook his arm again, exasperated. ‘You know what. And what would Wainey have said?’
‘Leave her out of it.’ His voice was sharp and he looked into the fireplace. It had not been lit and wouldn’t be until four o clock.
‘Why, when she’s at the heart of it? You’ve got to move on, you simply must, this is not what she would want.’
He gripped her hand, which still lay on his arm. ‘Why did she do it, Ver? You were here, did she say anything? Yes, she was asked to leave but we would have made sure she was all right, we would have stayed close. Why would she jump, and from the balcony?’
They both looked towards the long window and the balustrade over which their father said Wainey had flung herself.
Auberon let go of her hand and leant forward, his head in his hands. His voice was muffled. ‘It’s my fault. I went away, and to get their own back they dismissed her. If I hadn’t gone . . . How could he say she wasn’t needed? She was part of the family, for God’s sake. You know, I sometimes wonder if she didn’t jump, but . . .’ He stopped, straightened up and stared at the gold clock on the mantelpiece which his stepmother had brought with her from Headon Hall, her decrepit family pile. ‘I’m sorry, Ver. I shouldn’t go on, and I won’t, not any more. It’s over and he’ll be back soon and then I’ll really have to face the Furies.’
‘She jumped, of course she did, Aub, don’t be a fool.’ Veronica was pulling him towards her, stroking his hair. ‘Dearest Aub, anyone faced by him might if he was raging, and if their heart was breaking. So, never think anything else. It was just one of those terrible moments in a person’s life. One day things will be better.’
She held him as though she could somehow keep him safe, because it was all she wanted: Auberon safe. She loved him and God help her, he kept the rage of their father fixed on himself, not on her. Before Auberon, had it been her mother who did this? She could bear none of it. For a moment she thought that she would cry with fear and anguish but that must not happen, for once she started she didn’t know how she would ever stop.