AUBERON STOOD AT the window of his dressing room the next morning, still tousled from bed, half dressed, his braces hanging down, his feet bare. He wore a suit for the colliery but it was bloody ridiculous because the air was thick with sleck dust as the manager called it, thick and stinking, and his shirts became so too, within an hour. He fingered his buttons but the trembling was too violent to do any good.
Where was the bloody valet? What was his name? He tried to clear his head which was still thick from the beating, the haranguing, the pain and shame of failure. He took deep breaths, concentrating on the valet. His name? What the hell was his name? For God’s sake, Roger, that was what it was, all his father’s valets were known as Roger, and why not. There were too many other things to think about without worrying what to call the bloody servants. Archie and James were the footmen, Roger was the valet, and the housemaids were Ethel, all of them were just Ethel, though there was a Lil, wasn’t there? God, he couldn’t think. He shook his head, and slowly he recaptured his mind.
He looked out into the grounds. He was glad his suite of rooms faced this way, with the spotless sweeping drive, all weeds hoed up by the staff. And what were their names? He didn’t need to know that. He steadied himself against the window frame, aching and wanting to crouch down and groan, but he made himself look out of the window. He insisted to himself again that he was glad this was his outlook, and at the thought he pushed back his shoulders and lifted his head, for how could he have lived in rooms that overlooked the terrace on to which Wainey had plunged? He almost welcomed the deadly strike at his heart. It focused him. It was the same pain that had knifed into him when his mother just faded and died of consumption.
When would it fade? The pain of their deaths just seemed to get worse. He felt his shoulders slump again and the tears build in his throat, but men didn’t cry. He straightened, forcing his head up. Tears were only acceptable at the end of a beating. He had learned that on the day of his mother’s funeral when he had wept and his father had invited him into his study that evening, but when hadn’t he been invited into the bloody place? One day he’d blow it up with his bloody father in it.
He needed air, and he needed his bloody shoes. He opened the window carefully, working around the pain. There had been no more damage to his face, because the bruises from last time were too obvious. Good to know that even his father could slip up. His laugh was harsh.
The sun was out and the blossom was drifting to the ground in the wind. There were long shadows cast by the cedar tree in the centre of the lawn. It was reputed to be sixty years old, and from its height he could believe it. It had been planted by the father of the present head gardener, apparently. He wondered what their gardeners thought of working for a nouveau riche instead of a true blue.
But then, so many of the true blues had sold off or even burned down their houses rather than maintain them after the level of taxes continued to rise, so maybe the servants were glad of people like us, he thought. He leaned out of the window and breathed in the fresh morning air, filling his lungs before those hours at the colliery. There was a stiff breeze, ignored by the cedar. Auberon smiled. The bloody tree barely swayed in whatever wind blew, and perhaps one day he would achieve that level of solidity. Perhaps, but in the meantime where were his bloody shoes?
He moved carefully to the bell rope to the right of the doorway which led to his bedroom, guarding his ribs, trying to ignore the crushing pain, and pulled, returning to stand in front of the full-length mirror. He tried to do up his top button, but his fingers were still trembling too much. Roger should be here, for God’s sake. He’d have finished with his father by now. Then he let his hands drop. Of course. Of course. He stared at himself, realisation dawning at last.
He’d only mentioned the need to buy the houses to Veronica before breakfast when she’d visited his suite of rooms, and she would not have repeated it. Roger had been tidying the dressing room at the time. His father could have arrived at the same conclusion, for why else would his valet be late?
At that moment there was a knock on the door and Roger entered, a smile, as rigid as any Brampton steel girder, fixed to his face. ‘You rang, Mr Auberon?’
Evie’s day had begun at five thirty as always, and as she wished. She enjoyed being first down into what she considered her territory. In the kitchen the mice scattered at her arrival, also as always. Things never seemed to change, but perhaps today, they would. As she lit the furnace Annie, Sarah and Millie entered. Millie began to blacklead the ranges, saying, ‘You’re bloody mad smiling at this time of the morning, Evie. You’re just mad.’ She had bags under her eyes, as though she was the one who hadn’t slept last night. Evie herself had not wanted to sleep away the joy she had felt.
Sarah and Annie were crashing and banging the pots in the scullery as Evie shook her head. ‘It’s spring, Millie, the primroses are out, the cowslips are in the fields, I saw them today from the bedroom window. There are swathes of them, haven’t you seen?’
‘Oh, get on with the tea for the upper servants, and that old drunk.’
Evie had been about to lift the kettle on to the range but now she banged it down, marching over to Millie, who was on her knees. ‘What did you say? And stand up when I’m speaking to you.’
Millie stared. ‘Who are you to tell me?’
Evie grabbed her elbow and forced her to stand. Millie dropped the blacklead and tried to wrench free, her face pale with shock. Evie risked her recovering throat by shouting, ‘I’m your senior and if I ever hear you talking of Mrs Moore as you’ve just done I will have you dismissed. Do you understand? You’ll be out of the bloody door without a character.’ Millie nodded, her eyes full of tears, but when weren’t they? ‘Mrs Moore is in constant pain and occasionally she has a nip of gin and I repeat, occasionally. It’s what any canny woman would do and you are to keep your gob tight shut, do you understand?’
She was shaking her. Tears were running down Millie’s cheeks and suddenly the heat went out of Evie. She snatched the girl to her, holding her tightly, squashing her cap. ‘I’m sorry Millie pet, but you must be more careful. What goes on in this kitchen stays in this kitchen and it isn’t talked about, not here, not anywhere. What if we blabbed to Mrs Green about your mistakes? How long do you think you’d last?’ For there were numerous ‘Millie errors’, as they were called. The girl stopped sobbing and Evie released her. Millie rescued the blacklead from the floor and sank again to her knees.
Evie said, ‘I’m away to do the teas, and the ranges need to be finished.’ Millie’s nose was red and her eyes even more puffy, but she had to learn. Once the teas were safely delivered Evie gathered up her shawl and told Millie she was off to fetch the eggs. Millie stood. ‘I can do those for you, Evie.’
‘Not like I can,’ Evie snapped. ‘Please set the table for Mrs Moore’s breakfast preparation. It’s finnan haddock today, braised kidneys yet again, scrambled egg and bacon, and for some reason his Lordship wants kedgeree with it again, so kedgeree he will have. He leaves for Leeds immediately after, so we’ve no need to bother with such overblown guzzles for a while. Now, familiarise yourself with lunch when you’re done with setting the table. You’ll find the menu in the front of Mrs Moore’s book.’ Her tone was crisp because irritation and worry had begun to nag at her. Had she been joyous too soon? What had happened with the house? What if news of Mrs Moore’s drinking was blabbed by Millie to others? By, there was never any bloody end to the ifs, buts and maybes of life.
She slipped from the basement to the henhouse, collected the warm eggs into the straw-lined basket and then headed for the vegetable storeroom, hoping that Simon had news for her, hoping that Simon was there anyway, because she just needed to be with him. He was waiting inside, in the shadows. ‘Jack brought this to me at the bothy. I haven’t read it.’ She smiled as he took the egg basket in exchange for the note.
Evie pet,
We have it. Just the paperwork to finish now. Grace is going to talk to her solicitor. Mr Auberon is not pleased. He came as we were leaving, so there might be some anger at the Hall. Remember to keep your mouth shut if the Forbes family are mentioned. We are too big and bad to need defending! Grace wants us all to call her by her first name. She declares herself a friend. I know it sounds dramatic, but destroy this note.
Your brother.
She grinned at Simon. ‘We’ve got it,’ she whispered, tucking the note into her apron pocket, and taking the proffered egg basket. ‘I have to rush, it’s the Bastard’s last morning for a while and I haven’t seen how Mrs Moore is yet. I don’t know about that Millie, you know, Simon. One minute she’s a pathetic little thing, the next she’s spiteful, or maybe just silly.’
Simon was grinning. ‘Forget about everything but the house, she’ll settle. I’m right pleased for you, Evie,’ but there was a sadness in his voice that Evie recognised, and knew it was because his da and mam were still in a colliery house, but when she had the hotel . . .
She reminded him of her plans and that there’d be a place for his parents, and he just shook his head. ‘A living wonder you are, Evie Anston. You’d bend the cedar tree if you whooshed past it with all your energy, now get back and get those eggs on before you end up out on your neck.’
He made no attempt to kiss her hand as she left, but she could feel him watching as she strode up the path and heard his soft call. ‘I’m so glad I know you, bonny lass.’ She turned, walked backwards and said, ‘I need to know that to get through the day, bonny lad.’ He laughed and hurried into the walled garden, his jerkin flapping in the wind.
She half ran up the path and almost bumped into Roger as he stepped from the top corner store, the one nearest the backyard. He was smiling, but it was a strange hard smile. She stepped to the right, on to the verge, but he stepped with her. She was sick of his games. Behind him she could see the tools in the store. He said, ‘Come and have a look, Evie Anston.’
She pointed to her basket. ‘I need to get these to Mrs Moore.’
Roger reached for her, she stepped back, but he was too quick and grabbed her arm. ‘It wasn’t an invitation, it was an order.’ He came so close that she could smell the alcohol on his breath and it wasn’t even eight o’clock. What was going on, was drinking catching? She knew she was thinking nonsense, but what was going on? His hand was tight on her arm and suddenly he was behind her, twisting her arm up her back. The pain took her breath from her. She was still clutching the egg basket in her other hand, but what else could she do? Shout, you bloody idiot, she thought. Simon would come. She started to, but then Roger’s hand was over her mouth and he was pushing her from behind, into the darkness of the store.
He said against her ear, ‘You heard what I said to Len that day, didn’t you? You were the only one near enough, and he was the only one I told, him and his bloody oily rags. You came round that corner too sharpish after our row, and before you did I heard a noise. You were there, listening. You told someone about the house-buying. How dare you? I’m on a warning now, and I’m banned from here, back to valeting for his Lordship who is in a foul mood, and just who do you think will get the brunt of that? He’s going to make my life hell and I can’t leave, for he’s said I’ll get no character.’ He removed his hand from her mouth. What could she say? He knew it was her, but he mustn’t know why. She said, ‘It’s what you wanted, isn’t it, to go back to his Lordship as his valet? It’s promotion.’
He jerked her arm higher up her back. She gasped with the pain and leaned back to ease the tension. ‘You stupid bitch. It’s punishment. He’ll run me ragged and then I’ll be back when he’s finished his fun and it’s all your fault. You lost them the houses, didn’t you? I want to know who you told about them, and I want to know why.’
Evie shook her head. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t tell anyone, why would I? It’s nothing to do with me.’ She felt his grip weaken and prepared herself, taking her weight on her right leg and then stamping down hard on his foot with the heel of her left boot. ‘Ouch.’
His grip loosened, she spun away but he was faster, blocking the doorway. He shook his head, his face red, his mouth set in a grim smile. ‘You really, really, shouldn’t have done that.’ He advanced and she kept the egg basket between them, wanting to cry out but not daring to. What if someone came and he said she’d passed on the gossip? No matter how many times she denied it, questions might be asked, and answers discovered. No, she was Evie Anston and she must stay that way.
He reached for her. She stepped back. He lunged again. She dodged to the side, but caught her foot on a hoe. She held up her hand, saying, ‘You’ll be late for his Lordship, or Mr Auberon or whoever you are looking after.’
He shook his head, lunged again and found her throat, fingers one side, thumb the other. It hurt. ‘It’s early yet. I’ve seen his Lordship and Mr Auberon, who felt it his pleasure to give me another tongue-lashing.’
He was squeezing her throat. ‘So, one more chance – who have you been blabbing to, because it’s spread so quick it’s reached the wrong ears.’ He was enjoying this, she could tell from his face, but he had no idea she’d gone straight to the horse’s mouth. Relief drenched her. She shook her head. ‘Let me go.’ Her voice was so faint that it reminded her of the cold of Fordington and Jack’s rescue. Jack. She concentrated on all that he had ever told her.
Roger was close now, his suit immaculate, his lips pursed, and then his mouth was on hers, and his tongue forcing its way into her mouth. She gagged. His hand still held her throat; she could barely breathe. He lifted his head, licked her cheek. His hand was away from her throat and grabbing at her breast while his other was on her back, pressing her against him. The egg basket was in her hand, dangling at the side of her. She mustn’t break them.
He was kissing her neck, and he had backed her to the wall. Her ankle caught the hoe again. It fell to the ground with a clang. Something jabbed into her back. She thrust against him, pushing. He laughed and threw her arm to the side. She twisted her head away from his probing mouth. There were gardening hand tools on the shelf which ran along the side of the store. He was clutching at her clothes, tearing at them. Dear God, he might find the letter. Jack. Jack, I’m waiting for an opportunity, like you said to do.
She stopped fighting, relaxed against him, and he laughed. ‘That’s what you are, eh, a whore that plays with men. I knew you’d want it but it won’t be enough. You’ll pay, Evie Anston, because of what you’ve done.’ He was speaking against her throat. She felt along the shelf, made contact with a bucket, found the handle, and while he was pulling at her bodice she swung it round and made contact. All she hit was his shoulder, but it shocked him. She stamped on his foot and lifted the other knee sharply into his groin, and that did hurt.
She pulled away, slapping at him, hissing. ‘You bastard, lay a hand on me again and I’ll hit you with more than a bloody bucket, d’you hear? I’ll bloody well castrate you.’
He was moaning, bent over double. She ran out of the store, across the yard, down the steps to the kitchen, her eggs still intact though her sleeve was torn. Mrs Moore asked why. She said she’d caught it on the henhouse door.
‘Oh yes, or perhaps, oh no,’ Mrs Moore sniffed, pouring tea. She stirred the kedgeree. ‘You’ve taken a long time about it, I have to say. Dress your hair, and what are those marks on your neck?’
Evie said nothing. The fewer questions the better and besides, she deserved her punishment. She had caused Roger grief by passing on the gossip but now they were even, and it was best no more questions were asked. She merely shrugged. ‘It’s this chill and the henhouse dust made me cough, I expect I put my hand to my throat.’ They set about the breakfast but first Evie stoked up the furnace and threw in Jack’s note. It wasn’t until they began to prepare lunch that the shaking started.
It continued until Roger came in after luncheon had been cleared. He found her in the big pantry, coming to stand next to her, bold as brass, whispering, ‘If you don’t have me, I’ll take your friend Millie just as I took that Charlotte. Think on, Evie Anston, it’s up to you.’ He stepped back into the kitchen, bowed to Mrs Moore. ‘Farewell, ladies. I’m not sure when I will be back for good, but back I will be.’ He flicked another bow to Millie. ‘You keep yourself as beautiful as you are this day, Miss Millie, and we’ll maybe have a chance to get to know one another better when I return.’
Mrs Moore snorted, looking from a flushed and smiling Millie to Evie. Evie stared at her trembling hands. She couldn’t allow that, Millie was too frightened of life, too silly. All that day and the rest of the night she wrestled with his words and as dawn broke all she could think was that she would warn Millie and look out for her, because there was no way she was selling herself for anyone’s sake, ever.