Riah turned abruptly away and walked down the drive, her mind again in a turmoil. Why hadn’t she told her daughter that if she died tomorrow the house would be hers, not Davey’s, him being the eldest? And too, what was more significant still, if she was to marry she would have to leave, and then again the house would be Biddy’s. Why hadn’t she told her? Again her mind would not give her the truthful answer which would have been that buried deep within her was a live resentment against the man who had, first, taken her son from her, at least he had caused her son to leave this house, and then her daughter, by first educating her above her station, then by making her the real beneficiary of his twisted generosity. And he had left herself what? A home that was hers as long as she remained a prisoner in it, with no company, no man to hold her. And oh God, how she longed to be held. At times she thought, to hell with the house, she’d go down to the cottage in the dip and offer herself to Tol, even as his next woman. And that, her mind had told her, could be a solution: she could be his woman and still have this house. So what was stopping her? What?
Three
It was about one o’clock on Christmas Day that Mrs Diana Gullmington leant forward, peered between the light of the small candelabra set at each corner of the dressing table, and gently moved her fingers through her soft sparse white hair; then looking at the reflection of a woman that topped hers in the mirror, she said, ‘I look quite bright this morning, don’t you think, Hobson?’
‘Yes, madam. Extremely bright.’
‘I always do in cold weather. Suits me, cold weather. The boys broke me into it years ago, rolling me in the snow. Give me me hair.’
When Jessie Hobson placed the wig carefully on her mistress’s head the reflection in the mirror became transformed: the nut-brown hair piled high seemed to lift the sagging wrinkled skin upwards over the fine bones of the broad face and to take at least ten years off the eighty-two and bring the face more into keeping with the voice.
Once more the old lady looked at the face above hers saying, ‘Another Christmas ding-dong, Hobson. I didn’t think to see it.’
‘You’ll see many more, madam.’
‘Oh, don’t take that note, Hobson. You know, you make me flaming mad when you feel you’ve got to say the right thing. And how many times have I told you that over the past years? Look, turn me round to the window; I expect the horde is about to arrive at any minute now.’
Jessie Hobson turned the chair that was set on wheels and pushed it towards the long window; and there she pulled the velvet drapes still further back, saying as she did so, ‘It’s starting to snow, madam.’
‘Yes, yes, I can see that. Pity it didn’t come down in the night and block the road and they would have had to walk.’ She turned her head and there was an impish grin on her face as she looked at her maid, and Jessie Hobson, suppressing a smile, said, ‘Oh, madam.’
‘Well, all that damn ceremony. It makes me blood boil, not only today but every Sunday. And that woman has as much Christianity in her as a boa constrictor. What was she wearing this morning?’
‘Mrs Gullmington was wearing a blue velvet outfit, madam.’
‘Blue velvet. That must be new.’
Now the old lady turned and looked at the woman who had been her maid and confidante for more than thirty years and she said, ‘You’ve heard this question before, Hobson, and you can’t answer it I know, but I still ask it, and of myself: why had my son, a fellow like he was that could have got any woman from any county in this country, to go and pick a little dark mean-eyed sanctimonious shrew like that? I never liked little women you know, Hobson.’
‘I’m a little woman, madam.’
‘Oh, Hobson’—a thin blue-veined hand flapped towards the maid—‘you know what I mean. There are little women and little women and this one is as narrow in her mind as in her body. And what would she have been if she hadn’t married my Anthony, eh? Tell me that. An old maid likely, in a manor, in a very minor manor, in the backwoods of Northumberland. Why—’ The face was screwed up now and again she repeated, ‘Why on earth had he to take her? Now if it had been her cousin Emily, Laurence’s mother, I could have understood it, because, as you remember, she was a bit of a beauty. Did Laurence go with them today, do you know?’
‘I espied him on the drive talking to Miss May earlier on.’
‘You mean you espied him on the drive being talked at by Miss May. She’s brazen is May. Holy like her mother, but brazen.’
They both laughed softly together now and the old lady exclaimed, ‘Ah, here they come, the chariots.’ Then she leant forward to watch the two coaches and three open carts drive past the west wing, which was her private portion of the house, towards the front entrance where the two coaches stopped, while the three carts continued on to the stable yard. Grunting in her throat, she said, ‘Now for the pantomime. Get me ready, Hobson. Give me the lot today, tiara an’ all. That’s the only vanity I have left, to outshine that little shrew.’
When Jessie Hobson went to get the jewel box from the Chinese bureau that stood at the end of the room, her mistress called to her, ‘You’re walking worse today, Hobson. Are your feet worse?’
It wasn’t until Jessie Hobson returned with the box and placed it on the dressing table that she replied, quietly, ‘They’ve been hurting a lot of late, madam.’
‘Why didn’t you say, woman?’
Jessie smiled to herself. This dominant woman who could be kind and thoughtful in so many ways, could at the same time be as blind as a bat when to open her eyes would lessen her own comfort.
‘You should soak them in brine.’
‘I did so, madam.’
‘I’ll get Pritchard to look at them again.’
‘It would be no use, madam, he said he can’t do anything. It’s the insteps you know, they’ve dropped.’
‘My insteps never dropped.’
Jessie again smiled to herself. No, her insteps had never dropped because she had never had to stand for hour after hour attending to someone’s wants; nor had she had to be continually taking messages to one of the family and in doing so had to traverse a gallery before entering the main house, then along another gallery and down a great curving staircase. And this could happen ten times a day, and had done for years past, until three years ago when they had acquired a houseboy, whose job now was to run errands to other parts of the house…
It was about twenty minutes later that Mrs Gullmington again looked in the mirror and, ridiculing herself, said, ‘Ridiculous! I look as if I’m dressed up for a ball. Nevertheless, that’s how it’s going to be. I’m ready.’
On this Jessie Hobson went to the door and gave directions to the small green-liveried boy standing there. Then leaving the door open, she went behind her mistress’s chair and pushed it along the broad corridor, to the first gallery that opened out into a quite large hall, from which stairs led downwards; but she passed these, then through a pair of grey-painted communicating doors held open now by two footmen, and along the second gallery and towards the head of the main staircase. Here, the two footmen took their positions at each side of the chair and, lifting it, walked crabwise down the winding staircase to the hall below.
The men having set the chair down, Jessie Hobson once more took up her position behind it. But she did not immediately push it forward because her mistress was surveying the double line of servants arrayed across the hall. They stretched from the green-baized doors leading into the kitchen quarters, to within a yard of the drawing room, and as she surveyed them the female knees bobbed and the men touched their forelocks.
The double doors of the drawing room had been pushed wide and there, in the middle of the room, facing the fireplace, but set well back, was the Christmas tree. And standing to one side of it was the old lady’s son, Anthony, a man of about forty-eight, tall, heavily built, with fair hair and blue eyes. And to his side sat his wife Grace. She was older than him by two years. She was small, she had dark hair and grey eyes which were set deep in a rou
nd face that at one time could perhaps have been termed pretty.
Standing next to his father was Stephen Gullmington. He was twenty-two years old and in appearance very like his father, but he differed strongly in character. Next to him was his sister May. She was nineteen years old. She was tall, fair and thin, being quite unlike her mother in looks. Her face wore a bored haughty expression.
At the other side of the tree was an empty chair and next to it the young man who was known as Laurence Gullmington and whom most people took to be the brother of Stephen and May and the two youngest children. But he was the son of Grace Gullmington’s cousin, and the reason why he had been brought up in this house and to believe for years that he was a Gullmington was entirely the work of the woman he called grandmama. He was of medium height, thin, and of a dark complexion, with deep brown eyes, a straight nose and a wide mouth.
Next to him stood Paul Gullmington. He was sixteen years old and had red hair. Why this should be, the whole family questioned. No Gullmington had ever had red hair; only Grace Gullmington’s narrow-minded attitude to all things, and people, saved her from suspicion in this matter.
His sister was the last in line. She was fifteen. Her name was Lucy. In looks she was like her mother might have been at her age. Being the last child, she had been spoiled and pampered.
They and various guests all watched the old lady being pushed gently towards the empty chair; and now her son and first grandson stepped forward and assisted her to her feet, where she stood for a moment shaking down her voluminous skirts. Then swivelling slowly round, she was assisted into the great black oak carved chair, the arms of which ended in dragon’s heads. Her thin bony bejewelled fingers covered these heads as she looked slowly about her.
Then she spoke. Coming straight to the point, she looked at her son and said, ‘This year we’ll make a change. We’ll delay the wine and chat and not keep them standing out there waiting. It’s more sensible, because they have the meal to see to, and we can be enjoying our exchanges while they get on with it. Should have done this years ago.’
She now brought her eyes round to her daughter-in-law whose face had become so tight that her cheekbones were showing white, but Diana Gullmington smiled at her as if the shrew, as she always thought of her, was conceding her proposal cheerfully.
And now she lifted her hand and pointed towards the double doors as she looked at her son, and Anthony Gullmington, without glancing towards his wife, went to the fireplace and pulled on the bell rope summoning the staff to its presentation ceremony.
The first one to enter the room was Anthony Gullmington’s valet. He walked slowly across the open space towards the family, bowed to the old lady, then stepped towards Grace Gullmington, and after receiving his present he inclined his head towards her, saying, ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ then took six steps backwards before turning and leaving the room. He was followed by Miss Nichols, Grace Gullmington’s maid. Then came Miss Collins the governess; Mrs Fulton the housekeeper; Thomas Froggett the butler; James Simpson the first footman. These were the cream of the staff, and had not headed the queue outside but had awaited their call in a side room.
They were followed by John Thompson the second footman; Kate Pillett the cook; Mary Watts the first housemaid; June Cordell the second housemaid; Peggy Tile the first chambermaid; and Chrissy Moore the second chambermaid; and Mrs Morrison the head seamstress.
There followed a break in the proceedings and an arrangement of the presents before the sewing room maids came in. First, Mary Carson; then Julie Fenmore. Then came the kitchen maids; Anna Smith the assistant cook; Daisy Blunt the vegetable maid; Polly Neill the scullery maid; and Kathy Ward the second scullery maid. Tagged on to these two were Billy Kelly the pantry boy, and Harry West the boot and lamp boy.
There was another pause before the appearance of the outdoor staff, when Bill Mottram, the coachman, stumped slowly in. On his departure there was a giggle from the young daughter of the house because he always had difficulty in walking backwards. She seemed to have been waiting for this. Peter Lowther, the groom, followed. Then came the five stable boys, Ben Fuller; Rob Stornaway; Micky Taggart; Tot Felton; and David Millican. This boy too, like his outside master, seemed to have trouble in walking backwards. And again the young daughter of the house giggled audibly before being silenced by a look from her grandmother.
The lodgekeeper and his wife followed.
In the order of position, the farmer and his wife and the farm hands and the blacksmith should have been squeezed in somewhere along the line, but it was the custom for their presents to be taken to them by the young members of the family first thing on Christmas morning.
So it showed in what low esteem the laundry staff was held when they came last in the long procession. Mrs Fitzsimmons, walking with mincing steps, assumed a dignity that bordered on the comic. Florrie McNulty came next. This thirty-four-years-old woman, one could see, was deeply impressed at the honour that was bestowed on her for she not only bent her knee, but almost touched the ground with it. Sally Finch aimed to follow suit; then came Jean Bitton, nervous, eyes cast downward as befitted a creature from the workhouse. Last of all, came the new hand Biddy Millican.
Although Biddy was tired of standing and tired of listening to the whispered Oohs and Ahs of the present gatherers, her mind was bemused by the beauty around her. For the first time she was seeing the interior of the house, and its magnificence amazed her. The hall, with its marble statuary, its beautiful carpets, the dazzling colours of the pictures lining the open gallery above the staircase, brought to life the palaces the gods had dwelt in in the stories that the master had sometimes read aloud to them. By the time she reached the drawing room door she was quite unconscious of the bustle about her, the to-and-froing of the servants, the whispered directions, so much so that, standing on the threshold awaiting her turn to enter, which Jean’s passing her on coming out would signal, she had to be nudged forward into the galaxy of beauty.
Slowly she walked up the space towards the great lighted Christmas tree, and unlike Jean’s and those of many of the others, her eyes were not downcast, nor her head held on a downward tilt, as she had been bidden, but it was back gazing at the angel at the top of the tree. She managed to bring her gaze downwards before she approached the half circle of people seemingly awaiting her. She took them in with one sweep of her eyes. She knew she had to approach the lady seated to the left of the Christmas tree with the gentleman standing next to her—they were her master and mistress whom she was seeing for the first time—but her sweeping glance returned to the old lady seated in the big black wooden chair. Her attention was drawn to her because she seemed to be sparkling all over: her hair was covered with jewels, as were her chest and her hands; she looked like a queen.
She was aware of a noise being made in someone’s throat. She came to a halt opposite the mistress of the house and when she was handed a small parcel she dipped her knee and inclined her head and said in a clear voice, ‘Thank you very much, ma’am.’ She thought it was better to add the ‘very much’, nobody told her not to.
Instead of walking backwards for six steps, she again glanced along the family row and she smiled at them. Then, with great dignity and as if she was acting in a play, she took three steps backwards, paused and let her smile cover them again, before turning and walking from the room, not with eyes front, but with head moving from side to side, even dropping backwards as she took in the colours of the ceiling.
But no sooner had she reached the hall, and the doors were closed behind her than she was almost lifted from the floor by the first footman who gripped her by the collar of her dress and whispered fiercely, ‘Little smarty, aren’t you? Get!’ And at that he almost pushed her on to her face.
When she regained her balance, she turned round, her mouth open and about to tell him what she thought, but there, also staring at her, was the magnificently dressed butler.
Mary Watts, the first housemaid, came at her now, saying, ‘Get your
self away, girl. You’re a ruction raiser, if ever there was one, grinning like an idiot at the family. We’ll hear more of this.’
She could have heard more of this if she had been in the drawing room at that moment, for Lucy was doing an imitation of the laundry maid. Curtseying now to her mother, she said, ‘Thank you, very much, ma’am.’ Then she did the backward walk and was about to flounce round to conclude her pantomime when she was brought to an abrupt halt by her grandmother saying, ‘Girl! Behave yourself. Stop acting like a little slut. If the servants don’t know their manners, they have little chance of learning from you…Well now.’ She looked around her family, then with her usual forthright approach, she went on, ‘Come on, let me have that drink, and then to the presents. Yours are scattered around there.’ She pointed to the tables at the far end of the room. ‘Hobson has marked them plainly. No mix-up this year.’
As each of them put a present on her knee, he or she bent forward and kissed her cheek. Even her daughter-in-law did this, saying as she did so, ‘I had it especially made for you, Mother-in-law.’
‘Well, what is it?’ As the stiff old fingers fumbled at the parcel, Laurence Gullmington assisted them to reveal a very fine cashmere shawl and when it was held up for her inspection he said, ‘It’s beautiful, Grandmama.’ And she nodded and said, ‘Yes, it is. Thank you, Grace. Very kind. Very kind. Now what have you got me, Anthony?’
Her son brought his present to her and hovering over her, he said with a laugh, ‘Well, Mama, mine’s a very small present, but knowing you haven’t much jewellery, I thought I’d get you these.’ When the box was opened to disclose a pair of jewelled earrings her eyes gleamed and she said, ‘Nice, nice. Thank you, Anthony.’ She lifted her face for his kiss.
And so the present giving went on, and two hours later a dinner followed. Then they all had a rest while the staff enjoyed their Christmas meal in the servants’ hall, for once in the year sitting down all together, but at four separate tables, the diners at the bottom table waiting on their superiors.
The Black Velvet Gown Page 24
