For the first week I breakfasted in bed, then my lunch and high tea were served down in the cosy day nursery, on a small table placed beside the fire. Otherwise, I spent my time in the old schoolroom, which was the room opposite my bedroom. Elsie said that the two top tower rooms above me were the smoking room and a store room, and then there was a spiral staircase running right up onto the leads – but his lordship had left instructions that I was not to go up onto the roof, it was far too chilly.
So, back to the old schoolroom, which bore few traces of its original function apart from a large, sound table. This was because it had been converted into a sitting room for Lady Sophie as she grew up – apparently she’d been very attached to her tower room. Now I grew equally attached to it. It was so light with its two big bay windows, and so comfortable with its deep, wide sofa in front of the wide fireplace – the shining brass fender of which rose up on either side of the fire to support two red padded seats for sitting on when you wanted to make toast. The inner fireplace was tiled – all curving patterns of green leaves and big, blue flowers – but the outer surround and mantelshelf were carved oak sculptures of two tall birds in profile – peacocks, again – and across the top panel was carved in Gothic letters: ‘The Peacock In His Pride’. As I was admiring the oak surround Elsie said proudly, ‘His late lordship made that, he were a powerful man with wood – his hobby, it was.’
The fire in that generous grate was lit by Elsie first thing, so by the time I woke up the room was warm. But that room always looked warm, with its prettily patterned carpet, curtains, cushions, armchairs – and those well-filled, welcoming bookshelves built into the alcoves on either side of the fireplace.
And then there were those deep, cushioned window seats, from the ccomfort of which I could sit gazing down onto the stable block, the walled kitchen garden behind it, and further still the barns and rickyards of the Home Farm. Or, from the other window seat, look out over garden, parkland and woods to the low green hills beyond. Relief. Relief. Relief.
And gratitude. I’d been left shaky, penniless and without shelter – and Horseface had come to my rescue, and sent me to this place of warmth and comfort and security. A place where all I had to do was sleep, eat and get well again. I was so grateful.
If his house had been another Wenlock Court I would have been equally grateful – but I wouldn’t have felt so comforted. But Overby was different. Though not as enormous as Wenlock Court it was still a big house, but somebody – and I soon discovered who – had made it into a home: warm and welcoming.
Mrs Hayter, the housekeeper, came up at tea-time that first afternoon to see how I was, and she talked about the late Lady Rothbury, his lordship’s mother. Mrs Hayter, unlike Mrs Salter at Wenlock Court, really was a ‘Mrs’ – she was married to Mr Hayter, the butler. But before that she’d been Lady Rothbury’s maid, and now she told me of how the young Lady Leonora had become bored with balls and dinner parties, and at the age of twenty had enrolled in a School of Art, and after completing her course there she’d spent seven years working in a studio as a designer of wallpaper, carpets, curtains and furnishing fabrics – until eventually she’d got married, and produced Horseface. Thank goodness.
Horseface. who’d neglected to enlighten me as to the precise role I should play in his home. ‘But there was no problem, because he had told Mrs Hayter, who now informed me that I was a Scots fishergirl down on her luck who’d had pneumonia and so lost her job. So he’d sent me down here to convalesce, and she was sure that when I was better his lordship would help me to find another position…
‘He’s already suggested one,’ I said.
She smiled approvingly. ‘Just like his lordship – always so thoughtful.’ Then she was back on the subject of Overby again. She adored that house – and so did I. Which was just as well, as when he’d telephoned her to tell her the time of my arrival he’d not just forbidden me the roof – he’d said I was not to set foot outside the house for a full week.
Now Mrs Hayter told me the spring-clean of the main reception rooms would soon be finished, so perhaps, she suggested – since I’d been so appreciative of the tower rooms – I might like to view the principal ones downstairs as well – in a day or two? Yes please – I could hardly wait.
The late Lady Rothbury had had an acute eye for natural patterns – leaves, flowers, animals, birds – and, of course, peacocks. ‘The Peacock In His Pride’ was, I discovered on my tour downstairs, a reference to the Guyzance crest. (‘Guyzance’ being the family name of the Rothburys – as I’d found out already from an arithmetic textbook inscribed in a very young boy’s round handwriting: ‘Montmorency Algernon Henry Robert Guyzance’. Montmorency! What bliss – and I’d thought his ‘Monty’ was just a nickname from some boring old minor title. I couldn’t wait for him to get back, so I could drop a casual reference in conversation to the dog in ‘Three Men In A Boat’…)
But back to my tour of the house. When I first walked into the white-panelled drawing room it was almost like being back in India again – the gorgeous red and cream poppies flaunting up the curtains, the green carpet – delicate as a flower-strewn meadow… I just stood there, gazing around me – everywhere there was light and colour and beauty. Oh yes, I’d fallen in love again – with that house. But what of the owner of all that warmth and delight – how did I feel about him? I wasn’t in love with him – I was quite sure of that. I knew the symptoms, and I wasn’t exhibiting them – not even to myself. I wasn’t yearning for his return; looking forward to it, definitely, but not yearning. And when I picked up a photograph of Lady Sophie descending from a gleaming motor on her wedding day, and gazed at her tall elder brother in his full tribal regalia handing her out, my heart didn’t beat faster, nor did my breath catch in my throat. Instead I admired the length of his legs and the breadth of his shoulders, the firmness of his jaw and the strength of that large nose of his, jutting out from under his top hat – and felt distinctly proprietorial about them all. After all, those attributes of his would soon belong to me.
Of course, I knew from Glad’s comments that being a mistress was not considered a wholly reputable role for a woman to undertake – but as you know I’d always believed in living by my own rules, not those imposed from outside, so I had no qualms about my projected position at all. Quite the reverse, in fact. For someone who had no idea of the basic requirement of mistresshood I held surprisingly firm views on the nature of the role. He would be my companion and my friend, a sharer of pleasures, a mutual instigator of games. Someone to laugh with, talk to – and share a bed with. No, I certainly hadn’t forgotten that night at Wenlock Court, which, except for that short time in the morning I’d found a wholly pleasurable experience – and one which I was keen to repeat on a regular basis. But not so keen that I’d allow him to neglect me afterwards, or treat me like a servant. Certain ground rules would have to be laid down.
But in love? No. I knew all about love and I knew about Horseface – and somehow the two things didn’t go together. I mean, when I thought of Dr Travers I thought of gazing into his beautiful brown eyes, or of rescuing him from danger – plucking his unconscious body from under the hooves of a runaway horse, perhaps. But when I thought of Horseface I thought of the firm warmth of his hands on my bare breasts, of the intimate softness of his mouth meeting mine – and of that hard, possessive kiss he’d given me in the train. My feelings were not at all the same. I know, let’s consider how I behaved with the rest of the photos – surely they’ll prove my point? There were lots of photographs at Overby, not just of Horseface, but of his family and friends, too – and on my tour with Mrs Hayter I studied those with equal interest.
‘Is that his lordship’s brother?’
Mrs Hayter smiled. ‘Yes, that’s Lord Bym – Lord Bertram, I should say.’
Bertram Yvor Maurice Guyzance – I’d been reading his copy of: ‘How It Is Made’
Then, puzzled, I commented, ‘This man looks just like his lordship – but he’s wear
ing a dog collar.’
‘That’s his father – the late Lord Rothbury was in Holy Orders—’ it turned out he’d been a priest for years before his brother and nephew both died unexpectedly, and he’d been translated to Marquishood.
I picked up another picture, this one was of three young men sitting on the ground in front of a tent. ‘Ah – that’s his lordship – the one on the right!’
‘When he was in South Africa – he served for nearly two years in the war, there.’ I hastily put that one down again. Mrs Hayter showed me another, ‘Here’s Lady Leonora – Lady Rothbury, I should say, by then.’ I peered at the boy standing beside her – yes, it was him alright. Already demonstrating the firmness of his chin, and the jut of his nose – he must have been sixteen or seventeen, by then. I shifted my gaze to the woman beside him, the designer of all those beautiful peacocks – she had a very pleasant face, though not pretty.
But the next photo – oh, she was beautiful. She sat with her hands folded in her lap and her cheek a little turned away – as if the world was already becoming too much for her. As I bent down to look more closely Mrs Hayter said quietly, ‘And that’s the present Lady Rothbury.’ I replied, ‘I know. I was working a wee while for Mr Parton, an’ he sent me down with a parcel for her – sae I know.’
I waited, but Mrs Hayter obviously had no more to say on the subject. She lifted a gold brocade cover, ‘This is Lady Leonora’s embroidery cabinet – all the drawers are glass-fronted, so you can see the colours of the silks – but she always kept a curtain over it, so they wouldn’t fade.’ She sighed, ‘His late lordship made it for her, when they were first married.’
But by then I’d discovered another photograph, of a boy so young he’d obviously not long been breeched – was it Horseface? Or only his brother Bym? I turned to Mrs Hayter to find out – yes, I think you’ll agree that my response to those photos was a clear indication of the state of my feelings.
The tour completed, I returned to my tower, and spent the rest of the week eating, sleeping, and talking to Horseface’s dogs whenever they dropped in for a warm by the fire. There were two of them, a glossy black cocker spaniel with long silky ears and misleadingly soulful eyes – he was called Span – and Jack. Who, rather surprisingly, was a black and white, short-haired sheep dog. Elsie explained, ‘Jack, he’s a fly one – too smart to waste his time working, he was – always off chasing the bitches, instead. Too smart for his own good – they were going to shoot him, he was such a nuisance. But his lordship said he’d take him on.’ She grinned, ‘He’s still just as much of a nuisance where the bitches are concerned, but now he’s his lordship’s dog he can do what he likes, can’t you, Jack my boy?’ She bent to pat him, and he wagged his tail in a distinctly smug fashion.
As she straightened up again Elsie said, ‘Funny thing is, though he couldn’t be bothered with sheep, when his lordship’s out with his gun Jack here works the coverts for him as well as ever Span does! He won’t do it for nobody else, though – he knows which side his bread’s buttered, alright.’ And as she said that, I’ll swear that dog winked at me.
My other company was the row of dolls at the end of the window seat. Sophie obviously hadn’t been able to bear to part with them when she grew up. Not surprisingly, since they were beautiful dolls, and even more beautifully dressed. I have to admit that though I’d never, ever, played with dolls as a child I did spend some time dressing and undressing these. I was so fascinated by their clothing, every detail of which was correct, down to the last corset bone. Except for the single male doll, who wasn’t wearing a corset – though he did have a proper vest and drawers on underneath his velvet smoking jacket – but what I was most taken with was his intricately embroidered waistcoat, which was adorned with two miniature peacocks. In their pride, naturally, so their full tails were spread out behind them, with every single eye carefully worked in blue and green silks.
As my energy returned I found plenty to do up in the schoolroom. I completed some old jigsaws and then toyed with various volumes discovered in the bookcases. After reading about the manufacture of biscuits, soap and locomotives in: ‘How It Is Made’ I moved on to Lady Sophie’s: ‘A Woman’s Guide to the Car’ – given her by her elder brother, I noted from the inscription.
Elsie had also shown me the cupboard holding the games. There were lots of them in boxes, and several packs of cards. I played a number of games against myself, but it wasn’t very satisfactory as I always won – whether I cheated or not. So, back to the ‘Woman’s Guide’. By the time I’d worked my way through crankshaft and carburettor and got to grips with the gear lever I felt I’d really got the hang of this driving lark. Perhaps, since I’d said I’d do without a servant, he might buy me a motor instead?
Speaking of servants, I must confess that I did not live up to Aunt Ethel’s philosophy – I allowed myself to be thoroughly demeaned – even to the extent of being extremely pleased when Elsie returned my stockings from the laundry all neatly darned. I thanked her warmly and decided to consult Horseface on the etiquette of mistresses’ tip-giving when he returned.
Gosh, that was still two whole weeks away – though at least this time I did get a postcard. Said postcard being discreetly enclosed in an envelope, even more discreetly addressed in Mr Wilkins’ handwriting (Elsie recognised it, of course!). Horseface’s scrawl on the card informed me that I now had permission to leave the house and take his dogs for a gentle stroll, so that was what I did.
My legs felt quite weak at first, but I gradually extended my range – from stables and kitchen garden and then on via the various estate workshops to the village. I strolled down the trim street between neat little houses – stopping off to watch the activities of blacksmith and wheelwright on the way – and then walked up between the ancient yew trees and into the church.
Inside I knelt to thank God for my safe recovery, and then went on a tour of inspection of the Rothbury-cum-Guyzance memorials. I read the names and ages of his grandfather, his uncle and his cousin, his father, his mother – and then I came to a simple white marble plaque, and began to read that, too: ‘In loving memory of Marianne Sybella Leonora Guyzance. Born June 30th 1902. Died July 5th 1902. Dearly loved daughter of…’
I sat down with the shock, gazing at that marble surface until the words: ‘Suffer the little children to come unto me,’ blurred into one long line and I had to blink and blink before I could see clearly again. He’d had a daughter – he and Sybella had had a daughter. Then the baby had died, and the grief of her loss had sent Sybella mad. So now he’d lost them both.
Chapter Forty Two
Where else did I go while I was at Overby? Well, I was frequently to be found at the Home Farm. I turned up there first at milking time and played the usual game.
‘That looks easy.’
The elderly man in corduroys looked up from his stool. ‘You try it then, missie.’
I took his place on the stool, put my hands on the teats – and the sound of the squirting milk frothing into the pail was joined by his laughter. ‘You’rn done that afore, you have!’
After that I quite often turned up in the cowhouse to assist with the afternoon milking. I’ve always rather enjoyed milking, because of the quick results, I suppose. But in the dairy I was content to watch someone else do the hard work of butter churning, though out in the barn I did volunteer to take a turn at the handle of the turnip cutter. That was quite a satisfying job – for about ten minutes. it was lucky for the store sheep that they weren’t dependent on my efforts for their feed! Then Span and I – and sometimes Jack – would be running up to the fields to watch all the other fascinating activities of an English farm: muck-spreading, ploughing, harrowing, transplanting of young cabbages, sowing of seeds, or early potatoes…
Back to the farmstead again to scratch the backs of Horseface’s handsome pigs, cackle to his sprightly hens, and fend off his hissing, flapping gander by hissing and flapping back – the gander looked somewhat put out at having th
e tables thus turned, and regrouped his harem for a fresh assault. But by then I was off again heading for the mill, first to watch the giant water wheel turn, and then wheedling my way inside, where the white-flour coated miller explained to me the workings of hoist and pulley, and showed me how the spur wheel kept the huge grindstones steadily turning.
At the end of a satisfying day Span and I – and by then, usually, Jack – would wend our way back to my tower for a combination of high tea and supper. After which I would spend a peaceful evening half-dozing in front of the schoolroom fire, alternately whittling throwsticks and boning up on the finer points of driving. I’d discovered by now that Horseface’s own motor was at present in Swindon, having its annual overhaul, and that he would be driving it back home himself on his return.
His return – which still seemed such ages away – still, in the meantime I was finding lots of things to do at Overby.
But there was something I didn’t do. I regretfully concluded that as Horseface’s guest I really couldn’t go prowling round his house in secret – though I was tempted to make an exception for his bedroom, on the grounds of professional interest – but no. Not on, Eve. Nor did I climb round the outside of his house. Although less well-suited to this activity than Wenlock Court there were places, especially on the tower, but – No, also not on.
My restraint in this direction was made easier by my discovery of a second tower. Set on a narrow, wooded neck of land between the two lakes in the park, this was a beautifully crenellated folly – partially covered by thick-stemmed ivy and with decorated ledges in all the right places.
When I mentioned it to Mr Hayter he said that Lady Sophie had always called it Rapunzel’s Tower, after the fairy tale, and would I like to borrow the key? I borrowed it once to have a good look inside, but the true charm of that tower for me was the outside. I found three different routes to the lead-covered roof, and climbed it every day to stand leaning over the battlements and gaze out over the parkland, woods, fields and meadows of Horseface’s domain.
Eve Page 41
