by Amy Myers
Horace wavered, unsure what he felt. There was something to be proud of, having Gertrude married to an English earl, and a rich one at that. After all, it wasn’t up to him to question Gertrude’s taste, and Arthur was a friend of His Majesty himself. They went shooting together, which Horace knew was as good as exchanging blood vows. He sought for an answer and found one. “Yes, indeed, Louisa. I know where I am with someone like Arthur. Honest as the day.” It was true. No one pulled the wool over Horace Pennyfather’s eyes. Pilgrim’s Cherry Shrub hadn’t made him the fortune it had without his being a shrewd judge of character.
*
Belinda hunted in vain for Gerald among the vast crowd of guests making their way to the maypole ceremony. She was not entirely surprised not to find him, since he had seemed to be making a determined bid to seduce Gertrude’s lady’s maid when she had last seen him. In the entrance hall, recognising Mr Harvey Bolland by whom she had been sitting at luncheon, she decided to join him. He had a young girl at his side who, from her likeness to Gertrude, could only be her younger sister Bluebell. Much as she disliked her own name, Belinda decided Bluebell was infinitely worse, particularly for a young girl so unlike that delicate flower.
Harvey promptly rose to his feet and swept off his extremely strange broad-brimmed American hat. Formality ended there. “Afternoon, Belinda.”
Belinda, taken aback to be addressed by her Christian name on such short acquaintance, decided she rather liked it, but she could in no way let him know this. She therefore bowed, as a signal that she had given him permission for him to address her at all.
“Good afternoon, Miss Montfoy.” Bluebell, it seemed, had more sense of decorum.
Belinda tried hard to be easy and informal. “Good afternoon, Miss Pennyfather. Are you going to the maypole-raising ceremony?”
“We are that. Gertrude said we mustn’t miss it.” Bluebell’s eyes gleamed. She had a curious stare, but it occurred to Belinda this was less rudeness than short-sightedness.
“Do you like England, Bluebell?”
The girl considered the question. “No.”
Belinda was surprised. “Why ever not?”
“I don’t want Gertrude to stay here. I think this is a horrid place.”
Belinda took this affront to England personally. “What’s horrid about England?” she asked sharply.
“I guess we’d all like Gertrude to come back home,” Harvey answered wistfully.
“Perhaps not all England is horrid,” Bluebell conceded. “Just this place.” She pointed to the woods, towards which they were walking, where magnificent English oaks had spread their leafy branches for hundreds of years. “Don’t you feel it?” she asked earnestly. “You live here. When you walk in those woods, doesn’t it seem kind of weird?”
Belinda thought of the glade by the folly, which as a child she’d called the faery glade. She loved it and she loved the woods. It had been their half-sensed link with the ancient world that had kindled her interest in times of long ago. That it should have resulted in Egyptian rather than British antiquity she had sometimes thought odd. But the more she learnt, the more she realised they were one and the same thing. But these were her private thoughts, and of the mind not her emotions.
“You wait until you see the maypole,” she replied heartily. Only afterwards did she recollect that Bluebell was at the age when she herself had been drawn to the woods. Didn’t growing girls often have sensory powers that were denied to them in later years?
*
Auguste, guiltily remembering he was a happily married man, wondered whether he should be taking quite so much pleasure in the company of Eleonore, Comtesse de Balleville. His schedule allowed for this brief diversion from his kitchen duties, but he had hardly expected it to be as diverting as this.
“And, monsieur,” she said, as she took his arm, even without introduction, while they strolled round the gardens, “are you a friend of dear Arthur’s or of Gertrude’s?”
A delicate matter. The position must be made clear at once. “I am here as the chef, Comtesse.”
“The chef? But that is splendid.” To his amazement the arm stayed where it was. Most English ladies — and he had to admit most French ladies — would have fainted with shock. “Much more amusant than stuffy courtiers and guests. And French too. Of course, how could the chef be other than French? Now you must tell me the secret of preparing bergamottes de Nancy, tarte à l’oignon, oh, and pommes Normandes en Belle Vue.”
Auguste was charmed. The countess’s title sprang from Normandy, and so he would begin with the pommes Normandes. Or was that her husband’s title?
“Your husband is here?” he asked cautiously.
“Non. He is a diplomat, and often away.” Eleonore’s low husky voice managed to imbue this with great meaning. “And you, Mr Chef, there is a Mrs Chef?”
“Oh yes. She too is away. Perhaps you have heard of her. She is the Princess Tatiana Maniovskaya.”
Eleonore stared at him. “But indeed I have heard of her. I even met her when she lived in Paris. Then you must be Monsieur Auguste Didier, and by your marriage related to His Majesty.”
“I have that honour.” He tried to sound enthusiastic.
She laughed. “My dear Monsieur Didier, I am delighted Gertrude invited me to her wedding celebrations. And would be even more if you would prepare a galantine of cochon avec tarte quetsches for me.”
“They are out of season, Comtesse. Un petit peu de l’eau de quetsches perhaps.”
“Much better, Mr Didier. I see we shall be close friends.”
*
Bessie Wickman stood hand on hip, bosom well thrust out and leaning backwards to emphasise the fact. Artie, otherwise Arthur Lord Montfoy, should remember exactly what he had so lightly thrown away. She watched the noble lord struggling ineffectually with the maypole, having been left alone to support it, while Bert and a couple of young ’uns went off to dig the hole. Once his lordship’s physical ineptitude had sent her wild with desire, now it engendered contempt and great amusement at the expense of that gullible American wench. Not that she felt any the more forgiving of Artie for her change of heart. Indeed she was even more enraged that such a nincompoop could ever have jilted her. It was the way he did it, trying to brush her off as though she were a fly on his ermine collar. She might be a fly to him, but she intended to be in his soup, not on his collar. How dared he say he wouldn’t insult her by giving her money? Insult away, Artie, she’d said. Even then he wouldn’t cough up, and for all he was supposed to be skint he must have had a few bob left over from the sale of the estate.
“You’ll have to get more strength up than that,” she jeered — softly in case Bert overheard. She had a suspicion that he’d guessed about her and Artie, but it didn’t concern her in the least. “That’s a fine strapping lass you’ve to straddle Monday night.”
Arthur Montfoy forgot his duty to the maypole which overbalanced and crashed to the ground. “That lady, Mrs Wickman,” he said, centuries of Montfoy haughtiness coming to his aid, “is my future bride. The future lady of the manor.”
Bessie threw back her head and laughed. “For a day only, Artie; she’ll enjoy it no longer.”
Too late Arthur remembered that the title was no longer his to bestow. It had gone with the wind — or rather with the sale of the estate to old Thomas. Terrified, he also remembered belatedly what harm Bessie might do with the Pennyfathers still in blissful ignorance of this fact.
He grinned awkwardly. “Bessie, in token of our former love, why don’t I give you a little present?”
“Here, Artie?” she cried in mock outrage.
He blushed. Bessie always was on the earthy side. He wondered how he could have been attracted to her, and decided that her more mature years meant he was the innocent party. He had been seduced, and was guiltless.
“Not that. A real gift,” he emphasised, racking his brains as to what this might be.
“When?”
“After I’m marrie
d.”
Bessie took the point immediately. “Don’t you trust me, Artie? You really don’t know a lady when you meet one.” She thought rapidly. “Very well, then. I’ll meet you here by the maypole, after it’s dark; eleven thirty Monday night. I’m sure Gertrude can wait a little to receive your elfin charms. You might fancy a touch of your droit de seigneur first. Who knows, she might not let you near her.”
*
The maypole of fine English oak was swung into place by twelve good men and true, headed by the pending bridegroom. The latter was none too popular for dropping it in the mud, though as Alf Spade muttered, what else could you expect of a Montfoy? Its ropes and hoops for Monday’s garland dance hung down from the top, and the pole was hauled upright with as much groaning as though Stonehenge were once more being erected. The seated chattering guests politely applauded, wondering why English village customs always seemed to take place in extremely chilly weather. The upper servants (standing), required to be present as this was a feudal ritual, applauded enthusiastically.
The landlord of the White Dragon bowed low before Lord Montfoy, sweeping off his humble cap. “May it please your lordship to give your consent for the ceremonies of welcoming the spirit of the oak.”
“I give it freely, good fellow,” Arthur answered. Auguste hoped he could get more enthusiasm into his voice for his responses on Monday.
“Welcome, oak,” Bert bawled.
A small girl prodded by her mother advanced on the pole with a bunch of flowers, forgot what she was supposed to be doing and brought it back again. Bert hauled her to the pole once more, seized the bouquet and stuck it in the iron band provided. Everyone clapped, save the little girl who burst into tears.
A circle of twenty more little girls dressed in white joined hands and danced round the maypole to the accompaniment of a violin playing something which Auguste dimly recognised as “Do y’ken John Peel”, while an outer circle of men clad in smocks, corduroy trousers and straw hats, alternately waved their hats in the air at the maypole shouting ‘Hail’, and turned to club rounded bats against their neighbour’s.
“Is this the English game of cricket?” Eleonore hissed at Auguste.
“Not dissimilar,” Auguste could not resist saying. He had never understood cricket.
“There’s bat and trap later,” Bluebell informed them gloomily, overhearing. “Gertrude told me about it. It’s an old Kentish game. But there is a cricket match tomorrow afternoon, Comtesse.”
Cricket? No one had said anything to Auguste about cricket, and he had a shrewd suspicion this hadn’t been mentioned to His Majesty either, or it would swiftly be off his agenda at least.
“Hail!” yelled the voices, crash went the bats, as the dance came to an end.
It was Aggie Potter’s turn next, she who had so fervently blessed the Montfoys earlier that morning. Now she addressed the pole, raising her arms in the air, in a manner Macbeth’s witches might have admired.
“Fairy folks are in old oaks,” she quavered, careful to make it loud enough to quaver to the back of her audience.
“Hail!” went the voices, crash went the bats, this time with the smocked gentlemen doing a tasteful twirl on the spot.
Oh mighty oak
Oh spirit green
We ask your welcome
For May Day’s queen.
A pretty fair-haired girl whom Auguste had not seen before came forward and curtseyed to the pole.
Arthur smiled knowledgeably at his guests. “One must observe these old customs. The oak was a sacred tree, of course, once upon a time; it possessed a living spirit, whose permission had to be sought before the oak is used in any way.”
“Then fairies do live in the oak?” Gertrude enquired.
“A fairy spirit. It has never emerged to my knowledge.” Arthur laughed heartily.
Jacob Meadows then decided his moment had come. He hobbled to the centre, pushed Aggie out of the way, and doffed his hat to the maypole.
Farthings’ lord be nobly crowned
When may doth pass the stone that’s ground.
He turned round and performed the same courtesy to Arthur. “You be coppicing in the old wood, I see, your lordship.”
“What of it?” Arthur asked cautiously, unaware of Entwhistle’s current programme on the estate.
Jacob shook his head gravely. “Bad spirits spring from the roots of the old oak, once ’tis coppiced.”
“I’ll throw away the cheap whisky then,” his lordship jested.
“’Tis no laughing matter, sir. He’s listening.”
“Who?”
“Old Herne himself.”
“Who?” Arthur wondered vaguely which of his former ancient retainers this might be.
“Herne the Hunter, he who walks by night from the oak.”
“Another poacher, eh?” Gerald Montfoy shouted with laughter. Belinda pursed her lips, surprised to see him, but still registering strong disapproval.
“Be quiet, Gerald. You see, darling,” Arthur turned warningly to Gertrude, “they take these things very seriously.”
“Aye,” Jacob agreed. “Old Herne don’t like being stopped in his hunt. I heard his horn once. Never no more. I stop my ears. Beware the moonlight night, when old Herne comes forth from his oak, his stag’s antlers on his head. The devil he is, so they do say, who do bring death to those who see ’im.”
“I thought Herne the Hunter only lived in the grounds of Windsor Castle,” observed Gertrude.
“Some do say,” agreed Jacob hastily. “But others do say he abides in every oak. Even there.” He pointed to the maypole. “There be a legend about old Herne and Frimhurst. Old Herne, he be a lusty spirit, and he do walk in search of a bride from time to time. Jealous he is, so if there’s to be a wedding at Farthing Court, the lord has to ask old Herne’s permission on behalf of the bridegroom, whether it be he or one of his retainers, before — ” Jacob paused delicately — “the bridegroom can bed her.”
‘O ’Ern,’ must Farthings’ lord cry, ‘pray spare
‘Your ’Orn to ’Ear my prayer.
‘Let yon virgin and ’er groom
‘Repair un’armed to their bedroom.’
“Bedroom? I thought in feudal times they were called — ”
“You said Herne brought death to all who saw him just now.” Gertrude interrupted Louisa’s puzzled comment, though not through annoyance on the part of the virgin concerned, but in the interests of accuracy. She liked her legends to be neat and tidy, and was less concerned about delicacy.
“That’s when he’s walking, miss,” Jacob informed her, annoyed at having his poetical piece de resistance cut short. “He’ll be walking for sure now the old oak’s coppiced.”
Seeing an opportunity, Aggie joined Jacob and pointed a quivering finger at the bridegroom.
Cut not the elder tree
Or Montfoy might shall turn to night.
“That’s enough.” Arthur stood up angrily. “You’re frightening my bride.”
“No, they’re not, Arthur,” Gertrude replied. “I’m real interested.”
“You daft old besom,” hissed Bert in Aggie’s ears. “Put it right, or it’s no more beer for you, see?”
Aggie lifted her arms in appeal to the pole, and twisted around to inform her audience of the results.
Neither oak nor elder care
When Montfoys wish their wood to share.
“That’s better.” Arthur sat down, well pleased.
*
Late that night, his work finished for the evening, Auguste went for a stroll to get some air after the intensity of the kitchen heat. Heat from the ovens, of course, not from tempers. Everything was still gliding as smoothly as perfectly beaten cream. Fruit jellies had been laboriously pressed through tammy cloths, ices churned in freezing machines, roasts for the cold dishes sizzled in the ovens, and still no tempers lost. Surely it could not last? This was truly a chef’s Tir Nan Og. Tomorrow it would all begin again. He was thoroughly enjoying be
ing a servant again, while the rich folk danced the night away. Tomorrow His Majesty would arrive, in his motor car, together with his real host, Thomas Entwhistle. Perhaps that was the reason for the only slight cloud on the horizon; the pretence of having as apparent host, a man who had sold the estate three years earlier. Could it be that his Tir Nan Og, like this whole celebration, was a fairyland of make-believe?
Auguste shivered, and was suddenly aware that he was in the old wood, that the moon was out and that the night was indeed eerie. It was easy enough to imagine, in Shakespeare’s words, each bush a bear; or rather the black dog; that was the fairies’ demon animal, Jenny Potter had informed him. There was nothing to be heard but the faint scamper of some night animal, and the rustle of a leaf stirred by no human hand. If he listened harder would he hear faintly in the distance the sound of Herne’s horn? Nonsense, he told himself. All he needed was a petit cognac, and to avoid stumbling on the uneven ground. He swung his lantern defiantly, and tried not to think that the twisted tree roots underneath his feet looked like the bones of the dead in the catacombs of Paris, stretching out towards the living who passed by. Fairies, he tried hard to remind himself, whether good or evil spirits, were mere superstition, twisted remnants of religions long forgotten. Le Bon Seigneur was his lantern, and He would guide him home.
His path led him past the main doors of the south front, and he was puzzled to see they had acquired a large flat stone with a hole in the centre propped up to one side. Once again, he felt, more might be going on in this house than he had been told, and uneasily he remembered His Majesty would be arriving tomorrow morning, and that Special Branch who supplied the King’s detectives had refused to sanction Egbert Rose’s attendance at the wedding in addition to themselves.
Outside the kitchen door he stumbled over a tray of grain, bread and cheese, and it took him a moment or two to think what this might be. Kindness to hedgehogs? They required milk, not bread. He picked up the dish and took it inside, in case it lay there by mistake. It was no mistake, for Jenny cried out in alarm when she saw the tray in his hand.
