by Amy Myers
‘I’m glad to hear about Joey,’ she called, conscious of seeking favour. The Sharpes’ fourteen-year-old son had been rushed to East Grinstead hospital by Dr Marden with suspected scarlet fever, but it had proved a false alarm.
Hilda grunted. ‘Danged doctors.’ It might or might not be an overture. Certainly the buckets lurched in grumpy agreement. They had almost lost their round thanks to the brief quarantine, and Arthur Sharpe had had a battle with the predatory Sebastian Plum of Grendel’s Farm, on the outskirts of Ashden. It had started as a verbal battle, continued as a fight outside the Norville Arms, and ended in a win for the Sharpes after Father had donned his Solomon’s cap at ‘Rector’s Hour’.
The tradesmen’s entrance to Ashden Manor had two advantages: it was the nearest to the path across the park; and it greatly reduced the chances of meeting Lady Hunney, whose morning territory, even on a day such as this, extended from her upstairs boudoir to the morning room, with a short tour of inspection of dining and just possibly drawing rooms.
For Caroline, there were two Ashden Manors, the one demanded of its social and economic position as the hub of the village, and a secret Ashden, discovered in her childhood, that a sudden whiff, a jolt of memory, would raise before her like a lost Atlantis.
To enter Ashden as a child and run up its stairs to the day nursery was to enter a land of the story books, where anything might be possible, for the Hunney boys might have turned their domain into Treasure Island or the Scarlet Pimpernel’s Revolutionary Paris, or Ruritania. ‘Hunneying’ she had called it, as talks of derring-do flashed like sabres through the eternity of youth.
A young Reggie, wastepaper basket on his head, poker in his hand, astride his desk. ‘I’m Kitchener at Omdurman.’
‘And I’m a whirling dervish,’ shrieked Caroline, hurling herself into the fray, as Reggie leapt from his horse, whirling his sword menacingly.
When the Hunneys came to the Rectory, their headquarters was the secret room Caroline had discovered years ago when, investigating a cupboard by the chimney-nook in her room, she had come across a narrow staircase. Here, in the stifling atmosphere, plans were laid and expeditions mounted. The consciousness, even as a child, that there were differences between them, other than those of Hunney and Lilley, gave these conferences an extra thrill, but after Reggie went to Winchester a gulf had gradually opened between them. Now it had narrowed again almost to imperceptibility, thanks to the tennis parties, the rides, the picnics and the dinners that permeated their social year, but Hunneying was relegated only to the echoes evoked by an idly tossed down book of travel, a mountaineering stick, or a postcard from Cannes or Rome.
Proud of his heritage, Sir John had taken pleasure in once showing her the plans of the Tudor house that had stood here – if plans they could be called, for this was before the days of architects. The present white-painted house had replaced it in the eighteenth century. The Hunney family had been granted the manor by Queen Elizabeth I, and had remained here in an unbroken line ever since, as in so many other of the country houses of England. They had come to Ashden as usurpers in village eyes, but a century later were accepted as incumbents, and were now more greatly respected than their predecessors. The Norvilles, Sir John had told her, being Catholics and too outspoken in their political preferences, had been dispossessed. Caroline had felt a traitorous sympathy for them, probably because in the Hunneying dramatisation of the Battle of Ashden Manor, she was always forced to play a Norville, albeit, by special concession, a male.
Two centuries later, a Norville returned to Sussex, perhaps attracted by the forest hunting. He had settled on Tillow Hill to the east of the village, and turned the existing property into a monstrous folly castle merely to annoy the Hunneys by dominating the skyline, higher even than the oaks that had given the hill its name. He had then browbeaten the innkeeper into restoring the family name to the Norville Arms, and endowed a Norville pew in St Nicholas in a change of religion as convenient as the Vicar of Bray’s.
The last two Norvilles, sisters, now lived as virtual recluses in the ruined castle, with one retainer almost as ancient as they. A girl from the village so clumsy she could find no other work attended daily. Even she had refused to live in and found her way by the stars each night to her parents’ cottage. Caroline had never visited Tillow Castle, and nor had anyone of her acquaintance, save for her father and, on one rare occasion, the doctor. Father would never speak of it, though they were all agog with curiosity. Needless to say, no Hunney ever crossed the Castle threshold, and the pews, to her father’s annoyance, had been carefully chosen so that no Norville need lay eyes on a Hunney.
It was the Norville collection on which Caroline was engaged in the library this Tuesday morning when the door opened, and the impossible happened: Lady Hunney entered, as always immaculately attired, this morning in a straight purple gown with tunic draperies that added regality to her already imperious slender figure. Caroline sometimes tried to reduce the spectre of Lady Hunney to manageable terms by imagining her in bed at night smothered in cold cream and wearing a chin-strap (to preserve that impossibly angular jaw). Reality, however, usually quickly dispelled such momentary relief.
‘Good morning, Caroline.’
Sugared sweetness on her lips – so she had been well aware of her presence before she came in, Caroline realised, heart sinking, for she knew every nuance of Lady Hunney’s voice. She glanced up with a happy smile.
‘I was so much enjoying this volume, but I feared you might miss it,’ her ladyship continued.
‘It’s very good of you to return it.’ Caroline took the book, congratulating herself that for once she was giving the right answer. She laid it on the desk without glancing at it, though she was longing to see which of the thousands of tomes here had been so fortunate as to attract Lady Hunney’s attention.
Lady Hunney did not leave, once this vital mission had been accomplished. ‘Mr and Mrs Swinford-Browne have kindly invited us to dear Isabel’s engagement ball. I do hope the arrangements progress well?’
‘Thank you, yes.’ Caroline proceeded to answer her question, still puzzled as to why Lady Hunney should have bothered to seek her out. ‘Mrs Swinford-Browne wished to hire the Pump Room, but it was decided the inconvenience of travel would be a disadvantage.’ She was beginning to sound like Lady Hunney herself, Caroline thought crossly. As soon as she saw Lady Hunney’s smile, she knew she had somehow played into her hands – as usual.
‘Travel,’ Lady Hunney murmured. ‘Such a problem for you.’
Caroline was nonplussed. The Towers was little more than half a mile from the Rectory, and even in the dark this did not seem a matter of pressing concern.
‘How fortunate your aunt is staying with you. She has a motor-car, has she not?’ Lady Hunney continued.
‘Yes, but –’
‘Normally Reggie would have been only too delighted to have driven you himself.’ There was deep regret in her voice. ‘However, he will be escorting his friend Miss Banning, and his new motor vehicle, as you know, ridiculously allows only one passenger.’ Caroline was more taken aback at Lady Hunney’s desire to impart this information than at its content. ‘A delightful person. The daughter of the Viscount Banning, of course.’
Let there be light, and light there was. The Viscount Banning had unexpectedly become heir to a dukedom, so no wonder his daughter had won such high approval from her ladyship. Caroline felt tempted to advise Lady Hunney that any assistance she could render her son in ridding Penelope of her chaperone might reap greater long-term rewards for her than continually expending effort in trying to nobble a non-runner in the Matrimonial Stakes for Reginald Hunney. And non-runner Caroline most certainly was. She elected to refrain from pointing this out in case such levity won her a permanent ban from Ashden Manor, and, fully satisfied with Caroline’s silence, her ladyship departed. Not until her task was finished for the day did Caroline pick up the book that had so engrossed her ladyship.
It was Bicycl
ing Tours in France.
In high good humour again at the thought of a tightly laced, serge-bloomered Lady Hunney pedalling to Paris, Caroline blithely sailed out by the front entrance, ignoring the disapproval of Parker, the butler, who always managed to imply she was a complete stranger to him. Perhaps like dogs, butlers grew to look like their mistresses?
Late that afternoon, Caroline decided to visit Nanny Oates. Nanny had cared for both Father and Aunt Tilly at Buckford House. She had come to Sussex when Elizabeth was expecting Isabel, and had simply stayed on to wait for the next. After the tragedy of Millicent’s death, there was no question of her leaving. Now she had retired to a cottage whose rent was paid by the Rector. She was eighty-three now and, as she put it, not going in for no pancake races no more. Even the chickens she kept behind the cottage were under threat. ‘You’ll be for the pot, the lot of you, afore long,’ she’d heard Nanny threaten them on her last visit, ‘especially you, Miss Caroline of Brunswick.’ They were all invariably named after the Queens of England – except for Victoria, whom she deemed it disrespectful to consign to a pot, or to claim eggs from. So when Nanny reached Queen Adelaide she started again at Boadicea.
She knocked at the door of the cottage, at the far end of Bankside, and almost simultaneously turned the knob and walked in as she usually did. Nanny had a visitor, but the strange thing was that at her approach both of them instantly fell silent. Even stranger since the visitor was Aunt Tilly.
‘Don’t tell me you’re discussing your dress for next Friday too, Nanny?’ Caroline bent down to kiss the upturned button face. Here was a comfortable double chin that saw no need of chin-straps.
‘That’s right, Miss Caroline,’ she agreed. ‘Scarlet, ’tis, showing me bosom, and with a hat to match with three white feathers. Being presented to His Majesty, I am.’
Tilly laughed. ‘And I’m in white lace with a pale pink underskirt, Nanny, with darling little embroidered rosebuds.’ She rose to go. ‘I’ll leave you to talk to Caroline.’
‘Tell the Rector, mind,’ Nanny said.
‘What about?’ asked Caroline. She’d been right. There was something odd going on.
‘None of your business, miss. Just jawing the hind leg off a donkey like I usually do.’
‘Why don’t you tell her, Nanny? You can trust Caroline.’
‘She’s a young lady, Miss Matilda,’ Nanny reminded her charge severely. ‘She’s unwed.’
‘Young ladies grow up, Nanny, and I too am unwed.’
‘That’s different, Miss Tilda, and you know it.’ Nanny’s mouth snapped shut. Her decision was made, and Caroline knew she would get no more out of her.
When she returned to the Rectory, none the wiser, she was surprised to find Felicia in her bedroom, and Isabel draped gracefully on the bed looking supremely bored. Caroline’s room was the only one that boasted a full-length mirror and Felicia was standing somewhat dolefully before it. This too was surprising since Felicia was the least interested of them all in what she wore, though she was easily the most striking in looks.
‘You’ll help, won’t you, Caroline?’ Felicia pleaded. ‘Isabel won’t take me seriously and I must do something to this.’ She glanced disparagingly at her old white satin skirt and blouse.
‘I don’t know why Felicia’s getting so het up about it. It’s my dance,’ Isabel pointed out unmaliciously.
Seeing the flush on Felicia’s face, Caroline quickly intervened. ‘We all know you’re to be the belle, Isabel, but even bells need clappers.’
‘What?’ Isabel stared at her, then dismissed, first, this incomprehensible statement, and, secondly, the problem. ‘Ask Mrs Hazel to look at it, Felicia. There’s still time.’
‘We can’t afford her, Mother says. Not for all of us.’ The village dressmaker lived on Bankside next to old Sammy Farthing the shoemaker, and was occasionally employed on new dresses for the Rectory womenfolk, and frequently on repairs and alterations.
Isabel made no reply, but Caroline knew what that look on her face meant: that Isabel was planning something she was slightly ashamed of. If so there was no use pursuing it, for Isabel kept her own counsel.
‘It needs an overskirt adding, Felicia, or ruche this one up and provide a different underskirt. You could have my blue one,’ Caroline offered, ‘and dye the blouse to match. You could do it, Isabel. You’re the handiest with a needle.’
‘Me?’ Isabel looked astonished. ‘I’m far too busy. Get Harriet to do it.’
‘It’s too big a job for her. She hasn’t time.’
‘She’s only a housemaid. She’ll do what you tell her to.’
‘You’re not a Swinford-Browne yet, Isabel.’ Caroline was irritated. ‘And this isn’t The Towers.’
‘Don’t I know it,’ Isabel yawned.
‘Please don’t be horrid,’ Felicia pleaded.
‘Why not? You’ll be even more glad to get rid of me.’ Isabel slid off the bed. ‘I’m quite sure you’re already fighting over who’s going to have my room.’
Caroline grinned guiltily. ‘Discussing, not fighting.’
‘Fighting,’ Felicia corrected, unusually light-hearted. Normally she left her two older sisters to squabble, and Phoebe to battle with George. ‘I’ll go and ask Mother what she thinks about the dress.’
There was a brief silence as she left, which Caroline broke: ‘Now we’ll be in trouble. Are you sure –’ She stopped, diffident about what she wanted to ask.
‘Go on.’ Isabel’s voice was studiedly neutral.
‘That you’ll be happy?’
‘I’ll be rich. I can’t bear this scrimping and saving. Wouldn’t you like to be rich, and never have to make home-made perfume again?’
‘Not if it meant marrying someone I didn’t love.’
Isabel flushed. ‘I do love Robert. Real love. Not like Phoebe –’
‘Phoebe?’ Caroline forgot Isabel’s dexterity at switching away from unfortunate subjects.
‘You’ll have to keep an eye on her when I’ve gone. I think she’s crushed on Mr Denis.’
‘What?’ Caroline burst into laughter. ‘He’s far too sensible.’ Christopher Denis was a most earnest young curate whose passions centred on Greek, not girls.
‘Perhaps, but Phoebe isn’t, and I do have a position to keep up.’
Caroline mouth’s twitched. ‘What as? The Rector’s daughter?’
‘As Robert’s fiancée. You’re very sanctimonious all of a sudden, Caroline.’
‘I grew up,’ Caroline replied shortly. ‘Perhaps you should.’
‘I have. I shall be sharing a bed with Robert, after all.’
It was almost, Caroline thought, as if Isabel was determined to drag the subject up. ‘Have you thought about that?’ she asked tentatively.
‘Of course,’ Isabel answered lightly. ‘There’s nothing to it if you shut your eyes.’
‘You mean you know already?’ Caroline was taken aback.
‘Of course not,’ Isabel snapped. ‘Mother told me, now that I’m going to be married,’ she added importantly.
Caroline didn’t believe her. Mother wouldn’t. Isabel must have discussed it at finishing school. Somehow marriage didn’t seem much fun if all you had to do was shut your eyes. But then perhaps marriage was not meant to be fun, merely an almost necessary evil, as Aunt Tilly has once said jokingly to her. It seemed a doleful prospect.
‘I’m bored.’ Phoebe appeared at her bedroom door the next morning. An open door was understood between them as signalling they were ‘at home’. ‘You all do nothing but talk dresses, invitations, and dances. Nothing interesting.’
Caroline was tempted to suggest she spent some worthwhile time on her appearance. Both cuffs of her blouse were misbuttoned, the garnet brooch at her throat was askew, and the bottom of her skirt suggested, first, that perhaps she hadn’t abandoned tree-climbing and second, that communication between herself and a cleaning brush, and/or Myrtle, was non-existent. Although Caroline was conscious of her own imperfections
in this respect, Mother’s dictum that a lady is known by her shoes, gloves and hat appeared to have fallen completely on deaf ears where Phoebe was concerned. Her attractive plump, rosy looks, like a wild peony coming into bloom, owed nothing to grooming and much to her restless bouncing energy. She was going to have a shock at finishing school in September – or would the shock all be on the school’s side?
‘What do you classify as interesting?’
Phoebe searched in her repertoire and found nothing she could offer. She shrugged. ‘There’s something going on between Father and Aunt Tilly in his study. I think he’s throwing her out.’
‘What?’
‘She’s harmless enough,’ Phoebe continued, pleased with Caroline’s reaction. ‘And she does have a motor-car. She took me for a drive. It were unaccountable exciting,’ she mimicked.
‘Don’t mock the servants. You’ll do it to their faces one day.’
‘Who cares?’ Pheobe felt on safe ground where Caroline was concerned, whereas Isabel, being older, was an extension of authority. ‘Go and listen, Carrie, do. I dare you.’
‘I won’t do anything of the sort,’ Caroline replied heatedly. ‘I don’t believe you. And what’s all this about you and Mr Denis?’
Phoebe’s eyes flickered. ‘What about our blessed Saint Christopher?’
‘Don’t get keen on him, Phoebe,’ Caroline said quietly.
‘When I get keen on someone,’ Phoebe retorted rudely, ‘it’ll be someone far more exciting than a mere curate.’ She swept out, congratulating herself she’d handled that rather well.
Caroline was bound to admit Isabel might be right. Since Phoebe had no interests in Ashden (except the curate?) it was as well she would have Paris to distract her (and control her). She decided to go downstairs – to find Mother, she told herself. She saw Aunt Tilly coming out of Father’s study, and was alarmed to see that she did indeed look distressed, her normal composure decidedly shaken.
