Oddly, perhaps, Eve found she wasn’t nervous in this environment. More oddly still, given the humble dwelling she’d left this evening, she felt almost at home. She could see that beneath the obvious grandeur, this was simply a kitchen where everything was kept in its proper place and was applied to its proper use. On the walls, the multitudinous pans, bowls and ladles had the burnished gleam of correctly tended copper; the four great ranges, though in near-constant use, shone a deep glossy black, like new; the work surfaces, where not in use, were scrubbed clean and wiped down; there were racks overhead with every kitchen utensil known to woman, and knife blocks well-stocked with sharpened blades for every function; decorative jelly moulds, round, oblong and square, had a long shelf all to themselves; a stock pot, large enough to have bathed Ellen in, simmered on a hob and on another, a wide and shallow bain marie held ten lidded copper pans of delicate sauce to accompany this evening’s supper above stairs. It was like landing in a well-run hive of bees with Mrs Adams as queen. Eve thought, this is my kind of place.
Where she stood, in front of her and just for her use, was a long worktop, about the length and width of her front door. It was equipped with scales and weights, mixing bowls, and an earthenware jug of wooden spoons and spatulas. A slab of cool marble, long and wide, had been placed on the right hand side, intended for working the pastry. The pork, 50 lbs of it, ordered at the beginning of the week from Ernest Simpson in the town – ‘’Ow much?’ he’d said – was in barrels, waiting to be chopped, and the bricks of lard and sacks of flour had been stacked on stone shelves in a cold larder, awaiting attention. Eve hadn’t really expected any help, but since there was such a great number of girls on hand for everyone else, she wondered if one might be offered. She continued on alone, however. Perhaps, after all, Mrs Adams harboured a little resentment and had decided to leave Eve to scale the pork pie mountain unassisted.
In any case, Eve didn’t give a fig. She had never suffered unduly from self-doubt and if there was one thing she understood better than most, it was raised pies. She had made so many already in her life, she reasoned, that forty-one more could hardly present a problem, especially in this kitchen. She set about her work cheerfully, and had the first six in the bottom of the nearest range and another batch of pastry resting by the time a brass bell rang to signal supper in the servants’ dining hall. There was cheese, gammon slices and bowls of fruit from the glasshouses, all set out on a long pine table, and tea in oversized brown pots or ginger beer poured from jugs. It was like a cross between a church picnic and a harvest festival, thought Eve, but she found she had no appetite, and instead helped herself to a mug of tea then slipped outside with it, to breathe air that wasn’t suffused with the smell of pork or pastry. If she’d been home she’d have sat on the back doorstep, but here she made do with a stone ledge, close to the kitchen door, and sat down with a grateful sigh. The horses, behind their stable doors across the courtyard, gazed at her with interest.
‘Mrs Williams?’
Eve jumped, then turned to find Lady Henrietta Hoyland, emerging from the same kitchen door that she had just used. She began to get up, but the young woman protested.
‘No, no, please don’t get up. Sorry to disturb you. It’s just, I recognised you, you see, from the, erm …’
‘Funeral,’ said Eve, helping her out. It was the last time they’d met, though it was months ago now.
‘Yes, sorry. Didn’t mean to make things awkward.’ She smiled, a smile of great charm, and held out a hand to be shaken. ‘Henrietta,’ she said.
‘Eve.’
‘How lovely to see you. Daddy said he’d asked you to come and lend a hand.’
Delicately put, thought Eve. As if she was here as a favour, and not for the irresistible lure of 18 shillings.
‘Are you well?’ said Henrietta.
‘Thank you, yes I am,’ Eve said. There was an easiness in Lady Henrietta’s manner, and Eve felt no embarrassment at the attention.
‘Hard work, I expect. All hands on deck for Toby’s party.’
There was the slightest edge to her voice, the merest hint of disapproval, but neither of them acknowledged it. There was a beat of silence, then Henrietta said: ‘I’m here to see Beetle. Stole a carrot for him from the kitchen. Plus the kitchen’s a short cut, you see, much quicker than walking all round the house.’ She leaned in, conspiratorially. ‘Beetle’s my horse, by the way. Not a groom.’
They both laughed. Gorgeous face, thought Henrietta.
‘So,’ she said. ‘Better dash. Dinner seven-thirty sharp and I’m behind as always.’
‘Well, dinner looks lovely, from what I’ve seen of it,’ said Eve.
Henrietta rolled her eyes. ‘I expect it is. But what I wouldn’t give to skip it. Do you find you’re always pleasing others, and never yourself?’
Eve nodded, smiling. Their lives, she thought, were hardly comparable, but perhaps they had that in common.
‘Well. Cheerio. Good luck in there, and enjoy the party tomorrow.’
Henrietta smiled again, then left, and Eve watched her cross the courtyard. Polite small talk with the aristocracy, she thought. Whatever next. She stood and went back inside, where Mrs Adams, on the far side of the room, caught her eye and smiled, showing a kind side. She had seen the first lot of pies, and approved of their shape and size. Proof would be in the tasting, but this young woman seemed to know what she was about and Mrs Adams, though she hadn’t said and probably wouldn’t, was grateful for the help.
It seemed there was no keeping the Hoylands out of the kitchen. Eve had always assumed, if she thought about it at all, that below stairs was a foreign country to them, but soon after her encounter with Henrietta, Isabella had danced in and demanded – none too politely – toast and jam. Then Tobias showed his face at just after eight o’clock on that busiest of busy evenings, dressed as if for boating, in a striped blazer with patch pockets and brass buttons. He had ducked out of dinner but was looking for a bite to eat before his night out in Netherwood, and Eve watched him turn his soulful, puppy-dog eyes on the cook, whose resistance melted like butter on the hotplate. You’d think these hungry Hoylands would simply ring a silver bell and wait for service, thought Eve. Instead they were in and out and under the feet like Seth, Eliza and Ellen in her own kitchen. And here was Toby now, tearing a corner from a freshly baked loaf and being greeted by Mrs Adams as if he were a favourite nephew. She called him Master Toby, and he called her Mrs A, and her face took on a delighted flush as he placed an arm round her shoulders, soft-soaping her into letting him have a pie or a pasty.
‘Surely you have a morsel to spare,’ he said. ‘Got to line the old stomach, Mrs A. You don’t want me the worse for wear now, do you?’
‘It’ll not be for lack of food if you are,’ she said, trying to be stern. ‘It’ll be for excess of ale.’ But she was laughing, and a little gaggle of kitchen maids were laughing too, edging closer in the hope that they might catch the young lord’s eye. Eve stayed put, rolling out pastry and listening to the exchange but with no desire to be part of it, but then Mrs Adams put paid to her desire for anonymity.
‘I’ll tell you what I can spare,’ said the cook. ‘A slice of this young woman’s pork pie.’ She pointed over at Eve. ‘It needs tastin’ anyway.’
Toby looked across the kitchen to where Eve stood. Ah, the beautiful widow, he thought, right here, just two floors below my bedroom. He widened his green eyes at her and she dipped a little curtsey out of respect for his title, but all the while thinking him an over-indulged dandy.
‘Mrs Williams, isn’t it?’ he said, excessively pleased with himself for pulling her name out of the hat.
‘It is, m’lord, yes,’ Eve said.
‘Oh heavens, don’t m’lord me. Makes me sound ancient. So what brings you here?’
‘Your father,’ she said, obliging him and dropping the title. ‘He liked my pork pies.’
‘I’ll bet he did,’ said Tobias, with an inference that Eve found impert
inent. ‘Well, you’re most welcome, Mrs Williams.’ He boldly assessed her as he spoke, sizing her up and down with a seasoned eye. ‘What a thoroughly decorative addition to the staff.’
Eve, with a whole volley of responses on the tip of her tongue, remained silent. How different he was from his father, she thought.
‘She’s temp’ry,’ said Mrs Adams, rather brusquely. She bustled across to where Eve’s first batch of pies were now almost cool. They were fine-looking examples, each one perfectly formed and a deep golden-brown. Mrs Adams took a long knife from the nearest block and cut a triangle of pie, sliding it away from the whole with a surgeon’s precision. She tipped it on its side, examining the component parts: crisp pastry, soft savoury jelly, tightly packed meat with its nice balance of lean to fat. Tobias, having joined her on Eve’s side of the room, reached out to take it and received a slap on the hand from Mrs Adams.
‘Manners,’ she said. He grinned at her sheepishly and waited to be served.
She cut the slice in two, offered one to Tobias, and took the other for herself. Tobias, cradling the slice in one elegant white hand, bit rather delicately at the sharp end of the triangle. Mrs Adams did the same with hers, though with less finesse, sticking out her tongue to catch the crumbs as the pie approached her mouth. Eve watched her as she chewed and pondered.
‘That,’ said Tobias, ‘is the finest pork pie I have ever had the pleasure of tasting.’ He turned to Mrs Adams. ‘No offence, Mrs A.’
Eve ignored him. It wasn’t his opinion she was interested in. Mrs Adams was still chewing thoughtfully.
‘What proportion of fat to flour?’ she said through her mouthful.
‘For this batch, one stone of flour, four pounds of lard,’ said Eve. ‘Four pints of water an’ a handful of salt.’
Mrs Adams bit again, and chewed.
‘And t’jelly? Did you add anything?’
‘Well, no. But t’stock comes from boilin’ t’gristle I couldn’t use in t’pie. It sets better.’
‘What’s in t’filling. Apart from pork, I mean, and salt and pepper?’
‘Essence of anchovy,’ said Eve. ‘It’s not somethin’ I can always afford, but Lord ’oyland was generous and—’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Mrs Adams. ‘Well, I can tell you this much for nowt. These pies are beautiful.’
‘Thank you,’ Eve said. She knew they were, but it was nice to hear it anyway.
‘You have special ’ands,’ said Mrs Adams. ‘Pastry-maker’s ’ands. Cool and sure.’
Eve looked at them; they were chapped at the knuckles and lightly dusted with flour. They looked entirely ordinary.
‘Special everything, I’d say.’ This was Tobias, temporarily forgotten by both of them, licking his fingers and gazing at Eve. He turned to Mrs Adams. ‘Can we keep her?’ he said.
This was too much.
‘I’m kept by no one, as a matter of fact,’ said Eve. ‘And I’ll thank you to remember that. Now I must get on.’ She turned her back on him, shaking slightly, indignant. Mrs Adams, anxious that Eve’s pastry-making hands should remain cool and composed, ushered Tobias away with a second piece of pie, a consolation prize he was happy to settle for. Entirely unabashed, he sauntered back out of the kitchens, whistling and pinching the occasional backside as he went, leaving behind him a general air of hysteria, as if a fox had just ambled through a chicken coop.
Eve turned and looked at Mrs Adams, unsure of herself, but unrepenting nevertheless.
‘’e’s a good lad at heart,’ said the cook. Her expression was part abject, part defensive, like the doting mother of a delinquent son.
Eve was unmoved, ‘’e thinks t’world’s ’is for t’taking,’ she said.
‘Well, it very often is. ’e means no ’arm, it’s just habit as much as owt.’
‘If you ask me, ’e needs to resist. Easy enough to get into bad ’abits, devil of a job to get out of ’em.’
‘Aye,’ said Mrs Adams. ‘Same as a big feather bed.’
Curious analogy under the circumstances, Eve thought. But she smiled, keen to draw a line and get on with her pie making. The cook smiled back at her. She had forgotten any trace of hostility she might initially have felt at Eve being hired without her say-so; had forgotten, in fact, that her recruitment was anyone’s idea but her own. Because in Eve Williams she saw not a beautiful woman, or even a sensible one, but a woman with a God-given talent for sublime baking. This was indeed something to admire. And Mary Adams knew that unlike beauty or good sense, this gift didn’t come ten to the penny.
Chapter 25
‘I thought I might take Seth an’ Eliza to see Buffalo Bill,’ said Amos. ‘If it’s all right wi’ you, that is.’ He was walking with Eve and her three children through the park of Netherwood Hall, back towards town. Behind them the revelry continued, though now that the fireworks had been set off, most of those guests with children were making for home. Eve, dog-tired after her labours in the kitchen, and conscious of the picture they presented to the world, had urged Amos to stay. There were plenty of miners there still, and no one had yet thought to limit the supply of beer. But Amos had had enough, he said, and he’d see Eve home safe before turning in himself.
‘T’Wild West show?’ Eve said. ‘I’ve seen posters in town.’ It was a non-committal answer.
‘Aye, a proper spectacle. It’s summat they’ll never forget.’
‘When is it?’ Eve said.
‘October. Barnsley. Custer’s Last Stand in t’Queen’s Grounds. It’ll be my treat.’
‘Oh no, if you tek ’em, I’m payin’,’ said Eve.
‘But I’ve nob’dy to spend money on. It could be a birthday present for ’em both, from me, like.’
Seth would be eleven at the end of September, and Eliza’s ninth birthday was two weeks after her brother’s. Eve was both touched and vaguely alarmed that Amos was thinking this way, planning treats for five months hence. And he was carrying Ellen on his shoulders still. Eve had tried to take her before they set off, but Ellen had made a fuss and Amos hadn’t helped, tickling Ellen back into a good humour and insisting she stay where she was. Eve wished Anna was with them; her presence would have made all the difference. But she’d left earlier to put Maya to bed and start the bread off for tomorrow. And now they looked like a family, with Amos in Arthur’s place.
Still, thought Eve, the local gossips would find ammunition even if she didn’t present it to them on a plate, so what was the point fretting? She knew, and Amos knew, that theirs was an innocent friendship, and that was all that really mattered.
‘Arthur would’ve enjoyed today,’ she said. Invoking his name was a comfort.
‘Aye, ’e would that,’ said Amos.
‘It were a grand do,’ said Eve. ‘T’ earl’s a generous man.’
Amos didn’t respond; there’d been two more fatalities in Netherwood since Arthur’s death, one at Middlecar and another at New Mill. The wooden posts that held the tunnel roofs in place needed replacing in all three of the earl’s collieries, and it was beyond Amos’s understanding how Lord Hoyland could apparently jib at the expense, while roasting oxen and lighting rockets for his son’s birthday. He regarded the celebration as a monstrous display of lavish personal wealth rather than an act of generosity towards the workers, but he thought that in present company he should keep that opinion to himself. They walked for a few seconds in silence, but it was comfortable enough.
Then Amos said, ‘You did a grand job.’ Complimenting Eve was safe territory. ‘Your pies were flyin’ off them tables.’
Eve smiled. ‘So I ’eard.’
‘I expect you’ll pick up a bit o’ business after this,’ Amos said. ‘Everybody knew they were yours.’
They walked along in silence again. Up on her perch, Ellen had fallen asleep, one soft cheek pressed against the top of Amos’s cap, her head jogging gently with every step he took. Eve had Eliza by the hand, and Seth was well ahead of them, leapfrogging the lichen-covered posts that lined the path
they had taken. Eve yawned widely.
‘I could do with some of what ’e’s got,’ she said, pointing at her son.
Amos laughed. ‘You’ve not done so bad,’ he said. ‘Pork pie queen o’ Netherwood. ’Ow many did you make?’
‘Forty-one,’ Eve said. ‘Then Mrs Adams got me on game pies for a few hours, and loaves while t’game pies were coolin’.’
She’d stayed on, in fact, long after the terms of her contract had been fulfilled. Mrs Adams hadn’t wanted her to leave. They’d had to send a messenger in the early hours of the morning from the big house to Beaumont Lane with a note explaining the situation. Eve had written it, her hand shaking slightly, on Netherwood Hall headed paper. She’d asked Anna to bring the children to the afternoon’s entertainments, then to entrust them to Amos’s care whenever she needed to leave. The kindness of friends, thought Eve now, was something on which she entirely depended. True, Anna had board and lodging for her part of the deal, but all Amos got was extra work after his shift at the pit. If he wasn’t planting veg on her behalf, he was minding her children.
She looked sideways at him now, striding along beside her. Arthur used to say he’d come to resemble his bulldog, Mac, and while this was overstating the case, it was true that they shared a similar pugnacious set to the features. He was small – shorter than Eve and she was only 5’3” – but he was wiry and strong. For a widower, he was a fastidious man, his nails always scrubbed clean of pit muck and his hair tidy. Eve thought about his late wife. She knew very little about her, only that her name was Julia and that she’d died in childbirth, then was followed to the grave by their first child a day later. They’d only been married for a twelvemonth. There was a headstone in the same churchyard where Arthur now lay; In Loving Memory of Julia Sykes and Frances Mary Sykes, it said, then came the dates which told the story, followed by the words May You Rest in Peace Together. There was a vale of sorrows contained in that simple inscription, thought Eve, and she felt a wash of shame that she’d never spoken to Amos on the subject.
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