Netherwood01 - Netherwood

by Jane Sanderson

  ‘No! It’s not pity, it’s—’

  ‘I said, enough.’ His voice was harder now, his priority self-preservation. He couldn’t salvage his happiness from the wreckage of this sorry situation, but he could save his pride.

  ‘I spoke when I perhaps shouldn’t ’ave,’ he said. ‘I misread your feelin’s. No matter. I’m just as well alone as wed.’

  She heard him out, mired in abject misery.

  ‘I’ll bid you goodnight,’ he said, raising his cap in a formal gesture that made her feel sadder still, as if there was already a distance between them that hadn’t existed before. ‘Tell Seth I’ll see ’im tomorrow.’

  ‘Aye, I will,’ she said to his retreating back. She watched him turn out of the courtyard under the arch. She wished she could have run after him, calling his name, telling him she’d been wrong and that yes, of course she would marry him. But she didn’t, because it would have been a lie, and Amos deserved better. Nevertheless, when she walked home alone later that evening she felt weary and careworn, and the weight of his disappointment dragged around her like a physical burden.

  PART THREE

  Chapter 36

  The coachman’s name was Samuel Stallibrass. He was a Lancastrian by birth, and a friendly soul, but you wouldn’t know that from looking at him. Certainly when Eve stepped down from the train at the private railway halt a mile or so north of King’s Cross, her heart, already heavy with goodbyes, sank a little further still. He stood waiting on the platform, all top hat and whiskers, arms crossed, legs firmly planted, beefy and forbidding; he looked as if a tornado wouldn’t budge him. He didn’t shift, either, when Eve’s trunk was handed down, followed by five baskets of soft fruit from the Netherwood glasshouses and one full of vegetables from the kitchen garden. As if going to London on the Earl of Netherwood’s private locomotive wasn’t surreal enough, Eve had thought, she had Jersey Royals and spinach leaves as travelling companions. And they were just as comfortable as she had been, nestled in their wicker hamper, cosseted on a bed of straw.

  So Eve and the edibles disembarked and three liveried lackeys whom Eve didn’t even know had been on the train hopped down, picked up the baskets and jogged off with them, two apiece, towards the waiting brougham. A fourth man heaved the trunk on to a wheeled contraption and followed them. Only then did the coachman come to life, and as he approached her she spotted a broad smile behind the whiskers, and his handshake was warm and genuine. He reminded her of Sol Windross, without the scowl or the smell.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he said. His accent had the slightest hint of the north. ‘Have to hang back or the buggers leave me with the baskets. Samuel Stallibrass, at your service.’

  ‘Eve Williams,’ she said, and smiled back at him. His easy manner made her feel more cheerful. Until he spoke, she’d feared she might cry, like a bairn sent off too soon into service.

  ‘Oh, I know who you are,’ he said. ‘There’s been talk of nothing else below stairs.’ He set off for the carriage, and she followed, making three steps to his two to keep abreast with him. ‘Eve Williams, pie-maker to the earl. That’s it, isn’t it?’

  ‘Summat like that,’ she said, anxiously. Among all her worries regarding this adventure, and they were legion, had been the conviction that the kitchen staff would hate her for landing like a jumped-up cuckoo in their nest.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Samuel. ‘There’s great curiosity in the kitchen as to what …’ – he paused, searching for the right words – ‘culinary magic you’re capable of.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  Samuel laughed. ‘Fret ye not,’ he said. ‘I’ll keep an eye on you.’

  This wasn’t particularly reassuring; the idea that someone might need to keep an eye on her compounded, rather than alleviated, her concern. But how to express this to a stranger, however well-meaning he might seem to be? A stranger, moreover, who was now fully engaged in issuing directions to the basket-carriers who, having reached the brougham, were making a hash of the business of loading up. An unsteady pile of empty baskets waited by the carriage for the return journey.

  ‘Gormless buggers,’ said Samuel. ‘Twice, maybe thrice a week they come down, from May to August, and they still haven’t worked out how to load the bloomin’ baskets. Haven’t got the sense they were born with.’ He was speaking to Eve, but she made no comment; it was awkward, with the porters right there, taking the verbal abuse. She felt hardly in a position to criticise anyone, standing there mute, knowing nothing about anything.

  ‘Get that out, look,’ Samuel said, tugging on Eve’s luggage, which currently rested at an angle on top of a hamper. ‘Lay this one underneath. Who’d put grapes on the bottom of the pile? Trunk first, then spuds, come on, soft fruit on top. Lift the lids, see what’s what.’

  Eve stood and watched the palaver as the hampers were reloaded. I’m sitting up top then, she thought; there was barely room for another grape to squeeze in the carriage when they’d finished, let alone her.

  ‘You’re by me,’ said Samuel, confirming the obvious. He clambered up into the driving seat, then leaned out precariously to help her join him, pulling on her with a powerful arm so her feet left the ground almost before she was ready. ‘Better that way,’ he said. ‘See the sights. We’ll take the scenic route.’ The porters, carrying the empty baskets from the last delivery, sloped off towards the waiting train with dark looks and muttered asides, and Samuel clicked his tongue for the horses to head off.

  ‘Bloomin’ halfwits,’ he said.

  ‘Three times a week?’ Eve said.

  ‘Some weeks, yes. Depends how many of ’em are in residence. And the countess can’t do without her exotics, y’see. Grapes, figs and whatnot. Breakfast and dinner.’ He grinned at her, wickedly. ‘Keeps her regular,’ he said, and winked.

  Eve laughed. She supposed Lady Hoyland did have the same bodily functions as the rest of the human race, but it was an unlikely image all the same, and not a welcome one. The carriage behind them swayed a little then settled as Samuel drove the horses out of the cobbled station yard and into the road. Eve swayed a little too; she was higher than she would have liked to be, and there was nothing to hold on to. She sat on her hands, for fear that she might instinctively reach for Samuel’s arm and die of mortification.

  All around her, this nondescript area of north London got on with its day. It wasn’t at all how she’d imagined; before she arrived, all she knew of the city were the colourful facts she’d learned at school. Black death, rats and pickpockets, bodies piled in hand carts, the grim tolling of bells, scaffolds for the beheading of queens, bonfires for the burning of heretics, and the occasional palace or park for light relief. But this looked, just a little, like Sheffield, though the houses they passed were taller and the folk better dressed. The sky, what meagre strip was visible between buildings, was the same dreary shade of chimney-smoke grey as at Netherwood, and the smell of it carried her thoughts homewards; half-past two, Saturday afternoon. Seth and Eliza would be home, and the house would be empty because Anna would still be at the mill and Ellen and Maya would be in a mutinous mood at Lilly Pickering’s, longing for Anna to get home and rescue them. She felt a sudden yearning for Ellen’s hot, fierce embrace, her plump little hands clasped behind Eve’s neck for a stronger hold, and her face pressed into her mother’s cheek. She was losing her independent streak, Eve’s little girl. She no longer seemed destined to run the country, wanting her mother all the time now that she couldn’t have her. And now look how things stood. She wasn’t just busy at work and not home until bedtime. She was many hours and many, many miles away from everything that mattered to her, to make fancy food for a countess who always got her way. A lump formed in Eve’s throat. She concentrated hard on what she could see around her. It wouldn’t do to arrive with eyes red from weeping.

  They turned, quite sharply, into a much wider and noisier thoroughfare, busy with carriages and pedestrians, all pressing on to their destinations with a collective air of urgency and importance.
None of them so much as glanced at a newspaper seller, who stood by his wooden cart, yelling his best headlines in an accent Eve couldn’t understand. She stared at him as they passed, meaning no offence, but he leered back at her with an ugly, open mouth, showing brown teeth and a wet tongue. Eve looked away, horrified, and shrank back in her seat. She felt obscurely guilty, as though she’d broken one of London’s laws – thou shalt not show curiosity – and slid a glance across to Samuel, wondering if he’d witnessed this encounter. He was oblivious, however, watching the road ahead and whistling ‘Rule Britannia’ through his teeth without a care in the world. In profile, his bushy moustache protruded further than the end of his nose, and twitched in time to the tune. Eve envied him his ease and familiarity with this place; she herself felt like a mouse in a barn full of cats. As her thumping heart settled, she made a fervent little vow to cherish the ordinary when next she returned to it.

  The carriage moved slowly now, impeded by the crush and press of other vehicles. Truly, thought Eve, she could have walked faster. She had plenty of time for gazing, though, and the buildings around her had suddenly become much more imposing. One in particular caught her attention; it was long and high, and dominated the outlook with its towers and spires and multitude of windows. Eve, perking up, said, ‘Oh! Is that Buckingham Palace?’ and provoked in Samuel a roar of amusement loud enough to startle a pair of passers-by arm in arm on the pavement just beside them, the lady squealing at the assault and the gentleman scowling in the direction of the bellow. Unabashed, Samuel let his laughter run its course. Eve knew she must be feeling better, because a rush of irritation made her sit up straighter in her seat. It really wasn’t that funny. She’d like to take him to Barnsley, see how clever he was there.

  He wiped his eyes. ‘Ah, dear me, best laugh I’m likely to have all day,’ he said. ‘The thought of ’is nibs living cheek-by-jowl with King’s Cross station. King certainly would be cross if he had to do that.’ He shook with more mirth at his own quip, then finally looked at his passenger and realised she wasn’t amused.

  ‘Sorry, sorry, don’t mind me,’ he said, regaining control and chiding himself for putting her out. ‘It’s the Midland Grand,’ he said. She looked blank. ‘Hotel,’ he added, by way of clarification. He indicated backwards with his crop, because the great building was now behind them, and in a tour guide’s carrying voice said, ‘A marvel of British engineering. Revolving doors, ascending chambers, gold-leaf on the walls, three hundred bedrooms – pity the maids, that’s three hundred chamber pots as well. Twenty shillings a night they say, if you fancy staying there. Breakfast is extra. Shall I drop you off?’

  He roared with laughter again. Couldn’t help himself.

  Eve gaped, and strained back over her shoulder for another look. She wondered what kind of night’s sleep 20 shillings bought a person. A much deeper, warmer, longer kind than she was used to, she supposed.

  ‘I can drive you by Buckingham Palace though,’ Samuel was saying, trying to make amends and win a smile. He turned right, and Eve saw trees and the promise of grass. ‘Bit of a tour, why not? We can trot through Regent’s Park here, down Regent Street and Piccadilly, round Green Park then off down to wave at the king. The flag’s flying, so he’s receiving visitors. Practically neighbours, we are.’

  She nodded, and gazed at the elegant white terraces they were now passing. Any one of those houses would do for a town hall in Netherwood, she thought. She sighed, involuntarily and mournfully, thinking of home again and Samuel glanced across at her. ‘Cheer up,’ he said. ‘Left kiddies behind, have you?’

  She nodded again, though she didn’t speak, not wanting to risk opening the floodgates. Let’s stick to the sights of London, she thought. Much safer territory. Samuel was no mind reader, but he knew a woman on the verge of tears when he saw one. He had just the antidote though; he hadn’t yet had a lady passenger new to the capital who wasn’t bowled over by the shops on Piccadilly. He picked up the pace, all the quicker to get there. This, he felt, was something of an emergency.

  Chapter 37

  Lady Hoyland hadn’t so much persuaded Eve to work for her in London as assumed she would and proceeded on that basis. Before Eve saw her again, the countess had entered dates in her diary for three parties at Fulton House during the London season, all of which would be catered by Eve. Deaf to any objections, she breezed into the mill with the details – ‘Too thrilling, darling – perhaps one or two new nibbles, please, for the later soirées?’ – and breezed out again. Dates penned in Clarissa’s diary were indelible, as if carved in tablets of stone. And once invitations were sent, when the time was right – too early and one looked desperate, too late and one might be pipped at the post – there really was no turning back. You might more easily cancel Christmas.

  The prospect of a long period away from home cast a shadow over Eve from the moment she realised the countess was in earnest, and though the date of departure had been some months distant, she would still wake each morning with a sense of foreboding as it moved inexorably closer. Even Christmas was marred for her. The festive period had been a triumph in every possible way; people had flocked to Netherwood in droves, just to buy her fruitcake and Christmas chutney and the cinnamon shortbread stars threaded with red ribbon to hang on the tree. Such was the demand for her food that Eve had had to hire a couple of liveried delivery boys all of her own, cycling about on sturdy black bicycles with the fare carefully wrapped and packed in their wicker panniers. And all the time, while folk made merry and goodwill was heaped upon her, Eve was trying to imagine herself, come late spring, away from home; and not just away from home, but in London. London! She could form no helpful mental picture of herself in the capital. She was certain she’d be robbed and murdered the minute she stepped off the train.

  ‘Pah!’ This was Anna, of course, the world traveller. She had heard Eve out, brow knitted, arms folded across her chest. She’d recently cut herself a fringe, having tired of her severe centre-parting, and with her heart-shaped face and wide blue eyes it gave her the look of a serious child, wise beyond her years.

  ‘Don’t you pah! me,’ Eve had said. ‘I’m just sayin’, it’s a lot to ask. Too much, in fact. I shan’t go.’

  ‘You shall, though,’ said Anna. ‘I stay here, hold …’ she waved her arms, searching for the words.

  ‘The fort,’ said Eve, helpful in spite of herself.

  ‘Da. The fort. And you go – for very short time – to beautiful London home of earl, to make food you could cook in your sleep. Easy as pie. Ha! As pie!’

  Anna was really getting the hang of colloquialisms. She liked to pepper her speech with them, to demonstrate her command of the language.

  Eve sighed. She’d known her friend would be all for it; Anna saw only solutions, never problems. To her, each new day was an opportunity to push forwards in some way, to improve one’s lot, to gain more ground. While Eve wanted nothing more than to keep their boat on an even keel, Anna was all for finding uncharted waters. But then, Eve had raised the matter with Ginger too, and she’d said much the same. Told her to jump at it. She’d go like a shot, she said, given half the chance. Eve hadn’t bothered asking Alice, because she didn’t want Jonas’s opinion, but she’d asked Nellie, who had pursed her lips and rubbed her thumb and forefinger together, and bluntly asked what the Hoylands would pay her for the job.

  ‘I, erm, I’m not sure,’ Eve had said, slightly thrown by the question. ‘Nowt, like as not. They ’alf own me, after all.’ This was Amos’s sentiment, and she spoke the words ironically. Still, though, she wondered how she stood; the earl’s 50 per cent share was in the business, not in her, but no one had mentioned money for her time, certainly not the countess who went through life with the blithe and carefree spirit of an indulged six-year-old. She wanted Eve in London from early May for an unspecified period, though she’d gaily promised her that she’d be home by the twelfth of August for the opening of the grouse season. Grouse season indeed. Did the countess imagin
e she’d be off up to the Scottish moors when she got home? Lady Hoyland seemed to look at the whole venture as a grand jape, marvellous fun for everyone involved and it made Eve wonder if she’d ever experienced dread, or fear, or even disappointment. Almost certainly not, she concluded. Mind you, it seemed that neither had Nellie, hard as nails in her starched apron and helmet of grey curls.

  ‘Get thissen to t’estate offices and name thi price,’ she had said, as if she was born to the world of cut-throat commerce. ‘Never do owt for nowt—’

  ‘—unless tha does it for thissen,’ Anna chimed in, triumphantly.

  ‘Aye,’ said Nellie. She nodded approvingly at Anna. She might be foreign, but she was nobody’s fool.

  ‘Maybe you two should go for me,’ Eve said. She was only half joking. It was vexing that it was her name on the company sign yet here she was trying to talk herself out of a potentially lucrative contract. Perhaps she really wasn’t cut out for this business lark. She already had more money than she could spend, and it seemed pointless, not to say greedy, to seek more. Then again, Lady Hoyland might value her less if her talents came free of charge. These were the arguments that ran through her mind, contradictory and puzzling.

  Once upon a time she would have sought Amos’s advice, but he was less approachable than he used to be – still a friend, but always harsh and dismissive where her partnership with the earl was concerned, and a little more sparing with his pleasantries. He would leave Seth at the bottom of the entry these days, bidding the boy farewell and carrying on home instead of calling in to pass the time of day. Eve had tried her hardest, since rebuffing his proposal, to restore their relationship to an even footing, as much like their old easiness as she could manage. But Amos, though gradually feeling the benefit of the healing balm of time, still had moments when he felt bruised and resentful, as if his feelings for Eve had exposed him to the world as a weakling. His response at the time had been to throw himself into issues he felt he could influence, not those he had no power to change. He had convinced himself – brooding at home, brooding at work – that the earl’s interest in Eve had thwarted his own destiny; if it wasn’t for Lord Hoyland, she would have need of his love. And, rightly or wrongly, this belief fuelled first frustration, then anger and finally full-blown hatred, so that the earl, until lately guilty in Amos’s view of nothing worse than aristocratic complacency, became a demonic puppet master, whose interests must be thwarted for the good of mankind. His bitterness grew, calcified and stuck fast. The fight against injustice to the working man became personal, and it was not so much an ideal as a mission; Amos would see Netherwood’s three collieries unionised, or die in the attempt. It would be his sweet revenge.