Netherwood01 - Netherwood

by Jane Sanderson

  ‘I take him to New Mill,’ Anna had said. She was shaking from the shock of Seth’s accusations and the uncertainty of Amos’s fate.

  ‘Aye, well,’ Ginger said. She turned to Seth. ‘You behave yersen. And wipe that snotty face.’

  She had her own opinion about Eve’s lad, and it wasn’t favourable. She’d seen the way he was with Anna, and had frequently thought that if he was hers he’d be made to account for his behaviour or suffer the consequences. For Anna, though, a puzzle had been solved this afternoon. She waited until Seth had cleaned his face with the cloth Ginger thrust at him, then she set off with him to the pit, walking in silence. At New Mill three different men told him Amos was safe, but Seth had wanted to see him and this, apparently, wasn’t possible. Then he had run away. She had let him be for a few hours – there was so much to do every day that searching for a hysterical, recalcitrant boy had to wait – then, with Eliza at home looking after Ellen and Maya, she walked to the allotment, where she found him. And there he’d stayed, despite all her entreaties to come home, eat, sleep. He hated her, he said, and nothing would ever be right while she was in his home. So finally she had shrugged and left him, and waited for Amos to come home from work and mend it.

  They sat together for a long time after Seth had gone to bed. Anna had made a batch of pig parcels for the mill, and she warmed some through for Amos, who’d never imagined you could do anything with a savoy other than chop it small and boil it. They talked about Seth. Anna said she pitied him; all these months he’d carried an irrational grudge, blaming her for being alive when his father was dead. Amos said it was all straightened out now, he was sure of it. He had told the boy, upstairs, that Anna was a good woman and a very dear friend to his mother, and that he, Amos, respected and liked her. It was beyond foolish, he said, to punish her for Arthur’s death.

  ‘Your father showed Anna a great kindness before ’e died. He knew what was right, and he would expect t’same o’ you. You mun grow up, little man. Stop actin’ like a bairn.’

  Seth, ashamed, contrite, had listened solemnly then dropped into an exhausted sleep.

  ‘It’ll be better now,’ Amos said to Anna as they talked about the boy. ‘Y’know, easier between t’two of you.’

  Anna smiled and shrugged – she could live without Seth’s approval – and poured more tea from the big brown pot. They talked a little about the accident and about Lew, who Anna knew vaguely as a customer at the shop. There’d be funerals, probably sooner than later.

  ‘Do you think Eve will come?’ Anna said.

  ‘Doubt it. ’Ow would she get ’ere in time? They might not even tell ’er it’s ’appened.’

  Anna heard the hardness in his voice. ‘Are you angry at Eve?’ she said.

  ‘No,’ Amos said. ‘I’m angry with plenty o’ folk, but not wi’ Eve.’

  ‘Good,’ Anna said. She sighed. ‘I miss her.’

  ‘Aye,’ Amos said. He stared into his cup and swilled the tea around. ‘Me an’ all.’

  Could a soirée be too triumphantly successful? The countess believed so. The Duchess of Abberley, enchanted with all she’d eaten that evening, had put her in an extremely awkward position.

  ‘We’d love to borrow your clever cook for a little chez nous at Grosvenor Crescent,’ she’d said. ‘A week Saturday?’

  The countess, entirely caught out, smiled thinly. Eve was her own discovery. She had no wish to share her. Yet, could one decline a request from a duchess?

  ‘The king will be there, we just heard from the palace. All very hasty, as these things are. You’ll come, of course?’

  Oh, cruel, cruel. Lady Hoyland nodded her gracious assent. Inside, bitterness and disappointment boiled together, competing for precedence.

  ‘So pleased,’ said the duchess. ‘We’ll keep it small. No more than forty.’

  The smile on the countess’s face was beginning to hurt. She mustered strength from all the centuries of good breeding at her disposal and said, ‘Super. We shall look forward to it,’ then she moved away on the pretext of joining her husband, who had spent most of the evening doing exactly what she’d asked him not to, which was talking business with the ambassador. Robin Campbell-Chievely, about to leave with his wife for a dinner engagement – how they could even think of eating, the countess had no idea – gave her a look of longing as she passed. But even this made no impression on her mounting dissatisfaction. To be endlessly overlooked by the king while he graced every other household of note with his presence was bad enough. But to be forced through politeness to allow the Abberleys the distinction of feeding him Eve Williams’s heavenly food was simply too awful.

  Tobias, all smiles, walked across the terrace towards her, and her spirits lifted a little. Darling boy, she thought.

  ‘Mama,’ he said. ‘Henry and I are taking Thea dancing.’

  ‘Thea?’

  ‘Dorothea. She prefers it.’

  He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek.

  ‘Fabulous party, clever old thing,’ he said. ‘Might be late, so don’t wait up.’

  Then he breezed off and she watched him go, thinking he might as well have plunged a dagger in her heart.

  Chapter 46

  Telegrams are never a welcome interruption, thought Lord Hoyland. In his experience, whatever one was doing when they arrived was always more enjoyable than the news they carried. No happy birthday greetings had ever come his way via a buff-coloured slip from the Post Office; no safe delivery of this or that infant had ever arrived to lift his mood or brighten his day. And this morning was no exception, for as he sat contentedly in his study after breakfast, perusing the share prices and calculating his gains, Munster knocked, entered and presented to him on a silver tray the brutal news that eight of his men were dead following an accident at New Mill.

  ‘Oh, dear God,’ he said, after reading it, and he sat back heavily in his chair, just as Henrietta walked in.

  ‘What is it, Daddy?’ she said, immediately alarmed. ‘Are you unwell?’

  He pushed the telegram across the desk and she crossed the room hastily to read it.

  ‘How dreadful. Do we know how it …’

  He shook his head, cutting her off.

  ‘I know no more than you,’ he said. ‘But it’s a trip back north for me. Your mother won’t be happy.’

  ‘Well, that’s of no account,’ she said. ‘You must go. And, Daddy?’

  He looked at her.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’d like to accompany you.’

  He gave a short bark of astonished laughter.

  ‘Henry. You know, and I know, that that is utterly out of the question. And in any case, what possible use could you be?’

  This was uncalled for, she thought, but her father had never responded well to a raised voice, so she kept hers level now.

  ‘I could support you, in the first instance. I could also show, by my presence, that our family is responding appropriately to this tragedy. What would you have me do? Attend a few more pointless parties? Order another dress to add to my vast collection?’

  He could see that he had upset her. Since childhood, she had shown the same symptoms when an injustice had been done to her: a high flush to the cheekbones, a slight quaver to her voice, a higher, haughtier angle to the chin.

  ‘Henry, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Of course you would be of use, at least to me, if not at the colliery. But, my dear, you must see that for me to arrive at the scene of the accident with you by my side would be – well, eccentric, at best, entirely unsuitable at worst. But I do applaud you for the impulse.’

  She waved away his words.

  ‘I’m not seeking praise, Daddy. I want to come with you because it’s the right thing to do.’

  ‘I’m sorry. No.’

  ‘And if this were Toby or Dickie?’

  He answered without a moment’s pause.

  ‘Yes, they would be welcome to accompany me, though God knows they’re unlikely to offer. But the pit yard aft
er an accident is no place for a woman.’

  ‘Apart from bereaved wives and mothers, of course. There’s a place for them.’

  ‘That’s entirely different, and you know it is,’ said the earl sharply. ‘You’re a titled young lady with a responsibility to behave in a genteel and dignified manner.’

  ‘Since you mention responsibility, do you begin to wonder if the colliery is as safe as it could be?’ This change of direction was deliberately provocative. The earl glared at her.

  ‘Henrietta. You go too far. Please desist.’

  She stood.

  ‘Very well. But perhaps you would provide me with as many of the details as you can. The cause of the accident and the names of the deceased, please.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Because we have a woman on these premises whose first thoughts will be for her friends in Netherwood. The very least I can do is supply her with the facts.’

  He gazed at her for a moment before he spoke. If Tobias had a fraction of her character, the earl could sleep easily in his bed at night.

  ‘Certainly,’ he said, a little humbled, and she left the room.

  ‘What’s in the basket?’ Daniel said, when Eve arrived by his side at just after nine o’clock.

  ‘Pies.’

  ‘A picnic?’

  She laughed. ‘Sorry, no. Samples. I’m doin’ what my friend Anna Rabinovich would want me to do – takin’ ’em to Fortnum and Mason. With your ’elp, of course.’

  ‘Right. For your business meeting?’

  ‘It’s not exactly a meetin’, because I’m not expected. I may well be sent packin’.’

  ‘In which case,’ said Daniel, ‘we get to eat the fairy pies.’

  ‘Well, you can,’ she said. ‘I’m sick of t’sight of ’em.’

  ‘And Anna Rab …’ He paused, stuck for the name.

  ‘—inovich. It’s Russian,’ said Eve helpfully.

  ‘Right. So why would she want you to go to Fortnum’s?’

  ‘Oh, because she’s a tyrant of a businesswoman with a thirst for power,’ Eve said, and she grinned. ‘If I can go ’ome with a licence to supply Fortnum an’ Mason with pies from Netherwood, she’ll be cock-a-hoop. She thinks I drag my heels, y’see, when it comes to expansion. She’s right an’ all. I do. Generally speakin’.’

  She smiled up at him, and he smiled back warmly. She looked, he thought, utterly charming in a white blouse patterned with tiny pink rosebuds. Who wouldn’t buy pies from her?

  ‘Shall we?’ he said, indicating with an outstretched arm that they should set off, and they walked together through the porte-cochère on to the square. The roads in this residential quarter were quiet, and they strolled along in the warm spring sunshine, chatting comfortably. He wanted to know all about the children, and to a point Eve obliged, then suddenly choked on her words as the urge to weep came upon her at the thought of them. She’d known she would miss them, she said, but she hadn’t expected actual physical pain. He was all concern and took her arm, watching her closely to be sure she was quite well. Then he talked, by way of distraction, about Montrose and his boyhood there, and she listened until she felt restored. He didn’t release her arm, though, and she didn’t remove it.

  He took her into Green Park and entertained her with the tale of the philandering Charles II, who reputedly picked flowers for his mistress from what was called, at the time, Upper St James’s Park.

  ‘The queen was so furious that she had every blossom and bloom pulled from the ground. She decreed that no flowers should be planted there and ever since it’s been Green Park.’

  ‘Is that true?’

  ‘Well, do you see a flowerbed?’

  She looked about her. ‘Seems a shame,’ she said. ‘A park with no flowers. Charles II is long gone, after all.’

  ‘Ah, but I’m not sure the present king can be trusted either,’ said Daniel. ‘Best not to put temptation in his way. I gather, by the way, that you’re to cook for him?’

  ‘For who?’

  ‘King Edward.’

  ‘No,’ said Eve emphatically, shaking her head and smiling. ‘Not me.’

  ‘Well, that’s not what I heard,’ Daniel said. ‘One of the footmen told Munster the butler, who told the earl’s valet, who told old Stallibrass that the Duchess of Abberley was so taken with your food that she’s stealing you for a regal knees-up in Grosvenor Crescent. King and queen, apparently.’

  Eve stopped in her tracks. ‘That’s not funny,’ she said.

  ‘Wasn’t meant to be,’ said Daniel, though he was grinning.

  ‘But I can’t do that!’

  ‘Now, why on earth not?’

  ‘I can’t make pork pies for t’king. It’s not right, it’s all wrong, he’ll, he’ll …’

  ‘Chop off your head?’ He was properly laughing at her now, because her face was a picture. ‘Better make sure you get the pastry right. He’s very irascible, they say.’

  She tried not to laugh herself, and failed.

  ‘Seriously though,’ she said. ‘What am I to do?’

  ‘Think of King and Country, I suppose,’ he said. ‘And Anna Rabinovich.’

  At Fortnum and Mason she insisted he wait outside. If she was going to make a fool of herself, she said, she’d rather do it without him watching.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. He leaned against the wall of the shop, arms folded. ‘I shan’t move from this spot. Unless I’m arrested for loitering.’

  She rolled her eyes at him. ‘Wish me luck,’ she said.

  ‘Good luck,’ he said, and waved crossed fingers at her. His smile, to her great surprise, sent a small bolt of joy through her body. It made her feel, on this teeming thoroughfare, that she was the only person he could see. Had anyone ever smiled at her the way he did? She didn’t think they could have done, or she would surely never have forgotten.

  Into the interior of the shop she went, the great doors swinging open for her as they had done before. But she didn’t, as before, stand rooted to the spot in a trance. Instead, she headed straight for the cold-meat counter, as purposeful as any other customer. She scanned the staff for the fresh-faced lad who’d given her a free sample last time. No sign of him. This deflated her mood beyond reason. She’d counted on finding him, she now realised, which was folly when there were clearly many different employees here. She didn’t even know his name to ask for him.

  ‘Good morning. May I help you, madam?’

  A deep baritone interrupted her frantic thought process. She looked up to see a large man, frock-coated like the rest, hands resting together on the shelf of his ample belly. His fine whiskers were carefully cultivated and gunmetal grey, and they gave him the look of an important statesman. Here we go, Eve thought.

  ‘I wondered if I might see t’manager,’ she said.

  ‘Indeed?’ he said. ‘And for what reason?’

  Her heart sank a little further. She had a moment’s flashback, returning her to in Micklethwaite’s Household Emporium with Hilary Kilney, the estate offices with Absalom Blandford, the Fulton House kitchen with Mrs Carmichael. She gathered herself in the face of these assembled foes; she had coped with them, she could cope now. And after all, the chap had every right to ask her business.

  ‘I know this is probably irregular,’ she said, sounding a good deal more breezy than she felt and lifting her wicker basket up on to his counter. ‘But I run a small business making these.’

  She lifted out one of her tiny pies and placed it on the glass top. It looked comical there, being too small for its new surroundings, and she had an absurd protective impulse to whip it back into the basket to be with its siblings.

  The shop assistant and Eve both looked at the pie, and then at each other. She smiled brightly and he said, ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s a veal-and-’am pie,’ she said. ‘I can do pork too, and game. It’s party food, y’see. Rather than slicin’ a big one.’ She nodded down at the regular-sized specimens under the counter. ‘Try it,’ she said, and pu
shed it a little further towards him.

  He drew back, as if from wickedness. ‘I’m not sure that I should,’ he said, but he did look tempted. It was, after all, a delightful little thing, golden brown, with exactly the right degree of irregularity to its crimped edge. At the centre of the lid was a beautiful, minuscule pastry rose. Polly’s nimble fingers had come in handy there, too.

  ‘Oh go on,’ Eve said. ‘I’ve more in ’ere.’ She shook the basket at him, and smiled her encouragement. He smiled back, looking more like a great big mischievous child now than an elder statesman. Overcoming his qualms, he snatched the pie and wolfed it down.

  ‘That,’ he said, impolitely, with his mouth full, ‘is marvellous. Wait here, young woman.’

  And he strode off, through a door concealed in the shelving of fancy tinned goods behind him. It swung shut very slowly behind him, and just as it settled back into place, it was thrust open again and back he came with another man – there were no women, it seemed, in this establishment – who was shorter, thinner and bespectacled, though not bewhiskered. His general appearance was less impressive than his colleague’s, but he was clearly in charge. He held out a thin, dry hand, which Eve shook. He was Mr Paterson, he said, manager in charge of outside catering, and he believed she had something of interest. Eve pulled back the linen cloth covering the rest of the pies and he peered at them through his round lenses, then he clapped his hands rapidly, several times, out of pure joy, and that was before he tasted them. She was whisked behind the scenes, through the same hidden door, to a panelled office where her pies were sampled formally and her answers to a series of questions were scratched in ink by Mr Paterson into a large, leather-bound book, this task carried out with all the import and solemnity of a marriage registration. Name, company name, address. She hesitated at this. Fulton House, Belgravia was home for the time being, she said, which made him sit up a little straighter in his chair until she explained she was employed there, not resident.

  ‘If I make pies for you, they’d be baked in Netherwood,’ she said. ‘That’s in Yorkshire,’ she added, because his owlish face was blank. ‘And it would have to wait until I’m back.’