Easterleigh Hall
Page 8
‘He enjoys a sight too many things, and always at the expense of others.’ Lady Brampton was sitting at the end of the sofa, reading The Times while she drank her coffee. Veronica said nothing. What was there to say?
Her stepmother lowered the newspaper, peering at Veronica, the hint of a scowl beginning. ‘Is that a sullen silence, my dear? If so, it’s not as a lady should behave.’
Veronica said, ‘It is merely a silence. I have nothing to contribute to our scintillating conversation.’ She wondered if her stepmother noticed her hatred, or if she did, whether she cared, so preoccupied was she with herself. What on earth would her mother think of her husband’s choice of a wife who was everything that Wainey and her mother had considered a disgrace to women? Auberon had told her that their mother would have stood her ground on the purchase of a title and asked how one could possibly buy status, because such a thing needed to be earned? Veronica wondered if perhaps their father had earned it with his various businesses, because for all his faults he was a worker. She thought not and returned again to the views over the garden.
Her stepmother hadn’t finished. ‘Veronica.’ It was a command. Veronica turned. The newspaper had been left to fall to the floor. No doubt some wretched minion would be expected to pick it up, re-iron it and leave it on the table in case it was required later. Lady Brampton said, ‘I see my task as bringing you up to par. Miss Wainton was too lax, too full of silly ideas and has let you down. We need to determine on a schedule of visits to your Northumbrian contemporaries and not lose sight of the fact that within two years you will come out. We will, at that time, circulate you amongst your London contemporaries to be viewed. Nineteen will be ideal. We’ll have to find you a husband, one with prospects and a suitable rank.’
Veronica stared anywhere but at this impossible woman with her immaculate hair and clothes, sitting there as though she was a set piece in this house she had refurbished as a backdrop to her own perceived brilliance.
It was a house that was too big, too unlike anything Veronica or Auberon needed, or in which her mother would have felt comfortable. ‘I don’t want a husband,’ she said. ‘I want a life. I want a career but I just don’t know what yet.’ She stood and walked to the window, longing to rush down the stairs and outside, to run across the lawn as she used to before this woman became her stepmother five years ago and forbade such unladylike behaviour.
Her stepmother was staring at her, leaning forward as though to hear better. ‘I don’t believe I heard correctly.’
‘I’ll repeat, then. I don’t want a husband, not yet. I want a life.’
Lady Brampton shook her head, her eyes narrowing. ‘That Wainton woman has a lot to answer for, indeed she has. I mean, just what do you intend to be, a shorthand writer? How absurd you are, and how can you consider taking a job from someone who has need of it? I absolutely forbid it, Veronica, and don’t want to hear any more about it.’
The door opened and Auberon entered. Veronica shook her head in warning. He nodded, walked to Lady Brampton, bent over her hand and said, ‘Delightful luncheon, Mama.’
It was water off a duck’s back. Lady Brampton leaned away from him. ‘I can smell brandy. Sit down and be quiet. You deserve bread and water when I think of the way you’ve behaved, and how on earth can you put your father through this endless worry and embarrassment?’ She was now waving him from her, her eyes as cold as ice. But when weren’t they, the witch. Was that why she had been a spinster for so long, wondered Veronica, not for the first time. Or had her heart been broken somewhere along the line? But no, that couldn’t be so, for that would assume she possessed such a thing.
Auberon sat opposite his stepmother on the other sofa. From the set of his head Veronica knew that he was only a short step from disaster. She intervened, walking towards them and taking her place alongside Auberon. ‘How long are you remaining at Easterleigh, Mama?’
‘Don’t change the subject.’ Lady Marjorie Brampton had a ramrod-straight back and it was the one thing Veronica admired about her. Her stepmother continued, ‘Auberon, you insisted on university and I supported you because it’s so much more suitable than the grubby world of business, but you’ve made me out a fool. Therefore this is where you’ll remain. There’ll be no more drinking, no more gambling. How dare you when we are economising, when we are threatened on all sides by this lunatic Lloyd George who is attempting to redistribute our wealth to pay for his absurd welfare reforms.’
‘But Stepmama . . .’
‘Do not interrupt, Auberon. For heaven’s sake, boy, can’t you understand the severity of the situation? They demand a much higher income tax from those with our wealth, plus an inheritance tax, and land tax, and all for these workers who threaten us on all sides, wanting more. If it isn’t your father’s steel workers, or the brick workers, then it is the miners, and it’s not just his workers. Read the newspapers. What is the world coming to?’
‘We’re hardly threatened, Mama. We have more than a little bit in hand, haven’t we?’ Auberon’s tone was dry.
Veronica knew it was the brandy talking, but whatever it was it was a step too far. She spoke loudly to gain her stepmother’s attention. ‘Have you received replies to your dinner invitations?’
Lady Brampton forced herself to turn to Veronica. ‘Yes, I have indeed and I think that you must attend. You are not yet “out”, but Lady Esther will be coming with her parents and perhaps Lady Margaret with hers. They are both from good Northumbrian families and it really is quite time you learned some polish. That dreadful Wainton has quite worn out your brain with all this book-learning.’
Veronica stared. Next this stupid woman would be telling her that to think would leave her in a state of hysteria. Find the crinolines immediately.
Lady Brampton continued. ‘Listen well, Veronica, because you will one day have a household of your own to run. I have solved the latest servant problem and have suggested that we change provision suppliers in order to budget for the full complement of kitchen staff.’
She rose, brushing past her stepchildren with her usual disdain. ‘I will change and then I am to call on Lady Taunton. Tomorrow, Veronica, we will both call on Lady Margaret while her mother is in Paris. Let me repeat myself. When you are nineteen you will come out, and you, at least, must, and will, enhance our family name. I expect you to marry well.’ She swept from the room.
For a moment neither Veronica or Auberon spoke, then she turned to her brother. ‘Don’t inflame her. You have ground to make up. It doesn’t help, it really doesn’t.’
He sighed, his fair hair flopping across his left eye as it always did. He brushed it aside. ‘I can’t help it.’
‘Yes you can, it’s simple, just don’t open your mouth.’ Veronica shook his arm. He shrugged. ‘Then it’s called dumb insolence.’ They both laughed.
‘What’s wrong with putting a few crinklies on the horses, Ver?’
She shook his arm again, exasperated. ‘You know what. And what would Wainey have said?’
‘Leave her out of it.’ His voice was sharp and he looked into the fireplace. It had not been lit and wouldn’t be until four o clock.
‘Why, when she’s at the heart of it? You’ve got to move on, you simply must, this is not what she would want.’
He gripped her hand, which still lay on his arm. ‘Why did she do it, Ver? You were here, did she say anything? Yes, she was asked to leave but we would have made sure she was all right, we would have stayed close. Why would she jump, and from the balcony?’
They both looked towards the long window and the balustrade over which their father said Wainey had flung herself.
Auberon let go of her hand and leant forward, his head in his hands. His voice was muffled. ‘It’s my fault. I went away, and to get their own back they dismissed her. If I hadn’t gone . . . How could he say she wasn’t needed? She was part of the family, for God’s sake. You know, I sometimes wonder if she didn’t jump, but . . .’ He stopped, straightened up and stared at
the gold clock on the mantelpiece which his stepmother had brought with her from Headon Hall, her decrepit family pile. ‘I’m sorry, Ver. I shouldn’t go on, and I won’t, not any more. It’s over and he’ll be back soon and then I’ll really have to face the Furies.’
‘She jumped, of course she did, Aub, don’t be a fool.’ Veronica was pulling him towards her, stroking his hair. ‘Dearest Aub, anyone faced by him might if he was raging, and if their heart was breaking. So, never think anything else. It was just one of those terrible moments in a person’s life. One day things will be better.’
She held him as though she could somehow keep him safe, because it was all she wanted: Auberon safe. She loved him and God help her, he kept the rage of their father fixed on himself, not on her. Before Auberon, had it been her mother who did this? She could bear none of it. For a moment she thought that she would cry with fear and anguish but that must not happen, for once she started she didn’t know how she would ever stop.
Chapter Six
ALMOST TWO WEEKS later, on Saturday, Evie prepared the breakfast porridge as usual. It was the dinner party in the evening, and Lord Brampton would arrive for luncheon. There was a degree of tension in the air that was quite new to her. Mrs Moore had not smiled once and her tone had sharpened. Twenty guests and Lord Brampton home. The air seemed too tight for anyone to breathe, but at least they had a new scullery maid and kitchen assistant.
‘Colour co-ordinated food indeed,’ muttered Mrs Moore, rattling the pan in which kidneys for the upstairs breakfast were being sautéed. ‘Never heard the like.’
Evie had written out the menu cards as she had better hands and French, said Mrs Moore, some days before, refusing point blank to spend time chatting in the lingo just to help Evie keep hers up to scratch. Instead she’d said, ‘One day you’ll be hearing quite a bit of it, and that will do the job rather well, lass.’ She had refused to elaborate but pointed to the sieves. ‘The quenelles are calling you, and I have enough to do without teaching you extra,’ she’d said firmly.
Tonight it would be clear golden soup using veal stock removed by turbot and cream sauce, removed by compote of pigeons at Lord Brampton’s insistence which could hardly, even by the wildest stretch of the imagination, be called cream-coloured. On and on it went until eight courses, frequently with a cream sauce to keep within the colour parameters of cream and white, were prepared. ‘To be devoured by the less than starving masses above stairs,’ Mrs Moore grimaced.
‘Well, good luck to those corsets, all you lords and ladies,’ Evie grunted, stirring steadily as the heat from the range beat at her. The kitchen staff had been up at four thirty this morning to start and stoke the furnace, check the pantries, and get an extra hour out of the morning. The house servants were up with the lark also but the upstairs and downstairs breakfasts were at the usual times, as upstairs routine could not be disturbed.
Mrs Moore was now placing the kidneys in a pan and snapped, ‘Never mind your clever remarks, Evie Anston. Stop fiddling about with the bloody porridge and do something useful. Millie, take over the porridge and get it to the servants’ hall and be quick about it, if that’s within the boundary of your understanding?’ Millie was from Easton, which had alarmed Evie, until her mam sorted out the need for secrecy with Millie’s family. She’d been employed as the new kitchen assistant after the job had first been offered to Annie, who had refused, preferring to stay in the scullery because there was too much learning that went with cooking. Evie had said they would teach her, but it had done no good.
Evie said to Millie, ‘After that lay up bowls for us and we’ll have them down at the end of the table . . .’
Mrs Moore cut in, ‘Evie, we’ll need all the knives, sieves, every bloody thing, but pour me a cup of tea and check that those damned rabbits are on their way.’ Her hands were shaking, her face pale. There was a sheen of sweat on her cheeks, her hands seemed even more stiff and swollen this morning as she tucked a strand of hair beneath her cap.
Evie wondered if she had suddenly grown an extra pair of hands to be here, there and everywhere, but the only thing she could do was to take it steady, and that was that. Millie was stirring the porridge so slowly it was painful. Evie helped her tip it into the earthenware pot leaving sufficient for the kitchen staff, then tapped the ladle on the side, resting it on the plate on the side of the range.
‘It was right canny seeing Simon the other day, wasn’t it?’ Millie said, wiping round the edge of the pot. Evie nodded. The gardeners and stable lads had come for tea a week ago when Millie and Sarah, the new scullery maid, had joined them. Poor Sarah’s hands had the look of raw beef within two days.
‘Take it through now and you still haven’t laid up for four down the table end.’ Evie poured a cup of tea for Mrs Moore, who was rattling the pan on the range. Millie nodded, and she and Sarah took the porridge through to the staff. ‘That girl can hardly be bothered to be lazy, and where’s me biscuit?’ snapped Mrs Moore.
Evie hurried to the biscuit barrel and popped one on the saucer for Mrs Moore. There had been another empty bottle of gin in her sitting room this morning, which meant Mrs Moore had gone through a whole one over the last two days. Perhaps it was worsening pain, perhaps the stress of the dinner party.
Evie took over the pan. ‘Leave these and have your tea,’ she insisted, nudging the woman away and on to her stool. They were running late but Mrs Moore needed a pick-me-up, and that was that.
Millie was back, standing by her side, looking lost. ‘Now what?’
Evie snapped, ‘Just put our four bowls on the table and fill them with porridge, for the third time.’
Millie flushed. ‘What’s the matter with everyone today?’
Mrs Moore shouted, ‘What do you think, you daft bairn? We’re busy with their breakfast and have to think of their luncheon as well, because his Lordship is on his way and has requested rabbit pie. Rabbit pie on a dinner-party day, I damn well ask you, not to mention a colour co-ordinated dinner for twenty-four, cream and white. What can I do with that? Cream and white and just the odd spot of colour, and you stand there . . .’
Evie interrupted, ‘Just serve our porridge, Millie, and then take the pan to the scullery. Try and remember what you learned when you worked for Mrs Fredericks, that was her name wasn’t it, at Gosforn? It’s the same here, just a bit busier. We know you’re trying to get used to it.’
She forced herself to be pleasant as she tipped the kidneys into a serving bowl, grabbed a thick cloth, jerked up the handle of the warming oven and slid in the dish. Millie slopped across to the scullery while Evie wondered why on earth Lady Brampton insisted on sautéed kidneys when they could be cooked just as adequately in the oven and she didn’t eat them anyway. Today instead of toast in her room she wanted fresh fruit, a boiled egg and soldiers, for pity’s sake. Soldiers? She felt her shoulders rising, felt herself on the verge of tears. They’d never do it, never get everything done.
Millie flounced out of the scullery and stood with her hands on her hips, calling, ‘Anyway, our Evie, you never could count at school.’ Evie swung round, tucking the oven cloth on the fender. ‘There are five of us not four, so it’s as well I’ve just put out five bowls if you cared to look, or you’d go hungry. So stick that in your pipe and smoke it.’
There was a silence as Evie stared at her, then at the five bowls, and then at Millie again, so slight, so flushed, her brown hair refusing to be imprisoned by her hat, and she remembered who she was. Evie Forbes, a miner’s daughter who could handle whatever came her way because she wasn’t in a bloody pit expecting the roof to come down whenever it chose. She felt the laugh begin, along with a great explosion of joy. It was only a meal. Yes, she could be dismissed without a character, but it was only a meal and they were all in it together. She roared now, and heard someone else laughing too. It was Mrs Moore. They were joined by Millie, whose relief was written all over her face, and behind her were Annie and Sarah, smiling, too tired to laugh. Poor wee lasses.
They all ate their porridge, the atmosphere relaxed and for Evie everything became possible, even a meeting with Simon at last, for she still had to check on the rabbits.
She and Mrs Moore finished the upstairs breakfast. Archie and James and Miss Donant collected the trays. Evie and Millie began to lay up the table for Mrs Moore and, glory be, the lass remembered at least some of the utensils. ‘Good girl,’ Evie murmured, ‘I’ll leave you to it and get the stockpot on.’
She scooped bones from the icebox, and vegetables. These she cleaned before adding them to the stock. One of the bells in the corridor rang. Millie ran to see who it was: her Ladyship. Evie said, ‘Tell Miss Donant it’s time to bring the tray down, she’s eaten her soldiers. Likes her flesh, she does. Reckon she’d eat any one of us at the flick of a duster.’
Mrs Moore shook her head at Evie but waited until Millie ran off to the servants’ hall to find the lady’s maid, then murmured, as she checked her utensils, moving the vegetable knives into one group, ‘Be cautious, Evie, trust no one. If that remark about her Ladyship liking flesh goes upstairs you’ll be out. Make the servants your friends, they’re the only family you’ve got while you’re here, but keep your opinions to yourself or you won’t get to where you want to be.’ She didn’t look at Evie, but her voice was firmer than Evie had ever heard it.
‘Where do I want to be?’ Evie heard herself asking as she reached for her shawl. Could Mrs Moore know she was only using the Bramptons for her own ends?
‘Well, perhaps somewhere the equivalent of Claridge’s.’ Mrs Moore sounded tired. ‘You see how information travels.’ She looked at Evie with a gentle smile.
Evie slipped round the table and hugged her, half expecting to be shrugged off. She wasn’t. The woman just nodded, patted her hand. ‘Claridge’s will happen, I know it will, but you have things to learn, not just cooking, pet. Now get the rabbits and show Millie how to skin them. We need to work harder on her training. Heaven knows what Mrs Fredericks ate because there’s not much sign of ability in that young woman, or is it willingness? Well, you did warn me when she came for her interview that you remembered her behaviour from school, but I thought I knew better. Ah well, she might smarten up and want to own a hotel. Stranger things have happened.’ Evie grimaced and Mrs Moore laughed. ‘I tell you what, our Evie, if I had the money I’d probably stay in yours, but . . .’