Easterleigh Hall

by Margaret Graham

  Froggett took a pencil and two slips of paper from the dresser, and wrote some figures. He showed one slip to Grace, and the other to Jack. On each was the Froggetts’ price. Jack could hardly stay still. The amount was very little more than they already had, so they would only require a very small loan.

  Clearly Grace was as delighted, but said, her voice firm and serious, ‘This is more than reasonable and I must tell you that we would pay more, and don’t forget the Bramptons. They most certainly would. You have a son to consider.’

  The Froggetts were standing at the end of the table. Mrs Froggett nodded. ‘Aye, you’re quite right lass, we do have a son to consider. We should have two. I want the Forbes in that end cottage and I want them to fight for better conditions in Auld Maud so fewer folk have to unwrap a sack from their son’s ruined body, in front of the range, staining their proggy mat, with not even an apology.’

  At that moment Star stirred and barked, rushing out of the door and into the yard. A horse neighed. Froggett glanced out of the window. ‘Well, speak of the devil.’

  Jack peered out. It was the whelp, dismounting from his horse. He carried a whip which he tucked under his arm as he stood looking at Grace’s trap. The day was darkening and the stunted tree was flattening in the wind. Auberon smoothed his fair hair and straightened his hacking jacket. He must have driven his trap home from the colliery, and had his groom saddle up straight away. There was a fair lather on the bay, who was tossing his head as Auberon tied him to a hitching post. The lad looked as though he’d walked into a door, or a fist or two. It would be the Bastard, of that Jack was sure.

  He looked at the figures on the paper again. Perhaps Froggett would change his mind when actually faced with such power, such wealth. The farmer was at his side now, and spat in his hand. ‘All done, lad?’

  Jack looked over his shoulder at Grace, who was by the table, peering out of the window on tiptoe. ‘Are you sure?’

  Mrs Froggett nodded. ‘We’re more than happy, lad.’

  Jack looked at Grace. ‘Are you happy, Grace? I’m buying mine, are you buying yours or should you ask the parson?’ Grace shook her head. ‘No, I answer for us both. We’re buying them. I’ll see the solicitor and you will have your money within the next two weeks, Mr and Mrs Froggett.’ Jack spat in his hand and he and Froggett shook. ‘That’s done then. It’s right canny,’ Froggett said.

  He turned to Grace who looked uncertain for a moment, lifted her hand and seemed about to spit in it. Mrs Froggett laughed and shook her head. ‘Not you, Miss Manton.’ Mr Froggett held out his hand to Grace and they shook. ‘That’s you done too.’

  Mrs Froggett was wrapping scones in greaseproof paper and tying the parcel with string.

  The knock on the door came. ‘You can go out the back way, lass,’ said Froggett. Grace shook her head. ‘The trap is out in the yard and I’m not creeping around for anyone, are you Jack?’ Her eyes were challenging, which just went to show that she didn’t know him very well.

  ‘I never run away,’ he muttered. Froggett laughed. ‘Come on then, both of you. I’ll see you off and entertain myself with young Mr Auberon.’

  He led the way out of the kitchen, into the stone-flagged corridor. Mrs Froggett kissed Jack. ‘Tell your mam I’m right happy she’s to have a home of her own, right happy I am. We’ll almost be neighbours.’ He hugged her, unable to stop himself. She was soft and smelled of baking, and he wondered what Evie was doing. Was she baking, or cooking for the whelp? What did it matter, she was learning, she was near Simon, she was happy and would be happier when she knew the news.

  He stood back to allow Grace to leave before him, but she shook her head. ‘I think I’d rather you led, if you don’t mind. I confess to feeling a little nervous. I fear there might be a tantrum. What is the matter with his face, do you think?’

  Froggett was opening the door and there was Mr Auberon, his hand raised to knock again. He removed his kid gloves and stretched out his hand. Froggett hesitated and then took it, but didn’t ask him in. He stood back against the wall as Jack and Grace reached the door. ‘I’ll see my solicitor tomorrow. We’ll get the sale of the houses signed up nice and tidy.’ Jack and Grace nodded to him, and to Auberon, who was standing as though struck by a heavy weight. He had paled and his expression was one of despair. For a moment Jack paused. The bruises on the lad’s face were old but still stark against his pallor, and his lip was split. Poor bugger.

  Grace pushed him from behind and Jack still hesitated, but what could he say? He stepped past Auberon, pulling his cap down and nodding. Star pushed out with him and ran ahead, barking and jumping, looking as though he was smiling, with his tongue lolling out. Jack laughed. ‘He’s such a daft beggar.’

  They hurried to the trap, for they must get back before darkness fell and his shift began. As he handed Grace into the trap Jack heard Auberon say, ‘But we can offer more, we’ll top anything.’

  Froggett said something Jack didn’t hear as he helped Grace up into the trap, but what he did hear was Auberon saying, ‘Forbes, Jack Forbes, you mean?’

  Auberon was waiting outside the library for his father’s summons. He had to tell him that he had failed and he knew the price he would pay, but all he could hear was Jack Forbes’ laugh and the words, ‘He’s such a daft beggar.’ How dare he? How dare that rabble-rouser call him a daft beggar.

  It was only after he staggered up the stairs later, tasting blood, aching from the blows, that he wondered who had told Froggett of his intentions. Someone had, someone had just ruined his life. It was his father’s parting words that had burned the thought into his brain. ‘You need to keep your trap shut. Someone knew our plans, you complete and utter fool.’

  Chapter Ten

  AUBERON STOOD AT the window of his dressing room the next morning, still tousled from bed, half dressed, his braces hanging down, his feet bare. He wore a suit for the colliery but it was bloody ridiculous because the air was thick with sleck dust as the manager called it, thick and stinking, and his shirts became so too, within an hour. He fingered his buttons but the trembling was too violent to do any good.

  Where was the bloody valet? What was his name? He tried to clear his head which was still thick from the beating, the haranguing, the pain and shame of failure. He took deep breaths, concentrating on the valet. His name? What the hell was his name? For God’s sake, Roger, that was what it was, all his father’s valets were known as Roger, and why not. There were too many other things to think about without worrying what to call the bloody servants. Archie and James were the footmen, Roger was the valet, and the housemaids were Ethel, all of them were just Ethel, though there was a Lil, wasn’t there? God, he couldn’t think. He shook his head, and slowly he recaptured his mind.

  He looked out into the grounds. He was glad his suite of rooms faced this way, with the spotless sweeping drive, all weeds hoed up by the staff. And what were their names? He didn’t need to know that. He steadied himself against the window frame, aching and wanting to crouch down and groan, but he made himself look out of the window. He insisted to himself again that he was glad this was his outlook, and at the thought he pushed back his shoulders and lifted his head, for how could he have lived in rooms that overlooked the terrace on to which Wainey had plunged? He almost welcomed the deadly strike at his heart. It focused him. It was the same pain that had knifed into him when his mother just faded and died of consumption.

  When would it fade? The pain of their deaths just seemed to get worse. He felt his shoulders slump again and the tears build in his throat, but men didn’t cry. He straightened, forcing his head up. Tears were only acceptable at the end of a beating. He had learned that on the day of his mother’s funeral when he had wept and his father had invited him into his study that evening, but when hadn’t he been invited into the bloody place? One day he’d blow it up with his bloody father in it.

  He needed air, and he needed his bloody shoes. He opened the window carefully, working around the pain. There
had been no more damage to his face, because the bruises from last time were too obvious. Good to know that even his father could slip up. His laugh was harsh.

  The sun was out and the blossom was drifting to the ground in the wind. There were long shadows cast by the cedar tree in the centre of the lawn. It was reputed to be sixty years old, and from its height he could believe it. It had been planted by the father of the present head gardener, apparently. He wondered what their gardeners thought of working for a nouveau riche instead of a true blue.

  But then, so many of the true blues had sold off or even burned down their houses rather than maintain them after the level of taxes continued to rise, so maybe the servants were glad of people like us, he thought. He leaned out of the window and breathed in the fresh morning air, filling his lungs before those hours at the colliery. There was a stiff breeze, ignored by the cedar. Auberon smiled. The bloody tree barely swayed in whatever wind blew, and perhaps one day he would achieve that level of solidity. Perhaps, but in the meantime where were his bloody shoes?

  He moved carefully to the bell rope to the right of the doorway which led to his bedroom, guarding his ribs, trying to ignore the crushing pain, and pulled, returning to stand in front of the full-length mirror. He tried to do up his top button, but his fingers were still trembling too much. Roger should be here, for God’s sake. He’d have finished with his father by now. Then he let his hands drop. Of course. Of course. He stared at himself, realisation dawning at last.

  He’d only mentioned the need to buy the houses to Veronica before breakfast when she’d visited his suite of rooms, and she would not have repeated it. Roger had been tidying the dressing room at the time. His father could have arrived at the same conclusion, for why else would his valet be late?

  At that moment there was a knock on the door and Roger entered, a smile, as rigid as any Brampton steel girder, fixed to his face. ‘You rang, Mr Auberon?’

  Evie’s day had begun at five thirty as always, and as she wished. She enjoyed being first down into what she considered her territory. In the kitchen the mice scattered at her arrival, also as always. Things never seemed to change, but perhaps today, they would. As she lit the furnace Annie, Sarah and Millie entered. Millie began to blacklead the ranges, saying, ‘You’re bloody mad smiling at this time of the morning, Evie. You’re just mad.’ She had bags under her eyes, as though she was the one who hadn’t slept last night. Evie herself had not wanted to sleep away the joy she had felt.

  Sarah and Annie were crashing and banging the pots in the scullery as Evie shook her head. ‘It’s spring, Millie, the primroses are out, the cowslips are in the fields, I saw them today from the bedroom window. There are swathes of them, haven’t you seen?’

  ‘Oh, get on with the tea for the upper servants, and that old drunk.’

  Evie had been about to lift the kettle on to the range but now she banged it down, marching over to Millie, who was on her knees. ‘What did you say? And stand up when I’m speaking to you.’

  Millie stared. ‘Who are you to tell me?’

  Evie grabbed her elbow and forced her to stand. Millie dropped the blacklead and tried to wrench free, her face pale with shock. Evie risked her recovering throat by shouting, ‘I’m your senior and if I ever hear you talking of Mrs Moore as you’ve just done I will have you dismissed. Do you understand? You’ll be out of the bloody door without a character.’ Millie nodded, her eyes full of tears, but when weren’t they? ‘Mrs Moore is in constant pain and occasionally she has a nip of gin and I repeat, occasionally. It’s what any canny woman would do and you are to keep your gob tight shut, do you understand?’

  She was shaking her. Tears were running down Millie’s cheeks and suddenly the heat went out of Evie. She snatched the girl to her, holding her tightly, squashing her cap. ‘I’m sorry Millie pet, but you must be more careful. What goes on in this kitchen stays in this kitchen and it isn’t talked about, not here, not anywhere. What if we blabbed to Mrs Green about your mistakes? How long do you think you’d last?’ For there were numerous ‘Millie errors’, as they were called. The girl stopped sobbing and Evie released her. Millie rescued the blacklead from the floor and sank again to her knees.

  Evie said, ‘I’m away to do the teas, and the ranges need to be finished.’ Millie’s nose was red and her eyes even more puffy, but she had to learn. Once the teas were safely delivered Evie gathered up her shawl and told Millie she was off to fetch the eggs. Millie stood. ‘I can do those for you, Evie.’

  ‘Not like I can,’ Evie snapped. ‘Please set the table for Mrs Moore’s breakfast preparation. It’s finnan haddock today, braised kidneys yet again, scrambled egg and bacon, and for some reason his Lordship wants kedgeree with it again, so kedgeree he will have. He leaves for Leeds immediately after, so we’ve no need to bother with such overblown guzzles for a while. Now, familiarise yourself with lunch when you’re done with setting the table. You’ll find the menu in the front of Mrs Moore’s book.’ Her tone was crisp because irritation and worry had begun to nag at her. Had she been joyous too soon? What had happened with the house? What if news of Mrs Moore’s drinking was blabbed by Millie to others? By, there was never any bloody end to the ifs, buts and maybes of life.

  She slipped from the basement to the henhouse, collected the warm eggs into the straw-lined basket and then headed for the vegetable storeroom, hoping that Simon had news for her, hoping that Simon was there anyway, because she just needed to be with him. He was waiting inside, in the shadows. ‘Jack brought this to me at the bothy. I haven’t read it.’ She smiled as he took the egg basket in exchange for the note.

  Evie pet,

  We have it. Just the paperwork to finish now. Grace is going to talk to her solicitor. Mr Auberon is not pleased. He came as we were leaving, so there might be some anger at the Hall. Remember to keep your mouth shut if the Forbes family are mentioned. We are too big and bad to need defending! Grace wants us all to call her by her first name. She declares herself a friend. I know it sounds dramatic, but destroy this note.

  Your brother.

  She grinned at Simon. ‘We’ve got it,’ she whispered, tucking the note into her apron pocket, and taking the proffered egg basket. ‘I have to rush, it’s the Bastard’s last morning for a while and I haven’t seen how Mrs Moore is yet. I don’t know about that Millie, you know, Simon. One minute she’s a pathetic little thing, the next she’s spiteful, or maybe just silly.’

  Simon was grinning. ‘Forget about everything but the house, she’ll settle. I’m right pleased for you, Evie,’ but there was a sadness in his voice that Evie recognised, and knew it was because his da and mam were still in a colliery house, but when she had the hotel . . .

  She reminded him of her plans and that there’d be a place for his parents, and he just shook his head. ‘A living wonder you are, Evie Anston. You’d bend the cedar tree if you whooshed past it with all your energy, now get back and get those eggs on before you end up out on your neck.’

  He made no attempt to kiss her hand as she left, but she could feel him watching as she strode up the path and heard his soft call. ‘I’m so glad I know you, bonny lass.’ She turned, walked backwards and said, ‘I need to know that to get through the day, bonny lad.’ He laughed and hurried into the walled garden, his jerkin flapping in the wind.

  She half ran up the path and almost bumped into Roger as he stepped from the top corner store, the one nearest the backyard. He was smiling, but it was a strange hard smile. She stepped to the right, on to the verge, but he stepped with her. She was sick of his games. Behind him she could see the tools in the store. He said, ‘Come and have a look, Evie Anston.’

  She pointed to her basket. ‘I need to get these to Mrs Moore.’

  Roger reached for her, she stepped back, but he was too quick and grabbed her arm. ‘It wasn’t an invitation, it was an order.’ He came so close that she could smell the alcohol on his breath and it wasn’t even eight o’clock. What was going on, was drinking catching? She
knew she was thinking nonsense, but what was going on? His hand was tight on her arm and suddenly he was behind her, twisting her arm up her back. The pain took her breath from her. She was still clutching the egg basket in her other hand, but what else could she do? Shout, you bloody idiot, she thought. Simon would come. She started to, but then Roger’s hand was over her mouth and he was pushing her from behind, into the darkness of the store.

  He said against her ear, ‘You heard what I said to Len that day, didn’t you? You were the only one near enough, and he was the only one I told, him and his bloody oily rags. You came round that corner too sharpish after our row, and before you did I heard a noise. You were there, listening. You told someone about the house-buying. How dare you? I’m on a warning now, and I’m banned from here, back to valeting for his Lordship who is in a foul mood, and just who do you think will get the brunt of that? He’s going to make my life hell and I can’t leave, for he’s said I’ll get no character.’ He removed his hand from her mouth. What could she say? He knew it was her, but he mustn’t know why. She said, ‘It’s what you wanted, isn’t it, to go back to his Lordship as his valet? It’s promotion.’

  He jerked her arm higher up her back. She gasped with the pain and leaned back to ease the tension. ‘You stupid bitch. It’s punishment. He’ll run me ragged and then I’ll be back when he’s finished his fun and it’s all your fault. You lost them the houses, didn’t you? I want to know who you told about them, and I want to know why.’

  Evie shook her head. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t tell anyone, why would I? It’s nothing to do with me.’ She felt his grip weaken and prepared herself, taking her weight on her right leg and then stamping down hard on his foot with the heel of her left boot. ‘Ouch.’