Grace laughed, wild and high. ‘I should offer the other cheek but instead I want to slap his.’ She gestured Evie onwards, pointing towards Lady Veronica, who had been separated from her friend by a stream of women powering towards the front entrance now; all the men were within the hall, it seemed, and heading towards the rear exit. Some women had picked up chairs and were attacking the men, who were backing towards the stage, their arms up, shielding themselves.
Lady Veronica was hatless, her fair hair awry. Evie clung to her pick, holding the head and wielding the handle, jabbing a way clear towards her. Grace had grabbed a chair and was stabbing like a lion-tamer. They seized Lady Veronica, who was now swinging a chair at the men. Grace shouted, ‘Leave it now. Come out. You mustn’t be recognised.’
Lady Veronica’s eyes were wild and she pulled free of Grace, who grabbed and shook her. ‘It’s me, Grace Manton. Come, now.’
At last the wildness cleared and the young woman nodded. ‘You’re here?’ ‘Not for long,’ Grace yelled as they were jostled by two women who were beating at the brawny hands that had captured them by their skirts. Grace led as they fought their way to the front exit, Evie keeping her face turned away. Lady Veronica was unlikely to recognise her anyway, hidden in the pantry as she’d been while the siblings scoffed cakes. One of the women in front called, ‘The journalists are here, and the police. Cover your faces.’
Lady Veronica looked half mad with excitement and fear. Evie saw her reach up to find her hat gone, and now fear won out. She hesitated. Evie snatched off her own and pulled her shawl over her head, half hiding her face. She took her hat to Lady Veronica and pulled it low over her brow. Her friend had caught up with them, also hatless, and placed herself at the front. ‘Walk behind me. I don’t mind the publicity, it helps the cause.’
Together they pushed and shoved out into the early evening air. Evie and Grace flanked Lady Veronica, jostling through the jeering crowd. Evie called out to the police, ‘You should be in there, arresting the slecky beggars, not outside where it’s canny and safe, man. It could be your mam in there.’
One laughed, and struck her with his baton. ‘My mam’s got more sense.’ Evie braced, Grace tugged her on. ‘No, we need to get away from here.’
There was a blur as a woman hurled herself at the policeman on Evie’s right. It was Lady Veronica’s friend, and she left Lady Veronica exposed. Cameras were flashing. Evie pulled the girl’s hat down harder and dragged her through the melee. An egg burst on her cheek, some man stuck out his foot. She jumped. Grace took over, charging the men, catching up with a group of women and staying in their wake. Finally they were through and out into the dark street. It seemed that silence fell. Utter silence. Evie stepped back out of sight.
Grace was asking the whereabouts of her Ladyship’s carriage. ‘The groom is waiting at the Red Lion stables. He thinks Lady Margaret and I are visiting with friends of Lady Esther.’ Lady Veronica’s voice was shaking.
Grace took her into the stables, but Evie remained on the road to avoid the groom. She wiped the egg from her face. ‘By, I could have had that for my breakfast,’ she said aloud but couldn’t smile.
The trip home was quiet except when, soft-voiced, they talked of how women were hated. How, even within the group, they disagreed.
Evie’s shin was hurting badly by the time Grace dropped her at the crossroads. She rode her bicycle back to the bothy and slowly dragged her way up the path, reaching the vegetable-garden wall, and then felt an arm around her. ‘Busy day, bonny lass.’ It was Simon and he kissed her hair as she described what had happened, but did not mention Lady Veronica. It was best that no one else knew.
Chapter Twelve
IT WAS NOVEMBER at Easterleigh Hall and though Evie had thought the first month had flown, that was as nothing to the summer months when the sun had baked the earth hard and dry. Undaunted, the gardeners had taken water from the butts and then the lake to ensure that vegetables and fruit had continued to grow. Evie’s visits to Simon had continued, and so had the sea-coaling, and with each week she felt more love for the bonny lad, and more delight in the home that the Forbes now owned; so some things had changed, but only some. Here she was, yet again hiding in the pantry just because Auberon and Veronica wanted a piece of cake in the warmth of the range.
She almost tore the paper as she ticked off the sacks of flour, currants, and blocks of salt, making a list of goods needing replenishment. Mrs Moore had decided that she must learn the restocking procedure, the stocktaking procedure and all places in between until they became second nature, because if Evie intended to run her own kitchen, not to mention a hotel, this would be necessary.
As she worked she thought of the fields which the Forbes’ house overlooked. Though it was more than a half-mile walk to the pithead for her father and brothers, they gloried in their sense of freedom and empowerment. Grace outlined the progress of the work on the other two houses on their way to the meetings, which had become a picture of calm after the storm.
The assault had unified the group, for now, a situation helped by the passing of Lloyd George’s so-called People’s Budget in the House of Commons, so the pressure for votes could be brought to bear by them all. But the whole shenanigans had revealed schisms within the women’s movement that Evie had not dreamt could be there.
She examined the shelves and bit back her irritation. Millie was told constantly that she must refill the shelves methodically. It went in one ear and out of the other, for the girl could reduce even the most efficient system to a shambles in no more time than it took to scream, and one day Evie would. The trouble was that the moment anyone took Millie to task she folded up into a gibbering mess with shaking hands and pale face, which Evie had begun to think she rehearsed. So, for the sake of the timetable, either Evie or Mrs Moore ended up feeding her cups of tea and sympathy, and putting her on to a canny little beggar of a task that required little diligence.
Soon that old fat Father Christmas would be thudding down the chimney giving the maids more debris to sweep up, so it might be an idea to write a request for the foisty lass to work as she should. Surely by 1910 she’d have sorted herself out?
Evie took a moment to go through the upcoming catering as she totted up the boxes of tea. There was still one shooting party, with guests arriving on Friday, but it was the last, which was a grand relief all round. Archie and James were tired of hoying out with the hampers, James in particular as he was not only valet for Mr Auberon, but for Lord Brampton when he returned for the shooting parties, as Roger remained in Leeds.
Mr Harvey would be especially delighted when November was finished and with it the shooting, for serving out on the moor was like living in a barn full of holes, he said. He’d taken to wearing two pairs of long johns beneath his trousers, or so Mrs Moore had confided this morning, though how she knew Evie preferred not to imagine. Her thoughts must have shown because Mrs Moore said, ‘That face is not a pretty sight, Evie Anston, now get cracking with the toast.’
Evie replied, ‘I expect my face is no worse a sight than Mr Harvey in two pairs of long johns.’ Mrs Moore laughed until her chins wobbled. Her rheumatics had been much better all summer, though it was not a good idea for her to miss her rest in the afternoon when sitting with the Brampton whelps, as Jack still called them.
As always, Evie left the door ajar and heard and saw the two whelps discussing the blocking of the People’s Budget by the House of Lords, dropping in and out of French as they discussed their father’s determination that the peers should stop this budget that pandered to the working classes. Would they be pleased at how they’d brought on Evie’s French? Perhaps not, daft beggars, Evie thought. Lady Veronica said, ‘I do hope that he doesn’t make a fool of himself and us this weekend in front of the guns by going on and on.’ Auberon took the last fancy after Lady Veronica had shaken her head. ‘No, you have it, you need it. How’s it going at the mine?’
Mr Auberon spoke in French with his mouth full. Damn, Evie th
ought, the tablecloth would be flecked with crumbs. ‘I’m learning from Davies, you know, Ver, and I can think much more clearly when Father’s away. It’s just awful that we have to economise. I hate it but I can’t take another beating. Not yet. I have to let my ribs recover. Every accident down that godforsaken pit makes me wonder if it’s my fault. Well, it probably is, but I have my targets, and I am trying to find a way to allow some new props.’ He shrugged. ‘At least this weekend I can show that production’s up and costs are down.’
He changed into English. ‘It’s remarkable when you think of it, Ver. Coal is just essential for everything. It’s the most magical of material, it underpins the Empire, it underpins Father’s steelworks. It’s like a living thing.’
She replied in French, ‘Yes, but it kills, and more so when we don’t consider safety. There’s a world of difference between trying and doing, Aub.’
Evie saw Mr Auberon stand, his face flushed. ‘Thank you Mrs Moore. Veronica, I have work to do.’ He strutted to the door, his head held high, but as he left the kitchen and hurried down the passageway Evie felt a surge of pity, pity which had been emerging throughout the summer as she had listened to so many of these discussions.
What must it be like to have a father like his, and it was all very well for Lady Veronica to be so righteous but who the hell hoyed out to rescue Auberon when he needed it?
She stopped, her pencil hovering above her list, wondering where all that had come from. Let’s just get you a soapbox, shall we, Miss Evie Forbes? But she was coming to realise that nothing was black and white. Most people did the best they could, and there did not seem to be the same black heart in Mr Auberon as there was in his father.
She’d told Jack of Auberon’s reluctance to make the economies, but her brother had not wanted to hear such claggy dottle. When she had spoken about it to Simon he had merely laughed and kissed her, and told her not to worry about things, they’d all work out. With his kisses all else faded. She smiled now and longed to be with him.
When Lady Veronica had also left Evie emerged. Mrs Moore sat at the table, sighing. ‘I’m going to have to pass this teatime business over to you, Evie. I’m too tired. I need my rest especially with Christmas looming. Can you manage? Does Lady Veronica ever see you at the meetings? Will it be safe for you? Otherwise it must be Millie and I don’t think the world is ready for that.’
Lady Veronica always sat at the front at the meetings, but nowadays with Lady Esther. They were trusted to be visiting Lady Esther’s aunt, who was also a suffragette, unknown to the family. Lady Margaret Mounsey, who had launched herself at the police, was in prison, though her parents, friends of Lady Brampton, had moved swiftly to keep it out of the newspapers and away from their society friends. Lady Brampton thought Margaret was on tour with an aunt in Italy, or so Veronica told Auberon over tea. Was she hunger-striking? Evie baulked at the thought.
Lady Veronica had sent a note of deepest gratitude to Grace, thanking her and her friend for their help. That was all. She never looked in their direction when they were seated in the meeting hall. A new hat had cost Evie five shillings.
Evie gave Mrs Moore the list of provisions needed and hugged her. ‘She won’t recognise me, we’re invisible, aren’t we? Let’s not give them the chance of objecting, we’ll just do it and I’ll say that you’re too busy preparing the menus for the Servants’ Ball, and by the time that’s over it will have become a pattern.’
In fact, Lady Veronica sent a message to Mrs Moore the next day that they would not be resuming their teatime treat until the new year, as the demands upon their time were too onerous. Mrs Moore screwed up the paper and put it into the coal bucket. ‘They’ve fallen out, more like, after that little spat yesterday. They’ll get over it, brothers and sisters usually do. Now come on, girls, we have a lot of work to do.’
‘When haven’t we?’ Millie moaned.
By December the frosts were hard in the morning and at night, and Evie huddled under her blanket which was reinforced with her shawls and coat, but still the ice coated the inside of the windows. In the Forbes’ house there were fireplaces which actually held fires, she had told Mrs Moore as they warmed themselves at the range. The traditional Servants’ Ball was to take place on 4th December in the servants’ hall and the family would attend, hopefully just for a few moments. Tension was rising above stairs now Asquith had announced that the forthcoming general election meant that he would be going to the country to get a mandate which would force the Lords to submit and approve the budget. It was causing the Bastard to huff and puff and almost blow the bloody place down.
Evie had lain in bed last night wondering whether the women’s vote, if it had been granted, would help to produce a clear victory. Or would the majority vote with the Tories? Again she felt confused and was glad that work was so hectic that to worry about anything else was pointless.
In the two days before the ball they cooked as though there was no tomorrow, creating meals for upstairs as well as economical ones for the ball, funded with reluctance by Lady Brampton. It was something that employers were supposed to do, and some smiled and were gracious and gave over the use of the upstairs ballroom. The Bramptons didn’t, and the funds provided were minimal, so the kitchen was grateful for the gifts of cream, eggs and steak from the surrounding farms, and half a pig from Home Farm.
This time it was Mrs Moore who whined, not Millie, as she and Evie rolled out pastry for the pies that would provide some of the sustenance. ‘Fine for everyone else but who’s cooking the food as usual, and those gardeners will eat more than the rest of us put together.’
Evie poked her in the ribs which were well hidden beneath the rolls of fat. ‘Come on, you’re looking forward to dancing the Gay Gordons with Mr Harvey, you know you are.’ Mrs Moore shrieked with laughter. ‘That’ll be the day. Now, what are you wearing?’
‘I’ve bribed Lil to alter the dresses Grace gave me for the four of us. Mam’s given us ribbon to thread through my bun and enough left for Sarah, Annie and Millie.’
Lady Veronica was lending them her phonograph, Mr Harvey told them over lunch the day before the ball, which was more than they’d thought they would have from the Bramptons. ‘They have also mentioned that Lord Brampton will be in attendance with the rest of the family, and I have been informed that we must prepare for the return of Roger.’ Evie laid down her knife and fork, feeling sick. Mrs Moore looked down the table at her and stood up. ‘Come along, girls, time we were getting on. Sarah, Millie, Annie, bring out the dishes.’
As the girls busied themselves she hustled Evie out into the kitchen, tightening her apron as she did so, pointing to the kettle. ‘Put that on for us, there’s a bonny lass, and you’re not the first and you won’t be the last to get into a fisticuffs with that particular snake, so don’t take it to heart. Let young Simon help you.’
Mrs Moore heaved herself on to her stool, drawing her recipe book towards her. It had translucent splashes of old fat on each page, just as Evie’s had now. She thought of them as medals. Mrs Moore rolled her shoulders. ‘Now come along, we have so much to do, and I want to remind the girls yet again that Roger is not a man to join around the gooseberry bush.’
The servants’ hall was glowing with soft light, cast by the candles on the tables. Orange and yellow chrysanthemums decorated the corners of the room, and their scent mingled with the melted wax. Mr Harvey and Mrs Green led the servants into their own hall. There were no gasps of delight because they had created it themselves, but there was a general sigh of satisfaction. Lord and Lady Brampton were waiting one side of the furnace along the right-hand wall, and on the other side stood Lady Veronica and Mr Auberon. Evie slunk in behind Mrs Moore, not wanting to see Lord Brampton close up, let alone actually speak to the Bastard, but he was walking towards the servants, his usual frown deeply in place, his lips so thin that she wondered how, or if, Lady Brampton could bring herself to kiss him.
Lady Brampton, Mr Auberon and Lady Veronica were approa
ching also, each taking on a section of the staff as though they were advancing on the enemy. Perhaps they were.
Evie curtsied as Lady Brampton came to Mrs Moore. ‘I am delighted that the standard of cooking is rising each month, Mrs Moore. You are indeed a treasure.’ Lady Brampton’s smile was kind, her eyes were cool.
‘I have an excellent team, especially Evie Anston, Your Ladyship.’ Mrs Moore gestured to Evie, who wished she wouldn’t. She didn’t want to be exposed in any way, and neither did she trust this family. They were quite capable of dismissing Mrs Moore and employing Evie in her place because she would be cheaper. She said, ‘Forgive me interrupting, Your Ladyship, but Mrs Moore is too kind. Her advice is crucial to me. I just do as she says and would be lost without her.’
As she spoke she noticed Lady Veronica swing round and could have cut out her tongue, but Lady Brampton was speaking. ‘Yes, I can see that you are too young to be so skilled.’ She passed along. Evie flushed with anger but also relief. Mrs Moore was safe, but was she? She glanced at Lady Veronica, who was passing along the line as though she was Queen Alexandra. She came abreast of Evie, and there was no recognition. Mr Auberon followed her, nodding and smiling at everyone, saying how nice it was to see them, though all the servants knew that the family were wondering how long they had to stay with the appalling unwashed who should remain invisible, and who they most sincerely wished were not traditionally entitled to a party once a year.
Easterleigh Hall Page 18
