Sophie rode around the estate, learning the neat rectangles of turnips, beets, the longer fields of far too white sheep against the grass that changed colour only to different shades of green.
The new clothes began to arrive as promised; not all at once, as Sophie had expected, but in parcels every few days. Most dangled on their hangers for use during her season. The pale purple tweed suit fitted so closely to her body that it might have been a single garment. The jumpers in champagne wool were dumped in the bathtub by Doris and stamped on in cold water, then carefully dried and ironed and hung up, so that when Sophie finally put them on they seemed to have been worn for years. Her money might be ‘new’, but slightly worn clothes implied that her ‘class’ was not.
The last of the leaves in the apple orchard turned brown; a few clung to bare branches. Letters arrived from Australia, from Miss Thwaites with a small note added in her writing from Dad, but unmistakably his tones. Three letters from Suitable Friends: one obviously hoping to make social capital and join her, another almost a schoolgirl’s form letter about the weather — I hope that you are well and enjoying England. How different it must be. The third, though, almost sounded as if the writer missed her; Sophie had never considered that any of the Suitables might have wanted to be truly friends.
Weekly letters from Malcolm, full of news of Warildra, the trees, shorn sheep, the lack of rain, only once a romantic reference. I went down the river after rabbits last night. The moon was so bright you could see every leaf and I thought of you.
The words were sincere in a way longer protestations of love wouldn’t be. They made her long to smell gum leaves after rain, see a sunset smudged with dust, the ducks skimming the river as they landed for the night. But she was all too aware they didn’t make her long for Malcolm. She was even, she realised guiltily, glad he wasn’t there to dilute her hours with Miss Lily.
Perhaps, as her father had implied, she simply hadn’t known Malcolm enough to long for him — only the idea of him, of the life they might have had together. In this strange quiet house she had a life of her own, newer, more fascinating. She was like a snake shedding its skin and discovering what it was like to live starting everything afresh.
In one way, Shillings was the narrowest world she had ever been in, limited to her sessions with her instructors, and the nods from the tenants when she rode on the estate on a sweet mare she suspected was Miss Lily’s. The only excursion away from the house was to church on Sundays, and even then she and Miss Lily sat in a closed pew above the rest of the congregation, arriving late and leaving early, to miss the greetings by the rector outside.
It should have been lonely. It wasn’t. Sophie had been used to company that had been paid for, selected for her. Her life had contained little true intimacy and she felt no lack of it. Here, at least, she was learning something useful — intrinsically ridiculous, perhaps, like a ‘good’ accent, but useful if she was to wash away the stain of the corned beef.
She felt that not only had a door opened to her, but also that she was already across the threshold.
Miss Lily and Sophie shared breakfast and dinner, but never luncheon, nor tea, which it seemed Miss Lily reserved for the instructor-friends. Miss Lily’s conversation was like none Sophie had ever known — not just the acerbic wit, but the evident vision of the world too. Mr Higgs knew only such politics as might have an impact on his business. Miss Thwaites knew every detail of the Battle of Thermopylae, but had never shown any interest in which party was in power in England.
This world was Sophie’s to discover.
There were newspapers in the drawing room each day — not the one where Miss Lily had first greeted her, and where visitors were recieved, but another just off the hallway: a room of grey silk sofas and parchment-papered walls, a creation, Sophie supposed, of the earl’s deceased mother. The fire was lit there each morning; the papers waited on the table — the morning papers delivered to Shillings from the first train, as well as the papers from the evening before — but as far as Sophie knew, she was the only person who used the room apart from the servants who dusted and raked the ashes and laid the fire and kept it glowing.
She had never really read the newspapers back home. Now she did.
She read of the arrest of suffragette Emmeline Pankhurst on her arrival back from the United States; about an Indian man called Gandhi, who wanted independence for his country and freedom of movement for Indians who had been imprisoned in South Africa (independence from the greatest empire in the world? why?); and about the banning of the importation of any weapons into Ulster. She read that the Kaiser had banned his troops and officers from dancing the tango or the two-step: such effete dances would harm their morale and fitness as proud members of the greatest fighting force the world had seen; even families who allowed the dances were to be shunned by officers on pain of dismissal.
It was ridiculous. It was funny. It was also disquieting, to realise how much of the world she knew nothing about.
She had just put that day’s newspapers down, had reached for a cup of afternoon tea, complete with the cherry cake that Mrs Goodenough always made for her now, when she was aware of a shadow over her. It was Miss Lily.
Sophie stood, suddenly flustered. She had never known Miss Lily to deviate from her routine before.
‘Sit down, Miss Higgs.’ Miss Lily sat herself, at one with the brocade of the chair, with the air of one who has suddenly decided to enjoy herself. ‘Tea in here this afternoon,’ she added to Jones, who had appeared behind her. ‘I have been dealing with rents for my cousin all day with his agent. Enough of duty.’ She nodded at the newspaper on the sofa. ‘Have you become interested in politics?’ Her mouth quirked. ‘Or are you trying to make me interested in you?’
Jones has told her I read the newspapers each afternoon, thought Sophie. ‘I don’t know. At first it was because you implied I was ignorant. But now …’ she shook her head ‘… it’s like a jigsaw I can’t put together. Or maybe the pieces don’t go together …’
Miss Lily nodded. ‘At least with a jigsaw you know the pieces will eventually fit. With politics and world affairs, you may never know the importance of one speech, one bullet.’
‘Most of the time I don’t even know the places. Montenegro, Gallipoli — if that’s how you pronounce it.’
Miss Lily smiled faintly. ‘But your memory is good enough to retain them.’
‘What does it matter if the Greeks stop the Bulgarian army from landing there? Is it a town? I can’t even find it on a map.’
‘Most battles are fought in someone’s fields; the Gallipoli Peninsula is probably just a convenient place from which to capture Constantinople.’
Of course Miss Lily would know exactly the event she had referred to. ‘But what does the Bulgarian army matter to us?’
‘Us?’
‘I mean to England. To the Empire.’
‘Wars are only interesting if they affect your own country?’
Sophie considered. ‘Yes. There must be hundreds of wars happening. It would be impossible to be aware of them all.’
‘Not impossible. Just perhaps not useful. One’s heart can perhaps expand indefinitely with compassion, but the mind is finite. And I doubt there are hundreds of wars. Hundreds of trivial battles, perhaps. Family feuds. Of course when those families are at the head of empires, the feuds tend to get larger …’
‘But this Gallipoli?’
Miss Lily smiled. ‘A place we shall undoubtedly never hear of again.’
‘How do I know which are the events I can forget and which are the ones that matter, then? Why do the papers make the Balkans sound important? Are they? Every week someone seems to be fighting with someone else there, or making a new alliance then breaking it the week after.’
‘You would like me to explain the Balkan Conflict in three easy steps? If it were possible to explain it, possibly it wouldn’t be happening. But at their heart the Balkans lack stability. The Turkish Empire is crumbling. Greece,
Macedonia, Bulgaria, Serbia — perhaps they’ll become independent. Or perhaps they will become part of someone else’s empire — and that of course is the crux of the issue. Whose empire will claim them?
‘The Treaty of London a few months ago was supposed to end it all. All Ottoman territory west of the Enez–Kıyıköy line was ceded to the Balkan League, and Albania was to be an independent state, but we have yet to see these things happen. Words on paper do not always change the fabric of the world, even when dictated by the leaders.’ Miss Lily shrugged. It was a beautiful shrug. The silk of her dress rippled in the firelight. ‘As you said, things change.’
‘But why do the Balkans matter?’
‘For those in the Balkans, they matter deeply. These are human lives, even if far removed from our own. Every life has significance, even if far away from yours. For England, well, we are officially a supporter of the Ottomans, but a strong Turkish Empire will also counterbalance the Russians. For Russia the current instability is a chance to pick up crumbs from the Austro-Hungarian Empire.
‘But the Hapsburgs of Austria-Hungary are facing rebellious Serbs themselves, and they also hope that the collapse of the Ottoman Empire will give them access to the Mediterranean. Serbia wants Bosnia, which is held by Austria; Germany’s Emperor Wilhelm promised to aid Austria but then drew back. Germany too hopes for crumbs if the Ottomans fall … and in all this you have Christians against Muslims too.’
Miss Lily raised a perfect eyebrow. ‘You have encouraged me to give you a history lesson before I have even had my tea. I had expected a diverting discussion about stainless steel.’ Her tone made it clear that this was a joke. ‘You are always unexpected, Miss Higgs. No, don’t apologise. I should have said “delightfully unexpected”. Thank you,’ she added as Jones handed her a cup — milkless and pale green-brown, thought Sophie — then handed her the three-tiered stand: crumpets on the bottom, cherry cake on the next layer, small macaroons on top. Miss Lily took a crumpet and bit into it, the smallest mouse nibble of a piece.
‘I do wish girls were taught history. Without history you are a blank piece of paper. If you have nothing written in your past, it is impossible to choose a future.’
Sophie flushed. ‘Miss Thwaites taught me history. Much more than most girls, I think. But it was all about Henry VIII’s wives and Hannibal crossing the Alps.’
‘I don’t suppose she mentioned that Henry VIII chose his wives for their religious and political alliances?’
Sophie stared. ‘No.’
‘Anne Boleyn was the exception, perhaps, though her family was powerful and saw the marriage as a way to become more powerful. But it’s true: the old chant of “Divorced, beheaded, died, annulled, beheaded, survived” does have little relevance today, unless you are interested in why the Archbishop of Canterbury and other men in satin have so much political as well as spiritual power.’
Miss Lily smiled an almost complacent smile. Somehow the crumpet was gone, without Sophie’s realising it had been eaten, without crumbs or drips of butter or honey on the smooth sheen of Miss Lily’s grey silk. ‘Boleyn was charming enough to catch her king when her sister became a cast-off mistress. But when she got him,’ Miss Lily shrugged, ‘she had no idea what to do with him. I like to think that if Boleyn had been skilled she might not just have survived but also have saved England the bloody business of Mary Tudor, even Oliver Cromwell. Women are rarely acknowledged in history, except as wives, but that doesn’t mean they can’t influence its course.’
‘But someone like me can’t change history.’
‘It was you, was it not, who said stainless steel would change the world? Sometimes, my dear, the world changes and no one knows what was the lynch pin.’
‘How do you know all this?’
Miss Lily smiled. ‘I notice. I pull threads together. I cultivate friends.’
‘Your lovely ladies?’
She stiffened. ‘Where did you hear that phrase?’
‘From Lord Buckmaster.’
‘I shall have a word with that young man. Please never use the phrase again. I am most serious about this.’
Sophie frowned, then remembered not to. Why did it matter? She could see why discretion was necessary. But why such secrecy? ‘Of course, Miss Lily.’
Miss Lily patted Sophie’s knee. ‘Never mind, my dear. You are lovely, and you are a lady. And yes, I know the world through letters from my friends.’
‘Women friends?’ Miss Thwaites had said that women friends were rarely stimulating. But in this world perhaps they might be.
‘Women friends. Women have no overt power, which is why we are able to use it.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘A woman — a sensible woman, not a Mrs Pankhurst — never threatens. She charms. She can be pouring coffee when plans are talked of, can exchange news with like-minded friends. A woman can persuade where a man can only antagonise. A woman can convince kings and prime ministers, and never be noticed. It is the only power we have, my dear. We need to make the most of it.’
‘By persuading our husbands?’
Miss Lily smiled. ‘Did you enjoy your ride this morning, Miss Higgs? The last of the autumn leaves are always charming.’
Chapter 15
A girl is supposed to ‘come out into the world’ during her season. How curious that society speaks of only one world, as though there were no others.
Miss Lily, 1913
Winter sat upon the world as though it would never shift, like a blanket of cold. Strange to be in a world with no green leaves, except on the few dark, brooding evergreens down in the park, all shadows now as though even they couldn’t stay bright as the warmth seeped away. Stranger still to be living in a house where Sophie had to learn to please.
She wrote to Malcolm, to her father, to Miss Thwaites. She wrote to some of the Suitable Friends, who might become real friends when she returned one day, to become Mrs Malcolm Overhill.
Letters, rides in the park, the horse’s breath a cloud of steam, walks where the wind bit her nose and ears till she learned to wrap a scarf above her chin: these filled the time between her lessons.
She knew some of the farmers and their wives enough to chat too now, as the women hung out the washing or carried back their sacks of wheat gleanings from the harvest — the grain that fell was free for all to gather. A good system, thought Sophie. Though better wages would mean women and children did not have to scrabble among the stubble even here, where the family was kind.
The women proudly showed her their gleanings; the harvest had been the richest anyone had known. The men explained the finer points of drainage ditches, and if they were amused at a young woman wanting to know about ditches — and a colonial who had never thought ditches might be necessary in a damp climate — they also seemed pleased to teach her.
But the focus and joy of each day were the meals she spent with Miss Lily. Each was still a lesson. But the lessons were more and more like a game now, one that both she and her hostess enjoyed.
Dinner was always at the long table, Sophie in ivory or riesling muslin, Miss Lily in one of her dark silks, delicately beaded in the gold that was echoed in her wisp of scarf. The earl’s portrait stared at something in the distance above them. The earl wore grey, and a beard. He looked almost as young as Sophie.
‘He looks … lonely,’ said Sophie, eyeing the painting. ‘I’m sorry, that’s silly. An earl can’t be lonely.’
Miss Lily watched her without speaking. ‘Perceptive,’ she said at last. ‘I believe my cousin was desperately lonely when that was painted, although even he perhaps didn’t know it. It was just before he joined the army. He had not inherited the title then, of course.’ She changed the subject abruptly. ‘You look beautiful tonight, my dear.’
Sophie laughed. ‘Miss Lily approves?’
‘I do approve, but the remark was not a comment on your dress.’
‘Dinner tonight isn’t a lesson, then?’
Miss Lily’s lips qui
rked. ‘All of life is a lesson. We shall pretend that it is next year. You are a guest of, ah, let’s see, General and Mrs Denison-Hughes. You are not, of course, sitting near your host, but in the middle of the table. Now, how do you open the conversation with your neighbouring diner?’
‘“The weather is lovely for this time of year”?’
Miss Lily’s lips twitched again. ‘You have forgotten already. A girl in her first year out does not speak unless spoken to.’
‘Not even to my maid?’
‘Most servants do not exist. You neither hear nor see them, unless they do a special service for you. Every act of service by a butler is a special service; you thank him, quietly and politely. Every service by your maid is also a special one; you thank her too in public. In private you may be as frank as you like. Now, let us try again. I am the Honourable Greston Gaulish. I am fifty-eight, and quite impoverished — no hostess is going to waste a wealthy man on a colonial. But I trust you will be kind to me, and only partly because someone you may find of more interest might see you across the table being kind. “Lovely weather we are having, Miss Higgs.”’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Yes, Mr Gaulish. You will have noted his name and it is polite to use it wherever possible. A brief answer — yes or no — is impolite. So you will add, “Superb hunting weather, I believe.” Doris will have informed you before you go down that Mr Gaulish is Master of the Deepstele Hunt. He will then describe his adventures while you reply, “How interesting, Mr Gaulish” or “Oh, and what happened then?” Try it.’
Sophie swallowed a giggle. ‘Oh, Mr Gaulish! And what happened then?’
‘Now meet his eyes — no, your face remains bent down towards the table, your eyes glance up, both modest and fascinated. Always, always meet your companion’s eyes, to show you speak to him, not to show yourself to the room. Yes, excellent. If eyes are a mirror to the soul, then yours is a good one, my dear.’ Miss Lily smiled as Sophie flushed at the compliment. ‘Wrists slightly higher, elbows closer to your waist. Press your wrists down before you speak — it adds to the sense of rapt attention.’
Miss Lily’s Lovely Ladies Page 12
