by Evie Grace
‘Congratulations,’ Uncle Rufus said, stepping towards his brother. In the light from the window, Agnes noticed the extra ball of flesh at the side of his nose – she had always been fascinated by it. Nanny gave her a nudge.
‘It’s rude to stare,’ she whispered. Agnes tried to look away, but although she did her best, her gaze kept drifting back to her uncle’s face.
‘You must be relieved that at last you have a child who wasn’t born within sight of the gravel pits,’ he went on.
‘Not now,’ Papa said sharply.
‘I’m sorry, James. My observation was uncalled for.’
‘Apology accepted.’ Papa touched his brother’s arm. ‘I’m very grateful to you for agreeing to sponsor my son.’
‘It will be a pleasure to be Henry’s godfather. I shall look forward to mentoring him as you mentor my sons.’ Uncle Rufus smiled. ‘Aren’t they growing up to be as handsome as their father?’
‘Indeed,’ Papa said, but there was something in the tone of his voice that made Agnes wonder if he didn’t believe what he was saying.
‘I wanted to talk to you about the architect,’ Rufus said.
‘Please, let’s have no talk of business,’ his wife said.
‘What else is there?’ Rufus said.
‘It is Henry’s day,’ she went on firmly.
‘Indeed.’ Uncle Rufus looked a little cowed, but not for long.
‘I’ve planned a surprise for this occasion, something memorable for our guests at the end of dinner,’ Papa said.
‘Ah, I’ve been looking forward to a decent port.’
‘It is far better than that. And far more expensive.’
‘Why do you always feel the need to impress other people?’ Uncle Rufus asked. ‘Isn’t it enough that you’re showing off your French cook?’
‘I like to share my good fortune,’ Papa retorted. ‘There is nothing wrong in that.’
‘Your generosity could be construed as gloating.’
‘What is wrong with you?’ Papa exclaimed. ‘You are jealous. That’s it, isn’t it? I’ve put your nose out of joint by producing a son. You should be happy for me. Imagine how I have felt over the past fourteen years, watching you produce one child after another.’
‘And lose them one by one,’ Uncle Rufus said quietly. ‘Do not pity me for it.’
‘I shall not. Let’s not speak of it again. We are supposed to be celebrating.’ Papa shook hands with his brother. ‘Why don’t you take a seat? The vicar will be here shortly.’
Uncle Rufus sat down beside his wife, Papa greeted the other guests and Turner showed them to their seats. Agnes sat quietly at the back of the room with Nanny.
At ten past eleven, the vicar took his place at the font. Mama and the godparents stood up beside him, and Mrs Pargeter whisked into the room with Henry in her arms. The baby looked rather ridiculous in the long white embroidered gown that had been passed down through the family, Agnes thought. The sleeves were tied around his chubby arms with satin ribbons, and his bonnet had slipped down over his eyes.
She recognised the vicar from the rare occasions when she had attended church. Mama had never been ‘good at open spaces’, as she put it, and their trips away from Windmarsh Court had gradually dwindled over the years. As a consequence, Papa had engaged the vicar to carry out the baptism at home – for a substantial honorarium, no doubt.
The elderly priest celebrated Henry’s birth with a long, booming speech, during which Agnes gathered that her brother was about to enter the kingdom of God from unbelief to Christian faith, from darkness into light. When the moment arrived for Mrs Pargeter to pass the baby to Uncle Rufus, who then passed him into the vicar’s arms, Henry screamed. He bawled so loudly that no one could hear the name he had been given as the vicar sprinkled holy water over his head. Mama frowned with displeasure while Papa seemed embarrassed.
‘He has strong lungs,’ he kept saying. ‘He is his father’s son.’
The vicar said a final prayer and handed Henry back to his godfather, who handed him back to Mrs Pargeter. As they reached the conclusion of the ceremony, she gave up trying to pacify him and took him back to the nursery.
After the formalities, the guests mingled in the drawing room, awaiting the bell to summon them for luncheon. With Henry gone, Agnes saw her chance to impress. Glancing towards Nanny, who was safely engaged in conversation with Mrs Rufus Berry-Clay, she stepped up to the pianoforte which had been pushed to the end of the room. She moved the piano stool, which had legs shaped like staves, and sat down. She reached for the keys and took a deep breath, marking time with one foot before playing a few bars of introduction and breaking into song.
‘She wore a wreath of roses—’
And that was as far as she got because Nanny was straight over to her.
‘Miss Agnes, you must stop immediately.’ She caught hold of her arm, bringing her performance to a halt. ‘Everyone is staring at you.’
‘But I am singing,’ she snapped.
‘No one wants to hear you sing of sorrow and young widows at a time like this. Move away from the piano.’
Reluctantly and with the music still running through her head, Agnes stood up and glared at her governess.
‘You must apologise to your parents later for your disobedience. This is what happens when you indulge a child like your papa has done. It ruins even the sweetest, most even-tempered of young ladies.’ Agnes’s face burned as Nanny marched her out of the room. ‘I realise that it’s painful to find out that you’ve been put aside in favour of your brother, but you must learn to accept your new place in the family with grace and gratitude, not behave like a brat. Remember who you are.’
Agnes turned away as Turner rang the bell for luncheon. She wasn’t sorry. What had been the point of music lessons if she wasn’t allowed to use her talents to entertain guests? She felt that she had to stand up for herself. She had been brought up with expectations that were gradually being whittled away, thanks to Henry. It seemed that if she didn’t make herself noticed, her parents would forget that she existed.
Everyone poured out of the drawing room and hastened across the hall to the dining room.
Agnes could hear the French cook yelling from the kitchen downstairs.
‘He is rather temperamental,’ Papa said, making excuses for him to no one in particular.
‘It isn’t his fault – he’s a perfectionist,’ Mama said.
‘I hope the food lives up to its reputation,’ the vicar said, having been invited to dine in return for saying grace.
‘He is a very fine-looking man.’ Mama drifted on past Agnes without acknowledging her at all. ‘He is a little small, perhaps, but I find his accent most intriguing.’
The guests took their places in the dining room and Turner escorted the two cousins, Philip and Edward, over to Nanny.
‘The mistress says they are to dine in the nursery,’ he said.
‘That is not possible,’ Nanny said. ‘She has forgotten that we have been displaced from the nursery by Mrs Pargeter.’
‘A picnic could be arranged,’ Turner said.
‘Oh no. It isn’t right that we should be banished to the garden. What impression would that give the master’s guests? That Windmarsh Court is so small that it cannot accommodate his own daughter?’
‘All right,’ Turner said grudgingly. ‘I suppose they can eat in the servants’ hall just this once.’
‘Thank you. I shall supervise them at all times.’
‘Make sure that you do. You have to have eyes in the back of your head with those little tykes. The last time they were here, the mistress found one of her ornaments broken and put back together on the shelf. She blamed one of the maids, which wa’n’t fair on the girl.’
Philip stared at the butler in defiance while Edward looked down at his shiny shoes.
‘A gentleman would offer his apologies,’ Turner went on, ‘but whoever did it can’t have bin a gentleman, but a youth with bad manners and an attitud
e.’
‘I shall ask my father to reimburse you.’ Philip’s face turned red. His voice was shrill.
‘If you would,’ Turner said smoothly. ‘The mistress will be much obliged.’
Agnes was astounded by Philip’s confession. She’d thought he was going to get away with it. He would have done if he’d only held his nerve.
She followed Nanny and the boys down the back stairs. They passed the kitchen where she could hear clattering pans, panicky voices and the monsieur shouting in French, and then the scullery, where she caught a glimpse of the scullery maid up to her elbows in the sink with a piece of wet sacking tied around her middle to protect her skirt. They continued past the entrance to the cellar, the butler’s pantry and the housekeeper’s room, and entered the servants’ hall, the room where the servants dined and did the mending and polishing.
‘Why did you confess to the crime, Cousin Philip?’ Agnes asked when Nanny was distracted with counting out four sets of cutlery and napkins from the dresser. She knew which ornament it was – the Staffordshire one of Diana, the goddess of hunting, wearing a crescent headdress, a gown decorated with delicate, hand-painted flowers, and sandals. Its arm had fallen off when Miriam had picked it up for dusting. She recalled how Miriam had cried when Mrs Catchpole had rounded on her and threatened her with dismissal. ‘Papa can easily afford to buy a new one.’
‘You cannot necessarily replace something that is of sentimental value,’ Philip said.
She thought him very wise and felt a little ashamed that she hadn’t thought of that.
‘You could still have kept quiet.’
‘That Turner fellow knew that one of us had done it, and I wanted to protect my brother. He isn’t well, you see. The doctor says that he has inflammation of the lungs and might not last another winter if the chill settles back on his chest. I have already lost three sisters very young.’ He looked Agnes in the eyes. ‘I’d like to be a medical man one day and now that Uncle James – your papa – has a son to take on the running of the brewery, I think that I shall be allowed to pursue my studies to their full conclusion.’
Agnes saw Philip in a new light. She had thought him rather dull, associating ugliness with a lack of intelligence, and lacking in consideration for others and their property, but he had been generous, taking the blame for his brother.
‘May we sit now, Nanny?’ She pulled out the chair at the head of the table that stood in the centre of the room.
‘You may, but not there. That’s Mr Turner’s place.’
‘He isn’t here.’
‘He wouldn’t like it. Sit down beside me.’ Nanny laid the table and pulled out another chair. ‘Philip and Edward, you sit opposite us. That’s right. Now, who will say grace? Philip?’
Blushing, he mumbled a few words.
‘Amen,’ he said and then they waited, looking at each other.
‘Where is the first course?’ Nanny muttered.
‘I’m hungry,’ Edward said, swinging his legs against the table.
‘Please, remember your manners,’ Nanny said.
He stopped, but only for a few minutes.
‘Edward, stop,’ Philip said.
Edward stared at his brother. ‘I will not.’
‘It would serve you well to listen to your elders and betters,’ Nanny said, as Miriam came into the servants’ hall with the first course. She placed the plates on the table.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ Nanny said.
‘It is – let me see if I can remember – an entrée.’
Agnes stared at the pile of green leaves adorned with a tomato cut into the shape of a flower.
‘It’s salad,’ Philip said.
‘It is not at all nutritious,’ Nanny said. ‘What does Monsieur think we are? Rabbits?’
‘The mistress is of the same opinion, but the master insists that everyone eats the French way. We are serving the second course shortly. It’s a consommé de volaille, served with sherry,’ Miriam said slowly, concentrating on the pronunciation, ‘but it’s really just a soup. I’ll be back to clear your plates.’
‘You can take mine now.’ Edward pushed his plate away. ‘I’m not eating that.’
Agnes ate a mouthful of leaves, but all she could taste was vinegar and salt. Nanny, Philip and Edward left theirs.
Eventually, Miriam brought the soup. Agnes felt sick at the first sip. It was so strong that the game might just as well have been crawling from the dish.
‘It is made from pheasant,’ Nanny said. ‘You are not accustomed to such strong flavours.’
Miriam smiled. ‘Monsieur insists on hanging the birds by the feet until they drop off. I’ve sin them in the larder, as green as green can be.’
Nanny turned pale and held a napkin to her mouth. Edward and Philip grimaced.
‘The mistress and some of the other ladies ’ave ’ad to leave the dining room,’ Miriam continued. ‘Shall I clear the dishes?’
‘Yes, please, straight away,’ Nanny said. ‘Dare I ask what is next?’
‘The pièce de resistance. Roast beef.’ Miriam collected the bowls on to a tray and carried them away for the scullery maid. At that moment a fracas broke out from the kitchen along the corridor.
‘Where is Monsieur? He is nowhere to be found.’ Agnes thought she heard Mrs Catchpole’s voice.
‘He has gone down to the cellar to source a Bordeaux,’ someone else said. ‘He doesn’t approve of the wine that the master ordered to be served on this occasion.’
‘Well, we can’t wait – the guests are about to rebel.’ Mrs Catchpole called for one of the footmen to fetch the trolley to carry the beef. ‘Miriam, you will have to help bring the vegetables. Oh, where is the insufferable little Frenchman? I wish he’d stayed on the other side of the English Channel.’
Fortunately, the roast beef was a great improvement on the previous dishes. Edward fell silent, shovelling food into his mouth while Nanny frowned. Meanwhile, Agnes found herself making conversation with Philip.
‘The meat is not too messed about with,’ he said, smiling.
‘It is most acceptable.’ Being unused to company, Agnes didn’t know what else to say.
‘Everyone will look up to your papa for his choice of cook.’ There was a long silence before Philip started again. ‘I wonder how the drayman is – the one at the brewery who fell from the ladder when he was loading the barrels and broke his head. Didn’t your father mention it?’
‘No,’ Agnes said. ‘He doesn’t discuss business with me.’ She recalled how he preferred to keep his work and home life completely separate.
‘Oh? What do you have to talk about, then?’
She glanced towards Nanny, hoping for guidance, but she was trying to ignore the banging and clattering and breaking of glass from along the corridor.
‘What is that?’ Edward couldn’t contain his curiosity. He jumped down from his seat and ran out of the room. Philip wiped his mouth and followed. Agnes joined them. She couldn’t resist, and it seemed that neither could Nanny.
Turner was at the top of the steps leading down into the cellar.
‘What is the commotion?’ Nanny asked.
‘It is the monsieur. Young man’ – the butler turned to Philip – ‘will you help me?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Come with me.’ Turner and Philip disappeared down to the cellar and reappeared shortly afterwards, half dragging, half carrying the Frenchman back up the stone steps.
‘Tu es si beau,’ Monsieur said, turning and planting a kiss on the butler’s cheek.
‘Keep your hands to yourself and we will get along,’ Turner said sternly. ‘We’ll leave him in the scullery to sober up.’
‘Shall we fetch him a chair?’ Philip said.
‘He can sit on the floor.’
‘Come away, Miss Agnes, and you, Edward. I’m sorry to have exposed you to such a sight. He has partaken of too much wine. His behaviour is beyond the pale,’ Nanny said, ushering them away.
/> ‘What about Philip?’ Agnes said. ‘He is a guest, not a servant.’
‘He will join us shortly. This way, children. I should be grateful if you would each forget what you have just seen. That man is a disgrace. We are going to the dining room where Philip will join us for the surprise.’
‘What can it be?’ Agnes hurried on ahead.
‘Hush. Remember that this is in Henry’s honour, not yours.’ When they reached the dining room, Nanny directed them to pass by the guests who were at their tables, and made them stand in the corner by the sideboard. ‘Don’t stare.’
It was hard to avoid staring, Agnes thought. The guests seemed restless. Aunt Sarah was sitting with her lips pursed as though she had been sucking on bones.
‘What is this surprise, James?’ Uncle Rufus said loudly. Agnes noticed that he had left soup on his whiskers. ‘I hope it isn’t more garlic – it lingers on the breath and skin.’
‘You have no taste, no refinement,’ Papa said.
‘How can you say that? It is you who has no taste. Either that, or you are making some pretence that you prefer this foreign food to good old English fare. I like my beef well done, not raw.’
‘Please, stop sparring like a pair of coxcombs,’ Mama said, interrupting them. ‘James, won’t you have Monsieur summoned to the dining room so he may be congratulated?’
‘That is an excellent idea, my darling. Where is Turner?’ Papa looked around the room. ‘Where is the damned man when you want him?’
‘I’m here, sir.’ The butler came rushing into the dining room with Philip, who made his way to stand next to Agnes. He gave her a smile and she smiled back.
Papa whispered something into Turner’s ear.
‘The monsieur is unfortunately indisposed,’ Turner said quietly, but clearly enough for everyone – apart from Mama’s mother, who was a little deaf – to hear.
‘He’s been overcome by fumes – of garlic,’ Uncle Rufus joked.
Papa didn’t laugh.
