by Evie Grace
‘Don’t you like Windmarsh Court?’ It had never occurred to her that Miss Treen might not be happy there.
‘There are times when I wish I lived in a larger household. The life of a governess can be lonely when she is neither family nor servant, but never mind. That’s the way it is and I’m grateful for my situation. I’m looking forward to when Mrs Pargeter leaves and we have Master Henry to ourselves.’ She changed the subject. ‘It’s nearly time for an early tea at my uncle’s house, and I have a fancy for some Canterbury brawn.’
‘What is that?’
‘It’s the meat from a pig’s head set in jelly,’ Nanny said, and Agnes wished that she hadn’t asked.
They walked around the cathedral, visiting the chapel where the martyr Thomas à Becket’s shrine had been, an empty space since Henry VIII ordered its destruction during the Reformation. A single candle was aflame on the floor, across which the light from the stained-glass windows cast streaks of many colours.
‘I like to come here when I need space to think,’ Nanny said. ‘I find that the presence of God restores the tranquillity of the soul.’
Agnes wasn’t so sure. She found the atmosphere unnerving. The cathedral was filled with tombs and memorials, and the stone steps down into the shadowy crypt had been worn down by the feet of many pilgrims over the centuries. It was a relief to emerge into the bright sunlight once more where she found the sight of the displays in the jewellers’ shop windows much more to her taste.
‘We haven’t come here to buy trinkets,’ Nanny said, drawing her away. ‘I wish you wouldn’t dawdle. My uncle is expecting us.’
They progressed past the Westgate and turned along a street that followed the course of the river. There was a row of terraced cottages to one side, built from brick with an upper storey clad in timber. The windows were small and dirty, and the doors opened straight on to the street. Opposite the cottages was another row of homes, the buildings made from a mixture of materials – stone, brick, wattle and daub – thrown up together all higgledy-piggledy so Agnes couldn’t tell where one ended and another began.
An overflowing drain ran down the middle of the street, spilling black water across the stones.
‘Mind where you put your feet.’ Nanny hitched up her skirts.
‘Why is everything so dirty?’ Agnes wrinkled her nose at the stench of effluent and rot. ‘Why don’t the people who live here send their servants to clean it up? I would.’
Nanny laughed wryly.
‘My dear child, you have led a sheltered life. This isn’t Windmarsh Court. The people who live here don’t have the luxury of servants.’
‘Surely they are a necessity, not a luxury. How does anyone manage without a cook and a maid at the very least?’
‘The people who live here can barely feed and clothe themselves and their families. Work is hard to come by. The landowners and farmers who used to employ men and women as labourers in the fields introduced machinery to do the threshing, for example, in their stead. They were laid off and moved into the city to seek employment, but there isn’t enough to go round.’
‘How do they survive then?’ Such poverty seemed incomprehensible to Agnes.
‘They beg or steal, or live off charity, which I believe can be permanently injurious to a man’s pride.’
‘Then there is a simple solution – the landowners should get rid of their machines and go back to the old ways.’
‘It’s too late for that. All these people who live in our cities need food that’s cheap and plentiful. Without the machines, they can’t produce enough to go round.’ Nanny waved her hand towards the broken windows nearby which had been stuffed with rags. ‘This is the price of progress.’
A horse and cart splashed through the water. The horse’s bones were showing through its skin and its coat was dull, while the cart was made of pieces of wood knocked together with rough nails, and had wheels which didn’t match. The driver slapped the horse on the rump with a long stick to keep it moving with its load of kettles, pots and pans, which clanged with every jolt.
‘Which way do we go now?’ Agnes asked. ‘Are we lost?’
‘Of course not.’ Nanny laughed. ‘We go right here.’
They turned down another street that ran towards the river, where the stench grew more intense. Nanny stopped outside a pair of high gates with a sign reading, ‘Cheevers’ Tannery: Estd 1798 for the best Leather, natural and dyed. Enquire within.’ To their left was an alleyway with a five-barred gate fronting a pebbled drive.
Agnes watched her governess ring the brass bell that was set on the wall beside it.
‘This is Willow Place, my uncle’s establishment,’ she said as a small, slender woman dressed in black emerged from the house at the top of the drive and came to open the gate for them.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Hill,’ Nanny said, but the woman remained silent. She raised one arm and pointed towards the house, a black and white timber-framed house from medieval times with three storeys stacked unevenly on top of each other, giving the impression that they might topple over at any moment. She escorted them past the lawn where a pair of ducks nestled in the grass, and into the house. Agnes copied Nanny in removing her shoes inside the front door and adding them to the row already present: fine boots for a man, a set of lady’s shoes and slippers, and some waders.
They followed the woman, whom Agnes assumed was the housekeeper, through to a study with shelves stacked with leather-bound books, and a desk where an old man sat reading some correspondence. He looked up and smiled.
‘Marjorie, how wonderful to see you.’ He stood up, massaging his hip with one hand and reaching for a stick with the other. His tall frame was curved into a stoop, and he had waves of white hair and a grey beard, dark eyes and a hooked nose. His ears were large with pendulous lobes, making Agnes think of a friendly goblin. ‘I’m so glad you have come.’ He embraced his niece warmly before turning to Agnes. ‘And who is this?’
‘This is Miss Berry-Clay, my charge,’ she said. ‘Agnes, this is Mr Samuel Cheevers, my uncle.’
Agnes greeted him with a small curtsey.
‘I’m delighted to meet you,’ she said.
‘And I you. Marjorie has told me much about you – within the normal bounds of discretion, of course.’ He turned back to his niece. ‘Let us go and sit outside. I believe that Mrs Hill is preparing tea and cake.’
Marjorie. The name was a surprise to Agnes. She followed them through the house to put their shoes back on again before they went outside. Why, she had never heard anyone call her governess by her first name. She was always Nanny or Miss Treen.
They settled in the garden that sloped down behind the house to a low wall with the river behind it and a row of willow trees that trailed their branches like long fingers in the water. The stench of rot was fainter, partially obscured by the scent of roses and honeysuckle that scrambled over the wrought-iron veranda.
They were joined by a young lady and gentleman as they took their seats at a small table.
‘Allow me to introduce you to my grandchildren, Miss Temperance and Master Oliver Cheevers,’ Mr Cheevers said.
‘Good afternoon,’ Agnes said politely. The young gentleman was probably two or three years her senior and the lady was older than that, about twenty, she guessed.
Temperance was a pretty creature with chestnut curls, an upturned nose and rosebud mouth, and Agnes wished they could be friends, but she didn’t know how. When Temperance greeted her uncle’s guests, her mouth was smiling, but her eyes were not.
Master Cheevers was more welcoming – and very handsome. He was tall with loose curls of dark hair down to his shoulders and a hint of side-whiskers. He was dressed in corduroy breeches and a clean linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to show off his muscular arms. His brown eyes were soft and ringed with dark lashes, and Agnes could hardly keep herself from staring.
He pulled up a chair for his sister and helped the housekeeper with the trays of tea, sandwiches, a whol
e brawn and cake.
‘That will be all for now, thank you,’ Mr Cheevers said, and Mrs Hill retreated without saying a word, making Agnes wonder if she was permanently mute. ‘The brawn is especially for you, Marjorie. I know it is your favourite.’
‘You do spoil me,’ she said with a smile as she poured the tea, and Oliver sliced the meat jelly.
‘Somebody has to.’ Mr Cheevers smiled back. ‘What do you think of our little oasis, Agnes?’
‘It’s lovely,’ she said, comparing it with the dirty, bustling streets that were less than a stone’s throw away. ‘It is very different from Windmarsh Court. Everything is so much smaller.’
‘Smaller?’ said Temperance. ‘Is your home really that grand?’
‘Oh, it is,’ Agnes said.
‘It is the people within it who make a house a home, not its size or the number of treasures within its walls,’ Nanny cut in sternly.
Agnes realised that she had spoken out of turn. Chastened, she nibbled on a brawn sandwich, dropping a few crumbs on the table. As her companions made conversation, she watched a little bird, a robin redbreast, fly down on to a nearby rose. It cocked its head and gazed at her through beady eyes just like the golden linnet had used to do. Her heart began to beat faster. Had she been forgiven for what she had done? She held her breath as the robin flew on to the edge of the table, inches from her hand, and pecked at the crumbs before pausing to look up at her, cock its head once more and flutter away.
‘You seem to have a way with God’s creatures,’ Mr Cheevers remarked.
To her relief, Miss Treen did not enlighten him as to the fate of the linnet, although perhaps she already had.
‘Shall we forget this strange mission set up by the young lady’s father?’ he went on, addressing Nanny. ‘It’s rather demeaning to parade people in front of her as some kind of moral lesson about poverty. I think she will find it distressing. She is a sensitive girl and very young for her age.’
‘Her naivety comes from living in the wilds of Windmarsh during her formative years. I have done my best to expose her to the outside world through my teaching, but her actual experience is limited. Her mother suffers from a fear of the outdoors and unfamiliar faces – she doesn’t go out herself, or let us travel too far from home. I’m afraid that the sights and odours will upset Agnes’s constitution, but I cannot go against my employer’s instructions in this matter. He has given her money to hand to a person who is in need.’
Agnes felt her neck and face grow hot as she noticed both Temperance and Oliver gazing at her with evident curiosity.
Mr Cheevers sighed. ‘If you insist on following this plan, Oliver will take you along to the tannery and introduce you to the boy who works for us.’
‘That is a very sound idea,’ Nanny agreed.
‘Except that our guest isn’t wearing suitable clothes,’ Oliver interrupted. ‘The yard is dirty. They will get soiled.’
‘It is no matter,’ Nanny said, although Agnes thought otherwise.
‘His name is Bert, and he’s eight years old,’ Mr Cheevers continued. ‘I thought he could tell his story, and if Agnes is in accord, she can give him the contents of her purse.’
How could such a young boy be at work? Agnes wondered, recalling Papa’s plans to send Henry away to school. She continued to pick at her food, anxious about what exactly she was about to be confronted with.
When they had finished their tea, she walked down to the tannery with Nanny and Master Cheevers. The stench of rot grabbed her by the throat as Oliver opened the gates into the yard. She held her hand over her mouth, fighting the urge to be sick.
‘Here, have this,’ Nanny said, searching her bag and finding a vinaigrette of smelling salts. She opened the lid of the silver box and handed it over. Agnes held it to her nose and inhaled the scent of hartshorn and lavender oil. ‘Is that better?’
She nodded, and handed it back.
‘Perhaps we should turn around,’ Oliver suggested.
‘I shall be all right, thank you,’ Agnes said firmly, not wishing to come across as weak in front of him.
A cart swung past them into the yard. It was loaded with hides with horns still attached, piled high and roped down. The wheels were splashed with flesh and blood. The mare pulling it snorted and fidgeted as though she hated the smell. Agnes couldn’t help it. She retched.
‘Really, this isn’t a good idea. Marjorie, take her back to the house.’
‘No, I will stay and do this.’ Agnes looked around the yard which had buildings on all sides. There was a gap ahead of them from which a muddy track led down to the riverbank, and to their right was a row of pits filled with black liquid.
‘The state of the place disgusts you,’ Oliver said with a mocking smile. ‘Where do you think your lovely shoes and gloves come from?’
She stared at her hands, at the immaculate white kid gloves. How could it be possible that they came from a place such as this? Nanny had taught her the proverb about it taking three kingdoms to make a glove: Spain to provide the leather, France to cut it out and England to sew it. There had been no mention of any blood and gore being involved.
When she didn’t answer him, Oliver turned to Nanny and chuckled.
‘Have you not l’arned her anything useful?’
‘You are most impertinent,’ Nanny said, giving him a withering look. ‘What would be the purpose of educating her in the process of tanning when she will marry into a wealthy family and have not a care in the world? She is being brought up for a life very different from this. She is as unfamiliar with your way of existence as you are with hers.’
‘I’m sorry, Marjorie. I should have thought,’ he said. ‘My apologies, miss. No offence taken, I hope.’ She shook her head as he went on, ‘When I look around the tan-yard, I see opportunity. I’m an alchemist who turns stinking hides into gold. The leather we produce here is the best in Can’erbury, and we sell it to the craftsmen – the curriers and saddlers – to make harnesses for horses, and shoes for ladies like yourself. Allow me to show you,’ he said. ‘Let me take you by the arm so that you don’t slip. And you, Marjorie.’
Agnes recalled the manual of etiquette and how a gentleman was permitted to take two ladies on his arms, but a lady could not accept the arms of two gentlemen at the same time. She relaxed a little at the thought, and then worried that she might slip in spite of Oliver’s assistance, because the whole yard seemed to be awash with water, limy waste and residues of flesh.
‘I shall wait for you here,’ Nanny said.
Mustering her courage, Agnes put her arm through Oliver’s and the two of them moved around the tannery under his guidance. He showed her the office, the weighing room for the hides and the cool room for storage.
‘It takes many weeks to make good leather. The fresh hides that have just arrived will be washed in the river then immersed in the lime pits to remove the outer layers of the skin. After a few weeks, we’ll take them out and throw them over beams in the beam house over there to remove any flesh or hair roots that are left. The flesh goes for glue, and the hair roots are bought by plasterers or upholsterers for cheap felt.’ He gazed earnestly into her eyes.
She blushed, unused to being in close proximity to a young gentleman.
‘We move the treated hides into the mastering pits to remove the lime, then cut them up into butts – smaller pieces for tanning in the leaching pits, which are filled with a liquor made from ground oak bark and water.’
Oliver took her right up close to the pits of black liquid, where two men wearing stained clothing, rawhide aprons and gaiters, were moving the hides or butts from one pit to another by trolley. The evil-smelling butts slopped and dripped across the yard.
Agnes stood well back, afraid of splashing her clothes.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Hale and Mr Jones,’ Oliver said.
‘Afternoon, sir,’ one said. ‘Where’s the gaffer?’
‘Mr Cheevers will be here later,’ Oliver replied.
The
other man, who had a pipe in his mouth, touched his cap, his respectful attitude making Oliver seem much older than his years. He might be only sixteen years of age and of a lower class than herself, Agnes thought, but he had a surprising air of authority and confidence.
‘We move the butts from pit to pit, then take them out and dry them in the loft.’
She followed Oliver’s gaze to the building which had a first floor clad with louvred weatherboard.
‘All in all, it takes a year and a half until it’s ready to make boot soles or go to the currier for cleaning and softening. It’s a long process requiring much patience,’ Oliver said. ‘You are not very forthcoming, Agnes.’
‘What do you mean?’ she said, uncertain. She wasn’t used to speaking to people outside of Windmarsh Court.
‘Well, young ladies of my experience are usually full of chatter. You’re very quiet.’
‘I have been taught not to speak unless spoken to.’
He frowned. ‘Is that the custom when you are living in a big house?’
She wondered if he might be teasing her. ‘I believe it is a matter of good manners.’
‘You can say what you like when you’re here.’ He smiled gently. ‘My grandfather encourages me and Temperance to express our opinions freely.’
She thought of her meetings with Mama and Papa in the drawing room as he continued, ‘I don’t think I should like to live by the same constraints as you do. You have never been swimming?’
She shook her head.
‘What do you do when you aren’t studying?’ he asked.
‘I walk and paint a little and play the piano. I like to learn about geography.’
‘What is Windmarsh like? It’s over Faversham way, isn’t it? I have never been there.’
‘It’s wild and windswept. You can walk across the marshes without seeing another soul.’
‘I’ve always lived in Can’erbury. I went to school for a while – I can read and write, and add up – but my grandfather needed me to help him with the tannery so I left, and continued my education at home. Samuel deals with the contracts, the buying and selling, while I oversee the yard and work with the men when and where I’m required.’
