The kitchens were too busy that day for Trixie Smith to pay any attention to the arrival of the new house guest. Her father, Raymond Smith, chauffeur and handyman to the family, as his father had been before him, was busy polishing his shoes in the boot room, while Trixie and the rest of them were occupied making luncheon for the family.
To the continuing relief of Cook and her attendants, Mr Garland Senior liked only good standard English food. For lunch he liked a thin soup, followed by a pork or meat pie, or something similar, then invariably, most invariably, apple crumble and Cheddar cheese, the whole washed down by light ale served in pewter tankards. His wife, on the other hand, preferred only a hard-boiled egg salad and a glass of water, although she sometimes did eat a little cheese on its own.
When she did, Mr Garland always said, ‘Having a little piece of naked, are you, Meriel?’ which for some reason they both always found funny.
Trixie had been serving in the dining room now for over a year. She was immensely proud of the fact that she had moved upstairs at a much younger age than any of the other maids. Betty, Trixie’s best friend, although two years older and still not used in the dining room, remained resolutely unimpressed by her friend’s elevation.
‘You have friends at Court, you get a leg up. That’s well known, that is. Nothing to do with your quality, everything to do with being Mr Smith the chauffeur’s daughter,’ she would remark every now and then.
Trixie always made sure to laugh at this. She knew she was pretty and bright, and both she and Betty knew that she had ambitions far beyond the dining room and kitchens at Chevrons.
‘Be that as it may, chauffeur’s daughter or maid of all work, it means the same to me, because I’m going up, up, up, Betty, and no one, not you, not no one can stop me, you know that?’
At this standard Trixie-type reply Betty would sigh and nod, then sigh again. Unlike Trixie, Betty was from the local orphanage, and appreciated only too well how lucky she was to be employed at all, let alone at a fine house such as Chevrons, and then only because Mrs Garland took such an interest in the orphanage, having been an orphan herself.
‘My dear,’ she would say to Trixie, whenever Trixie was standing in for Mrs Garland’s personal maid on her day off, ‘I am only too well aware of how it feels to be poor little Betty, truly I am. It is terrible not to have some sort of family, and to always feel that you are a burden to everyone is truly dispiriting, even when one is only a child, and therefore not of any consequence.’
Trixie would observe a reverential silence at this, knowing that Mrs Garland’s poor parents had both been lost in the Titanic disaster, and that the little orphaned girl had in consequence been passed from one set of relatives to another in swift succession, until the day when all the legalities had been finalised, and it was revealed that she was an heiress.
This fact being made generally known, all of a sudden, and to Meriel’s bewilderment, a great many of the relations who had initially refused the orphaned child board and lodging were suddenly only too eager to open their doors to her.
‘What a tremendous relief it was to finally reach my majority and to realise that the choice of a family was my own and no one else’s, and then to meet Mr Garland, by the merest chance, in an art gallery where he was buying that painting …’
At this point in the story Mrs Garland would always gesture to a watercolour painting above their bedroom chimneypiece, an energetic depiction of waves splashing against mauve-hued rocks.
‘That was the very painting that I had wished to buy, but for Mr Garland to give way and to allow me to purchase it in exchange for accompanying him to the theatre, how fortuitous that was, was it not, Trixie?’
Although Trixie had heard this tale many times, she always delighted in the retelling of it, revelling as she did in the same emotions as her mistress, albeit that they were necessarily second-hand.
First of all there was the loneliness of the young heiress valiantly making her way in the big city, a loneliness at which of course, having been brought up in a cottage on the estate at lively Chevrons, Trixie could only guess.
Then there was the spirited refusal to have anything to do with the relatives who had been only too glad to pass her on – that was a delightful moment in the story in which Trixie revelled unashamedly. Then again, for all this to be followed so swiftly by a chance meeting which had resulted in the happiest of marriages to Mr Garland turned it into a lovely story that Mrs Garland herself seemed to relish more and more; as if each time she retold the story her own astonishment at her subsequent happiness was somehow confirmed by the repetition of the train of events that led up to her becoming mistress of Chevrons, and the mother of four children.
Something of the feeling of contentment that seemed to be so much part of the old house undoubtedly came from the Garlands themselves over the centuries. Their tenure of the estate had proved to be secure, untroubled and, to an outside observer, seemingly unremarkable. This would also appear to be true of the family. Indeed, their history was such that they seemed well content to remain unremarked outside of the county in which they lived, whilst going about their business with the kind of unassuming modesty that always encourages popularity in the English countryside.
Over the years of her marriage, Mrs Garland’s reputation as a beauty remained happily undiminished. The result of this meant that she had sat to many famous painters, including the portraitist, Philip de Laszlo, and even now, although some few years past her fortieth birthday, when at a public gathering, her beauty and elegance attracted the kind of appreciative looks that delighted her husband.
Tonight Trixie knew Mrs Garland would be wearing the gown chosen by Mr de Laszlo himself for his last, much-admired portrait of her. She knew this because Miss Berenger, Mrs Garland’s personal maid, had arranged the dress and all its accoutrements – underclothes, petticoat, jewels, hair combs – reverentially on the bed in the small dressing room that led off Mrs Garland’s bedroom. The dress in the much-admired portrait downstairs was the same cherished dress now lying on the dark red quilt of the bed.
It was of a delicate cerise silk. The upper bodice was made of a contrasting grey gossamer silk, and the underskirt, showing at least a foot beneath the upper silk, was of a toning oyster-grey colour. Across the overskirt, the underskirt and the bodice was laid yet more gossamer-like silk threaded with gold thread. The whole effect was of lightness and beauty. No one could pass this dress, worn or unworn, without stopping to admire its subtle beauty.
The design of the dress meant that the accompanying jewellery had, of necessity, to be of the simplest: a plain pearl necklace, and diamond and pearl earrings. Brocade shoes that exactly echoed the oyster grey of the underskirt.
Trixie was always excited by the idea of standing in for Miss Berenger. It was not just a great privilege to help to dress Mrs Garland, it was a great compliment to Trixie that Miss Berenger always chose her over the other, older maids.
‘Why me?’ Trixie had asked the first time Miss Berenger had summoned her to the inner sanctum of Mrs Garland’s dressing room.
Miss, actually Mademoiselle, Berenger, small, thin, and seeming to the rest of the staff to be really quite Frenchified – although actually Belgian – had straightened herself and pulled sharply down on her already elongated cardigan before answering.
‘Mrs Garland – she has to have someone bright around her, otherwise socially she suffers from her nerfs. If there is to be a change of her clothes-es it must be executed with confidence and intelligence. She cannot be handled as if she is an animal in the field, you know, push, prod, push, prod. Beside, you have small, neat fingers, as I, so you will be quick with the buttons and the laces, no?’
And Trixie was quick with the buttons and the laces, and she was bright and always smiling, as well as determined that she would do everything possible to make Mrs Garland’s life better and better.
There were surprises, of course.
Until she stood in for Miss Berenger and
had been warned by the older woman, Trixie had always thought that grand ladies such as Mrs Garland were confident, and moved in Society without any degree of what Miss Berenger called ‘nerfs’ and what Trixie called ‘nerves’, but this was just not so. Before a grand ball, Miss Berenger had warned Trixie, Mrs Garland was apt to become uncertain of her choice of gown, or of how to wear her hair, or which necklace to choose. It was necessary to talk to her in a calm and soothing manner, as you would a child.
Tonight was just such a night. The Lord Lieutenant of the County was giving a grand ball, there would be royalty present – not King George or Queen Elizabeth, but some of their princely relatives, who at this time of year, lived, or stayed, at various points in the county.
‘Do you really think this old gown will do, Trixie?’
Trixie’s eyes travelled from Mrs Garland, seated in front of her dressing-table mirror, to the gown on the bed. Surely this heartbreakingly beautiful creation could not possibly be described as an ‘old gown’?
‘I know Mr de Laszlo designed it for me, but it was rather a long time ago, Trixie,’ Mrs Garland continued. ‘And although I have never yet worn it to a ball in the country, nevertheless …’ Her voice tailed off as if her confidence in Mr de Laszlo’s taste had tailed off over the years.
Mrs Garland stood up, went to the side cupboard and took out a discreet decanter, which Trixie knew contained her favourite gin. While she poured some into a glass and drank from it as if it were medicine (which to her it most likely was), Trixie, used to this pre-ball routine, thought quickly.
Now that she looked at it more closely, Trixie could see that the dress was a trifle old-fashioned. Not that any beautiful gown ever aged, but this creation did not have all the up-to-date details that she knew Miss Katherine’s gown would be flaunting. Nevertheless it was still truly beautiful.
‘A thing of beauty is a joy for ever, Mrs Garland, ma’am – at least, that is, as I understand it – and as you have not worn this gown since Mr de Laszlo painted you in it, you will, I am sure, be the belle of the ball, as beautiful as a May morning, just like your painting downstairs. Every eye will go to you, every eye will – will – dwell on you.’
Perhaps it was the gin from the decanter, perhaps it was Trixie’s carefully chosen words of encouragement – she was proud of remembering that word ‘dwell’ from her reading – but Mrs Garland returned to her dressing table once more, and they resumed their routine. Trixie dressed her mistress’s long dark hair with expert twists and a modest use of the curling tongs on the upswept curls about her pale face, before finally pushing her evening combs firmly into place. The combs, Miss Berenger had taught Trixie, must always be pushed first one way and then the other, so that they glittered discreetly and there was never any danger of them falling out. They both knew that the correct placing must hurt, but whenever Trixie pushed in the combs Mrs Garland’s face in the mirror never, ever betrayed even the slightest emotion. She hardly blinked, but more often than not continued to powder her nose with the large powder puff on a stick, which she dipped delicately into a cut-glass bowl filled with her favourite Houbigant face powder.
Trixie had learned to admire so much about Mrs Garland: her beauty, her elegance, her gentle manner, but most of all her ability to hide pain. Once, very early on, when she was with Mrs Garland in her dressing room Trixie had dropped the hot hair tongs into her mistress’s lap, and as bad luck would have it, just before Mrs Garland was due to host an important dinner party downstairs.
It was proof of Mrs Garland’s quality of character that she had not uttered a sound, even though the tongs had burned right through one of her best silk petticoats. Instead of losing her temper, as she might have been expected to do, she had merely smiled and returned the tongs to Trixie saying, ‘Oh dear, Trixie, I’m always doing that!’
Of course they had both known that she was far from always doing any such thing, but it was her thoughtfulness, her adamant refusal to admit that her leg had been scorched and her petticoat ruined, that brought about Trixie’s understandably unwavering devotion to her mistress. Indeed, she had become so devoted to Meriel Garland that she often felt that, if asked, she would not hesitate to give her life for her. Mrs Garland was a proper lady, not like the jumped-up ladies who sometimes came to dinner at Chevrons. Those pretend people talked in over-loud voices, and went out of their way to be rude to the servants at every possible turn.
No, as everyone at Chevrons knew, Mrs Garland was a lady all right, from the top of her head to the soles of her elegant feet. Because of this she had become the standard bearer, the marker, the person whom, above all others, Trixie wanted to be like.
It might have been a cause of some surprise to those who knew the Garlands socially that, due to the steady decline of sheep farming and the increase in lamb imports, in all her long years of marriage Mrs Garland’s dress allowance had never been increased, which meant that Miss Katherine, and soon, Trixie presumed, Miss Caro, had to be dressed from the same allowance as their mother. Trixie was aware that this was the reason that, rather than buy herself something modish for the ball, Mrs Garland had plucked the de Laszlo creation from the back of the wardrobe and had Miss Berenger clean and press it to within an inch of its life, thus saving money, and allowing Miss Katherine to shine in either her brand-new Piguet satin frock, or, failing that, the dark blue Maggy Rouff-designed ball gown, which was undoubtedly quite beautiful.
However, just as Trixie had confidently predicted, once dressed in Mr de Laszlo’s original choice of gown, Mrs Garland looked quite as stunning as when she had first sat to the painter.
Trixie stepped back to admire her.
‘If you don’t mind me saying, Mrs Garland, ma’am, you look just as you do downstairs in the painting that I have always enjoyed dusting, even though it does mean climbing stepladders. You look as young and beautiful as ever, truly you do.’
Meriel laughed. ‘You must have Irish blood, Trixie,’ she said. ‘Either that, or you have kissed the Blarney Stone.’
Trixie shook her head, not bothering to reply, still staring at her beautiful mistress with adoring eyes.
‘Every head will turn when you enter the ballroom tonight, Mrs Garland, ma’am,’ she murmured, as Meriel walked elegantly ahead of her on to the landing.
As bad luck would have it, at that moment Miss Katherine, too, was emerging from her bedroom, so mother and daughter paused at precisely the same moment, preparing to walk, or sway in the accepted manner, hips slightly forward, down the large staircase to the hall below.
Trixie could have kicked herself for opening the door before looking out for Miss Katherine, for whom she had no love whatsoever. Miss Katherine might be the toast of the county, and Mrs Garland might love her, but such was her sharp tongue and her haughty ways of late, few other people who knew her could, or did, any more.
‘Katherine, you look beautiful,’ Meriel murmured.
There was a small pause during which the ever-loyal Trixie hoped that Miss Katherine would return the compliment. After all, no one could say that her mistress did not look beautiful because it was quite evident to anyone with eyes in their head that she blooming well did.
‘Thank you, Mummy,’ Katherine replied, before waiting for her mother to walk downstairs in front of her.
‘What a good choice, the blue, a perfect choice for this evening,’ Meriel went on valiantly, even as she knew that hers was a lost cause. Her elder, more beautiful, daughter had changed so much in the past two years. Her Katherine seemed to have gone far away, spiritually, if not physically, lost to her parents, although not for good, her mother hoped and prayed.
As her mother preceded her down the stairs, Trixie hovered on the landing above them, waiting to hear what Miss Katherine might say, or if indeed she did say anything.
Finally the beautiful lips parted.
‘I am surprised, Mummy, truly I am, I am surprised that you are wearing that gown. I mean, I really thought you might have gone for something n
ew for this evening.’
For a second Meriel looked back at her daughter, the expression on her face one of calm disinterest, before she continued down the stairs, but Trixie knew from the sudden tilt of her mistress’s head, the sudden anxious smoothing of the silk of her dress, that Miss Katherine’s comment had taken away what little remained of her mistress’s confidence, and not even the glass of gin would now help overcome her sense of disquiet. Not that Mrs Garland was shy – she was too unselfish to be shy – but she did lack confidence, particularly when Miss Katherine was around her. The truth was that if someone was always out to find fault with a person it was difficult to put one foot in front of the other without becoming convinced that you were about to trip.
Seconds later Trixie returned to Mrs Garland’s dressing room and, going straight to the glass that Mrs Garland had left, she finished up the remaining gin.
‘Ooh, caught you!’
Trixie turned to see Caro, who had crept into the room after her.
‘Yes you did, you caught me all right.’
Seeing the furious look in Trixie’s eyes, Caro pulled a little face.
‘What is bugging you this evening then, Trixie Smith?’
‘Bugging me is right,’ Trixie agreed, beginning to put away all the paraphernalia that had been left about after dressing Mrs Garland.
Caro sat down suddenly and thankfully on her mother’s dressing-room bed, but Trixie waved at her indignantly.
‘Off that bedcover, please, Miss Caro. That’s silk, that is. Off of it, I tell you.’
‘No, shan’t and won’t budge until you tell me what’s bugging you – go on, what’s bugging you?’
‘Miss Katherine, that’s what’s bugging me,’ Trixie muttered, after a short pause. ‘Your mother, Mrs Garland, is looking like something dropped from heaven, though I say it myself, and then what happens? Out comes Miss Katherine, all got up like some sort of Parisian doll—’
‘And looking quite beautiful too. Katherine does look beautiful this evening, doesn’t she, Trixie? Although, if you really want to know I think the sleeves on her dress are a bit much, just a half-inch too tall, but if anyone can carry them off, Katherine certainly can.’
Goodnight Sweetheart Page 2
