Fairfield Hall

by Margaret Dickinson

  For Zachary and Zara

  Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Fifty-Seven

  Fifty-Eight

  Fifty-Nine

  Sixty

  Sixty-One

  Sixty-Two

  Sixty-Three

  Sixty-Four

  Sixty-Five

  Epilogue

  The Clippie Girls

  For More on Margaret Dickinson

  Bello: hidden talent rediscovered

  Prologue

  Lincolnshire, 10 March 2013

  Tiffany parked the car at the side of the road and climbed the gentle slope of hill towards the grand house at the top. She dared not bring her little car any further, for the day was bleak, the road slippery and she feared losing control of the vehicle. Beatrice wasn’t good on icy roads, never mind any kind of hill. As the ground flattened out, she paused to catch her breath and look around her. To the west, lay the wolds, undulating gently and covered in a frost that had not melted since morning. Directly below, Fairfield village nestled in a shallow vale. The light was fading even though it was still early afternoon and already lights flickered in several of the windows of the cottages lining the one main street. Beyond the village, she could see farms dotted on the hillsides. At one end of the village street stood the church with the vicarage beside it. She could close her eyes and imagine herself back in time; Tiffany doubted that the scene had changed much in the last hundred years, except, of course, for the cars parked on either side of the road – a necessity when the nearest market town was five miles away. And there was now only one village shop that sold everything instead of the butcher, the grocer and so on, who would all once have been able to make a living even in this small community. Now the villagers would head into the nearest town – Thorpe St Michael – to the supermarket for their weekly shopping, using the local village store only for emergencies. Even the smithy-cum-wheelwright’s that had once been the heartbeat of a rural community would be long gone, unless, of course, the blacksmith’s business had survived by making bespoke fancy wrought-iron work.

  She turned to look up again at the house standing sentinel over the village and resumed her walk, shivering a little. March opening times, she’d read in a leaflet about Fairfield Hall, were Sundays and Wednesdays and today, Mother’s Day, it seemed fitting that she should visit.

  She was breathing hard by the time she’d walked along the curving driveway, lined with lime trees in their winter nakedness, though she knew they’d be a lovely sight in summer. She paused a moment, before passing beneath an archway into a courtyard. In front of her were stables and to her left, three coach houses. Completing the square were other buildings, which once, she guessed, might have housed the laundry and workshops. In the centre of the courtyard was a magnificent beech tree and, to her right, she could see the side entrance to the house. Nearing it, she saw the notice: PLEASE USE THE FRONT ENTRANCE. Passing through a small gate, she wandered round the corner of the house and climbed the steps. The impressive three-storey square house, with its front door positioned centrally, faced to the west with six windows on the ground floor and seven on the upper storeys. Closer now, she could see that there was also a basement partly below ground level. Attached on the northern side was a lower building – only two storeys high. The smooth lawn in the front of the house sloped down towards the village. To the side she could see more gardens and guessed that behind the house there was perhaps a kitchen plot that would have grown produce to help feed the household. Beyond the grounds belonging to the house were cultivated fields where, in summer, there would be ripening corn bordered with bright-headed poppies. She waited for what seemed an age before the door was opened slowly by an elderly man, dressed strangely, she thought, in a morning suit. He looked like a butler stepping out of the pages of a history book. But his wrinkled face beamed and his old eyes twinkled. ‘Good afternoon, miss. How nice to see a visitor. Please come in.’

  Tiffany stepped into the hall and wiped her feet on the square of thick matting. ‘I expect you don’t get many in the winter and especially on a day like this.’

  The old man chuckled. ‘Not many, miss, no.’

  To one side of the hall, a log fire burned in a pretty fireplace lined with blue and white Delft tiles and Tiffany, drawn by its warmth, held her cold hands towards it.

  ‘Would you like me to give you a guided tour,’ the man asked, ‘or would you prefer to wander through the house on your own? It’s clearly marked where you’re allowed to go, so . . .’

  ‘I’d like the guided tour, please.’

  He smiled again. No doubt he was delighted to be needed.

  ‘Whenever you’re ready, then, miss. I don’t think we’ll get any more visitors today, so you have my undivided attention.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ Tiffany murmured sincerely. ‘Thank you.’ There was so much she wanted to know about this house and she was sure she’d found the right person to tell her.

  ‘This is the entrance hall, of course,’ the guide began and then he led her into the room on the left-hand side of the hall. ‘This was once the housekeeper’s room so that she could see who was coming up the drive – the family returning home or visitors arriving – and warn the rest of the servants. In the late 1890s it was used as the estate office. Beyond it we have what would have been the drawing room, but in later years, we understand it became known as the music room. Isn’t it magnificent?’

  Paintings and portraits lined the oak-panelled walls; in one corner stood a grand piano, in another an oak long-case clock solemnly ticked away the hours as perhaps it had done for over two hundred and fifty years.

  He led her out of another door and along a corridor. ‘Those rooms are just a modern kitchen and sitting room and this,’ he said as they passed a staircase on the right-hand side, ‘is what the servants would use, but this,’ he emphasized as they passed once more through the entrance hall and to the southern end of the house, ‘is the main staircase.’ The walls above the oak staircase were again lined with family portraits. There was such a history to this house. Tiffany’s heart beat a little faster.

  ‘We’ll go upstairs in a moment,’ her guide said, ‘but first let me show you the library here to the right of the stairs . . .’ The room – as she had imagined it would be – was lined with shelves of books. ‘And then this ro
om to the left is what used to be the morning room. It faces to the east at the back of the house so it always gets the morning sun. Sadly,’ he smiled at her, ‘we haven’t any today.

  ‘Now, upstairs we have the family’s private sitting room and straight opposite are the best bedrooms. Further along, you will see that the living-in servants also have bedrooms on this floor.’

  ‘Really?’ Tiffany laughed. ‘I thought servants were always confined to the attics?’

  ‘Not in this house, miss.’ He smiled. ‘The top floor has the nursery and probably a room for a nursery nurse or governess and also a couple of very nice guest bedrooms.’

  I wonder where she slept? Tiffany thought as they retraced their steps downstairs. I’d like to think that I’ve been standing in her bedroom.

  He showed her the huge kitchen in the basement and other, smaller rooms that were used for different purposes: a wine cellar, a game larder, a still room and the butler’s pantry. He even showed her the row of fourteen bells, which summoned the servants.

  ‘And now I’ll take you back to my favourite room in the house. I’ve deliberately left it until last.’

  When they entered the dining room, where portraits of the more recent family members were hanging, Tiffany’s interest sharpened.

  ‘The main part of the house was built in the early 1700s by the Lyndon family in the style of Sir Christopher Wren and the two-storey extension to the north was added much later,’ the guide told her. ‘It’s strange to find such a house as this in the countryside, isn’t it? It’s more suited to a town house.’

  Tiffany said nothing, willing him to go on with the stories of the family. That was what interested her.

  ‘The hereditary title, the Earl of Fairfield, was granted to Montague Lyndon at the end of a distinguished military career in 1815 and thereafter each generation sent a son into the Army, usually the second son, if there was one, so that the title was safeguarded. The eldest son always inherited the title and he was expected to run the estate.’ They moved on slowly down the line of portraits, the guide pointing briefly to each one.

  ‘That’s the second earl, the third, the fourth and the fifth, and now we come to the sixth Earl of Fairfield, James Lyndon.’

  Tiffany gazed up at the full-length portrait of a man in military uniform. He was tall with brown hair and dark brown eyes that, strangely, seemed to stare coldly down at her. There was no smile, no warmth in his face.

  ‘As you can see,’ her guide said, ‘James was a soldier, too, and, by all accounts, a very good one. He was the second son and should never have inherited the title but his elder brother, Albert, died young.’

  Tiffany took a step forward and then stopped, her gaze held by the picture of a young woman hanging on the opposite side of the fireplace to the one of the sixth earl. Her hair was as black as a raven’s feathers. She had dark violet eyes and flawless skin. She was dressed in a blue satin gown with a necklace around her graceful neck. Tiffany hoped the artist had painted a true representation of her.

  She bit her lip, hardly daring to ask. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Ah, now that is Lady Annabel, James’s wife. Isn’t she lovely?’ They stood a moment in silence, in awe of the woman’s striking beauty. In answer to Tiffany’s unspoken question, he added, ‘And she was every bit as lovely as her portrait.’

  Tiffany glanced at him. To the twenty-year-old girl, her guide looked ancient, but even he couldn’t be old enough to remember Lady Annabel, could he? But it seemed he was.

  He smiled. ‘My grandfather worked here as a gardener and he used to talk about her. In fact, you couldn’t get him to stop talking about her. I only saw her twice and she was getting on a bit by then, of course, but she was still striking. And everyone loved her, except,’ he sighed heavily, ‘the one person who should have loved her the most. Poor lady.’

  ‘Tell me about her – please.’ Tiffany couldn’t help the pleading tone in her voice and, sensing it, the man smiled down at her.

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘I’m in no rush. It’s – it’s what I came for. I’d love to learn as much as I can about her, but only if you’ve time.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve time. But let’s sit down, my dear. My old legs aren’t what they used to be.’

  They sat down on two chairs near the fire, but facing the two portraits.

  ‘Well, now, where to begin?’ He fell silent for a moment, his gaze still on the enchanting face in the painting, and then he murmured again, ‘Where to begin?’

  One

  Grimsby, Lincolnshire, January 1896

  ‘Please can we go home, Miss Annabel? It’s freezing.’

  ‘Just another five minutes,’ Annabel murmured, staring through the gloom of the winter’s evening, watching the road ahead.

  They were sitting in the horse-drawn chaise on the seafront at Cleethorpes, not far from the pier that stretched out into the cold sea. There were no holidaymakers today, no visitors walking its length. Although the chaise offered a little more shelter than an open trap, the wind blew in from the sea, stinging their faces and chilling their bones.

  ‘If you’re late for dinner, your father will ask questions. And you know I can’t tell lies. I go bright red and he knows straightaway.’

  ‘I don’t expect you to tell lies for me, Jane.’

  The maid shivered. ‘The horse is getting cold too. See how he’s pawing at the ground.’

  The chaise rocked dangerously as the restless horse moved.

  ‘Miss Annabel,’ Jane said firmly, ‘he’s not coming and we’re both going to be in such trouble when we get back. What will Mrs Rowley say if I’m not there to help with the dinner? You know I have to help out in the kitchen.’

  The Constantine household had few staff: a butler, Roland Walmsley, who also served as valet to his master, a cook-cum-housekeeper, Mrs Rowley, a kitchen maid, Lucy, and Jane, who was everything else; housemaid and lady’s maid to Mrs Constantine and to Miss Annabel. The only outside staff were a part-time gardener and a groom, Billy, who looked after the two horses and usually drove Annabel or her mother wherever they wanted to go. But today, Annabel had insisted upon driving the chaise herself with only her maid for company.

  Annabel sighed and took up the reins, saying, ‘Gee up.’ The horse, glad of some activity at last, lurched forward and the two girls clutched at the sides of the vehicle.

  ‘He’ll have us over,’ Jane muttered, but the sure-footed horse began to trot happily towards home. A little way along the road into Grimsby, Annabel pulled on the reins so that the horse turned to the right. Prince hesitated, yet he obeyed his mistress’s instructions.

  ‘Where are you going, miss? This isn’t the way home.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Annabel’s tone was airy. ‘I thought it was. Oh dear, we’re lost.’ She flicked the reins so that the horse picked up speed, taking them even further away from the road they needed to be on.

  ‘Miss Annabel—’

  ‘I think it’s a short cut.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. You know very well it isn’t. You’re going towards the docks,’ Jane said, ‘and if you’ve some madcap notion of trying to find him, then – then . . .’

  Annabel pulled gently on the reins bringing Prince to a steady walking pace. They reached a crossroads and, skilfully, Annabel turned the horse so that they were facing back the way they had just come. Prince began to trot again, more hopeful now that they were really going home to his warm stable. His speed quickened even more when he recognized Bargate, the road where the Constantines lived.

  The house was a square building with a central front door and a bay window on either side. It had a small front garden but a larger one behind the house where their gardener cultivated both flower borders and a kitchen garden. As a young girl, Annabel had been allowed to help in the grounds and in the greenhouse, but as she’d grown older, her father had dictated that she should apply herself to more ladylike occupations.

  ‘It is not fitting for you to be
grubbing about in the dirt with only a servant as a companion.’

  And so Annabel’s love of the land was only satisfied on her visits to her grandparents who, unbeknown to her father, allowed her to help about the farm.

  ‘There’s Billy waiting for us,’ Jane said as the chaise came to a halt. She climbed down and then turned to help her young mistress alight, whilst Billy hurried to hold the horse’s head.

  ‘Good evening, Billy,’ Annabel said with a forced gaiety she was no longer feeling. ‘I’m so sorry we’re late. We got lost.’

  Beside her, she heard Jane pull in a sharp breath but her maid said nothing. Annabel knew the girl would follow her lead and realize that her mistress had given her a ready-made excuse should she be questioned.

  ‘You go in the back way, Jane. I’ll go to the front door. Mr Walmsley will let me in. And remember’ – she lowered her voice as Billy began to unhitch the horse from the shafts – ‘we got lost.’

  ‘Yes, miss.’ Jane bobbed a quick curtsy and scurried in through the back door.

  Annabel walked around the side of the house and rang the front door bell.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Walmsley,’ she said smoothly when the butler opened the door.

  Despite having been told to do so on numerous occasions, Annabel flatly refused to address their servants by anything other than their full name or, for the younger ones, their Christian name. She abhorred the use of mere surnames and the butler had long ago given up trying to get her to change. Even her disciplinarian father couldn’t enforce the rule with his wayward daughter.

  Hearing her voice, Ambrose flung open the door to his study and strode into the hall. He was a short, portly man in his early fifties with a florid complexion and bristling sideburns.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ he barked.

  Annabel turned towards him as she removed her cape, hat and gloves and handed them to Roland Walmsley.

  ‘Out for a drive in the chaise, Father, but I took a wrong turning in the dusk and I got a little lost. I’m so sorry I’m late for dinner.’ She turned back to the butler. ‘Mr Walmsley, please tell Mrs Rowley that it’s my fault Jane is late, not hers.’

  Roland Walmsley bowed and hid his smile. He could guess where his young mistress had been, though wild horses would not drag it out of him, nor would he question Jane. She was utterly loyal to Miss Annabel, as were all the servants.