“Sorry. I’ll go the other side.” If the shoulder had been dislocated or a bone broken, she did not want to make it worse.
“Do you think you can walk?” Standing, Mallory observed the coat to be full length. Enough of a riding hazard right there.
A few tentative steps were tried. The cut was superficial allowing for some slow movement. With horse on one side, young woman on the other, the three made their way laboriously out of the woods in the direction of the chimneys. Yes, she must be quite young, Mallory thought – a girl. Barely any weight at all. Just as well, since she was not one hundred percent herself. It was hard going out of the hollow. The girl was quiet; still in shock probably so they stumbled on in silence. Breasting the rise, Mallory’s gaze opened out onto a wide view of an imposing mansion; colonnaded, three storeys in the Georgian style: tall, Palladian windows over-looking extensive parkland. With this clear perspective she gave a low whistle. It presented an ornate, turreted porte-cochere. The frontage was dominated by a glittering fountain through which rode three rampant horses. The driveway, running up past vast lawns, made a sweeping circle to accommodate its generous dimensions.
From her vantage point she observed mounted riders dressed for fox-hunting. Fox Hunting? This could not be right. Now she noticed the beaters on the horizon and could hear the hounds in full cry. There must have been thirty to forty of them yapping and dashing about. The men were too far away to be of any assistance, the field still being well behind, maintaining their discreet distance to give the hounds their best chance. Bearing this in mind she decided it would be better to raise the alarm herself. She left her injured rider propped against a fallen trunk, the horse tied to a low branch and struck off at a loping jog. One of the lads saw her and left the group. Once the situation had been explained, he ran for the Master of the Hounds. She returned to sit and wait with the girl.
In no time a young man arrived, at the gallop and she noticed he too, was wearing one of those funny little bowlers and instead of jodhpurs, a pair of baggy breeches and leather gaiters. Perhaps it was not a hunt? Some sort of fancy dress carnival? His face, like that of the odious man, had a big moustache, but no beard. Quickly, she became lost in the exchange as the young man held his horse on a tight rein and anxiously cross questioned the girl. Unlike her, he was fair complexioned, but they appeared to be brother and sister by the degree of his concern and their familiarity.
“Jellie, can you ride with me and I’ll take you back? Mama can send for Doctor Anderson.” He lifted her up then mounted behind, rather skilfully Mallory observed.
“Walk Burrow back to his stall and get Jake to give him the once over,” he called over his shoulder as he swung this other, spectacular beast around, obedient to his merest touch and they moved off. Another peremptory individual. Who do these people think they are?
“So you’re Burrow. Let’s get you home then. I guess you live up at that massive hall.”
The horse was still very skittish, snorting at the wind, weaving at every passing bird, but she kept him in line with reassuring words and soothing strokes. At a slow, steady pace Mallory was free to ponder her situation. She was still no nearer to knowing where she was; could not be that far from Warwick. No sign of Birmingham’s suburban sprawl; only scattered cottages behind low hedges. Climbing steadily, she could see the red coats of the riders, now some distance ahead of the hounds, looking as if they were at last into full chase. It must be a local club she surmised, but there were so few who hunted these days. This looked like a field of about twenty.
The gelding seemed to know where to go, showing a decided determination to veer to the left, past a well-tended shrubbery, still a riot of colour this late in the season.
Well, it makes sense, he would know where he lives, she thought.
They clattered into a cobble-stoned yard which brought Mallory to an abrupt halt, dumbfounded. Where had they come from? This seemed quite unaccountable. Their arrival alerted an old man who hurried up to them, his face crinkled with concern. A noxious cloud of smoke hung about his cloth cap, from a wooden pipe appearing above a stained, straggly beard. Removing the pipe to address the horse he realized he did not recognise the person standing before him.
“A’ternoon, I’m Jake Beeson, ’ead groom; ya new ’ere? What’s yer name?”
“Mallory Mason. You could say that.” She was not prepared to correct his assumption by explaining her situation.
“What ’appened?” He could see the horse was agitated, swishing his tail nervously and this in turn was unsettling to him. Mallory gave the gist of it and when she had finished he suggested she return Burrow to his stall.
“Give ’im a rub down and I’ll be along t’ check ’im over. I’ll be orf t’ tell the Mistress first. So Master Ambrose is bringing Miss Nigella in then?”
She nodded. “Which stall?” He removed his pipe and pointed it in the direction of number six. What a funny way of speaking these people have.
“Come on Burrow … I’ll look after you.” For now it was important to her that the horse be properly settled and then she could deal with her own problems. That injured girl would probably be OK since the young man had taken over.
The air in the vaulted stable was cool, the bare stone walls and arched ceiling kept the worst of the day’s heat at bay. The hooves clopped over the flagstones between the stalls until they reached number six, when the sounds were deadened as he happily went in. She found a currycomb on a ledge and dampened some towels in a bucket. While she worked he quenched his thirst then began to enjoy her ministrations.
Mallory knew she had a good touch with these beasts. When the old man returned she was almost done, just finishing off with some quick sweeps of the stiff dandy brush. He ran gnarled hands quickly, but thoroughly over withers, hind quarters, down to the fetlock and pastern and finally the hooves. Satisfied, he straightened up and explained how Burrow had a tendency to go off half-cocked if given half the chance.
“Miss Nigella insists ’e’s the best ’orse. Full o’ go I’ll give ’im that, but ’e’s a right ’andful t’ boot. They’re both strong willed the pair o’ ’em … she’s as determined t’ get ’er own way; so diff’rent from Miss Ramona.” Who’s she a sister, she wondered.
“Ya’d best be gettin’ back t’ Mr. ’iggins, ’e’ll be wantin’ t’ know where ya be.”
“Oh no … I don’t work here. I’m hoping to get to Birmingham tonight. I just helped out.”
He looked her up and down once more. A likely lad, I’ll put in a word with the Mistress. Someone who can ’andle Burrow so well on first meetin’ will be worth a lot round ’ere. “Well, whatever … I must get on. Go up t’ the big ’ouse. They’ll give ya a bite o’ refreshment.” He had taken in her muddy state and well knew Mrs. Cummings’ testy nature. “Be sure t’ scrape yer feet. Cook won’t want ya traipsing mud through the boot room, though ’tis fer boots as I alus remind ’er.” He pointed with his pipe again, indicating a heavy wooden door at the end of a stony path that lead to the back of one of the side wings. The thought of an ice-cold Coke and possibly a salad sandwich made her stomach growl. It must be getting late and she had missed lunch. In a punitive act of her imagination, her mind suddenly flooded with humiliating memories, ones she would much prefer to block out. How could she have been such a dummy? No point in dredging that up again. Move on Mal. She looked about and took in her surroundings. This house was more like a refurbished country hotel. Of course, the riders would have been hotel guests. Probably one of those ‘themed’ weekends people pay through the nose for.
Well, good luck to them, she thought morosely. She did not hold with blood sports, not of any kind. Not even Rodeos. In Australia, she had belonged to an animal protection league that was drawing attention to the many welfare issues surrounding the rodeo industry. The ACT had already acknowledged that this archaic form of entertainment should be prohibited.
Hang on … where are all the vehicles? She had not seen any ATV’s or Sport Uti
lities in the parking lot. Perhaps they did not like them spoiling that imposing first impression of centuries of wealth and privilege. Ha!
An ornate cast iron mat lay at the threshold which she used, but once inside, removal of her footwear seemed a better idea. There was a bootjack off to one side and the flagstones had been so well scrubbed they were positively gleaming. She set her shoes neatly next to the rather outlandish assortment arranged on racks against a sidewall. Not one pair of sandals or joggers amongst them. A number of capes hanging from a variety of hooks stuck out from the opposite wall and gave her the same feeling. Bizarre! She stood still. The house was unnaturally quiet. No Muzak, not even the hum of the air-conditioner or whir of a fan. She could hear someone making with the pots and pans though, the other side of this solid looking door. She had to lift a heavy latch, but it swung easily on well-oiled hinges. The sight that met her eyes completely astounded her.
This was an old-fashioned brick room. Against one wall stood a deep earthenware Belfast sink. She estimated it was seated at such a low height on its stand it would make for backbreaking work. It was supplied with an integral sloping, grooved hardwood drainer edged with metal and supported on brackets, quite odd-looking, she thought. A brass capstan tap came out of the brickwork above it and the other one was obviously homemade. Her back to her, busily stacking dishes, stood a young girl – but the outfit. A grey, ankle-length, plain stuff dress protected by a long pinafore and on her head a fancy, white frilled cap. She looked to all the world like a scullery maid. On the other side of this dark and cheerless room was another sink, this time made of wood and lined with lead. Its position was adjacent to a large, well-scrubbed table on which were piled bowls of vegetables waiting for preparation. There were the unfamiliar odours of lye mixed with carbolic. Her poor hands. Isn’t this taking the theme’s authenticity a bit too far?
“Do ya want Cook? She’s through there.” The girl did not stop working, just indicated with a nod, a lighter weight door, painted glossy white with a handle that turned.
“Come in, young lad, Mr. Beeson told me ya’d be along.”
This woman, whom she guessed to be the kitchen supervisor, was also in costume. A long black dress of a durable twill or worsted fabric; sleeves rolled up to just below the elbow, some sort of wrap around apron tied in back with a broad bib section covering her bosom. On her head was a fine lawn cap that completely confined her hair and it too, had a white frill. She stood beside a closed range, the fire contained below a glossy, black-leaded hot plate; smoke was drawing through the flue. It was an imposing piece of equipment as she had ever seen, with two ovens, each located one on either side, for either baking or roasting. The enamel was dark cream and green, with highly polished metal controls. Everything looked spotless.
This woman was painting the glaze on a piecrust that had just been rolled out on a marble slab set into another wooden workbench. Her kitchen utensils were readily to hand on white, painted shelves above her head. On the far side was located a more modern gas stove, obviously providing for rapid cooking and gentle simmering. Attractive hutches, displaying a wide assortment of china, took up other spaces against the walls. Through an open door, which she surmised to be the pantry, Mallory saw shelves stacked with all manner of jars, tins, and boxes. On the other side were drawers for flatware and silverware, shelves for glassware and yet another sink. Would this be for the butler?
“So ya’re the one who ’elped Miss Nigella.” The woman pointed to a seat at the big table. “I’ve just rung fer Edna t’ take ’er up some India tea an’ the Mistress says fer ya t’ ’ave somethin’ t’ eat, if ya like an’ then ya’re t’ go above stairs too.”
Mallory was dumbfounded. This was too much – like having to say lines in a play, but she did not know the script. Like acting in her own life! Was she acting? Was it her life? She knew she did not fit in, but they all behaved as though she did – and that she was a young man! Well certainly, she was not into all the stuff they had gotten themselves into and there was no way she would either.
The parlour maid came in, stopped abruptly and eyed the stranger with surprise. Mallory shook her head. Was she on cue? Whatever, the girl nodded politely and turning to the kitchen supervisor asked: “Is it ready, Cook?” She then caught sight of the tea tray on the side table. It was set with delicate china and sparkling silverware, laid out for two on perfectly starched napery. She shot Mallory one more glance before taking off. Exit stage right, Mallory thought.
“I’m Mrs. Cummings … Cook. What’s yer name lad?” she asked, as she placed the pie in the big oven. It was then over to another pot where she poured the newcomer a mug of tea. The milk and sugar were already on the table. There was cream, too. “’Elp yersel’,” she took in her dishevelled appearance. “Wash yer ’ands at the scullery tap first.”
Still in a stunned state she retraced her steps. Was she really seeing all this? Could it be some sort of drama? She tried to clean her nails, but there was no brush, so returned to the big table.
“Name?” was reiterated quite sharply.
As if trained to a conditioned response she brought out: “Mallory Mason.”
“Oh, from the West Country are ya?”
Where did she get that? “No, Australia.”
“Australia! My, ya’re a long way from ’ome, orf the ships then?” Mallory looked surprised so the woman nodded toward her right forearm. “I saw the tattoo like the sailors, eh? It’s a strange animal. Not one I’ve seen ’afore.”
She had forgotten her sleeves were rolled up. “It’s a Gecko; a small Australian lizard. Well a small creature in transition between a fish and a lizard, actually. There are lots of them where I come from.” The tea before her, Mallory welcomed the hot sweet liquid and savoured the malty crispness of the Assam leaves, although she normally drank coffee – a Latte Babe. No matter, the English love their tea. She had learned that after only a few months here. Thankful to have been given the opportunity to travel and study abroad, she had fully appreciated the new dimension that had been added to her life’s experiences. ’Til now, everything had been beaut. Her residence on campus was well appointed and comfortable, if somewhat cramped. She had to share, but her flat mate was hardly ever there, except for sleeping and sometimes not even then.
“Would ya like a nice fat slice o’ steak an’ kidney pie? I can cook some greens fer ya.”
“Just the pie will be fine, thanks.” Her belly had been quite insistent for a while, but eyeing the slice, she could see that still there would be no room for veggies. As it was, the woman – Cook – had added a fresh crust of bread with real butter. She thought of her cholesterol and resisted the temptation. Mrs. Cummings had a light hand. She had not experienced such perfectly short pastry ever before.
“Ya can eat that slice without ‘avin’ t’ knock out the weevils first.”
She looked up, surprised.
“I know about sailors’ rations aboard ship, but I bake fresh every day.”
Mallory smiled. “It’s not that Cook. I’d rather eat your delicious pastry.”
Mrs. Cummings acknowledged the compliment with a nod, her plump face breaking into radiating creases and as the lad finished up the last crumbs she recommended he get himself on up to the Mistress’s boudoir. As Mallory stood, she noticed the absence of footwear. “Where’re yer boots?”
“They were dirty so I didn’t like to keep them on.”
“Don’t be silly lad. Ya can’t see the Mistress without something on yer feet. Give ’em a clean. The cloths an’ brushes are in the cupboard.”
Mallory easily found what she needed in the boot room to bring her brogues back to their former, shiny eminence.
“Up the back stairs t’ the service door; go through an’ turn right. Go t’ the end o’ the passage. ’er Ladyship’s door’s last on the left.”
If the kitchen had appeared lavish, this walkway on the first floor was definitely ‘over-the-top’. A soft-piled runner ran its length and looked to
Mallory to be Persian and new. Above a dark wainscoting ran a fancy, but charmingly decorated wall paper. Large, idyllic landscapes measured off the intervals between wooden doors, also darkly stained. No sounds emanated here, all steps were muffled. Last on the left. Could she do this? Everything was giving her a strange feeling, not so much scary; more intrigued and curious. Her mouth firmed. It was developing into a puzzle – her job – find the pieces – connect the dots. She did not fear for her life, nothing like that, although to err on the side of caution could only be prudent. So, heart pounding she stiffened her back in anticipation and knocked; a discreet tap.
“Enter.” The voice was soft and gentle; should be no problem here after all.
Again dismay rocked her. The Company must have spared no expense with setting up this scene. The room was light and airy, suffused with a golden glow from two tall, narrow windows, elegantly draped. Embroidered Chinese silk with painted flowers and birds covered these walls and all the woodwork was the palest green, to complement the cream of the walls and the soft furnishings. Strangest of all was ‘Her Ladyship’, reclining on a chaise-longue, propped up by several plump pillows covered in purple silk. She was draped in a rose-pink wrapper, all lace and bows. Beneath this could be seen a white camisole and petticoat with more frills and tucks, but she quickly covered them.
Til Morning Comes Page 2
