Bloody Nora! This must be some sort of dramatic re-enactment. But why go to all this trouble?
There was another woman present, middle aged, dressed in a high necked, white muslin ‘tucked’ blouse, the tucks running from the shoulders to halfway down the front. The sleeves were a mutton chop style, tight on the forearm. Her skirt was a serviceable brown twill, cinched at the waist by a webbed belt and buckle. It swept down to the floor. She hovered in a corner near a most exquisitely inlaid escritoire; several of the drawers were open and papers lay about. Now she knew why there had been two cups on the tray.
A circle of light from the rose-tinted, glass table lamp fell over one side of the reclining figure. It outlined her aristocratic profile, delineating a high cheekbone and a straight nose above a delicately curved, finely lipped mouth. The younger woman turned her head as Mallory entered, revealing deep-set, hazel eyes, fringed by fair lashes. Her hair, also very fair, was piled high off the face.
“So you are the young man who saved my daughter.” She sat up, delicate, pink satin slippers to the floor. Her manner was gracious, her diction refined. “Come in. I wanted to thank you personally.” She lifted a slim, pale hand to her throat. “I dread to think how long she could have lain there injured. My poor Jellie! She could have bled to death.” This time the shudder was accompanied by a sweeping hand across the brow.
The woman in brown left her post to rush over. “Oh my Lady, please do not distress yourself further. The Lady Nigella is being looked after by Dr. Anderson and he has pronounced her condition satisfactory. She just needs rest.” She handed over a small bottle of sal volatile, which ‘my lady’ wafted under her nose, taking deep breaths.
“When Eustace and Ambrose take to the hunt, they notice nothing else. They could be in another world … I could die … and it wouldn’t matter.” Her voice was changing from that pleasant, appreciative softness to a petulant whine. “Constance, do see how she does; report to me immediately.”
“Yes my Lady.” She passed by Mallory giving her a close ‘once over’, but said nothing.
“How can I thank you? You were hired by Higgins as a beater?” It seemed she expected to do all the talking, since she allowed no time for an answer. “Beeson tells me you were very good with Burrow. He’s unpredictable, but he’s my daughter’s favourite. The lads like to give him a wide berth and leave him to Jake, but he can be too much even for him. Apparently you handled him well, even when he was in such a state.” Her cool eyes narrowed as she scrutinised Mallory more closely. “How are you called?”
Still in shock, enfolded in emanations of an illusory validity, she replied: “Mallory Mason.”
“Would you like to work in the stables? Higgins can find you lodgings and we will need an extra hand when the shooting season gets under way.” She wanted someone reliable there, for her daughter’s sake … and my own peace of mind, she thought grimly; someone who would answer to her and not her husband. He’s young. He will do my bidding and no questions asked. Here’s my chance to have someone on my side for a change. Talking quickly now, hands twisting nervously, she continued: “Our estate manager usually deals with all this so I shall send you to see Crosby.”
“Err…r I was on my way to Birmingham.” She was nonplussed. Disconcertingly, doubt was assailing her, leaving unwelcome feelings of alarm. This was not unfolding like lines in a play anymore. She squinted around in appraisal. It was getting to appear too genuine, however still surreal. Would she wake up from all this and find herself – where? Hell’s teeth … don’t let it be a nightmare!
“Oh the city, don’t you like the Provinces?” Already here was refusal and so soon. It was not fair. Her eyes flashed in temper from what seemed a perpetual series of recurrent frustrations.
“I do … yes,” she replied, trying to think quickly, but it was hard to get everything in order. Now what was her take on this? A job for the remainder of the vac. would help out very well. Allow her to get enough together to set up better than last year. Working with horses again could only be all good; possibly return her to some sense of reality – some sense of her own identity. It would beat waitressing at Marks and Spencers, for sure. Then there would be no question of those long skirts. Yes! Pants all the way. These thoughts flew through her mind in a nanosecond, so with an odd mixture of apprehension tinged with excitement she found her voice: “Thank you, err…r … my Lady,” she thought to add judiciously, after all the woman was trying to be helpful.
“Very good, can you can start immediately?” Yes, the sooner the better! My nerves are really ragged these days … anything to help stay on a steady course. “I will need you to keep a look out for Lady Nigella. No, don’t be alarmed. She’s all right most of the time. It’s just … she can shoot off at tangents and I need to know she’s safe.”A perplexed look on his face. Perhaps I’ve said too much? How to get out of this?
“She’s still a Hill Topper and very keen to get her ‘first flight’ by November. They put on Cub Hunts for them you understand,” her face was flushing a hot pink in her confusion. Mallory did not, but to go along with this peculiar woman would probably do no harm and at least get her some useful work. She was nodding assent when the ‘brown woman’ knocked and entered.
“Your Ladyship, Lady Nigella is resting comfortably. She has a nasty cut on her thigh, but Millie has cleaned it with an iodoform lint pad and secured it with a cotton bandage. Her shoulder is a bit bruised, but Dr. Anderson has assured her she will be able to ride again in a few days.”`
“Oh no, surely she will need to stay in bed for at least a week?”
This poor woman, what is her problem? Mallory looked from one to the other.
“Well my Lady, I’m sure if you think she will need more time that can be arranged.”
“Thank you Constance. Will you send for Crosby, I will speak to him … and take Mason to the library to await him there.” She turned her head imperiously. “Mrs. Aldred will show you the way.”
This time, following Mrs. Aldred, she was guided through a most imposing reception room to the other wing of the house, past a grand, curving staircase, rising to the floor above. Then it was down another lushly carpeted corridor to the library. As feminine as the sitting room had been, there was no doubt, here was a masculine domain; the owner a man of wealth and of impeccable taste. Again, no expense had been spared in the quality of the wood panelling with a polish so high its finish looked satiny; the heavy, leather furniture could have been seen in the most exclusive of gentlemen’s clubs. Now the richness of the velvet drapes at the tall windows was only to be expected. The large panes overlooked an elaborate, Italian-style garden surrounded by precision-perfect box hedges. It was set amid smooth lawns which guided the eye down to an ornamental lake in the hollow, beside which nestled a small, sandstone folly. Was she at the back of the house?
“Wait here. Mr. Crosby should not be long.”
What to do? Perhaps better not to sit, although most of the mud had dried and brushed off. She approached the bookshelves which were stacked from floor to ceiling. The title selection was interesting. They seemed to be mostly nineteenth century novelists: Hardy’s Jude the Obscure, Galsworthy’s A Man of Property, Kipling’s The Jungle Book and Henry James’ The Spoils of Poynton, were some of the titles that jumped out at her. In another section though, she did see some twentieth century authors. She reached to jerk out a book then thought better of it, in the end content just to peruse. Jack London’s: White Fang. Baroness Emmuska Orczy’s: The Scarlet Pimpernel, and next to it, The Elusive Pimpernel: L. M. Montgomery’s Anne of Green Gables and E. M. Forster’s A Room with a View. Still pretty old fashioned. There were many whose subject was history or geography; a few on India. Of the books themselves however, several were collectors’ items, skillfully bound in shiny, ox-blood red, Moroccan leather, with intricate craftsmanship in the gold leaf lettering. Each one of those must be worth a mint.
Browsing along the shelves, these had been the titles she had readily
recognised. Still it was odd, nothing later than 1909 as far as she could figure. Surely an eclectic collection like this would include First and Second World War histories and even a Dick Francis or two, for people who like horses? Lost in this fascinating study, Mallory did not hear the estate manager enter until she was addressed. Better pull herself up. “Her Ladyship tells me you will be working here on a trial basis.” His dubious eyes studied her in detail, not convinced his mistress knew what she was doing. Still, it was her wish and Lord Patchford would change things if all did not go well, no doubt about that.
Bloody face fungus again. They all wanted to act the part. At least he was dressed more reasonably. A big man in a good tweed suit, even if the waistcoat was overly formal. The Albert, stretching across his stomach looked like rose gold. His thick brown hair was heavily pomaded with Macassar oil, in an attempt to bring its unruly waves under control, giving him a slightly sweetish smell. Well now, did she still want in? Maybe time to get out, go it alone … find her own way back?
“Her Ladyship!”
Giving her a withering stare, he responded: “Yes. This is the Guilfoyle Estate.”
As though that explained anything! “Ye…err, right.”
He expelled his breath: “I beg your pardon?” Bushy eyebrows rose in mute indignation as he almost choked on his outrage. “You address me as ‘Sir’, young man or there will be no work for you here, today or any other day. Do I make myself clear?” His florid face became blotched with temper. “On this estate we do not accept insolence from anyone, whatever their position.”
Mallory felt her cheeks grow hot. She had not meant to give offence and she would like to try for the work: “Oh sorry, my mistake … Sir.” That should do it.
Slightly mollified, Mr. Crosby continued: “I checked with Higgins, he’s our head gamekeeper and responsible for the lads. The Pogue’s have a spare room in their cottage that’s usually rented out, but their lodger recently left them to do foundry work in the city.” From his tone she could tell he took a dim view of this. Poor bloke, he probably just wanted to make more money.
“Pogue is a wheelwright, providing tools and machinery for the farm as well as repairing them. He took the lad on as an apprentice in his workshop and then he thinks he knows it all and skedaddles off. I’ll take you over, they’re in the village. Mrs. Pogue charges extra for board, but she’s a solid cook and you’ll not go short.” Collecting his cloth cap he rose to leave which prompted Mallory to ask about hours and payment.
“The going rate is sixteen shillings, eight pence, three farthings per week. You start at six and finish at two. Come back at five for the evening feeds.”
Mallory’s jaw dropped open, aghast and before she had time to remember her position she burst out: “You’ve got to be kidding me. That’s …” then the words died on her lips as she watched the fury suffusing his face. Initially he was rendered speechless by her temerity, but as he began to splutter inarticulately, she took the chance to break in: “Sorry, sorry I forgot … I mean … I mean, I didn’t mean that. It was just that I … I was just … taken aback.”
Mr. Crosby did not know what to make of him. In all his life he had never been spoken to like this. From his accent he could tell he was not English. Maybe that accounted for this strange behaviour. “You’re not from around here are you?” he asked in a cracked voice, still not over his shock.
“No Australia … Sir.”
Ah, that was it. He was not losing his reason after all. Best to let it pass. He would find out what the boy was made of from Higgins, soon enough. “Come with me, I’ve got the dogcart today.” He led the way in the opposite direction from when she had arrived and soon she found herself on the other side of the house. She heard the rather rackety hum of a vacuum cleaner and thought she glimpsed another fancily garbed figure, but he gave her no time to be sure.
Out through a side door they crunched along another stony path past banks of magnificently flowering, pink and red rhododendron bushes. Musky perfume assailed the nostrils, carried on spirals of cool air, which was refreshing after the intense heat of the afternoon. Mallory tried to single out the fragrances, but could only identify rose. She had a great liking for flowers and always enjoyed presenting a new conquest with a colourful bouquet. Oh no! Don’t go there.
Ahead, were a series of amazingly high rooved outbuildings, reminiscent of the old carriage houses of a bygone era. Even the forecourt was cobbled. A hack stood patiently, head bowed, in the traces of a two-wheeled, open cart. The seats were set back to back so either you could see where you were going, or you had to trust no-one had it in mind to take you for a ride, ride. She could not resist asking why the horse was there and not a dog.
Mr. Crosby gave her another of his withering scrutinies and responded succinctly: “Dogcarts are for dog transportation, in compartments where these seats are.” Relenting a little he inquired: “Don’t you have them in Australia?” Glancing again to his left he noted the absence of his Billy Pot. What a funny lad.
“Possibly, I haven’t seen any.” His whiskered jaw hardened. “Err…r, Sir.” Hell’s teeth. Is this bowing and scraping necessary all the time?
She jumped up beside him as he gathered the reins in his gloved hands and slapped them sharply across the nag’s rump. This was rather fun after all, perhaps she could get into it – bouncing along at a jog trot over the dirt roads, past open fields where short horn cattle grazed. She watched a crow screech over head as it took off into the wind, wings flapping into overdrive. Others hovered, awaiting their turn.
He took them away from what she now knew to be Featherstone Copse, towards more woods, but approaching closer she realised it was an apple orchard. How come they let the trees get so tall?
He skirted around the perimeter which brought into view a huddle of brick cottages, identical to each other. She could see the blue slate rooves of many more. In the distance, thin plumes of white smoke rose from the chimneys. An assortment of shops lined either side of this central road, with a modest Baptist chapel dominating one corner. Located on the opposite side of a large oval was the local watering hole: The Punchbowl Inn. Horses were all around, either hauling or being ridden and quite a number of people were on foot.
“Is this the estate village, Mr. Crosby?”
He nodded as his hands tightened on the reins and they pulled up outside the fourth dwelling, a well appointed two storey house with a bow window, behind a small, railed-in front garden. He rapped on a centrally placed, dark green door and in response it was opened by a friendly little woman – Mrs. Pogue.
“Come in Mr. Crosby, an’ you young lad.”
They followed her down the entrance passage, which bypassed a steep staircase and into the front parlour. Mallory was surprised to see a piano against one wall. It had many framed photos on it and wall engravings above. Lace curtains framed the bow window where a potted plant stood on a high wooden stand. A handsome dining table, very well polished with seating for eight, was set in front of a fitted, cast iron grate which carried large floral tiles to decorate its splayed sides and hood. Above this was an ornate overmantel supporting two small china dogs, replicas of the Cavalier King Charles breed. Most of all her eye was taken by the centre piece. It must have been an heirloom clock; the name at the bottom was Thomas Cole. In addition to displaying the time, it had a manually operated perpetual calendar, encased in a coromandel wood and ebony veneer, with two discreet male nudes in gold relief, set at each corner.
Wow! This was the house of a very respectable lower middle class couple. Not a cottage at all.
Mallory had been prepared to go along with the ‘theme’ idea of the hotel and its employees in costume, but extending it to the village, surely this was excessive. Why have all this paraphernalia and the resident in period? Perhaps the hotel guests would drive over to the village to visit the pub? Oh, yes! The whole estate must be owned by the same company and everyone was in character, just like Sovereign Hill in Ballarat. What a great day th
at had been with her family and the cousins from Victoria. She had been about nine or ten at the time. She had loved every minute of it and now she laughed to herself. There was a time they thought her lost her down a mine shaft then she had popped up from under one of the prospector’s tents. The looks on their faces.…
Mrs. Pogue invited them to sit and pulled up a padded wooden chair for herself.
“Gamekeeper told me your spare room is back. Can this lad here rent it? Lady Patchford wants him on as a groom, then to work for Higgins when the season gets under way.”
She did not say anything, just smiled and nodded.
“He needs to be close enough to walk. If he stays on he could get a bicycle.”
Again more nodding; a woman of few words, or intimidated by this land agent? No, that can’t be right. They must all work for the same company.
“Thank you Mr. Crosby. Yes we could do with the rent, especially just at this time … you know.” Vigorous nodding accompanied these words while Mr. Crosby nodded back, ponderously. Good grief, a comedy team.
“Very well I’ll leave him with you.” He turned to Mallory: “Report to Mr. Higgins at the stables tomorrow at five-thirty and on your break, he’ll send you over to me to complete the paperwork.” With this he said formal goodbyes then was on his way to the front door, escorted by Mrs. Pogue.
Til Morning Comes Page 3
