Mr. Baldwin ignored the excuse and continued to regard her with frosty disapproval. “I asked: What are you doing here? Answer me!”
She was hating her defensive tone, but knew she had to soldier on: “I was here to see Lady Glencora and …”
“Don’t make up tales.” His disbelieving gaze said, ‘what a likely story’. “You belong below stairs,” he barked as anger sharpened still further in his voice: “Bent on theft more like. Get yourself back where you should be and don’t let me see your face up here again … and it’s ‘Her Ladyship’ to you. If you don’t show respect then you’ll be shown the door.”
For a dizzying moment a flash of insolence struck Mallory’s blue eyes as she tilted her chin to deny this accusation, but it died just as soon. Her position was undeniably weak, there being nothing she could say to convince him … and I’m supposed to be making a go of this? Considering silence her best form of extrication, she turned to leave when he bellowed out: “Not that way you oaf! Have you lost your brains as well?”
What an encounter. She did not want to see his face again, either. At last she recognised the servants’ door and pushed through to the backstairs. Down the passage and on to what she thought would be the kitchen, but it turned out to be the washhouse. No-one was about, but in the fading light she could just discern a row of brick, set pots along one wall. They had up-graded to heating by coal, judging from the number of neatly arranged scuttles. There were several large wooden tables for sorting and folding. Above those, drying racks had been suspended from the ceiling if laundry could not go outside. Large packets of starch and Reckett’s Blue were stacked on shelves next to solid cakes of Sunlight and Carbolic soaps, plus bottles of vinegar. Close by stood the dollies for pounding. Two big mangles filled the opposite wall with numerous galvanized tubs. No, she definitely would not want to be doing women’s work. Give her the outdoors any day. Peering through into an adjoining room she saw the boards set up for ironing. It looked to be a separate undertaking and since the piles were huge, she reckoned it must be the full-time job for quite a number of women. No way, she would stick with her masquerade.
Out into the fresh air at last: Good grief where am I? This was the other wing of the house so, turning herself around, she struck off in the direction of what she thought to be the village, keen to test her orienteering skills. By now twilight was almost at an end; the sky an unperturbed silver and through the encroaching shadows she recognised Featherstone Copse. If she skirted around she should come to the lane Mr. Crosby had taken and see the orchard.
The evening air was still soft with daytime’s warmth as restless bird-life pumped their wings against the remaining thermals. The last few Ravens were hastening to find their roost for the night. She should hurry too. Mrs. Pogue had not given her a time, but it must be getting late. Her pace quickened and rounding the bend she saw the welcome sight of roof outlines in the creeping darkness.
Like Mr. Pogue before, she entered through the scullery to find the two of them seated at table, at supper.
“Thank the Lord. We was wonderin’ if we should go look for you lad.” Mrs. Pogue jumped up in a flurry.
“I’m sorry to have caused you concern,” Mallory hastened to apologise. “I didn’t mean to be this late, but I got a bit lost,” she added by way of avoiding further explanation. “Please sit and finish. I’ll just go wash and hang up my things.”
Mrs. Pogue was relieved, not annoyed and smiled as she regained her seat. “I’ve put your plate in the oven … we’ve not long been started.”
“Thank you Mrs. Pogue. I’ll be right back.”
She was down again quick smart feeling very hungry; the smells so appetising. Tonight her landlady had prepared thick slices of black pudding with fried onions and potato, with lardy cake and custard for desert. With the meal over, Mallory made the offer to wash up. Both Pogues looked at her in amazement then Mrs. Pogue spoke up.
“Of course not lad, you’ve ’ad a long day an’ earned your rest.”
Right, women’s work!
Mr. Pogue sat in his easy chair and started his pipe whilst his wife completed her chores and both were interested in Mallory’s narration of the day’s events. She explained how Mr. Jenkins would come by to collect her, but was worried she might oversleep.
“I can lend you my old carriage clock,” Mr. Pogue offered. “I’ll get it now ’afore I forget.” He returned with a most handsome example of a French clock manufactured by Brocot, in the popular gorge case that had the slim carry handle on top. Mallory was fascinated by the chronometer escapement mechanism which was exposed through the glass sides.
“It’s a reliable little thing,” Mr. Pogue asserted with pride. “My dad was give it for services rendered, by Lord Patchford a few years back. ’e passed it on to me when ’e retired.” He set it down in the centre of the table.
“It’s a beautiful piece,” she admired, noting the delicacy of the roman numerals, yet with no loss of clarity.
“It chimes on eight bells. You can see the date: 1897.” He turned it to show her. She accepted the clock with thanks and then excused herself. She needed a bath and an early night.
“I’ve ’ung some more clothes for you in the wardrobe. Just a few to see you through ’til you can buy your own. They was sittin’ in the trunk so they’ve not been long aired, but I thought as you wouldn’t be too fussy over that,” Mrs. Pogue confessed: “Not just for workin’, like.”
“You’re very thoughtful Mrs. Pogue … and no, a little mustiness won’t faze me.” She would jump at anything on offer. This was heavy physical labour and she had worked up a good sweat in no time.
“What’s that ‘phase me’?” she frowned.
“Oh, sorry … err…r, inconvenience me,” she tried to clarify. Not only out of time, but out of words too. Linguistically challenged, she laughed to herself.
Back in her room after a refreshing bath she put on the night shirt and stretched out on top of the bed. Her body could not relax. The muscles were still knotted from the unaccustomed exertion and quivering from unfamiliar demands. She kept the gas lamp going, not yet ready to face that inky blackness despite the dry, grittiness of her eyes and noticed how green her skin appeared in its weak light. She had to admit she was beginning to feel afraid of the nights – and the silence.
Is this like solitary confinement? What did they call it, sensory deprivation? Whatever, it was unnerving. She must think of other things. There was this Harry Flegg. Now here was a confronting thought. Could she handle all this blood sport? The ethos of fox hunting went totally against her principles. No, she would not be pulling the trigger, but she was helping to set up for the animal’s demise. From the other perspective, what alternatives did she have? She could leave. What to do? How to survive? She felt the loneliness of it all creeping over her.
Mal, see this through; get some money behind you and then look for something else. Face reality … this reality anyway. You have no skills, no professional networks to give you support. No friends or relatives. No one! Can you afford to be so high-minded and censorious? Her body began to feel warm and heavy. She knew it was time to call it a day. Those five bells would come all too soon. The eyelids flew open. Hells teeth! There was Lady Patchford.
Don’t want much, she grumbled to herself. Yes she got you the job, but she’s not paying you for this extra surveillance work. She laughed again. She should have told her: ’all right, but it’ll cost you double!’ Now there would have been a transaction to make her eyes pop out. She jumped up off the bed to turn down the light and was quick to jump back in. At last she was alone with herself and there would be no distractions ’til morning. Instead of the languor of sleep, she began to experience a feeling almost of panic as though an invisible fist were tightening its grip on her heart. Teardrops glistened in her lashes. Was there no escape from this solitude; this imprisoning isolation? Memories loaded their weight on her and she did battle with the demonic voices in her head. There would be no Deus
Ex Machina here to come to her rescue and resolve her crisis. How long could she endure a life-sentence of heartache? Ah Mum. Oh Dad. No more was her life a strong thread woven with the others into that wonderful tapestry called family, like the Pogues. The squeeze tightened, suffocating her breath, making her light headed. The worst was to know there was no end in sight. She must go it alone. The oppressive silence was almost more than she could bear.
Where can I find the courage? She took some deep lungfuls of bracing air as she listened to the tick of the clock in this disturbing quiet. Time could never speed up for her. She would never catch up.
CHAPTER THREE
Mallory was ready and waiting when Mr. Jenkins came by and fell into step with the four other lads. There were still two more to be picked up on their way to the foxes’ dens. Tonight the air had a chilly crispness to it and Mallory began wishing for more than just a jacket. From time to time, above the scuffling of their hurried feet, which beat a steady rhythm, the thin, mournful calls of a pair of tawny owls could be heard; the female’s to-whit followed by her mate’s oo-oo, which would hang in the nocturnal silence. The moon, riding high, cast long shadows in the woods making the going under foot treacherous. ‘Alert’ and ‘agile’ were the watchwords.
They wasted no time in stopping up the many earths they encountered, using whatever scrub could be found. Mallory made it back to the stables just as the distant glimmer of dawn was illuminating the horizon and gold-edged, mauve clouds in the eastern sky were beginning to tone into a deep purple. She slipped easily into the stable routine and by now was feeling far from cold.
It was well before eleven o’clock, but already the field had begun to assemble in the forecourt, adjacent to the stable yard in preparation for their ‘run’. The yapping hounds, milling about and sniffing at whatever they could find, were in full voice leaving no doubt this was the day they had been waiting for. There must have been twenty couples, Harry Flegg in their midst, in earnest conversation with his whipper-in, standing out in their pink coats and black hats.
Club members had been depositing their hacks in the spare stalls for some time and were now mounting their hunters, who had arrived separately with the grooms. Mostly geldings made up the field with a few mares, however some still favoured the stallion. Everyone seemed infected by the colour and excitement of the event, their loud hails of greeting competing quite successfully with those of the dogs. She was just giving her final check to Burrow, when she heard another greeting, light and vivacious, at the stall grill: “Hello my handsome prince! Are we ready for the ride of our lives?”
The Honourable Lady Nigella stood ready to receive her mount, so different from when Mallory had last laid eyes on her. The glossy jet of her dark hair still shone vibrantly, caught as it was in the net below her little hat, but this time the green eyes sparkled up at Mallory in impetuous animation.
“Oh sorry, I was expecting to see Jake.” She peered around then turned back and hastened to give her thanks for yesterday’s timely rescue, in a bubbly torrent of gushing words. Now Mallory could see that she was indeed young, perhaps only fifteen or sixteen; still slender, no puppy fat as yet to herald the curves of maturity.
And this slip of a thing can handle Burrow? Perhaps they grew up together from when he was her pony? Oh yes, girls and their horses.
“You’re welcome, my Lady. I was there at the time and I tried to do whatever was needed, to be of help.”
She led Burrow out to the yard and gave assistance to the girl to mount, wondering how she could keep tabs on this independent spirit. “My Lady may I suggest you bring Burrow back to me personally, at the end?” An impish grin tugged at her lips. “After the ride of your life, I think he may need some extra careful handling,” then she threw back her head and laughed outright, showing the strong muscles of her neck as it rose from the open collar of the shirt.
Mallory was standing in a shaft of dazzling sun, feet planted astride, highlights shimmering from the coppery strands scattered through her hair. She looked up with a conspiratorial glint in her violet eyes as her open mouth revealed a very red tongue between perfectly white, even teeth. Lady Nigella enjoyed sharing the moment with this unusual young man, totally captivated by the dancing eyes and totally surprised by that very circumstance; she, the daughter of The House and he, a groom whom she did not know. But she could not help herself. He was not speaking to her like the other servants. She could not help noticing too, how those deep set eyes, such a sparkling, dynamic blue, gazed up so frankly into her face like he truly shared the excitement of the ride. Her survey took in the firmly boned hand which still held the halter, keeping control of the horse during the heightened stimulation all around them. Then her eye snagged on the colourful tattoo over the rippling muscles, making it appear that the little creature would run up the forearm. Pulling her eyes away she asked: “What is your name?” the question out almost before she had time to think.
“Mallory Mason, my Lady.”
“Well … Mason, I think Burrow will be glad of your ministrations, thank you.”
She began to turn her mount’s head and Mallory let go the bridle to watch her canter up to the assembled throng. She felt strange as her eyes followed her progress, as though with this departure she had suddenly lost something very special. She shook her head to clear away such foolishness and saw that in particular, the Honourable Lady Nigella had singled out the handsome young man whom she now knew to be the Honourable Lord Ambrose. They rode together towards an imposing gentleman holding a magnificent black hunter on a tight rein, keeping its head high: Viscount Lord Patchford no doubt.
She watched the field follow the Master and his hounds as they disappeared in the direction of the covert, where he thought the fox would be. These hounds were keen to start the draw and Mr. Flegg would see them through their paces. Once out of sight she turned her attention back to the stalls. Guest grooms would attend to the visiting hacks and have them ready for the return journey.
She did not see Jake until their break for lunch, when he sought her out to tell her she was to go up to the Big House and Cook would have something ready. He said it was not usual, but seeing as how he had nothing extra today, he guessed an exception had been made. This was great. She washed up in the scullery and pushed through to the kitchen. A big plate of sandwiches had been laid out on the servants’ table with a bowl of mixed pickles, onions and gherkins. There were many things she was missing, but this was better than grabbing a plastic cup from the water cooler and a plastic sandwich from the dispenser. Mrs. Cummings told her to take a seat.
“Mistress wants to see you in her boudoir as soon as maybe lad, so don’t dally.” As she ate, she could see Mr. Baldwin in his pantry, assiduously polishing the silver, his once spotlessly white gloves becoming black with tarnish. He probably has a pair specifically for each job, she surmised.
Shortly, Mallory was joined by Dottie who had been helping to get everything organized for lunch. She could not believe that people could eat so much in the middle of the day when they had hardly finished breakfast. Mrs. Aldred had hired two extra chefs and their sous-chefs, who specialised in catering to house parties and this morning she had been busy supervising the setting up of the breakfast room for the non-hunting guests. What an impatient mood, as she had shown her what was needed on the small sideboard: a row of silver dishes, kept hot by spirit lamps, offering devilled kidneys, haddock or plaice and for any who had missed breakfast, sausages and poached eggs. Each dish had required its specific serving utensil and the appropriate napery.
Why do they ’ave to be so fussy? So much ‘make-work’!
Then she had to move on to the larger sideboard which was to provide a choice of cold meats, pressed beef, ham or tongue. A separate section was devoted to the gelatines: cold roast pheasant, grouse, partridge and ptarmigan. She had asked Mrs. Aldred about that one. She remembered the look of superior disdain the chatelaine had bestowed on her as she declared that no luncheon would be complete w
ithout ptarmigan, hot or cold. She had grumbled to herself that she could not be expected to know everything.
Anyway, she was glad that was over and to be away from the housekeeper at last. She did not like her, but moving up to housemaid was a darn sight better than being stuck in the scullery. Whilst she had been doing that, Edna had stocked the side table, heaping it with all kinds of fruit: melons, peaches, nectarines and raspberries. Then she was told, if anyone should be hungry between meals, there must be scones and toast available with marmalade, honey and jam.
Yes, those imported one’s they like to drool over. Such snobs, what’s wrong with ’oney?
Mrs. Aldred was quite the martinet. It would be their job to return and check on supplies including the beverages, pots of coffee, teas from Ceylon and India and various cold drinks, also a fresh supply of napkins and suchlike. At least she would not have to wait table tonight. When they had guests, then the footmen, under the supervision of Mr. Baldwin, would be responsible. Lunch went from one-thirty, so she had a little time to relax before Edna came down.
Seeing who was in the servants’ hall, Dottie happily sat herself opposite, ready to enjoy this special company. She and Mallory nodded to each other, but said nothing, too busy eating. She was keen to see if she could get him interested in the choir she had joined. They were always looking for new voices and it would be so such a lark if she could get this fellow to go along. Won’t Millie be that envious? When they had finished she would ask him.
“Nice seeing you again,” Mallory said as she rose to leave.
Til Morning Comes Page 7
