She regarded her end of the table once more. Reverend Jobling was a reliable trooper. He was dividing his time between the Dowager and Nigella very successfully, as she had been sure he would. Nigella looked to be in transports, not saying much, but obviously absorbed in all that was going on. Her temperament could be daunting at times, but really she was a delightful child.
The young chef was renowned for his lobster salad which would be next. It had required the row of nine hen-lobsters which she had not thought ever to find, but Mrs Aldred had done sterling work. However, the piece-de-resistance would be Monsieur Arnoud’s coq-au-vin. He was able to cook birds of increasing size, one inside the other, like the little folk dolls from Russia. He had assured her that no guest would be left unimpressed by such a feat.
Nigella was having a wonderful evening. She was beginning to put a face to the names she had heard many times. It was funny; the ladies looked older than she had expected, except of course for Mona’s friend Phyllida, the Honourable Lady Stockwell. The gentlemen were like Papa, rather stiff and very formal, but not Lionel Shoebridge, he was perfect.
They had just savoured a spectacular roast venison and she did not think she could consume another mouthful when polite applause erupted. A large silver platter was borne aloft by a footman bearing a magnificent fowl. Decoratively surrounded by pumpkin quarters interspersed with mange tout and sprinkled over with shaved truffles, it was obvious Monsieur Arnoud had been at great pains to select only the most delicate flavours which would not dominate his wine sauce. As the guests were being served, she came to realise that the gentlemen were taking over the conversation, their voices more assertive; booming almost.
“Have you noticed how out of step Balfour is these days?” Sir Roland Fairweather asked, finally putting down his fork.
“The Liberal landslide of ’06 was not only a massive defeat for the Tories, but it changed the whole mood and membership of Parliament,” Sir Eustace replied.
“How’s that?” queried Myles, who was just now beginning to take an interest in the daily proceedings of the House.
“Well, in the old days, the aristocrats and members of the great mercantile families, men of public spirit, thought of Parliament as a calling … not a job,” Sir Edward supplied with undisguised censure.
“Yes, remember how Campbell-Bannerman used to dismiss Balfour as of no consequence, despite his great legislative achievements. Parliament is now a place of work,” Sir Gerald Fitzsimmons responded, disparagingly. His face creased in a scowl as he added: “Now working men sit on the government benches.”
“Campbell-Bannerman’s resignation and Herbert Henry Asquith stepping into his shoes – we’re going to have a real fight on our hands.” Sir Eustace breathed in and out slowly and delivered with a sneer: “He’s sympathetic to this new Labour.”
“Indeed, fifty-three members of the House call themselves ‘Labour’,” Ambrose denounced, keen to show support to his Pater.
“Balfour may be a brilliant scholar and the most influential Tory we have, but he personifies the dedicated dilettante,” Sir Roland persisted, a grim expression pulling his lips tight. “If the Conservatives are to regain the reins of power, he will have to change his outlook. Time has moved on and in this new century there’s no room to behave as though politics is a gentleman’s pastime.”
“Look, Fairweather, the British economy is strong. We’re still the world’s major economic power. It’s our tramp ships sailing from port to port. We pick up cargo throughout the Empire,” Sir Eustace was moved to point out, shrugging his massive shoulders.
Peter Kefford, one of the invited industrialists whom Lady Patchford had discovered owned a brewery in Birmingham, could see it was time a more modern note was sounded. “But it’s not expanding at the rate of our competitors, Germany for example. Its growing might is being anxiously followed by the Admiralty. There’s no doubt, they’ve started a race for supremacy on the high seas,” he stated bluntly, concern shadowing his eyes.
If they were about to embark on this subject, Lady Glencora was relieved there were no German accents at the table tonight. With King Edward’s accession, minor and major German aristocracy were to be heard everywhere. One could hardly attend any social function these days without having to struggle through some form of grotesque mangling of the English language. Silently, she congratulated herself on her fluency in French; she had a good ear.
Now they were onto a subject dear to Myles’ heart and it gave him a chance to remind the gentlemen of the launching of HMS Dreadnaught. “Don’t forget, the facilities at the dockyard in Portsmouth are in a class of their own,” he stated boldly. “Dreadnaught is powered by steam turbines and can carry a crew of 800. Yes, Germany is a threat, but the Huns won’t be able to beat that!”
“Well said, my boy,” Sir Eustace encouraged. “And don’t forget too, we have the greatest armoury the world has ever seen right here in Sheffield. Vickers leads the way in the manufacture of every type of war material, from the largest naval projectile to the bullet of a rifle.”
James Reed, an associate of Mr. Kefford’s felt impelled to lend support to his friend’s point of view. “Remember gentlemen, it was only four years ago that Germany built its first Unterseeboot. We have not yet matched that technology. Do we have sufficient expertise to counter that, if threatened?”
The challenge was undoubtedly aggressive. Delivered in his broad, brummy accent it also sounded out of place. For his troubles, he received several haughty, even angry glances. Unmoved, he maintained a steady gaze and continued: “Since the Boer War opened our eyes to the deplorable physical state of our nation, I think there has been a marked cooling on the Imperialist attitudes of the Tories.”
Kefford was emboldened to speak out. “I don’t see our Empire as being the source of national pride it once was. I see a greater concern for consolidation and defence.”
Sir Roland had seen this coming and looked about, his bushy eyebrows raised: “Yes, we’re back to what seems to be, at the moment, that insurmountable dichotomy of Imperial preference versus free trade.”
Lady Dyllis was impatient to have her say and the Ashcrofts were not ones to hold back. “Add to that Roly, all over the country, working men and women are beginning to agitate for a greater share of the wealth we generate.” Her rejoinder was sharp. “I fear we’re moving into an age of social and economic revolution.” That should give them something other than Empire to think about, she thought self-righteously.
Kefford, in his interaction with the men at the brewery could endorse this view. “Our degree of prosperity has reached a point where most working men and women have enough to eat. A substantial section of the working class, conservative voters included, are no longer willing to be ruled as they were … unquestioningly.” He stopped and surveyed the faces that surrounded him. He had their attention and continued with asperity: “They want to play some part in determining their own destiny. This industrial unrest is more the result of changing attitudes, rather than ‘not enough brass in pocket’.”
An unexpected voice came from the far end of the table. “Perhaps our survival as a world power requires a better educated working class?”
All heads turned and stared at the speaker. A miscellany of expressions, from affronted pique to amused indulgence, were directed at the Honourable Lady Nigella.
Lady Glencora was horrified. Tension was making her head ache as she felt the dark weight of the situation settle, physically crushing her. How could she? Nigella had allowed herself to be carried away by the debate, despite her strict injunctions. Her damask napkin had been wrung to a rope as her expression became one of the severest disapproval. A silent admonition was telegraphed: Speak no more – there will be consequences from this.
Now everyone was paying Lady Nigella close attention, just the very circumstance she had prayed to avoid. Heads were nodding together; seeds of doubt were being sewn. It was all too awful and her nerves could not stand this torment. She would ha
ve to settle this. Make Nigella understand she was not a free agent. There were rules.
Sir Eustace however, was willing to tolerate his daughter – to a degree. Ah, the ideologies of the young, what do they know? Rather vague and immensely optimistic. She’ll learn.
“Come now Nigella, don’t tell me you want to make this the century of the common man?” He looked about him, a dismissive smirk to his patrician features. This time she did not respond, only set her eyes to her plate, feeling her face hot with embarrassment. The criticism had stung. If Papa reproved her then her deflation was total.
But she had been so impressed by the precepts of ‘Guild Socialism’. These were the new credos of thoughtful people, rebelling against the old complacencies. The ideals, advocated by luminaries of distinction like Bernard Shaw, H. G. Wells and Hilaire Belloc. Yes, their sentiments were to the left, but they promoted hope for a reformed society. She too, liked the concept of giving absolute self-government to the producers themselves. She thought it was for the good that these free thinkers would abolish paternalism in industry. Half way through Edward Morgan Forster’s A Room with a View, she had not expected to be too involved, but to her surprise had found herself enlivened by the stir and provocation of his ideas. How could Papa dismiss them so cavalierly? This publication had arrived on the literary scene only last year. Wasn’t everyone still discussing it? She wanted to be a part of this eager enthusiasm. Was that wrong?
Lord Bromley jerked forward, his shoulders rigid: “It has already started Eustace. Trade Unionists, Irish Nationalists and these new-fangled Suffragists, or whatever they’re called, are all campaigning with renewed vigour for what they regard as their ‘natural rights’. If we don’t pay heed, I fear we could be in for some sort of national strike.” He had felt the threat of these new ideologies for some time. “This could lead to a political revolution.”
“I say, Virgo, don’t you th-think th-that’s taking it a bit to-too far?” Condon Fitzpatrick protested, his stutter reappearing in his alarm.
“Let’s not forget gentlemen, this Home Rule business has raised its ugly head once more. Gladstone’s Bill in 1886 did not get up, due to a split in his party and the fierce resistance of the Ulster Protestants. The same could happen again, since it’s the majority population in Ulster that has the stronger voice.
James Reed knew it was stating the obvious, but believed it needed to be brought out. “Since Asquith and David Lloyd-George rule over a minority government, they cannot afford to lose the support of the Irish Nationalist politicians. What choice do they have?”
This was getting all too much for Sir Eustace. Temper flared up his already flushed cheeks and his fist banged the table. “We must stand firm against these onslaughts. We have withstood them in the past and we can do so again.” The guests could feel the discussion had gone far enough for their host, but without resolution these topics would still be aired a few times more.
“Ah dessert,” Lady Glencora announced with relief. Everything would become light-hearted again when the men smoked and relaxed with a brandy, or their whiskey. A few rubbers of bridge would settle the ruffled feathers. She was going to end Nigella’s evening with the meal’s termination. However, she would not speak to her until after the guests had left tomorrow. She believed that sleeping on it would do her no harm.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Honourable Lady Nigella had made an imperious demand for Burrow to be saddled and ready by three o’clock.
Regarding her mistress from a distance, Mallory observed a grim set to the mouth. And the eyes – that had sparkled with a green fire before, this time were hooded. A profound unhappiness lay in their depths. She felt a tension about her that charged the very air. Such a change was too dramatic, unless something unusual, corrosive even, had happened to her, but there was nothing she could do to make a difference.
The scene after luncheon had been hideous. Nigella had never known her mother so beside herself. Even now, having gone over the dressing-down too many times, she could not understand why she had been so disagreeable. At the dinner she had thought her contribution was of value and would be well received. Papa had put her in her place and now Mama. She felt discouraged and somehow rejected.
Unused to such severe criticism it was hitting hard. Waves of misery had engulfed her. Especially hurtful when she did not know what had brought about all this censure. Mama had been so strange like a different person – determined to make her feel unwanted. What was going on? She had stood there, her back stiff and upright, accepting as best she could the verbal blows being delivered, trying not to break down; eyes burning with the sting of unshed tears.
Mama’s face: that of a dreamer with its soft features which she loved so much, was transformed by an ugly, frightening violence. It had made her stomach churn to the point she thought she would be sick. Mama was being deliberately contentious. So inexplicable with her, the hurt had left her feeling confused; floundering in this totally unfamiliar relationship. It was as though she were cutting her loose and did not care where she landed.
The worst of it was this afternoon – what had happened had changed their lives irrevocably. Neither would be able to forget those words. Her mother had broken some secret place inside her, it could not be repaired. Her wonderful love had been betrayed; ripped to shreds, but why? Her bewilderment was total and absolute.
* * *
Lady Nigella had changed into casual riding dress, a green, Russian shape cardigan with long, full sleeves over her white blouse. Those bouncing curls were caught back by a dark green ribbon and Mallory could see that let loose, her hair would fall nearly to the waist. It was luxuriant.
Impatient to collect Burrow and be on her way, Nigella was surprised to see him standing next to Talbot, similarly harnessed. The gelding craned his neck at her approach, whickering a soft greeting whilst throwing his head up and down in eager anticipation. The stable lad was ambling in her direction, surprising her again by announcing he would be accompanying her.
“After yesterday’s ‘run’ he’s still a bit high strung.” She nodded toward Burrow and continued. “To be on the safe side, I thought it best if I go out with you my Lady. I’ll not be a bother, just keeping a discreet eye on things.” She thought to add to lend credence to her actions: “Your shoulder is feeling better, my Lady?”
Nigella looked totally taken aback. This had never happened before. She drew her black brows together in a deep frown and pursed her crimson lips. As she pulled on the leather riding gloves, her almond-shaped eyes, formerly so arrogant and imperious, changed in a blink to a dark, questioning demand. Observing the hesitation and displeasure Mallory was quick to give reassurance: “I’ll not crowd you my Lady I promise, but better to be safe than sorry … after last time,” then she smiled disarmingly, wishing to bring back that vibrant young girl of yesterday, who today seemed locked in a private grief.
With a shrug Nigella accepted this and her groom’s assistance with the mount. With ease Mallory put her own foot in the stirrup, swung into the saddle and took up the slack in the reins, looking forward to an exhilarating canter.
Out in the dandelion meadows, they rode under an enamel-blue sky, fresh and clean. In the open the air was sharp with the smell of a recent ploughing. Keeping her distance Mallory inhaled deeply, feeling every motion of Talbot under her with intense pleasure, bringing back long forgotten memories. More used to the gaiters now, she appreciated the protection they afforded.
Initially, Nigella was fierce on Burrow, jerking the bit. Mallory broke into a gallop with the injunction to take it easy. She did slow down after this, looking over her shoulder as if to acknowledge her fault. “You can ride alongside. He’ll feel better for the company.”
Mallory found this an odd way to express things. Did she really mean the horse? It was tranquil as they rode up through the high paddocks, scattered with purple clover and yellow buttercups. Then down by the flashing stream they were more at ease, as it gurgled over the small ston
es and rocks, a busy kingfisher darting skilfully after its prey. They forded the shallows to reach the cool depths of a Beech grove, their pace slowing still further as they wended their way through the carpet of crisp, brown leaves.
They proceeded in what seemed to be a desultory fashion, but Nigella knew what she was looking for. In the shade of a magnificently ancient tree, its huge canopy sheltering a velvety, grassy bank, she slowed and dismounted. Mallory took the reins and tied them where the horses could crop the new shoots. Nigella led the way to a fallen limb, but Mallory did not take the liberty of following uninvited. The girl seemed to know this spot well calmer now, as she removed her gloves then draped her cardigan over the improvised seat. She beckoned Mallory to join her.
Picked out in a sunbeam, filtering through the gilded leaves above, the girl seemed framed in an impressionist’s woodland picture. All around, nature was blurred and hazy, except where the eye was drawn to the seated figure. There was an extraordinarily restful solitude to this scene. If only she could paint. Nonetheless, she could not remain unaffected by the perfection she saw before her. The skin was satin smooth and through this polygon of light, appeared almost translucent, so pale against the vivid colour of hair and eyes. In her maturity, she knew this girl would transform, with heart-stopping potential, into a magical creature any man would desire to own. The luminosity of her eyes, earnest and liquid like a sylvan pool, revealed a remarkable intelligence, enhancing their allure. The mouth suggested a passion, as yet untouched, by emotions still to break free.
Til Morning Comes Page 10
