He was gone before his wife could reply, leaving Mercy to frown at where he had been. She knew that John was not religious, as she was, but he did believe in nature, which she thought was probably a very good substitute, for if you revered and respected nature you surely revered and respected God?
‘I wonder where I can find an architect who can help me turn Brindells into something more than a house for taking your boots off?’
Because she was alone Mercy looked round at one of the footmen who attended them at breakfast, but he, his country tweed livery setting off his wide rustic shoulders, continued to stare wordlessly ahead. So Mercy smiled at him vaguely, and wandered off to her morning room to write letters before ordering the pony trap to be brought round to the front of the house.
She enjoyed driving herself about the countryside with Clarice bobbing about in the back. This morning she determined to drive herself into nearby Ruddwick, where there was, she knew, an antiquary selling oak furniture. For where there was oak, there would necessarily follow an interest in Tudor houses, and surely where there was an interest in Tudor houses there would follow an interest in Tudor architecture?
‘I would like to buy your oak armoury chest for the hall at Brindells, if you will sell it to me?’
Gabriel Chantry, the antiquary, was yards younger than John, but not as young as Mercy.
He had not said anything more than the usual greetings when Mercy and Clarice came into the shop, but now he stepped forward, and as soon as he started to talk about the history of the chest Mercy knew that she had found her man.
He spoke with a passion and intensity that meant that the subject had absorbed him for so long that it was second nature to him to be able to communicate his enthusiasm.
‘I love to hear people talking about what interests them,’ Mercy confided to him, when he at length came to a stop and a small silence had necessarily followed, simply because Mercy had no idea of what to say next. For she was certain that intelligent questions had to be firmly based on previous knowledge, and she had none.
‘It is a lovely, sturdy piece,’ he ventured, finally.
‘Would you mind coming out to Brindells and advising me on the redecoration of its rooms? My husband, Mr Brancaster, has given me carte blanche, but I am wholly ignorant, except of one thing, and that is that I need help.’
‘I am very flattered, but I have to tell you I am not a trained decorator or architect, Mrs Brancaster.’
Mercy turned at the door and smiled sweetly, if mischievously.
‘No, but if you help me with Brindells I am sure you soon will be!’
In actual fact the only thing about Brindells of which Mercy was indeed quite sure was its horrid discomfort. Not that she had not been used to some discomfort at Cordel Court, which too was a sporting household, but Brindells had the added misery of being a badly managed house. The draughts and the damp were less uncomfortable than the distances between the kitchens and the dining hall, or the kitchens and the morning room, so that even tea served at four o’clock was not just a headache but a sick headache for the servants.
And the servants that she had inherited, like the house, left everything to be desired. For if, Mercy had swiftly and shrewdly come to realize, there is one kind of employer more beloved than any other by his servants, it is a bachelor of long standing who lives to be out of doors.
Servants can take ruthless advantage of a man who is not only grateful for any food and wine that they care to throw at him, but can be counted upon to be happily absent for great stretches at a time. Absences due to hunting in the Shires or shooting in Scotland had left Brancaster’s servants free to do as they pleased when they pleased. And of course, perhaps because he was all too aware of his neglect of them, Mercy quickly realized that John must always have been only too anxious to curry favour with them when he was around.
From the first, Mercy, who had always loved the servants at Cordel Court, was astonished at the slovenliness that had been allowed at Brindells, and would have none of their lazy ways and their impudence, whatever their age. She would have the place clean, and she would have it tidy, and she would have them wearing their tweed livery, as was the custom in the country.
‘You are being a little hard on them, my darling, are you not? I mean cream custards and French pastry – they are not used to serving anything except the heartiest food, as you may imagine.’
Mercy looked at John. He might be older by almost twenty years, but he was completely ignorant of housekeeping in a way that she certainly was not.
‘John. You must understand that if you do not get behind servants, they get behind you. It is up to us to keep them up to the mark, not for them to set the mark. Do you know––’
John waited, once more at the door, pausing only momentarily before he plunged off into the outside air and his beloved trees and fields, his gardens and his estate.
‘Do I know what, my darling?’
‘Do you know that Lady Dawsett has sixty-five indoor servants and because she is American they will not so much as serve her with a sandwich, or even a glass of water? That she sits at the top of the table in London, all alone, while downstairs the servants do just what they like, when they like? But what can she do, John? She is all alone, one against sixty-five, and if she dismissed them all, what then? Whom would she be sent, even if she should go to one of the best agencies? Quite possibly another set of sixty-five servants who would behave in just the same manner. And why, John?’
Brancaster frowned. It was quite obvious that he did not know, and was not prepared to even hazard a guess.
‘Because, John, Lady Dawsett does not know how to run a house. They run her because she cannot, herself, do any of the tasks which she demands of them. You understand, John, if you ask someone to make a crème anglaise, or a galantine of duck, or a confit, you must be able to do it yourself. How else will you judge their competence? Women like Lady Dawsett are quite able to be beautiful in ballrooms, but they should also, as our ancestors always were, be competent at running their houses, or they will never earn respect, and without respect you can not have the sound running of a house, John. It is just not possible.’
It was not a problem that John Brancaster had considered before, but now that he did he quite saw the reasoning.
‘Gracious heavens, Mercy, the future could be black indeed.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘Except now that you are here at Brindells, everything is rosy, and thank heavens for a wife who knows how to make a crème anglaise, if that is what we were given last night at dinner. It was superb. To make men weep, my dearest, but weep.’
He kissed the tips of his fingers to her, and quickly shut the door before he had to hear more.
‘Run away, Mr Brancaster,’ Mercy called to the closed door, laughing. ‘But by such things as crème anglaise are our lives ruled. And if you want me at any time this morning, you will have to drive a motor car, or ride a horse, for I am taking the fly into Ruddwick to meet Mr Chantry.’
The door opened again as quickly as it had shut.
‘Who,’ asked her husband, ‘may I ask, is Mr Chantry?’
Mercy gave her husband a purposely innocent look.
‘John. I told you that Mr Chantry was here to see me yesterday. Mr Chantry? The expert on Tudor times and oak furniture who is to help us restore Brindells to a great and former glory?’
‘Oh yes, of course. The expert. But an expert with a keen eye to the costings, I hope, my dearest wife? For I have two other houses in England, and I can not afford to give up my hunting box for Mr Chantry, however correct his taste.’
‘Mmm, but if we become hard up, we can always sell your guns, my darling, can we not? Or shoot poor Mr Chantry with them?’
Brancaster kissed his fingertips once more to his young wife. He knew that he could count on her to be careful how she spent his money. He shut the door behind him again, and sighed with the happiness of his life. Their characters were very different, and yet their sense of humour being so
exactly the same he found that when they were together they were always laughing. He could hardly believe that he had already been married three months, and that he had even put off going to Leicestershire so that he could stay with her at Brindells. It was an unheard-of testimony for a hunting man that he should ignore the start of any season in order to be with his young wife.
As he had said, only that morning, when they finished making love, ‘My dear, any more of this and our marriage will cause a scandal!’
* * *
Once again Mercy took the trap into Ruddwick with only Clarice to accompany her. She loved to drive the pony, and the sensation of the hedges flashing by, and the smell of the sea, which was never very far away at Brindells, was so refreshing that if the weather were fine she would not swap the experience of driving for the grandeur of her carriage for anything at all.
‘Mr Chantry, now what have you for me today? Oh, and by the way, the medieval chest is such a success that Mrs Anderson has already decided that it must have been made for the house and has only now, at last, returned to its rightful resting place.’
Mr Chantry looked momentarily confused. He had, as yet, no real idea of who ‘Mrs Anderson’ might be, presuming only that she must be the housekeeper at Brindells. Indeed, although she did not know it, it was part of Mercy’s charm that she always took everyone she met into her confidence. She was, in effect, totally artless, not suspecting anyone else of possessing different motivations from her own, which were to be as honest as possible, and to make the best of anything and everything that the day might bring.
Today it brought Mr Chantry back in the pony trap, or fly as Mrs Anderson called it, to Brindells.
‘I want you to help me with Brindells. I love the place already, but it is so terribly uncomfy that I think even my husband’s dogs are hard put to find a bed where they can lay their weary heads after a day out shooting. Will you fetch your outdoor coat and come back with me now? It would be such fun to show you round and watch your face falling to your boots. I am sure you will cover your face with your hands and weep your aesthetic eyes out when you see the horrors that have been flung at what was once a noble Tudor house built around a medieval hall. In fact there is so much gilt there it makes you understand the word guilty!’
As Gabriel Chantry climbed into the fly beside his patroness he looked at Mrs Brancaster and saw a really rather beautiful young girl. Not, to be sure, conventionally beautiful, but beautiful none the less, because the nature of her character was such that it shone – or in her case bounced – through her eyes and her way of being. And when they reached the house, even as she moved ahead of him, talking rapidly and enthusiastically, telling him what she knew of the house, and what she did not know about the house, and what she hoped to know about the house – even as she did so, it seemed to him that he might be going to fall in love with her.
Most likely this infatuation was based on the fact that he had never known a woman like her. Falling, as he had, into the antiquarian business more by luck than good judgement, since he had been left a small inheritance by his mother, he had also fallen into a world that was as full of ancient men as of ancient furniture. He never met young women, and seldom even young men of his own age. He met only the old, intent either on selling him something or on buying from him. Mrs Brancaster was, therefore, a complete revelation to him.
And yet, watching her fluttering hands, her enthusiasm, as she moved from room to room and he followed her obediently, making notes in a parchment covered book while silently deploring the furniture, the taste, and above all the neglect of the house, he knew that had he not been an antiquarian, had he been in some other trade where there were men and women nearer his age, he would still have had to give his heart to Mrs Brancaster. She was enchanting.
‘So.’ She had her head to one side as she turned and addressed him. ‘So, Mr Chantry, what is your opinion? You must be honest. Do you think that Brindells can be rescued, or shall we start again, setting fire to it, upsetting SPAB and bringing disgrace around our shoulders?’
‘The Society for the Preservation of Ancient Buildings would indeed be our enemy if we were to set fire to Brindells, Mrs Brancaster, but – and this is very important – it might applaud us if we were, on the other hand, to remodel it in such a way as to make it easier and less costly to run, far less uncomfortable, more in keeping with its heritage, and above all beautiful.’
‘This is what I wanted to hear, Mr Chantry. But’ – she looked at him, her head still to one side, reminding Chantry of a small bird – ‘d’you see, we will not be given an unlimited budget. My husband has other houses, Mr Chantry – his hunting box in Leicestershire, his house in London. So you see, much as he loves Brindells he can not be over-generous to us, and I don’t think we can expect him to be, do you? With so much to keep up, I must be prudent for him. Can you be prudent, Mr Chantry? I must say I find prudence when it comes to furnishings and beautiful things does not come naturally to me.’ She laughed. ‘In fact it has been a revelation to me in these first months of marriage to find that I can not wait to buy a dozen, if not a thousand, beautiful things that will look breathtaking in such a house as this.’
Her enthusiasm, modesty, kindness and lightness of manner had left Mr Chantry breathless. She was someone, he sensed, who took herself as lightly as possible.
As he wrote swiftly in his parchment covered notebook he found himself deeply regretting that he was not rich and powerful, and able to sweep a woman like Mrs Brancaster off her feet. He imagined himself dressing her from head to toe in cloth of gold, worshipping her not day by day but hour by hour, minute by minute.
Yet, as he followed her from one dreary over-painted and over-gilded room to another, reality told him that for him there was only one way to satisfy his feelings for her, and that was to create a house of which she could be proud. It would be in the best possible taste, and at the same time it would be a personal tribute to his immediate adoration of her. A testimony not to Brancaster’s wealth, but to Chantry’s love.
Brindells would become hers, by way of him. It would be his way of claiming her affections.
They sat down for tea in the drawing room and the footmen in their country tweed liveries waited on them before leaving to light all the lamps in the house, which were left ready and assembled in the same way, by tradition, that the candles used to be.
‘We are not of course electrified, but we do have our own gas, and our own ice, so we are not completely behind the times. We are not in the dark ages, Mr Chantry.’
Gabriel Chantry ate his small teatime titbits with relish. In his shop he never ate tea, his maid of all work going off at two o’clock to work in the village butcher’s.
‘I think we must begin at the beginning, Mrs Brancaster. First and foremost, you must understand that I am not an architect. Secondly, I am not an expert. Thirdly, and most important, I hope – I think I can help you. And for a fraction of the normal cost. I am not a professional, but then professionals are not always what we would want in our homes, unless we were entirely at a loss for what was appropriate, would you not agree?’
Mercy smiled. ‘You are a man after my own heart, Mr Chantry, particularly’ – she looked across at him, immediately mischievous – ‘particularly because you are hinting at being less costly. My husband will be very happy at anything or anyone who is less costly.’
‘Very well. May I also, then, be frank?’
‘Of course.’
‘Brindells is a disaster. It has been ruined by over-decoration. It has no need of gold and plaster, of chandeliers and heavy drapes with fringes of gold and heavy brocades. It needs to be returned to its origins. To rushes and oak, to unwaxed candles and polished floors, to all that our ancestors knew and loved, and Brindells cries out to be – an unadorned masterpiece.’
Mercy nodded. Everything Mr Chantry said echoed her own feelings. Poor old Brindells was such a mess inside, the essence of the house was now hardly discernible amid the chaos o
f conflicting styles.
‘I am afraid Brindells is only a reflection of our times. Why do we insist on trying to make our houses reflect our times, rather than their own? It is so awful for them. It is as if I was made to wear a dress belonging to someone else, wouldn’t you say?’
She laughed lightly, and at that moment her husband came in. Instantly, Mr Chantry was afraid that his open adoration for Brancaster’s wife would become rapidly clear to Brancaster, probably within a few seconds. He was afraid that he would take a dislike to the antiquarian for no other reason than that he was in his house and criticizing his furniture. He was afraid that the man would despise someone like Gabriel Chantry, who wore spectacles and was not a sporting man of any sort, and liked to stride out not with a gun, but with a sketchbook.
But he was wrong on all counts. Mr Brancaster, having been introduced to Mr Chantry by his wife, smiled briefly, and turned back to Mrs Brancaster immediately, obviously needing to tell her something of some urgency.
‘Your stepmother and father are to come here on a visit, passing through as it were, my darling. They have sent to say that they will be arriving on Friday.’
Mercy’s heart sank. The very idea of her father and stepmother coming to Brindells was somehow too awful. ‘Mr Chantry is just going,’ she said, hastily, and she gave Gabriel Chantry a look as if to say Later before quickly turning back to her husband and saying, ‘Of course, my darling. I will prepare everything as soon as possible.’
There was only one way to prepare things, Mercy knew, and that was to arrange everything to please one person, namely her stepmother, who she knew had rigorous standards when it came to the running and maintaining of country houses.
So it was that, by the time Lord and Lady Duffane stepped out of their brand new motor car on the following Friday, Mercy was able to greet them with composure, if not total confidence that Lady Violet would find nothing at which to cavil in her entertainment.
The Love Knot Page 19
