This was a lie, she knew. It distressed her beyond words to be at the receiving end of her father’s wrath, but equally it was the truth that she would rather have mother tell on her than on Henny. The thought of Henny being subjected to the torture of a beating or the terrors of the cellar was unendurable.
‘You’re a brave girl,’ Henny had said, kissing her warmly. ‘A very brave, good and loving little girl and Henny loves you dearly. Oh, very dearly. But you mustn’t think badly of your mother; all she wants is for you to grow up to be a fine lady.’
Now, as they prepared to leave Knock Hill, the nurse said, ‘Come, take Henny’s hand and help her down this steep slope. I’m liable to tumble if you don’t!’
So they picked their way down the hill hand in hand, with the wind clawing at their clothes and snatching their breath away. Henny had to stop for a few minutes at the foot until she recovered once more. Then they crossed the meadow where groups of small butterflies swooped around and gnats danced in long columns in the still air; then on to the path where cow parsley, as high as Henny’s shoulders, turned the roadside white.
It seemed then, more than ever, that Clementina and Henny were alone in the world.
‘Look!’ Henny said. ‘The hawthorn flowers are beginning to turn pink.’
‘I wish they stayed all white all the time.’
‘Oh, but pink is such a pretty colour too, don’t you think? Look at the briar bushes and remember what Mr Scott said: “All twinkling with the dewdrops’ sheen, the briar rose falls in streamers green.”’
Henny suddenly danced forward, boots clumping on the stony road, hands holding out her skirts.
‘For the rose, ho, the rose!
Is the eye of the flowers,
Is the blush of the meadows that feel themselves fair
Is the lighting of beauty that strikes through the bowers …’
Clementina laughed out loud and clapped her hands and then went dancing after the nurse, hat flopping so much that it eventually fell off.
‘Oh dear, oh dear!’ Henny said. ‘What am I going to do with this hat!’ She perched it on top of her own and made tears of hilarity pour down Clementina’s face. Never had there been anything so funny as Henny dancing along the road in two hats and clumpy boots, faded blue dress hitched up to reveal thick woollen stockings.
But before they turned the next corner Henny stopped, took off the small floppy hat and placed it on Clementina’s head. ‘Right now! We’ll soon be back home. We’ve had our fun and now we must behave very properly. That’s much easier once you’ve had some fun, don’t you think?’
Clementina nodded and rubbed the tears of laughter from her face with a fistful of pinafore.
‘I wonder,’ said Henny, ‘if we slipped in the side door and along to the kitchen, would Cook be able to give us a glass of her delicious lemonade?’
Clementina knew that it all depended on whether or not Mrs Musgrove was in the vicinity. If they were very quiet going along the stone-flagged corridor and if the housekeeper was upstairs or even in her sitting-room, they would be all right. Cook was a kindly person and wouldn’t normally grudge the lemonade. The only danger with her was she could be what Henny called ‘volatile’.
‘It all depends, you see,’ Henny had explained once, ‘if Mrs Musgrove has been picking on her. Oh yes, sometimes Mrs Musgrove pick-pick-picks and that makes Cook very volatile.’
It was a dangerous and tricky business, but worth it if success was rewarded by a drink of lemonade, or by the even rarer treat of one of Mrs Prowse’s home-made barley bannocks, liberally spread with equally mouthwatering home-made jam. Such delicacies were never seen upstairs in the nursery except for Sunday or birthday teas.
The side door had to be reached first of all by entering the yard where the gardeners had their cottages and even here there could be the danger of meeting Mrs Musgrove. It wouldn’t be the first time they had come across her in the yard; formidable figure with its heavy key-laden chatelaine hanging round her waist, hair parted in the middle and screwed back tighter than tight at the back of her head. Her sharp daggers of eyes missed nothing and even though she was intent on issuing orders to the gardener about the vegetables or fruit she wanted brought in, she would see Henny and Clementina trying to sneak past. And then she’d want to know immediately why they were not using the front door.
But on this occasion they were lucky. The walled yard was silent and empty and they were able to slip into the house without any trouble.
The long flagged passage was cold and dark compared with the sunny garden and along one side stood a row of filled coal scuttles and the zinc liners for the wooden scuttles with sloping lids which were in most of the rooms. There were also some tin-lined white wooden boxes with sloping sides which were used for cleaning grates and laying fires. Each had a tray on top containing brushes, black-lead powder for iron work and special cloth gloves kept for the job. The gardeners were supposed to keep up the supply of dry kindling and the under-housemaid to keep the scuttles filled with coal.
Off this long corridor were different doors that fascinated Clementina and she always explored behind each as she and Henny tiptoed along. There was the storeroom which was kept locked and only Mrs Musgrove held the key. But Henny said that inside it had a red tiled floor and grey painted shelves and cupboards. In the cupboards and on the shelves there was everything from bars of yellow soap for rough scrubbing and soft soap like green jelly for washing up, to marmalade in great stone jars and bottles of gooseberries and plums, raspberries and blackcurrants to be used for dishes of stewed fruit and Sunday tarts throughout the year.
All the good china and silver cutlery were kept under lock and key in huge, ceiling-high glass-fronted cupboards in the housekeeper’s sitting-room next door. Opposite there was the red-tiled larder with slate shelves and pierced metal fly-proof windows. A similar place was kept especially for hanging game. Then there was the servants’ hall in which stood a small table with an aspidistra on it and a long table at which all the staff ate except Mrs Musgrove; she ate alone and in state in her housekeeper’s room. Henny and Alice Tait had their meals upstairs in the nursery. There were no carpets in the servants’ hall, but a rug lay in front of the fire around which some rather saggy-seated armchairs were grouped and above the fireplace hung a sepia engraving of Landseer’s ‘Monarch of the Glen’.
A side corridor leading off the main one led to the servants’ bedrooms and in the main passageway between the kitchen door and the laundry were ranged six or seven flat-irons used for all the domestic ironing.
‘Hello, wee ruffian!’ Cook greeted Clementina when she and Henny reached the kitchen. ‘And what have you been up to today, eh? Something wicked I’ll bet! Oh, you needn’t give me that big green-eyed innocent stare. I know you of old, I do. And I know what you’ve come in here for and it’s not to enquire after Cook’s health, is it now?’ Mrs Prowse was an almost incessant talker, another thing about her that infuriated Mrs Musgrove who was very tight-lipped. Mrs Prowse talked while she worked, while she ate, while she was taking a so-called rest in one of the armchairs in the servants’ hall and when there was no one to talk to, she talked to herself.
‘Oh no, little missy. I know you’re here for some of Cook’s lemonade. Mima, don’t just stand there grinning like a hyena,’ she whirled round to the kitchen-maid. ‘Away through to the pantry and fetch some for the little lady and her nanny. Little lady, indeed. Did you hear what I said, eh?’ Back to Clementina again: ‘You’re no lady, are you? What are you, eh?’
‘A wee ruffian,’ Clementina answered dutifully.
Henny tutted at the cook. ‘Oh dear, you shouldn’t make her say things like that, Mrs Prowse, you really shouldn’t…’
‘She doesn’t mind,’ Cook said, giving Clementina’s hair a gentle tug as she bounced past her to reach the huge black range that occupied almost all of one wall. ‘Do you, eh?’ ‘No,’ Clementina agreed truthfully.
The range fascinated he
r. It had a central grate and two ovens on either side and everything about it was made of heavy iron and was always extremely hot—which was why, no doubt, Cook’s face was always fiery pink and dripping with sweat and she had to keep mopping at it with her big white apron.
Housemaids flitted about in the corridor outside, their feet clicking up and down the stairs from the passageway to the upper region of the house. Sometimes the scullery-maid emerged from the scullery that opened out from the kitchen, only to be shouted back by the cook who Henny insisted wasn’t really very unkind, but had a terrible burden of work to get through and everything had to be on time. As a result she dare not allow either herself or anyone else to waste a minute. She never even stopped to fight with Mrs Musgrove, but just kept bouncing back and forth past her, talking all the time as she struggled to get the baking done or dinner ready before the dinner gong was rung.
The lemonade proved as delicious as ever and to Clementina’s joy a coconut-covered madeleine was delivered to her with another friendly tug of the hair.
‘Ooh!’ Her eyes widened in disbelief at her incredible good fortune.
‘Now, now, what do polite little girls say?’ Henny prompted.
‘Thank you very much, Cook.’
‘Just hurry up and eat up, the pair of you, then get out of my way. As well as tea I’ve a five-course meal to get ready. They’re having dinner guests tonight.’
Clementina felt happy in the kitchen with its warmth and bustle and its delicious smells. She wished that she and Henny had a bedroom along the corridor beside cook and the other staff. It was so much better down here than away at the top of the tower, where even in the summer the wind howled and moaned continuously under the eaves and in the winter it was icy cold and extremely draughty.
Alice Tait said the tower was haunted and ghosties and ghoulies came out at night to gobble up human sacrifices. Once when Henny had heard Alice, she had boxed her ears and warned her that she’d better not dare to frighten Miss Clementina again or she would be sent packing.
‘I’m going to be a cook when I grow up,’ Clementina suddenly announced. ‘And have a kitchen of my own.’
Cook and Henny laughed at that and Cook said, ‘You’ve a lot to learn, wee ruffian.’
And Henny looked down at her with love and echoed: ‘A kitchen of my own!’
8
The dinner party had gone well, so why did she feel such a sense of let-down?
Depression lay heavy on Lorianna. Standing in all her finery in front of the bedroom mirror, she saw that she looked beautiful but felt only sadness. Gemmell deftly unhooked the mauve chiffon dress with its off-the-shoulder neckline, bead trimming, satin bows and many-tiered train of satin frills. Then she helped her out of her petticoats and corset and other undergarments and into her lace-trimmed nainsook nightdress. As soon as Lorianna seated herself at the dressing-table, the maid began unpinning her hair which tonight had been elaborately puffed out in front. At last, the brushing task completed and all the clothes put away, Gemmell bade her goodnight and she was left once more to contemplate herself sadly in the mirror.
What had been wrong tonight? Cook had excelled herself with the food. The Fausse Fortue Claire, the Filets de Sole à la Cardinal, the Jambon de York à la Macedoine, the Sherry Trifle—everything had been perfection. The conversation had never once flagged; Mr Wyndford, Mr Binny and Gavin had spoken at length about their latest game of golf, and how they would conduct the war with the Boers.
Mrs Wyndford, Mrs Binny and Lorianna herself had discussed the merits and demerits of the minister’s last sermon and what everyone had been wearing at church. The guests had eventually taken their leave contentedly smiling at having passed such a pleasant evening. After they had gone, Gavin had actually remarked on how successful the dinner party had been—normally she would have felt most grateful at receiving the nearest thing to a compliment that Gavin ever gave her.
What had gone wrong?
Looking back with her mind’s eye, Lorianna suddenly realised how old everyone had been. Gavin was forty, sixteen years her senior, but as far as his friends and acquaintances were concerned he seemed to gravitate to even older people. Mr Wyndford, the banker, must be at least fifty-five and his wife not much younger. Mr Binny, one of the most important businessmen in Bathgate, was probably older still and rumour had it that his wife could give him a few years.
So old, so staid, so dull. The men pontificating in their high stiff collars. The women piously gossiping. It wasn’t that she had been bored—it was more serious than that. She had felt oppressed. She had looked at Gavin with his short red hair neatly parted on one side and his V-shaped beard perfectly clipped and his fine gold-rimmed pince-nez primly set on the bridge of his nose, and she had felt sad. She tried to trace her sadness to its roots, but felt so hopelessly depressed she could hardly be bothered. She had always been so full of life and love and so eager to give freely of that love, but over the years of marriage to Gavin somehow life and love had become despoiled and eroded until now, suddenly, she knew she no longer wanted to share anything with him. She felt a folding into herself, a shrinking, a shrivelling. And it grieved her that she should feel like this.
Lorianna looked at herself in the mirror, gazed bitter-eyed at the satin cloak of her hair reaching down past her hips, her full red lips and the firm voluptuousness of her breasts and she thought—what a waste. She forced herself to rise and go over to climb into the big double bed and lie staring up at the ceiling, not bothering even to blow out the lamp.
She must have fallen into an exhausted sleep eventually, because she awoke with Gemmell tapping on the bedroom door.
‘Enter.’
‘Good morning, madam.’
The maid put the tray on the bedside table, tugged the curtains open, then piled extra pillows behind Lorianna so that she could be comfortably supported when she sat up and had the tray on her lap. The tea and thinly-cut bread and butter refreshed her physically, but failed to reach her deep inner core of grief.
She chose a morning frock of white muslin with a handsome top tunic effect embroidered in ruby red and sapphire blue, and after morning prayers she had a silent breakfast with Gavin and Gilbert in the dining-room. No one ever spoke at breakfast; Gavin and Gilbert just concentrated on their newspapers. The room faced the front of the house and Lorianna could see part of the drive and a bushy wall of willow, beech, ash and birch trees, their branches dipping and quivering.
The clock on the mantleshelf tick-tocked relentlessly as she toyed with her egg and sipped at her tea. Later she tried to summon enough energy to appear interested in Mrs Musgrove’s report on the stores and what needed to be ordered from the grocer, the butcher and fishmonger in Bathgate. Then there was the question of the menu for dinner. All this took some considerable time, because Mrs Musgrove was particular about the stores and kept a meticulously detailed record of everything in the storeroom and pantries. Lorianna was left in no doubt that Mrs Musgrove thought it the duty of the lady of the house also to check on every detail. This Lorianna conscientiously did, but only with Mrs Musgrove’s lists and cash book and files of tradesmen’s accounts. She never ventured downstairs to inspect the shelves or the interiors of cupboards. Relieved of the housekeeper at last, she rang for Gemmell.
‘It’s such a lovely day, Gemmell, I think I shall go for my walk now.’
Gemmell pinned on a creamy straw hat decorated with a huge crimson bow the whole width of the brim.
‘Your crimson parasol, madam?’
‘Yes, the one with the satin frill.’
She decided not to go near the farm buildings today, but instead to walk to the meadow at the other side of Badger Hill and gather some wild flowers for pressing. She had already created some pretty designs with honesty, polyanthus, goose-grass and buttercup, and incorporated them into the base of a paperweight and a ring box. Now she planned to be more ambitious and decorate a dressing-table set and also make a framed picture.
Her f
lat basket held in one gloved hand and her parasol in the other, she set off slowly through her secret gate.
It was a very hot day and the flies had been particularly troublesome to Black Baron as he cropped the succulent grass in the corner of the long field.
Black Baron was the home farm bull, two tons of solid flesh and bone. Normally he was as gentle as a lamb, but if anything annoyed him he could become a very mean and dangerous beast. Today he was slightly annoyed by some particularly nasty and persistent flies that buzzed around his eyes and nostrils. In an effort to rid himself of their persistent attentions, he rubbed his face vigorously against the thick and thorny hedge dividing the long field from the meadow.
The disastrous effect of this was not only to collect a deep painful scratch on the most tender part of his colossal anatomy—his nose—but also to get his horns caught in the thickest parts of the hedge. This was altogether too much to bear, so he set about demolishing the offending hedge. The more he attacked it, however, the more he tore his muzzle and face until he looked a real fearsome sight with his bloodshot eyes and blood-spattered face. Standing back he pawed the ground in rage, then launched his massive bulk in a furious charge at the offending barrier only to finish up on his knees in the meadow. Snorting with fury, he looked up to find something else on which to vent his temper.
There was a sunny glade at the side of the meadow where a little stream gurgled along. Nearby in the trees blackbirds whistled and willow-wrens plaintively sang. Lorianna picked a few flowers beside the stream before sauntering to some hedgerows further on, where she discovered white violets and grey blue-veined ones as well as the more ordinary purple variety. Further on again she found short-stemmed cowslips with a delicious honey-sweet scent and had just placed some in her basket and was continuing her stroll, twirling her parasol over her shoulder in an effort to create a cooling breeze, when she heard the angry bellow. She was only slightly startled at first, thinking that the bull must be safely secured in the long field. But when she turned she screamed in terror at the sight of the enraged animal pounding towards her. Dropping both basket and parasol, she began to run, but tripped over her long skirts and fell, painfully twisting her ankle.
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