Now she knew what he had meant, except for that one thing.
Slowly the conversation and the laughter rose again, and during it and between gulping her food, Jane Fathers gave Millie a running commentary on the hierarchy, from Miss McNeil, the lady’s maid, and Mr Winters, the valet, and Mr Carlin, the butler, whose presence at the communal board appeared to her like visitors from heaven itself: if Queen Victoria and her Prince had been sitting here they could not have aroused greater admiration in the narrow breast.
The food was served in turn by the three housemaids, helped with great laughter from John Tester, the second footman, especially when, bowing to Millie, he exclaimed loudly, ‘And what is your desire, madam, beef or turkey? I am here but to serve you,’ only for the laughter to die down somewhat as the immediate company was brought to another silence when the chit who was dressed in brocade, like a Chinese lady, dared to say, and in no small voice, ‘That I should be served with civility, if you please.’
When John Tester turned round and looked towards the housekeeper and the butler, this could have been the beginning of an awkward situation; in fact, could have put a damper on the whole party had not David Boswell, the first footman, chipped in with, ‘Play-acting at its best, if I’ve ever heard it. What d’you say, Mr Carlin?’
Feeling it was his duty to keep the party going merrily, the butler joined with his underling, crying, ‘Well said, serf! Well said!’ which brought guffaws and laughter, and once again the meal continued, except that Jane Fathers, her head down now, whispered, ‘Eeh! You shouldn’t have spoke like that, Millie. Nobody does. What’s come over you?’
Millie didn’t know what had come over her; she only knew she didn’t care for the company and she wasn’t going to enjoy herself, and that the whole thing had been a mistake. Her mind was again blaming Mrs Quinton. She should have put her wise; yes, she should. She shouldn’t have let her make a fool of herself. Yet, she didn’t feel a fool: at this moment she felt…well, she didn’t like to put it even into a thought, but she felt superior. How many in this room, she wondered, had any learning at all, could even write their own name? Very few. How many would have the courage to go to night class as Ben was doing? None of them, she told herself. It would have been beneath them; it would have shown up their ignorance. Once this meal was over and she could get her cloak, she would slip out the way she had come in…
The meal was over, including the toast to Mr Thompson; and the exodus had started for the games room where, waiting for them, were two fiddlers and a flute player.
This, she thought, would be her chance to escape, but she was baulked by the man who had come to her aid before. Noticing that she had not risen from her seat with the others and sensing her feelings, Mr Carlin, too, stayed his departure and made his way towards her.
Taking her hand and bending down to her, he said, ‘Never be ashamed of looking bonny, love. It might have been the wrong dress, but it had the right effect. Aye, it had that. Come on now and enjoy yourself.’ And with this he led her through what seemed a maze of corridors to the two rooms that had been made into one by the pushing back of a partition.
By the time they entered the room, most were already seated along three of the walls; at the far end, in front of a step-high dais, sat the master and mistress, their two sons, sixteen-year-old David and fifteen-year-old Randolph, together with Mr Bernard Thompson, in whose honour this function was being held. The musicians were already in place on the dais.
Although she was almost the last to enter the room her appearance certainly didn’t go unnoticed by members of the family. The mistress herself had narrowed her eyes towards the girl, as if bringing her into focus, and had then turned to her half-brother, saying something which caused them both to laugh; her two sons apparently had the giggles, which was checked by their father; but he, too, was staring down the room at the young creature, whom he saw representing an exquisite piece of Chinese porcelain; and he could not keep the surprise from his voice when he muttered, ‘My goodness!’
It was David, his elder son, who asked of no-one in particular, ‘Why is that girl rigged out like that? Did she think it was a fancy-dress ball?’ As he spluttered, his mother pushed him gently on the shoulder, saying, ‘I dare you to go and ask her to dance.’
‘What! Me? Oh, Mama; don’t be funny.’
She now turned to her half-brother, saying, ‘You’d better get up and thank them for being here, and let them get on with it.’
‘No; Raymond must do that,’ he said quietly, but Raymond Crane-Boulder was quick to put in, ‘Not me. It was your birthday, so get on your pins.’
Slowly the young man rose to his feet and, holding up a hand for silence, began hesitantly, ‘Thank you. Thank you all very much for your kindness to me, and for your good wishes, and particularly for that very fine saddle you presented to me. Now, as you have already gathered, I’m no good at making speeches, so I suggest the musicians start up and we dance. Eh?’ And on this he waved his hand back towards the three men on the dais, then sat down, to loud clapping.
The musicians struck up a lively polka; but no-one ventured on to the open floor until the valet took the lady’s maid’s hand and led her forward. From then, the rest soon followed, and the floor began to vibrate with the thumping of one, two, three, hop; one, two, three, hop.
When Berenice Crane-Boulder rose to her feet, her husband said, ‘Where are you going?’ And she, turning a disdainful look on him, replied, ‘Where do you think?’ And turning to her son, she said, ‘You coming, David?’
‘Yes, Mama. Yes, Mama, I’m coming.’ The boy was giggling and not too steady on his feet from the wine he had drunk at dinner, and he turned now and pulled his brother out with him.
As the three went out of a side door to the right of where they had been sitting, Bernard Thompson muttered under his breath, ‘We can’t all leave.’
‘No, no, of course not,’ the older man nodded assent. ‘But that’s her, that’s her. You’ve seen for yourself, haven’t you, these last few days? She’s got worse, much worse. Never sober. And she’s got those boys ruined. It’s a good job they’ll be going back to school next week.’
Bernard Thompson had been looking down the room to where, apart from three elderly couples, two young girls and a boy were sitting; and now, as if on impulse, he rose and, smiling, threaded his way between the dancers towards them.
Looking at Ken Atkins, he asked, ‘Why aren’t you dancing?’ and the boy, who now stood up, answered, ‘Don’t know much about dancin’, sir.’
‘Well, you’ll never learn sitting there. Look, take her.’ He put out a hand and brought Jane Fathers to her feet and, pressing her towards Ken, he said, ‘Just hop. Just hop.’ And when they joined hands and both started to laugh, those who were dancing nearby laughed too. And this drew them into the throng.
Now he was left looking at the remarkable slip of a girl and, his voice changing, he said, ‘Do you dance?’
‘Yes, sir, I dance…in my own way.’
How odd: her manner was as strange as her dress. She wasn’t like the rest of them. And why was she dressed like this anyway? ‘What is your name?’ he said.
‘Millicent Forester, sir.’
‘Well, Miss Forester, may I ask if you will give me the pleasure of joining me in this dance?’
Without hesitation and, as was said later in the staffroom, brazenly, she stood up and put out a hand to him. As he took it, his other hand he placed on her slender waist, and without pause she put her free hand on his shoulder. Then they were dancing.
Their steps seemed to match, because he wasn’t all that tall. She imagined, judging by Ben’s height, which was a little over five feet, this man could be only six or seven inches taller. She had never done this dance before, but it was so simple, one, two, three, hop; one, two, three, hop.
When he looked down at her she laughed up into his face. But when he said, ‘You’re as light on your feet as a nymph,’ her smile disappeared, for the words
recalled the face of the man who had called her the rag nymph.
This man, however, was different: there was no evil in his eyes that she could see. He wasn’t really handsome, but he was good-looking. And although he was the mistress’ half-brother there was no resemblance between them; not in any way at least that she could see, especially not in his manner.
The dance came to an end amid great clapping. He led her back to her seat, and when she sat down he bowed to her, saying, ‘Thank you very much, Miss Forester. I hope I may have the pleasure again during the evening.’
She did not answer him, just inclined her head towards him; and when Jane flopped down at her side, saying, ‘Eeh, fancy! What was it like…I mean, dancin’ with ’im?’ she answered, ‘Just like you dancing with Ken.’
Ken almost doubled up with laughter, and spluttered, ‘But I stood on her toes; and I kicked McTaggart on the shins backwards.’ Then he leant past Jane towards Millie, and whispered, ‘I’ve always wanted to do that,’ which set them all off.
The music did not immediately restart and the room seemed full of chatter. Looking round, Millie realised that most of the staff were old…well, in their thirties. In fact, some, she guessed, were in their fifties, as old as Mrs Aggie. Even the housemaids were fully-fledged women. Jane, Ken and herself seemed to be the only young ones present.
When the butler stood up the chatter ceased, and he called out, ‘Will you take your partners for the quadrille, ladies and gentlemen?’
There was more laughter now and bustle as some members of the company paired off and grouped into four couples, making a square. But when others seemed laughingly reluctant to get to their feet, the master and Mr Bernard Thompson rose together; and when Mr Bernard approached Sarah Cross, the first housemaid, the master continued down the room till he came to the three young people, and there, standing in front of Millie, he said, ‘Will you do me the honour, my dear?’
Whereas she had accepted Mr Bernard Thompson’s invitation without much hesitation, she now sat looking fixedly at the tall man, until he laughed down at her and, holding out his hand, commanded gently, ‘Come,’ then she allowed him to lead her to where there were only two couples standing. Having joined them, he turned round and looked towards his head gardener and cried, ‘Come on, Benson. Don’t tell me you’re too old for a dance? And you, Mrs Benson, get him up.’
The feeling engendered by the master’s picking that chit of a girl, that stranger, that odd-looking creature, to dance, was somewhat placated by his enticing of the gardener and his wife on to the floor.
As the fiddles and the flute struck up a lively tune, Millie now muttered, ‘I don’t know the steps,’ and he, bending his head towards her, exclaimed loudly, ‘What?’
‘I don’t know the steps.’
‘Don’t worry. Here we go!’ And with this, he marched her briskly around in a circle; then turning her, he marched her back again. And so they progressed through the five figures of the dance.
Each of the other three men would take hold of Millie and swing her round, but Raymond Crane-Boulder always caught her under the arms and swung her off her feet.
By the time the dance was finished everybody was gasping for breath but seemingly happily.
On this occasion, she wasn’t escorted back to her seat because her last partner in the dance was Fred Bateholm, and he turned from her to rejoin his wife, so leaving her to walk down the room to where Jane and Ken were sitting. When she flopped down beside them, Jane said, ‘By! The master does dance, doesn’t he? And he swung you off your feet. D’you know’—her voice sank—‘your dress came up and you could see your blue petticoat and your white stockings right up to your calves.’
Millie wasn’t taking much heed of Jane’s chattering because she was looking towards the doorway where the mistress stood. She had glimpsed her before watching the dancers, and now she knew she was looking at her. And when she turned away, she was struck by the thought that if she was in that woman’s employ she wouldn’t last long. But then she wouldn’t be in her employ. She would never work for anyone like her.
It was when the butler was announcing yet another polka that Flo Yarrow, the second housemaid, who had been out of the room, came in and hesitated a moment before walking across the open floor towards them. Bending down to Jane, she said, ‘The mistress wants to see you in the study, and you’ve got to take her with you.’ She nodded towards Millie.
‘The mistress wants to see me? What for?’
‘How should I know? That’s all she said, she wanted to see you, an’…’ She nodded again towards Millie.
‘But…but, Miss Yarrow, I…I don’t know where the study is.’
‘Come on out.’
Jane rose immediately, but Millie hesitated, and she, too, now said, ‘Why does she want to see me?’
‘You had better ask her, miss, when you see her.’ There was sarcasm in the voice; but then her tone changed and she said, ‘Oh, come along.’
Outside the room, she pointed to a wide corridor: ‘It’s the last door on the right side,’ she said, ‘and wait till you’re told to enter.’
Flo Yarrow stood watching the two young girls walking away from her, and she bit on her lip and turned her head to the side as if pondering over something. Then she swung about and went back into the room where once again she saw Mr Winters, the master’s valet; but he was dancing with Miss McNeil again, so she stood aside and waited. In the meantime, the two girls had reached the end of the corridor, and before Jane tapped on the door she whispered to Millie, ‘What d’you think she wants us for? She was watchin’ you dance. Very likely it was because you showed your legs and your white stockin’s.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Millie whispered back. ‘Anyway, in that case, why should she want you an’ all?’
Jane’s hand was wavering in front of the door when they heard a gust of laughter coming from the room. They exchanged glances; and when Jane’s hand dropped away from the door Millie impulsively knocked twice, and then they waited. And in the waiting the laughter turned to giggling, then ceased, before the mistress’ voice called, ‘Come in.’
When Millie stepped into the room the first thing she noticed was that it was a kind of library. There were bookshelves round the walls, and where there weren’t books there were silver cups and shields. In the fireplace a log fire was burning brightly. The chairs were all of brown leather.
The mistress was sitting in one to the side of the fireplace, her elder son in one to the other, with Randolph leaning against the back of it. Two decanters and three glasses were on a table to their hand; and it was obvious to Millie that the two young men were silly drunk.
‘Come over here!’
The voice was imperious; and in answer to it Jane scurried forward, but Millie remained where she was within a few feet of the door. And strangely, in this moment, she wasn’t seeing the mistress of the house, nor her drunken sons, but Sister Cecilia, who was saying to her, ‘Beware the evil that men do.’
She heard her own voice, thin-sounding now, saying, ‘What do you want with me, madam?’
‘Come here, girl, and you’ll find out.’ The woman had pulled herself to her feet and, when Millie still did not move, she almost sprang across the distance to confront her.
Grabbing a handful of Millie’s dress at the shoulder, she dragged her forward and thrust her towards her son, the while still holding her, and saying, ‘You’re made to tempt men and I’m going to see you’re not disappointed.’
With a twist of her body, Millie freed herself and jumped backwards, and the woman only saved herself from toppling by falling against the long oak table in the middle of the room. And from there she now cried at her elder son, ‘Go on, Davey boy! Make a start, and show your elders how it’s done. Aye, by God, show ’em! And you, Randy, take that clot there.’
‘What! Her, Mama?’ The boy threw his head back now and laughed. ‘She’s a midden mucker; she empties the mess pails. Not her, Mama.’
‘Anyt
hing to start on, boy. Anything to start on.’ When there was a cry from the top of the room the woman turned and looked to where her son was warding off the girl’s hands, and she cried at him, ‘Strip her, boy! Strip her!’
Millie had her back against a row of books and, putting her hand behind her head, she grabbed one. It was a thick leather-bound volume and, swinging it, she levelled it at the boy, and immediately the laughing, drunken timidity he had previously shown vanished: for now he yelled, ‘You bitch, you!’ and the next moment he had his fingers in the front of the collar of her dress, and the ripping of the brocade and the under petticoat filled her ears.
‘You! You beasts! Leave me alone,’ she screamed at him, and, flailing her arms, she brought her knee up, and when it caught him in the groin he yelled out in pain before actually screaming, ‘You bloody she-cat!’ Then he was on her, his fists thumping her, between tearing at her clothes.
When she fell with a thud to the floor, he on top of her, perhaps it was her screaming and the woman’s laughter that covered the sound of the door bursting open.
Raymond Crane-Boulder, followed by Bernard Thompson, came to a momentary halt at the sight before them. It was as if they couldn’t believe their eyes. And then with a bound and a sweep of his arm Raymond knocked his wife flying against the further wall, for her again only to be saved from falling to the floor by her younger son.
In a fury stronger than that which his elder son must have felt, the father whipped him off the prostrate figure of the girl and, holding him by his ruffled cravat, he took his doubled fist and levelled it against his face. His son’s crying out seemed to enrage him further, for from the wall above a shelf of trophies he snatched a riding crop. He’d had to tug it from its hook, but once in his hand he brought it round his son’s head, ‘You young swine! You scum!’
After the third blow his arm was caught by Bernard who yelled at him, ‘Enough! Enough!’ and pulled him aside; and as he did so Berenice Crane-Boulder’s voice screamed, ‘Hypocrite! Hypocrite! Can’t stand them being natural, eh? Hypocrite! Bloody hypocrite.’
The Rag Nymph (aka The Forester Girl) Page 15
