Her Ladyship's Girl (17 page)

‘How do I steer it?’

‘Use the reins. Pretend they’re the handlebars of a bicycle.’

Then she grabbed the mane of one of the other horses and swung herself expertly up onto its bare back. She let out a long, low whistle and the herd began to move off, back up to the crest of the
hill. Charlie rode behind them, but Firebird refused to move for me.

‘Kick him!’

So I did. But I must have kicked him too hard, because he took off and I let go of the reins and grabbed the animal round the neck and clung on for dear life. My feet came out of the stirrups
and my skirt was now flying up around my face. Charlie grabbed hold of the horse’s bridle when we came level with her and she brought him to a halt, laughing her head off at my awkwardness
and embarrassment. I took control of the reins and stirrups again and we set off at a slow trot after the herd.

Once all the horses were paddocked and Firebird was unsaddled and turned out with the others, we started to walk the half mile to the forge. It was still bright, with an unbroken pale-blue sky
and a light breeze starting to blow up from the southwest.

Charlie Currant was an only child and it was clear her father wanted a boy when she was born, because he’d brought her up like one. She was a bit of an Annie Oakley, who I’d once
seen in some Pathé News feature in the cinema, performing for Queen Victoria when she came over to this country with Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show. Charlie’s father was a big man
– a typical farrier, used to handling horses. His name was Cedric and he wore a thick black beard and guffawed like a bull when he laughed. Her mother was a small, meek kind of woman who said
very little and busied herself in the kitchen most of the time I was there. It was obvious Charlie took after her father in spirit and her mother in size.

We had a plain tea of sliced, fried potatoes, fried parsnips and mutton, with an onion gravy. Mr Currant produced a large jug of home-made cider and insisted I have a glass, even though I told
him I didn’t drink all that much.

‘It’ll put hairs on your chest, lass.’

Then he guffawed. I didn’t particularly want hairs on my chest and the cider was cloudy and had bits floating in it that could have been toenail clippings for all I knew. But Charlie had
some and so did Mrs Currant, so I felt obliged to drink it. When I did, Mr Currant filled the glass again.

‘So, Miss Moyle . . .’

‘Please call me Anwyn.’

‘So, Anwyn, you work for Miranda Brandon, eh?’

‘Mrs Bouchard.’

‘Oh aye, Mrs
Boochard
.’

He said he remembered her growing up round these parts. She was a bit of a handful even then, always getting into scrapes and the bane of her poor mother’s life.

The Currants gave me a brief history of the Brandons while I was there – how Miranda’s mother died of pleurisy when she was only ten. She had a series of governesses after that, but
none of them could control her, so her father sent her away to a private school for girls in France, so she could learn how to be a lady. I didn’t want to talk about Miranda, as that would
have been a betrayal of her trust in me – so I just listened. Mr Currant seemed to know a lot about the Brandons and I supposed he heard all the gossip while he was shoeing the horses. He
knew Mr Brandon senior had lost a lot of money through naive investments in the American stock market and now he needed one of his two children to marry well. Otherwise, Bolde Hall would go the way
of many other aristocratic country houses.

‘Why can’t James Brandon marry for money?’

‘Him?’

Mr Currant guffawed again, as if I’d said something very funny.

‘He can’t marry no woman.’

‘Why not?’

The Currants looked at each other and shook their heads and my question went unanswered. I decided not to pursue it and Cedric changed the subject.

‘What’s all this nonsense going on down in London?’

‘What nonsense?’

He told me there’d been a battle in Cable Street, which was just across the river from where Lucy lived, and I hoped she and her family were all right.

According to Cedric Currant, the Fascist Blackshirts organised a march through the area, which was predominantly Jewish. The government refused to ban the march, even though they knew
there’d be trouble. People built barricades in an attempt to stop it – a hundred thousand anti-fascist demonstrators turned out, along with six thousand police, who tried to clear the
street to let the three thousand Fascists march through. Then it all escalated, with sticks and stones and rubbish and rotten vegetables being thrown at the police. Women in the houses emptied
chamber pots onto the head of the coppers and there were skirmishes and running battles up and down the street. Oswald Mosley, the leader of the Fascists, took his Blackshirts away to Hyde Park and
left the anti-fascists to fight it out with the police. Hundreds of people were hurt and others arrested and the leaders of the demonstrators were sentenced to three months hard labour while the
Fascists walked free. I knew nothing about this because I hadn’t seen a newspaper or heard the radio since I arrived at Bolde Hall. And I wished I’d been down there where history was
happening, instead of stuck out here with the nobles and the nobs.

By the time I left the Forge, the cider jug was empty and I was feeling a bit tipsy. Charlie said she’d walk me back to Bolde Hall and she pumped up a Tilley lamp to light our way, as it
had grown dark by then. The night-time sounds of the countryside surrounded us as we walked – foxes barking and owls hooting and badgers churring and all sorts of insects clicking and
clacking. I was glad Charlie was with me. She slipped her arm into mine and we linked each other along.

‘What’s it like down in London, Anwyn?’

‘It’s great. I love London.’

‘I suppose you get to go to all sorts of parties?’

‘I’ve been all over the place with Mrs Bouchard during the season.’

‘It must be a bit boring for you way out here?’

‘A bit.’

I told her about the balls I’d been to with Miranda and the dancehalls I’d been to with Lucy and she said she’d love to live in London, if only for a few weeks.

‘Wouldn’t you miss the horses?’

‘Probably.’

Charlie told me she was going back to college in Leicester once the new term started. She was studying to be a vet so she could help the animals she loved so much. I told her I would have loved
to go to college, but I had to start work as soon as I was fourteen to help my family. She was sympathetic.

‘Have you got a boyfriend, Anwyn?’

‘No. I can’t be bothered with boys.’

‘Why not?’

‘More trouble than they’re worth. Except as dancing partners.’

She laughed.

‘What about you, Charlie?’

‘Not likely!’

I was quite tired by the time we got back to Bolde Hall and I hoped Miranda wouldn’t want to have a late night. The rough cider had taken its toll on me and I just wanted to flop into bed.
Charlie stopped at the edge of the grounds. I could see the lights from the big house illuminating the rest of the way.

‘You’ll be all right from here, Anwyn.’

‘Thank you for walking with me, Charlie.’

I went to kiss her on the cheek, but she turned her head as I did so and our lips touched. She didn’t pull away – and neither did I. The moment lingered for a lifetime, and was over
in an instant.

‘Goodbye, Anwyn.’

She turned and walked away into the night. I stood there watching her go. I could still see the light from the lamp swinging to and fro, long after Charlie Currant had disappeared from view,
into the gloaming.

When I got inside the house, Miss Mason told me Mrs Bouchard was looking for me. Miranda was in the dining room and I went straight to her. She was with Mrs Hathaway.

‘Ah, Anwyn . . .’

‘I’m sorry I’m late, Madam.’

‘That’s all right, Anwyn, I’ve not been long back myself.’

She told me she was tired after her day and was going to have an early night. She wouldn’t need me for anything else that evening. I was so thankful.

‘Have you had dinner?’

‘I had tea at the Forge.’

‘With the Currants?’

‘Yes.’

The hint of a smile broke across Miranda Bouchard’s lips.

‘You must have met Charlotte?’

‘Yes.’

‘And how did you find her?’

‘Very . . . affectionate.’

‘Quite.’

I never saw Charlie Currant again.

But I thought of her – often.

T
he weeks passed at Bolde Hall and the foxhunting season arrived – and with it the rich Earl and his entourage. This time the lady guests
brought their own maids and it was less lonely for me having these other women to chat to. They brought all the gossip with them, which was mostly about the King and Mrs Simpson, but some had come
up from London and they were gushing on about this thing called television and how the BBC had made the world’s first transmission of pictures to a little screen. Some said these little
television boxes would be in every household eventually and would do away with the wireless and the picture house – but I didn’t believe them. It was great to hear Belgravia mentioned
as well, and I wished I was back there with Lucy and Hannah and the girls in the tea shop.

The Earl was, indeed, a charming man – tall and handsome and about thirty-five years old. He looked a bit like an English Gary Cooper and he had a habit of slapping his thigh when he
laughed. Maybe that’s what put Miranda off him. He was courteous to the servants, unlike the Brandon men, and he had a happy and extrovert demeanour. He was a man any mature women could
easily fall for, I thought, and I wondered what the untitled William Harding had to compare with this man’s appeal. But then, I knew, I felt it that day in the library – before we were
interrupted. I didn’t tell Miranda about that encounter, it would only have hurt her and probably got me dismissed, even though I’d done nothing wrong. But it seemed to me that William
Harding, despite his appeal, was not a man to be trusted. In the first place, he was married and, secondly, he was a philanderer. Miranda said he’d promised to leave his wife for her when the
children were a little older, but I didn’t believe he ever would.

The opening meet was held on Wednesday 4 November and over a hundred people gathered at Bolde Hall. I was surprised not to see Charlie Currant there, or her father. But I knew some people were
against foxhunting and maybe the Currants were that way inclined. Or maybe Charlie had already gone back to college. Mr Brandon senior was Master of the Vale of Evesham hunt and James was the
Huntsman and carried the horn. The men who had hunt buttons wore their pinks, with white breeches and black boots with tan tops. The ladies, including Miranda, wore navy with buff breeches and
black dress boots with patent leather tops. The women who rode side-saddle had long coats and top hats and the others wore half coats and bowlers. The Master and Huntsman and Whippers-in all wore
their ribbons down, while everyone else wore them up. Children under sixteen wore ratcatchers, which were tweed jackets and tan breeches with laced-up field boots. They all wore black stock ties
and carried hunting whips with horn handles and long leather lashes. It was truly a sight to see for a young Welsh girl like me, and here was I now, a part of this dubious pageant and not on my
hands and knees scrubbing some floor. What a totally disarming thing life was – it had that way of changing all the time.

The Field was divided into two groups. The First Field took the more demanding route with jumps like wide ditches and high fences and stone walls, while the Hilltoppers took a longer route with
gates and other types of access on the flat. Myself and some others who were inclined to go out were invited to follow in a four-wheeled dray drawn by two horses. Foot-followers from the village
roamed the grounds and the atmosphere was one of excitement and celebration, with everyone saying good morning to everyone else. The local vicar blessed the hounds and the Field drank their stirrup
cups, served by all the servants, including myself and Mrs Hathaway and Miss Mason. We served port to the men and sherry to the ladies and many of the gathering had their own hip-flasks of whisky
and brandy and sloe-gin and other, more dubious concoctions too, I was sure.

When all the pleasantries were over, the whole hunt moved off to the covert, where the Huntsman drew the hounds to find the line. The dogs were casting round and giving tongue for a few minutes
and then they were off. The Huntsman followed first and then the Master and the Whippers-in, whose job was to keep the hounds from rioting, and the rest of the Field followed. We came after them in
our dray, passing many of the foot-followers and listening to the distant calls of the Field as they shouted ‘tally ho’ and ‘hounds, please’ and ‘beware’ and
‘hold hard’. The Master guided the riders across countryside and farmland, making best use of tramlines and headlands, and jumping the obstacles. Sometimes we could see them and then
they’d disappear, only to become visible again somewhere else, as the quarry led them a dance as it tried to find foils and check the hounds.

I lost count of the hours in the strange excitement of it all, but eventually the fox went to ground and the terriers were sent in after it. Then some kennelmen dug down and killed the animal.
We’d caught up by then and the fox’s blood was smeared on the faces and foreheads of the hunt’s two youngest initiates by the Huntsman. The brush and pads and mask were cut off
for trophies and the carcass was then thrown to the hounds to be torn to pieces.

On the way back, a young rider came alongside the dray. He was about eighteen and had dark hair and brown eyes. He was on a chestnut hunter that loomed huge beside me and he looked so regal and
stately. He didn’t say anything at first, just smiled at me and the other ladies’ maids in the dray. It was as if he was sizing us all up, seeing who was the prettiest. The perkiest.
The others were pretending they didn’t see him, but I smiled back.

‘What’s your name?’

‘What’s yours?’