Michael Cox (11 page)

II
A Tea-time Conversation

THAT AFTERNOON WAS spent carrying out the various tasks my Lady had set me while she was away for the day in London – and, Lord, how hot, and piqued, and angry I became!
Shoes, shoes, shoes! Of every type and condition – so many, that I could hardly count them all; and every one to be taken out and brushed, or blacked, or sponged with milk, and then wrapped up and put back again.
Then her hats and bonnets and other head-gear – also seemingly without number. Out they all came from their boxes, to be dusted with a feather plume, or the velvet brushed up, and those with crushed or tumbled decorations made good again – although without the flower-pliers, for I did not wish to go down and ask Mrs Battersby for them, as my Lady had suggested.
After the last hat-box had been packed away, it was out with the needle and thread, to mend the tear in yesterday’s day-gown, before I set about cleaning and polishing the bed-chamber, emptying the slops, and finally filling the water-jugs with fresh water.
At last, as the bright afternoon began to fade, I slumped down on the sofa in my Lady’s sitting-room, exhausted, dirty, and decidedly out of humour.

I MUST HAVE dozed off, for I woke up with a start, realizing that it was nearly half past four, and that Mrs. Battersby had asked me to take tea with her at four.
Lord, late again!
I thought to myself, hurrying down to the servants’ hall as fast as I could.
I had awoken from a vivid dream of my recent walk back to Evenwood from Easton, after delivering my Lady’s letter to the horrid ‘B.K.’ but, in my dream, my saviour had not been Mr Randolph, but his brother. Why my sleeping mind should have substituted Mr Perseus for Mr Randolph, I could not comprehend, but I had no time to puzzle it out as I hastened to keep my engagement with Mrs Battersby.
The housekeeper’s room, situated at the opposite end of the hall to the steward’s room, and reached by a short flight of narrow winding stairs, was small but cheery, with two mullioned windows overlooking the yard where I had found Sukie emptying her bucket. A comfortable sofa, a button-backed arm-chair, and a low table stood before a gently flaming fire. A venerable oak dresser, laden with crockery; a small gate-legged table and two chairs between the windows; a book-case containing a folio bible and a number of other books; two coloured prints of mountain scenery on the wall next to the dresser; and, somewhat incongruously, a child’s rocking-horse completed the furnishings.
Mrs Battersby was sitting in the arm-chair before the fire reading a book when one of the footmen showed me in.
I apologized for my lateness, admitting that I had fallen asleep after carrying out the tasks Lady Tansor had set me.
‘Please think nothing of it, Miss Gorst,’ said Mrs Battersby amiably, laying down her book (Mr Borrow’s
Wild Wales
, as I immediately noted). ‘The work of a lady’s-maid – like that of a housekeeper – can frequently be arduous, and of course you’ve also walked to Easton and back today.’
Her voice, I am now aware, has a faintly lilting, musical quality about it – perhaps the residue of some accent with which I am not familiar. But oh, that unsmiling smile! So equivocal, so suggestive, so vexingly indecipherable! I know that she saw me returning to the house with Mr Randolph; she also knows where I had been, although not, I am sure, why I had gone there. I am certain, too, that she disapproves of Mr Randolph’s accompanying me on my return to the house, as she would have disapproved of Sukie addressing me by my Christian name; yet she is all welcoming affability as she hands me a brimming tea-cup from the tray, brought in by one of the kitchen-maids, and her face conveys no outward sign of criticism. It is only when we have finished our tea, during which our conversation has been confined to trite generalities, that I begin to detect an undertow of stricture.
‘Well, Miss Gorst,’ she says, after the kitchen-maid has taken the tea-tray away, ‘I hope you enjoyed your walk with Mr Randolph Duport. It was a very fine morning for walking, I think, although I saw little of it myself, being kept indoors by my duties.’
There! The merest pin-prick of challenge and censure, delivered so artfully; but I feel it, as she means me to do.
‘I enjoyed it very much,’ I reply, putting on an air of the most guileless insouciance. ‘Mr Duport was excellent company, and the morning – as you say – was a fine one.’
‘You are right,’ she says, picking up her tea-cup. ‘Mr Randolph Duport
is
very good company. So easy, so frank – and so unlike his brother. Mr Perseus is generally accounted proud and unapproachable, which could never be said of his brother.’
A pause. A sip of tea. A smile.
‘You’d gone to Easton on your own account, I suppose?’
‘Yes. As she was obliged to go up to Town, my Lady was good enough to allow me a morning’s liberty.’
‘I congratulate you, Miss Gorst. Here you are, scarcely arrived at Evenwood, and Lady Tansor is already granting you a morning’s liberty! I would say such a thing is without precedent here. Certainly your predecessor never enjoyed such favours.’
‘Miss Plumptre?’
‘Indeed. Miss Dorothy Plumptre. Of course she lacked the advantage of a winning disposition, which went very much against her.’
‘But I’ve heard that she did not give good service to my Lady,’ say I, disingenuously. ‘I have also heard that there was some unpleasantness, which unfortunately led to her dismissal. I hope that I am not speaking out of turn?’
‘Not at all. Anything said between the two of us here, in this room, is of a private nature, and you are correct in what you say. There was indeed a most regrettable incident, regarding the alleged theft of one of her Ladyship’s brooches. I may say, personally, that I would never have believed Miss Plumptre capable of such a thing, and she would never admit to taking the brooch, even though it was eventually found in her room. But that’s all in the past. Here
you
are, Miss Gorst, her successor, and you – I’m sure – have a very different future ahead of you.’
I smile back at her, as if I am touched by the apparent compliment, but hold my tongue.
‘Mr Pocock was right,’ she adds. ‘A “sharp one”, I think he called you? At any rate, you are already very well informed about events here – quite the little intelligencer! First Professor Slake, and now Miss Plumptre – not to mention the way you seem to have so quickly secured the good opinion of both Lady Tansor and Mr Randolph Duport. Mr Perseus Duport will doubtless be next – or perhaps he’s already one of your conquests? What a triumph that would be! The heir himself!’
A quiet laugh now complements the ever-present half-smile, and with it a lingering look of teasing cordiality. We are already friends, that siren look would have me believe, and friends can say such things frankly to each other, without fear of offence being given or taken. But I do not believe it. She does not like me, and has no wish to be my friend, although I cannot think what I have done to deserve her antagonism. Was it simply my unwitting presumption in allowing Mr Randolph Duport to escort me – a mere lady’s-maid – back to Evenwood? Perhaps jealousy of Lady Tansor’s evident partiality towards me is the cause; or it might be that what she considers to be an equality in our conditions poses a threat to her superior position in the household.
I had described her as ‘capable’ to Lady Tansor, and capable she clearly was, accomplished in ways that set her apart from her fellow domestics. I had no doubt that this gave her a peculiar standing in the Kingdom of Service – almost one of deputy or proxy to Lady Tansor herself – that she was anxious to maintain. Whatever the reason for her dislike of me, I was curious to find it out. For the moment, I knew only that I had unexpectedly made an enemy.
Just then, the kitchen-maid who had brought us our tea knocked at the door to announce that rats had got into the Dry Store and that the housekeeper’s presence was immediately required.
‘Well, duty calls,’ said Mrs Battersby, with a resigned sigh, when the maid had gone. ‘It is always calling. This should have been my allotted hour of leisure, but there it is. I’m afraid we must end this most interesting conversation, and Mr Borrow must wait until I retire, which I fear will not be much before midnight. It is always so.’
Another sigh.
‘One simply does not have the luxury of –
liberty
– to do the things one really wants to do. There’s always some demand or other on one’s time – and now it’s rats!’
She gets up, still speaking, to take Mr Borrow over to the bookcase.
‘But never mind that. This has been most delightful, Miss Gorst. At Evenwood, as you will know, you are answerable only to her Ladyship, and to no one else – as I am. But if there is any help, or advice, I can give you, in these early days, as you become accustomed to the ways of the house, I shall be very glad to do so. Others here, I know, regard me as a little strict in my ways. Perhaps I am. But I am not so with those over whom I have no authority, and so I shall never be strict with you, Miss Gorst.’
She has now opened the door for me to leave. Our eyes meet.
‘You’ll come again, I hope?’ she asks as I step out into the passage.
‘Certainly I’ll come again, Mrs Battersby, and with the greatest of pleasure,’ say I, with my most accommodating smile. ‘Duties permitting.’

III
An Act of Charity

MY LADY DID not return from London until nearly seven o’clock, when I was immediately summoned to dress her for dinner. Like me, she appeared tired and fraught after her day’s exertions.
‘Did you carry out your little penance?’ were her first coldly spoken words.
‘Yes, my Lady.’
‘And you came straight back from Easton, as I instructed?’
She saw me hesitate, and her mouth tightened.
‘Have you something to tell me?’
Mindful that I must secure her trust at all costs, I had no choice but to admit my encounter with ‘B.K.’ On hearing that I had not only seen the letter’s recipient, but had also spoken to her, Lady Tansor became visibly agitated, and immediately walked over to the window, where she stood, her back towards me, fingering the black velvet band encircling her neck.
‘So you spoke to her?’ she asked, still looking out of the window.
‘Briefly, my Lady – but only to tell her that I was obliged to return here immediately.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘No, my Lady.’
‘And did she say anything to you?’
‘No, my Lady. Nothing of any consequence.’
At this she gave a sigh, and appeared to relax her stance.
‘Did you form any opinion of her?’ she then asked.
Not wishing to put myself in the way of any awkwardness, I merely observed that she had seemed somewhat in want, venturing the suggestion – the only conclusion, indeed, that I had managed to form of the woman’s identity – that she might have been a former servant who had fallen on hard times.
‘Yes!’ Lady Tansor exclaimed, her mood suddenly lifting. ‘You’ve guessed it! What a wonder you are, Alice. I see that I shall have to be more careful in the future, or you’ll discover all my little secrets! She is indeed what you say: an old servant, a former nurse-maid, in fact, who looked after my sister and me for a time. Dear Mrs Kennedy!’
‘Her name is Kennedy, then?’ I ask.
‘It is,’ my Lady replies. Then, pausing slightly, she adds: ‘Mrs Bertha Kennedy – we always called her “B.K.” when we were young.’
‘And does she have a husband?’
‘She is a widow, alas, and has fallen on very hard times. Of course I was obliged to offer a little help, of a pecuniary kind, when she applied to me – which she did very reluctantly, and on the strict understanding that the arrangement would remain confidential. The letter you took contained a little money, just to see her through this present time of trial. That’s why I wished you to return here immediately, you see – to spare her from any embarrassment. Poor thing! To see her in such straits after all these years. It was a great shock.’
‘So you’ve seen her yourself then, my Lady?’
For a moment she seems taken aback, but quickly recovers herself.
‘Did I say “see”? I meant of course when I read the letter she recently wrote describing her present troubles.’
She sank slowly down into the window-seat, with a quiet smile on her face that I believe was meant to convey sentimental reminiscence of her former nurse-maid, but which to me, as I stood picturing to myself the grubby and unpleasant individual who had held my hand in her dirty-fingered grip, appeared more like an expression of relief, puzzling though it was to me why I should think so.
After dressing my Lady for dinner, I returned at last to my room, wrote a long account of the day in my Book, and read a little from Mr Wilkie Collins, until it was time to go down and take my own supper.

SEATED IN A line at the table in the steward’s room taking their evening meal were Mr Pocock; Mr Maggs; Henry Creswick; and Mr Randolph’s valet, John Brimley, a chubby, self-fancying young buck, with heavily oiled hair, and a mocking look about him, as if he were the only individual in the whole of creation who had uncovered the secrets of how the world really worked.
Mrs Battersby was sitting silently in her usual place at the head of the table. By her side was another person, to whom, with John Brimley, I was now introduced: Mr Arthur Applegate, the steward himself.
‘You were saying that the interment is to take place next Wednesday, Mr Pocock,’ remarked Mr Applegate, a broad-faced, clean-shaven man, with close-cropped grey hair, and a hoarse, breathless way of speaking.
‘That’s the day,’ the butler replied, taking a draught of barley-water. ‘The 13th, at eleven. Mr Candy’s gravely ill, as I understand, and may not live out the week, so our Mr Thripp is to officiate. Ah, if only Dr Daunt was still here! There was a man for these occasions. No one better.’
‘You were here when Dr Daunt was Rector, then, Mr Pocock?’ I asked.
‘For a time,’ he replied. ‘I came here in ’57, as under-butler to old Mr Cranshaw. The Rector gave up the living the following year, but he’s very well remembered hereabouts, Miss Gorst, as a man of great learning and amiability.’
‘You’re right there,’ agreed Mr Maggs, who had now moved away to smoke his pipe in a chair by the fire. ‘And what a change we’ve ’ad with the new man!’
‘Hardly new, Maggs,’ objected Mr Pocock, ‘though you’re right that Mr Thripp’s a very different individual from his predecessor. No, he took a good funeral, did Dr Daunt, that’s certain. I was there when he buried old Bob Munday – pretty much the old Rector’s last burial, if I remember aright – and a finer address I never heard. But, ah, it must have been hard, even for a man well used to these things, to bury his only son – and just a year after seeing his old friend, my Lady’s father, put in the church-yard. It finished him, that’s for sure.’
‘That’s true enough,’ concurred Mr Applegate, shaking his head.
‘Lady T will go, I suppose?’ asked Henry Creswick. ‘To see the old prof buried?’
‘Course she’ll go,’ broke in the all-knowing John Brimley, giving his fellow-valet a supercilious grin.
‘And what do you know about it, John Brimley?’ came the reply from the other valet.
‘More than you, at any rate.’
‘Yes, she’ll go,’ intervened Mr Pocock, giving both the young men a warning look, and taking another quaff of barley-water. When he had laid down his glass, I asked him how long the late Professor Slake had been the Library’s custodian.
He thought for a moment before calling through the open screen door to a smartly turned-out man, dressed in an old-fashioned tail-coat with a velvet collar, standing by the fire-place in the main hall talking to one of the foot-boys.
‘James Jarvis! When did Professor Slake come here?’
‘In ’55. February,’ came the immediate reply.
‘You may always depend on James Jarvis,’ said Mr Pocock, with evident pleasure at his own perspicacity in asking the question of such a prodigy of memory. ‘Thirty years usher here, and never been known to forget a date. Professor Slake, Miss Gorst, was an old friend of Dr Daunt’s, and of her Ladyship’s father, Mr Paul Carteret – you know, perhaps, Miss Gorst, that Mr Carteret was a cousin of the late Lord Tansor, though he was also his secretary?’
Before I could reply, a bell rang from an array in the far corner of the room.
‘Billiards-Room,’ said Mr Pocock, rising from the table with a little chuckle. ‘That’ll be Mr Randolph thrashing his brother again. Mr Perseus always has to drown defeat with a stiff brandy. Riding to hounds and billiards are about the only things Mr Randolph can beat his brother at, bless the dear fellow. But there’s no kinder or truer heart in the world, that’s for sure.’
‘Who wants to know?’
The demand – unrelated to any aspect of the present conversation – was barked out by the aforementioned James Jarvis, who was now standing by the screen doorway.
‘What’s that, Jarvis?’ said Mr Pocock.
‘Who wants to know when old Slake first came?’
‘Miss Gorst here.’
Mr Jarvis gave me a deep bow, and said he was glad to make my acquaintance.
‘Twenty-one years and seven months, almost to the day,’ he then announced to the company, with a look that defied anyone to question his powers either of recall or computation. ‘And for most of that time he made a thorough nuisance of himself.’
‘And why was that?’ I heard myself asking, for I was curious to know, despite feeling Mrs Battersby’s disapproving eye upon me.
‘Why,’ explained prickly Mr Jarvis, with an exasperated air, ‘by telling anyone who’d listen – and a great many who had no mind to – that old Carteret was set upon for dockiments, not money. Dockiments, indeed! You can’t buy beer with dockiments.’
‘Now, now, James Jarvis.’
The reprimand – quietly but firmly delivered – came from Mrs Battersby.
‘You’ve been told before, I think, about speaking out of turn,’ she went on, ‘and I’m sure that Mr Applegate won’t want such talk in his room.’
Mr Applegate, whose authority in his own room seemed negligible, uttered a flustered ‘Quite so, Mrs Battersby,’ and scratched his head.
‘Since when, Jane Battersby, has telling the honest truth been speaking out of turn?’ queried Mr Jarvis, throwing his shoulders back, and meeting her gaze – for which act of open defiance I could not help shouting an inward ‘Hurrah!’
‘You’ll oblige me on this, James Jarvis,’ replied Mrs Battersby, her perpetual smile now at its lowest ebb, ‘before you say something you might regret. Her Ladyship would not care to know that her usher has been gossiping so freely on matters relating to her late father that do not concern him.’
This calmly voiced but sharp rebuke, and its implied threat, might have discomfited a less resilient soul; but the usher appeared well used to such confrontations with the housekeeper, and brushed off her words with an unconcerned shrug, adding that what he had said was no more than the truth, whatever some people might think.
‘Dockiments!’ he muttered disbelievingly under his breath, as he stumped bad-temperedly back into the hall. ‘Who’d want dockiments?’