Netherwood (21 page)

‘Yes, m’lord. Thank you, m’lord,’ said Freddie. He put a match to the newspaper in the grate and watched briefly to be sure it was going to take. The new flames wreathed themselves around the kindling and, satisfied, Freddie stood to leave, sneaking a look behind him. Tobias, Lord Fulton, the future seventh Earl of Netherwood, was facing the window again, smoking a new cigarette, his body and bearing the personification of gloom. But what troubles, thought Freddie, could a man like that possibly have? As he made for the great oak door of the bedroom, the boy was seized by a sudden bold impulse.

‘M’lord?’ he ventured.

Toby sighed and turned around.

‘What now?’ he said.

‘Enjoy your day, m’lord,’ said Freddie.

‘Oh bugger off,’ said Toby, and turned back to the window.

At Netherwood Hall the coming-of-age of an offspring, from the heir to the youngest honourable, had always been celebrated with a lavish family breakfast, before any other festivities began. Today was not Tobias’s birthday, of course, but back in January there’d been a recent death at New Mill Colliery, a funeral to attend that morning and a general air of sobriety in the household. Therefore, on Lady Hoyland’s instructions, Tobias’s birthday breakfast was being staged today, six months after the event. There were to be gifts, too; Clarissa felt that, without them, the celebration would fall flat.

Birthday meals at Netherwood Hall were always an event, but for the oldest son and heir at his coming-of-age, new standards of excellence had to be set. This morning’s fare was tremendously lavish: domed silver platters bore generous quantities of bacon, lamb cutlets, kidneys, grilled tomatoes, curried eggs, sauteed mushrooms, steamed smoked haddock and baked kippers. Baskets of toast and warm muffins had been placed on the table, one within reach of all the diners, as well as silver pots of marmalade and fruit preserves, silver coffee pots, jugs of cream and bowls of sugar. And, because it was a special day, a three-tiered platter of frosted glass had stood proud and splendid in the centre of the table bearing a dewy cascade of grapes, melon, orange and pineapple.

A pity, then, that the mood around the table at just before nine-fifteen was tense. For while every member of the immediate family understood that they were expected in the dining
room by 9 am prompt, the earl and countess, facing each other at opposite ends of the long table, had thus far been joined by only three of their four children. Henrietta, Dickie and Isabella were all present and correct. Tobias, for whom an inviting heap of gift-wrapped boxes had been arranged by his place setting, was not. Isabella fixed her gaze on the parcels; she yearned to open them.

While they sat in their uncomfortable silence, breakfast had been carried through and placed on the long sideboard by Parkinson, assisted by an under-butler and three footmen. Their immediate task complete, they now stood, silently impassive, at their various posts around the room, waiting for the family to begin their meal. The ormolu mantel clock chimed briefly, indicating a quarter past the hour. Lord Hoyland drummed a brief tattoo with his fingers on the table. He pulled out a gold pocket watch from his waistcoat and placed it on the table, then looked pointedly at Parkinson, who in turn looked pointedly at a footman. The footman, having no inferior to whom he could pass the look, stared at the floor. Tobias’s late arrival was no one’s fault but his own, but still there was a general shared sense among the household staff that they were somehow failing their master.

‘Dashed bad manners,’ said the earl.

He spoke mildly, conversationally, as if he was commenting on the weather. Everyone in the room knew better, however. Teddy Hoyland rarely raised his voice, so his family and staff were accustomed to looking for other signs of his displeasure. This morning, the mottled red skin of his neck above his stiff, white collar indicated that all was not well beneath the genial surface. They sat on in continued silence.

‘Well,’ he said, still pleasantly, all of a sudden pushing back his chair and getting to his feet, much to the consternation of Parkinson, who had been caught out by the unexpected change in circumstances and was too late to assist his master.
‘I don’t see why we should allow this fine food to go cold. Let us eat.’

He made for the sideboard, where Parkinson, back on his mettle, was poised to raise whichever lid the earl showed an interest in.

Lady Hoyland, her expression bland and pleasant, raised an objection. ‘Ought we to begin Toby’s birthday breakfast before he joins us?’ she said.

‘He really wouldn’t care if we did,’ said Henrietta, evenly. ‘In fact, he would probably regard it as a bonus to be spared the ordeal.’

‘Henrietta!’ said Lady Hoyland, with an annoyance born more out of habit than conviction.

‘Well it’s true,’ said Henrietta. ‘He has a permanent hangover these days. I expect he’s fully clothed up there, and out for the count.’

‘Enough, Henry,’ said Lord Hoyland, who had ignored his wife’s objection and was returning to the table with a plate generously loaded with kippers and tomatoes. Isabella eyed it hungrily. She knew it was folly to displease Mama, but if Papa was eating, she wondered if she might too. Her father began to saw and stab at the food as if he had Toby’s head on his plate. She watched him warily and wondered if she should risk asking permission to eat, but was prevented from speaking by Dickie, who volunteered, affably, to go in search of the errant birthday boy.

‘Certainly not,’ said Lord Hoyland, at the precise moment that his wife said, ‘Thank you darling,’ so Dickie unwisely laughed and Henrietta smirked. Lord Hoyland told her to wipe the insolent expression off her face. Dickie, with his characteristic inability to gauge an awkward atmosphere, sat back comfortably in his chair and began to whistle and Lady Hoyland, by now a ferment of anxiety and irritation, insisted that he stop at once because her head was beginning to ache.
Henrietta said if everyone was going to continue to be so disagreeable, could she please leave the table, and Isabella burst into tears. At which point the dining-room door opened and in strolled Tobias. He bestowed a rakish – if rather jaded – smile on the assembled company.

‘Darling boy,’ said Lady Hoyland, much relieved, instantly forgiving. She smiled warmly at him; her indulgence of her eldest son’s excesses had been often tested but had yet to reach its limit.

‘Morning, Mama,’ said Toby. ‘Gosh, what a spread. And presents! Here, Izzy, open this for me would you?’

To his youngest sister’s huge delight he tossed a package across the table to her. She began to pick eagerly at the blue satin bow.

‘You look perfectly ghastly,’ said Henrietta, resolutely uncharmed.

‘So do you,’ said Toby. ‘But I haven’t slept. What’s your excuse?’

She laughed.
‘Touché,’
she said.

Toby, still standing, gripped the back of his chair for support and willed himself not to gag at the sight and smell of his father’s kippers. Beads of sweat had erupted on his brow and a throb at his temple heralded the onset of another beast of a headache. He’d made the mistake of lying down on his bed for forty winks, and had fallen into a deep sleep from which he’d only been woken by the clattering arrival of a new posse of marquee builders outside his bedroom window. Now his body yearned for unconsciousness. Just endure the next half an hour, he said to himself, then retreat to quarters and sleep for a while. But the old man was clearly rattled. He hadn’t yet spoken, his neck was as red as a turkey’s wattle and he was using his fork like a bayonet. The proceedings were likely to be bloody enough without the pater giving him the evil eye all day long. Better make amends, and sharpish.

‘Sorry, Papa,’ he said. He sounded humble and sincere and, up to a point, he was. ‘Awfully poor show to be late for my own party. Can’t tell you how shabby I feel about it.’

He looked the picture of contrition. It was a look he had turned on Teddy many a time over the years but it was no less effective for that, on this occasion. His father was perfectly capable of giving Toby a roasting, but this morning – well, there was a big day ahead, a great deal to be done, a celebration to be had. And good Lord, thought Teddy, hadn’t he drunk himself into much the same state himself many a time? The decision was made, a swift pardon issued.

‘Indeed. Well. Let no more be said on the matter,’ said Lord Hoyland. ‘Fill your plate, young man, and let’s get on with the day.’

Toby, reprieved, sneaked a look of triumph across the table at Henrietta, who smiled sweetly.

‘Kippers?’ she said. ‘Or kidneys?’

The cold weather was immensely vexing, but there it was; one simply couldn’t rely on the English summer. Lady Hoyland, insulated from the chill inside her furs, leaned on the balustrade of the first-floor terrace of Netherwood Hall and surveyed the gardens. It was her domain, this outside world, much more so than the house which, though lavishly decorated and furnished, had always interested her less. It seemed to Lady Hoyland that there was something intrinsically dull about interior design, however opulent the effect. Nothing evolved within a faultless interior, and one could hardly order the removal of the Gainsboroughs and Stubbs simply to alter one’s outlook.

The garden, however, was in a state of constant, seasonal flux, and even now remained full of possibility. Under her reign as the Countess of Netherwood the grounds had been redesigned and replanted with a near-obsessive zeal and a tireless quest for perfection. The Oriental Garden had been Lady Hoyland’s idea entirely; she had researched the scheme rigorously, determined to achieve eastern authenticity in every detail. Plants were sourced and imported from Japan and rocks, too, were shipped at great expense from the Orient, Yorkshire stone
being deemed lacking in the necessary spiritual significance. They now formed stepping stones across the goldfish pond and were green with algae, but no one had yet dared suggest to Lady Clarissa that they had been, perhaps, an authentic detail too far. The rose garden, with its famously beautiful pergolas, the enchanting thirty-foot long wisteria tunnel, and the magnificent domed Palm House had also all been her innovations. There had been four glasshouses already at Netherwood Hall, but they were functional rather than decorative and Lady Hoyland wanted something with a little more dash. She had tried to commission Decimus Burton for the design but he had stubbornly refused to come out of retirement, even for the king’s ransom Lady Hoyland was prepared to pay. Instead, and rather defiantly, she had simply commissioned a replica – though slightly smaller in scale – of Mr Burton’s famous building in Kew Gardens. If he objected to her audacity, his concerns were never made public.

Now, from her vantage point above the garden, Lady Hoyland allowed her eyes to settle briefly on the hubbub of activity immediately below her; four great marquees were now erected, parquet floors laid and tables and chairs installed. There would be a formal dinner inside the house for fifty-four of the upper-tier guests, none of whom could possibly be entertained under canvas, while lower-tiers would be amply provided for in the marquees. Even among the lower-tiers, of course, there were considerations to be made as to who would rub shoulders with whom. The squirearchy and gentleman farmers, for example, must not be expected to dine and drink with the professional classes, who in turn must be separate from the upper-echelons of the estate workers who themselves might take offence at being seated among the miners – it was an exercise in finely tuned social etiquette, but one that the countess had no doubt would be beautifully managed. She had no objections to the town being invited, but she had every
intention of observing society’s rules during the celebration. Equally there was to be no lapse in the standards of decor and she had not stinted on her instructions for decorating the marquees; tables were covered with cream linen cloths – an unwise choice, in the event – and the gardeners and household staff alike were now trimming the interiors with trailing festoons of evergreen foliage, interspersed with hundreds of white and yellow orchids, cultivated under glass specifically for this day and freshly cut this morning.