Netherwood (23 page)

Now Maudie, her mission accomplished, stepped away from her charge and sighed with satisfaction.

Henrietta, gazing at her reflection in the cheval, said, ‘Hate the colour. I look like an end-of-season daffodil. Get the pink, Maudie.’

Maudie, having none of it, shook her head. ‘Nonsense m’lady,’ she said. ‘You’re already late for lunch and t’countess won’t thank you for ’olding things up further. And anyway …’ – she looked Henrietta up and down appreciatively – ‘… you look just grand. Or you would, if your expression weren’t dismal as a dishclart.’

Henrietta smiled at her. ‘You really do take the most enormous liberties,’ she said. ‘I should dismiss you on the spot.’

‘Aye, and a right pickle you’d soon be in if you did,’ said Maudie. She smiled back at her mistress who – whatever she said to the contrary – looked striking in the new gown. If there was something unsatisfactory about her appearance it was just, thought Maudie, that Lady Henrietta’s looks were out of step with her time; she never managed the appearance of fashionable delicacy, because nothing about her – neither face, figure nor manners – was fashionably delicate. Not that Henrietta lost any sleep over this immutable state of affairs. In her view her mother and sister more than compensated for her own shortcomings in the delicacy department. She pulled a face at herself in the mirror then turned away – nothing more boring than one’s own reflection – while Maudie began to gather up from the floor and surfaces the jumble of discarded clothes and accessories. Outside, a rousing, brassy conclusion indicated that time was of the essence. Henrietta glanced out of her bedroom window and blanched at the size of the crowd already milling around the lawns at the front of the great house. Her clear instructions had been to join her family in the drawing room at a quarter past noon, in order to present a regal and united front on the terrace at half past. Henrietta
had no idea of the time, but if the band had finished their piece then she must be perilously late. She turned from the window and fled the room, then in seconds was back, her head peering round the open door.

‘You’ll make sure to have some fun yourself, won’t you, Maudie?’ she said.

The maid smiled at her mistress. It was so kind of her, and so characteristic, to spare her a thought. Maudie was, of course, invited to the party along with the rest of the household staff although she, like the others, had no idea how they were meant to find time for carousing when not only the family but also fifty-four house guests were in residence for the occasion. Far from being relieved of their duties, they had all been further burdened.

‘I mean, will you find the time?’ Henrietta said, pressing her point.

‘You’ll be in t’doghouse, m’lady, if you dawdle there any longer,’ said Maudie, deliberately evasive. In truth, she had no idea when she might slip away to join the party; she had much to accomplish before she could even leave Lady Henrietta’s rooms.

‘I shall check later to make sure you’re in the thick of it. Don’t miss it on my account. I shan’t care a jot if all these clothes are still on the floor when I come back to change this evening.’

Perhaps not, thought Maudie, but she’d be for the chop good and proper if Flytton should find the rooms in disarray. To oblige her mistress and hasten her departure Maudie said, yes, of course, she’d be at the party in no time. Then, with Henrietta gone, she went back to the business of restoring perfect order to the rooms and laying out the black and silver gown required by Lady Henrietta this evening. She might get away, she thought, if she worked swiftly, and didn’t get landed with extra duties as she attempted her escape. She might even
get out there in time for a slice of that roast ox on a warm bap, which was more than could be said for the kitchen staff, the butler and the thirty liveried footmen currently required to attend to the needs of the luncheon guests in the great hall.

By three o’clock in the afternoon, there were twice the number of guests in the grounds as had been invited, and the household staff posted at the four gates earlier in the day had long since abandoned any attempt to check the influx of gatecrashers. Some eight thousand invitations had been sent – an extraordinary number by anyone’s standards – but still the uninvited and the curious from outlying towns and villages had come in droves and it had proved impossible, in the crush of arrivals, to maintain any order or discipline at the gates. Only members of the house party – whose carriages and horses were already in the coach house and stables – and those guests whose transport was being returned whence it came, were allowed into the park to be dropped off at the hall. Everyone else was expected to walk down to the house, so the surrounding lanes were crowded with abandoned carts and drays, their horses tethered to every available post or branch. The gates were all unmanned now, the temporary sentries having sloped off to the marquees for their fill of ale and food.

And who could blame them? The like had never been seen in the county, and quite possibly in the whole of England. As well as the spit-roast ox, a magnificent centrepiece and itself quite big enough to feed three villages, there were hogs, lambs, hams and chickens, all roasted and ready to carve. There were trestle tables which bowed in the middle under their burden of pies and pastries, both sweet and savoury, and vast oval platters bearing crusty bread and hunks of cheddar in great doorstop wedges. Earthenware pots piled with pickles
– onions, beetroot, cucumber and cauliflower – were placed at convenient intervals down the tables, and, at the back of it all, awaiting its moment of glory, was a towering four-tiered iced fruitcake, baked many months ago and basted with brandy every week since. There were barrels of bitter and bottles of stout, replenished from a mysterious limitless source whenever stocks appeared to be growing low, and for the children – and abstemious adults, of whom there were very few – there were punch bowls of lemonade and ginger beer; ladles were provided, but were quickly jettisoned in favour of the more efficient method of plunging one’s cup into the bowl for a refill.

There was very little decorum and sobriety, though the party was yet young. Each marquee, even the one reserved for the upper-tier of the lower-tier guests, and in spite of Lady Hoyland’s cream linens and yellow orchids, was taking on the unwholesome character and appearance of a London tavern. Drinkers and diners sprawled at, on and under the tables, and gales of bawdy laughter and occasional, unharmonious attempts at song made ordinary conversation impossible. Outside seemed scarcely less crowded, though the fresh air had, at least, a bracing effect that was lacking in the increasingly fetid atmosphere of the tents. All attempts at social segregation had been abandoned by popular consent, the free-flowing ale having proved a great leveller. A small number of guests had left – including all the members of the local Temperance Society, who possibly should have declined the invitation in the first place, and the Methodist minister Wilfred Oxspring, who, while not actually disapproving of the merrymaking, felt he shouldn’t wholeheartedly condone it either. But hordes of people remained and as afternoon turned to evening they stood, sat or strolled on the grass and the gravel, their faces flushed with the ale and the cold. Folk who would ordinarily doff their caps and bow their heads in submissive deference to the
earl and countess were making themselves at home, turned loud and confident by the free-flowing beverages.

Into this surreal and dissolute scene walked Eve Williams. It was 4pm and, though she had arrived at Netherwood Hall the previous evening, this was the first time she had stepped out of the servants’ quarters below the house. Even now, back in the kitchens, there was still work to be done – the cleaning of those vast rooms was like one of the twelve labours of Hercules, and it was all hands to the deck down there. But Eve had more than fulfilled her contract. Her mission now was to find her children in the mêlée.

This was easier said than done. Even before she could identify anyone by name, she could tell by their weaving, loose-limbed gait that most of them were pie-eyed; on the periphery of the main event, there even appeared to be bodies slumped on the grass and the gravel, sleeping off their first excess in preparation for the second. One of them resembled Amos who, if all had gone to plan, should by now be in charge of Seth, Eliza and Ellen, having taken over from Anna. Eve, anxiety rising in her breast, hurried over to the prone figure for a closer look but found she was mistaken; it was the earl’s gamekeeper Walker Spruce, scourge of the poachers and relentless guardian of the Hoyland estate. His wiry body was stretched out full length at the foot of a flight of stone steps, arms folded behind his head as if he were sunning himself on the chapel outing to Blackpool. Eve watched his beatific expression for a moment, marvelling at the power of drink to make a featherbed out of a gravel path.

‘I wish I were a poacher,’ she said to his sleeping form. ‘I’d miss t’party and bag enough game tonight to see me through to midwinter.’ Walker stirred at the sound of her voice, smiled stupidly but slept on, so she risked a scornful little poke in the ribs with the toe of her clog, on account of all the game pie she might have made if it wasn’t for him.

Eve moved on, pushing her way into the mass of people and scanning the crowd for Amos. She hoped to God that he was still standing and cursed him inwardly in case he wasn’t. It was a near-impossible task in the crush all around her, and the more people she asked, the more she despaired. There was no menace in the air, but still Eve felt waves of panic beginning to break over her; a crowd of this size in the pursuit of earthly pleasures was an unfeeling thing. Few of the folk she asked spoke sense, and those that did hadn’t seen Amos Sykes. Anna and Maya were nowhere to be seen, either. Eve cursed herself for a fool, for having stayed so long in the Netherwood Hall kitchens, for having failed to arrange a meeting place, for entrusting her children to a man when there was free ale on tap.

Then she saw Ellen, still some way distant but head above the crowds, up on Amos’s shoulders in a state of dishevelled bliss, clutching his hair with one hand and waving a thick slice of roast ox with the other. Eve pushed on, her heart light with relief, and as she drew nearer she could see Seth and Eliza too, both held safe by the hand and both laughing, their faces tilted up to Amos. He seemed to be telling them a tale, holding their attention in spite of the noise and the novelty of everything around them. Eve felt a surge of emotion that threatened to overcome her; she checked her progress and stood still, watching the cameo unobserved for a few seconds. She felt a mixture of emotions: relief at seeing her children, remorse at having thought so badly of Amos and profound and painful sorrow that he stood there, in Arthur’s place. Then Ellen saw her and squealed her approval, and Eve waved and began to move forward towards them.

Suddenly, she found her way barred by Harry Tideaway, glassy-eyed and swaying. He loomed large in front of her, peering at her as if through fog, then he steadied himself by placing his hands on her shoulders. She shrank away from the contact but he tightened his hold.

‘Now where you off to?’ he said, his face too close to hers, the aroma of roast meat and ale on his breath. ‘I’ve a mind to take a kiss from you, by way of payment, like.’

Eve, appalled and repulsed, forced his hands away from her and tried to step away, but he detained her again, clutching the fabric of her jacket in his fist. He’d seen plenty of others kissing and canoodling this afternoon, and he didn’t see why he should miss out.

‘You’re drunk,’ she said.

‘Never mind that. I think you’re forgettin’ what you owe me.’

‘What you talkin’ about?’ she said. ‘I owe you nowt.’

‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but ’ow did you end up ’ere baking pies for this party? On account o’ me, and my …’ he paused to belch, then returned to his theme ‘… recommendation. You’ve me to thank. So come ’ere.’

He seized her round the waist with both hands and pulled her close so that she was trapped against his body.

‘C’mon,’ he said, all but licking his lips. ‘There’s plenty o’ folk ’avin’ a fumble this afternoon, an’ no ’arm done.’

She kicked him sharply on the ankle, then brought her knee up into his crotch with all the force she could muster, and he immediately released her, doubling over in helpless response to the pain. And then Amos was there, standing between Eve and Harry, and he was baring his teeth like a dog and shaking with fury.

‘Touch ’er again, an’ you’ll be sorry,’ he growled. He gave the landlord a vicious shove, and he staggered backwards, still too absorbed by the pain in his testicles to fully comprehend the situation. ‘You ’ear me? You’ll wish you were dead, you miserable bastard.’

Then he turned to Eve.

‘Did ’e ’urt you? Are you all right?’

‘Aye, I’m fine,’ she said. ‘But thanks for askin’.’

And she bestowed on him a smile of such warmth and humour and loveliness that he knew for sure what he’d feared for a while now: that he loved her.