Chapter 8
Chapter 8
As far as Randolph Hyde, fifth Baronet Bradfield, was concerned, his father couldn’t have chosen a more opportune moment than the early summer of 1911 to shuffle off this mortal coil.
It was very unlike the old man to be so obliging. Not only had the contentious matter of inheritance just been settled, but the weather was glorious and Coldwell at its best, a welcome contrast with the oppressive heat of London. The cherry on the cake was that the death of ‘Good Old King Teddy’ the previous year meant that a coronation was in the offing. As a baronet, Sir Randolph Hyde was not a peer of the realm and had no ceremonial part to play, but with the great and the good descending on London from every corner of the empire, the occasion would provide the perfect opportunity for him to impress his acquaintances from India with his newly acquired title, fiancée, and respectability, and to relaunch himself in society.
After the funeral, when the small party of visitors had departed and the house had shaken off the trappings of mourning, Sir Randolph Hyde stayed on at Coldwell (also shaking off the trappings of mourning; though custom dictated he should wear a black tie for six months at least, he declared the weather far too splendid). Mr Fortescue, the land agent, postponed his return to London, and Amos Kendall Esq, ‘sanitary engineer,’ was summoned from Sheffield.
The three men strode through the upstairs corridors, discussing which dressing rooms might be turned into bathrooms (with proper cast-iron bathtubs supplied with hot water, and flushing W.C.s) and where pipes and water tanks and geysers might be placed. Sir Randolph’s booming voice disturbed layers of stillness in passages that had long been silent as he called from one room to another or shouted for his dog. (Joseph was constantly on edge, jumping every time Boy! rang out through the house.)
As one warm, blue-skied day followed another, Coldwell Hall crackled with the energy of change. The girls were giddy with excitement at the prospect of an end to emptying chamber pots and carrying cans of water up the back stairs. They made it their mission to find things to do on the bedroom corridors so they could eavesdrop on the plans being made, until Kate’s patience snapped and she ordered them to stay downstairs.
Unlike them, she felt profoundly unsettled by the changes, and unnerved by the pervasive presence of Frederick Henderson. He seemed to shadow her through the servants’ basement, looking at her as if she was an item he was considering for purchase. She had come to Coldwell to escape scrutiny, but as the hot summer days wore on, she felt more watched than ever.
She wasn’t alone in her agitation, or her resistance to the new routine. Mrs Gatley, struggling with the unusually warm weather, was further put out by Sir Randolph’s culinary requirements, which were considerably more elaborate than his father’s. His appetite at breakfast was fickle (and dependent on how heavily he had indulged the previous evening), so he expected a variety of dishes to choose from, meaning Mrs Gatley was required to huff down from the cottage in the kitchen garden early, to oversee Susan whisking eggs, frying kidneys, boiling rice for kedgeree, and poaching kippers. (Most of this feast came down again cold and untouched, and was greedily snapped up in the scullery by Joseph, Thomas, and Boy the spaniel.) Sir Randolph usually liked a hearty lunch, but the warm weather put him in the mood for picnic food, so Mrs Gatley’s afternoons—formerly passed with her feet up in her own parlour—were now spent making pork pies, Scotch eggs, galantines of veal or chicken, and fruit tarts, before attempting to re-create one of the dishes from the London restaurants he favoured for dinner.
Mr Goddard, whose entire life’s purpose was loyal service, uttered no word of dissent, but his values were those of his old master. Disapproval of Sir Randolph’s wasteful extravagance was stamped on his face every time he trudged up from the cellar with bottles of port, claret, champagne, and brandy, and trailed down from the dining room in the aftermath of yet another lavish meal.
Thomas, eternally oblivious to any negative undercurrents, brought gossip from the stables. ‘George Twigg says Sir Randolph was in the coach house this afternoon. He’s getting rid of the big carriage and the old brougham. Making room for a motorcar, George says.’
It was teatime. Around the table, eyes widened.
‘Does Johnny Farrow know how to drive a motorcar?’ Susan asked.
Frederick Henderson gave a short, scornful laugh. ‘The man’s barely mastered eating with a knife and fork. Don’t worry—I don’t suppose he’ll be sent packing. He’ll be needed to drive the shooting brake and the wagon.’ He looked down the table at Kate. ‘Mrs Furniss will hardly be taking her fortnightly trips to Hatherford in the back of a motorcar, like Lady Muck.’
Kate felt the heat seep into her cheeks as, along the table, heads turned in her direction. He made it sound as if she had suggested otherwise. As if she was getting above herself.
Jem Arden was sitting next to him. At that moment, reaching for the water jug, he knocked over his glass and water cascaded into Henderson’s lap, soaking his neatly pressed trousers and making him splutter to his feet in indignation.
‘Sorry,’ Jem said blandly.
After tea, when the girls were still crowded in the scullery washing the pots, Joseph took the knives to the butler’s pantry, where the rotary knife-cleaning machine was kept.
The butler’s pantry smelled of silver paste and chamois leather, but this evening he followed a faint drift of the roses and vanilla that scented Mrs Furniss’s rooms. Sure enough, the door to Mr Goddard’s room was open a crack. Through it he could hear the butler’s creaky voice and see the hem of Mrs Furniss’s black silk skirt.
Joseph put the knives down carefully, laying them on a piece of linen cloth to hush their clatter, and listened.
He knew it was wrong, but since he wasn’t important enough to be told anything, it was the only way to keep up with goings-on in the house, and he liked to keep up, just in case. Coldwell was a good place—a paradise compared to the Sheffield Union Workhouse and what had gone before it—but you never knew. Things could turn bad in an instant. People you thought were all right could show a different side. It didn’t do to get too comfortable.
It was hard to make out what Mr Goddard was saying. His voice was dry and raspy, like the rustle of autumn leaves, but Joseph—staring down at the worn quarry tiles and concentrating hard—picked out the name of Mr Dewhurst, who was the butler in the London house, and the word everyone was saying lately— coronation. Holding his breath, he slunk closer to the door.
‘… Ten days, all told. No point in taking on more staff in Portman Square when Sir Randolph plans to spend most of his time here. You and I will stay to oversee the renovations, but the rest of the staff—’
A shadow fell across the tiles and a pair of gleaming shoes appeared at the edge of Joseph’s vision.
His heart kicked like a rabbit in a trap. Old instinct—beaten into him from beyond his earliest recollection—made him cringe and cower from the anticipated blow. But Mr Henderson had only raised his hand to pull Mr Goddard’s door shut, sealing the voices inside.
‘I think you’d better get on with cleaning those knives, don’t you?’
Joseph scuttled back to the rotary machine and reached for the box of powder to tip into the little trap at the top of the drum. His breath stuck in his chest as he waited for Henderson to leave. But he didn’t. His shiny shoes tapped on the tiles as he crossed the room and stood by the lead-lined sink where Mr Goddard washed the crystal glasses. His hand, resting on the wooden draining board, was soft and pale, like a fish.
The girls’ voices floated along the passageway, raised above the splash of water and the clang of dishes. In the butler’s pantry the silence seemed to thicken the air, like the dust motes that swirled in the evening sunlight.
‘Not as daft as everyone thinks, are you, eh, boy?’
The valet’s voice was as soft as his flesh. Joseph kept his eyes fixed to the knife-cleaning machine, slotting the blades carefully into the mechanism, making his movements as small and spare as possible. He didn’t know how to reply to the question, or whether a reply was expected. Or if that white hand was about to snatch him by the collar and shake an answer out of him.
‘I reckon you know a lot more than you let on, don’t you? More than everyone gives you credit for.’
‘No, sir.’
The hairs were prickling on the back of Joseph’s neck, warning him that, in this situation, being seen to know things was bad. He risked a swift glance at the valet, and found that he was regarding him thoughtfully, stroking his beard with those soft, white fingers.
‘Well, it seems you’re the first to know that all the indoor servants are being sent to Sir Randolph’s London house to help with the coronation entertainments, doesn’t it? You’ve learned that at the same time as Mrs Furniss and before any of the others. What other secrets do you hear, I wonder?’
‘None, sir,’ Joseph mumbled.
Mr Henderson’s laugh took him by surprise. ‘Very good. Just as I suspected—the soul of discretion.’ The valet’s hand slid into the pocket of his waistcoat. ‘Do you know, Joseph, discretion is a fine quality in a servant, and one Sir Randolph prizes very highly. A boy like you could do very well at Coldwell. Very well indeed. Loyalty is always rewarded…’ He took a step forward and leaned in, so Joseph felt his cigar-sour breath on his cheek. ‘Remember that.’
Joseph recoiled. It was only when the valet’s footsteps were echoing along the passageway that he noticed the glint of a silver sixpence on the edge of the table.