Chapter 16
Chapter 16
The thin, metallic note of the church bell started up as Eliza leaned over the washbowl and splashed her face with cold water. Behind her, Abigail had unpinned her hair and turned her head upside down to brush it vigorously. On hearing the bell, she flipped it back, so that it settled around her shoulders like an expensive sable cape.
‘Oh Lord, that must be Davy telling us he’s here! I’m not ready. I wanted to try that new style I saw in the magazine.’
‘He won’t be here yet; Davy will have just seen him. And anyway, even when he does get here it’s going to take him ages to set up all his fancy equipment, isn’t it? You’ve got plenty of time.’
Even to Eliza’s own ears her voice sounded weary and snappish. Not so long ago she would have shared Abigail’s excitement about a photographer coming to take staff portraits to hang alongside the others on the kitchen passage wall, but she couldn’t seem to muster much enthusiasm for anything these days.
Yesterday evening Abigail had carried up cans of water to wash her hair and Eliza had intended to use it once she’d finished, but in the end the effort had seemed overwhelming. It had been a long day; Sir Randolph was back from Scotland and as demanding as ever, and with the additional work for the wedding celebrations and the couple’s permanent return to Coldwell, everyone was rushed off their feet. By the time tea was cleared Eliza had been done in and decided to make do with sponging the roots with a bit of cider vinegar. The smell wafted about her now, and in the mirror, her hair hung lankly around her pasty face, a stark contrast with the silken swathe Abigail was pinning into a shiny pompadour. Eliza regretted not taking the trouble.
She found she was regretting quite a few things, these days.
She buried her face in the towel to smother her envy, and the nausea that rolled through her. Abigail had already changed her morning print dress for the smarter afternoon black, but Eliza was putting off undressing until Abigail had gone downstairs.
‘I wish we didn’t have to wear these stupid caps,’ Abigail grumbled. ‘I’m going to pin mine right on the back of my head so’s you can’t see it. I hope the photographer doesn’t want us to do that ridiculous thing of holding something to show what job we do. The one we had at my last place did that. So embarrassing. I was standing there holding a dustpan and brush like a right lemon. I looked like a crossing sweeper.’
In spite of herself, Eliza laughed.
‘That’s more like it,’ Abigail said, securing the last pin in her cap and letting her arms fall to her sides. ‘Haven’t seen you crack a smile in weeks. Not since London.’ There was a little pause, and she sighed. ‘You really fell for him, didn’t you?’
Eliza picked up the hairbrush from the washstand and pulled the dead hair from its bristles. Acid-tasting saliva pricked at the back of her throat and with difficulty she swallowed it down, shaking her head. That was the most galling thing about this—she hadn’t been that keen on Walter Cox at all, but if she opened her mouth to say that, she feared she would succumb to the tide of sickness that was slowly rising inside her again.
Abigail turned away, clearly hurt that her attempt to bridge the new distance between them had been rebuffed. ‘Well anyway… I’ll go down.’ She nodded to the two folded aprons that were laid on her bed; the ones for best, with lace edging and pintucks. ‘Which one do you want? Square neck or round?’
‘Either. You choose.’
She didn’t look to see which one Abigail took. Fixing her eyes on the garlands of roses circling the china wash jug, she focused on breathing in through her nose and releasing the air in a steady stream, without parting her lips too much. At the door Abigail paused. ‘I could help you with your hair if you like?’
‘Don’t worry, it’s fine,’ Eliza said, in a strangled voice. ‘You go down—I won’t be a minute.’
Sweat broke out across her forehead and she breathed in again, holding it until Abigail’s footsteps had reached the bottom of the stairs and she could fumble under the bed for the chamber pot. Crouching on the floor with her arms wrapped around her body, she gave herself up to the paroxysms of nausea, though she had long since brought up her breakfast and there was nothing left to spit out but bitter-tasting bile.
The photographer was a twitchy little man in a dapper suit who reminded Kate of a music hall turn. He set his camera up on the gravel in front of the house and got the gardeners’ boys, who were first to arrive, to stand on the steps while he buried his head beneath his black cloth, then emerged again to dart around, adjusting the position of his tripod and mopping his forehead with a spotted silk handkerchief.
It was a crisp morning of blue skies and cool, damp air. The end of the summer heat wave had brought a sense of renewed energy and purpose, heightened by the imminent wedding. Yet another troop of men had arrived that morning to begin setting up a large tent on the stretch of grass to the west of the house for the dance that was to be held for local people—tenants and villagers as well as staff—to celebrate the return of Sir Randolph and the new Lady Hyde to Coldwell. Standing at the top of the steps, Kate watched them unfolding the huge canvas and hammering in poles. Behind them, the trees were already wearing their autumn colours, the hills painted in shades of brown and khaki. Change was in the air.
‘Mrs Furniss?’
She turned, smothering the smile that spread inside her at the sound of Jem’s voice. He was coming up the steps, his tone businesslike, his expression serious. He was wearing formal livery for the photograph, and the high collar accentuated the slant of his cheekbones, the clean line of his jaw. She felt her chest constrict. Stopping a few respectable feet from her, he lowered his voice so that only she could hear.
‘Can I tell you how beautiful you look?’
‘Absolutely not,’ she murmured, making sure to keep the intimate warmth in her tone from showing on her face. ‘That would be unforgivably forward.’
‘It seems I never learn…’
‘And in fact, get worse.’ She risked a sideways glance at him. ‘It’s just as well I’m not some swoony housemaid and can easily resist you.’ It was so hard not to smile. ‘Was there anything else you wanted?’
‘There was, actually.’ The spark went out of his eyes. ‘I asked Goddard if I could take my half day on Monday instead of tomorrow. He said no.’
On the gravel the photographer was waving his arms, directing the garden lads into a tighter group. Kate realised they were in the way and moved along the steps, to the other side of the stone pillar. Thomas, standing where Jem had been a moment before, glanced round.
‘Never mind. There’s far too much to do, with the wedding celebration,’ she said in her brisk, public voice, loud enough to be heard.
‘I do mind,’ he said softly, moving to stand beside her. ‘You’re going to Hatherford on Monday, for the bank. I could have met you there.’
Beneath the portico, behind the group of garden boys (who had been joined by Gatley), one of the front doors opened. Susan and Abigail scurried out, followed a moment later by Joseph.
The photographer’s face turned puce with frustration. ‘Please, please… out of the way!’ he spluttered, gesticulating frantically.
‘There’ll be other times,’ Kate said quietly. ‘Sir Randolph’s leaving for London tomorrow. It’ll be easier when he’s gone.’
Sir Randolph himself wasn’t the problem, but when he was out of the way, his valet was too.
For a moment, neither of them spoke as they watched the garden lads relax their stiff poses and disperse, to make way for Johnny Farrow and the Twigg boys in their faded coachman’s coats. They were joined—after some uncertainty—by Robson the chauffeur in his flashy livery, which was, Kate thought absently, like watching the past meet the future. The old give way to the new.
‘I wish everyone was leaving for London,’ Jem said softly, ‘and we could have that time again.’
She took a breath, trying to appear indifferent. When she spoke, it was almost without moving her lips.
‘What would you do with it?’
‘Not waste it trying to resist you. Spend it getting to know you properly.’
She thought about his hands on her breasts, his mouth on her thighs. Reaching for her chatelaine, she snapped open her watch to distract from the heat that was creeping into her cheeks.
‘I’d say you know me quite well already.’
‘I want to know more,’ he murmured. ‘And there are things I want to tell you, things I need to’—he broke off abruptly and cleared his throat—‘take down to the gamekeeper’s cottage, like you asked,’ he finished loudly.
Kate’s head snapped round, and she saw a shadow move behind the pillar.
‘Joseph?’
The hallboy emerged, cowering a little as he always did, though no one at Coldwell had ever raised a hand to him. It was a hard habit to break, as she understood well. The workhouse authorities had warned her that the boy had witnessed significant violence in his short life, and that it was likely to have marked his character. His mother had died at his father’s hand—which was why Joseph had ended up in the care of the parish—and it was thought that he’d witnessed the event, though he claimed not to remember it. This was never far from her mind. It made it hard to be angry with him.
‘Yes, Mrs Furniss.’
Joseph’s eyes were blue and imploring, his face slightly grimy with coal smuts and jam from breakfast.
‘What are you doing there? You’re not even ready! Go and wash your face—quickly. You can’t be in the photograph looking like that.’
He scampered off, down the steps towards the stable yard as Mr Goddard appeared through the front doors, little more than a shadow in his worn tailcoat and striped trousers. Down on the gravel, the photographer pleaded querulously for the footmen since they didn’t seem to have a full complement of housemaids. Eliza was missing, Kate realised. Trust her to take ages getting ready.
Mrs Gatley came out, apron crackling with starch. ‘D’you think we could be next? Upper servants?’ she called, with an aggrieved air. ‘Only I haven’t got time to hang about—not if Sir Randolph’s going to be having his luncheon this side of teatime.’
Mr Goddard craned his tortoise neck around. ‘Unfortunately, Mr Henderson has yet to join us. Perhaps by the time the footmen have had their portraits taken he’ll be here…’
Mrs Gatley threw up her plump arms and muttered that she couldn’t be blamed if the venison was half-raw, and Jem went to take his place in the centre of the steps. Kate looked around with a twinge of unease.
Henderson was like one of those giant house spiders that crouched in dark corners, or hid in the folds of a linen pillowcase, setting her nerves jangling when it darted out. She could cope with it if she had some warning, though it made her shudder. She’d rather know one was there than be caught unawares by its sudden scuttle.
But she’d much rather it wasn’t there at all.
Joseph ran, skidding a little on the gravel as he turned the corner to the stable yard, his footsteps echoing as he passed under the brick archway.
The front door was open, and it would have been quicker to go that way. It was allowed today, with everyone coming and going for the photographs, but still, it didn’t feel right. On the day he arrived at Coldwell he’d been told that the front door was for family and guests only, and Joseph preferred to stick to the rules. He liked knowing what was expected of him: what was permitted and what was likely to get him a hiding. Not that he’d ever had a beating here, but the fear of it was stamped into him, like a bruise that wouldn’t heal. It came roaring back sometimes, catching him out, making his heart jump and his mind go black.
The back door was open too. He plunged into the dimness, barely slowing his pace, so he had to put out a hand to steady himself as he turned the corner into the kitchen passage. After the brightness of the day, the shadows swamped his vision. He didn’t see the figure emerge from the footmen’s wardrobe until it was too late.
A hand, heavy on his shoulder. The smell of hair oil.
‘And where are you going in such a hurry, young man?’
June 29th
France
The rain has stopped and the clouds have lifted. I think that means all this waiting will soon be over, whatever we’re waiting for.
Joseph is in a bad way. I asked the captain if he could be moved out of the line because of his nerves being gone, but apparently it would be considered a dereliction of duty. He’d be arrested. That might possibly be worse for him—being imprisoned on his own. He has nightmares about what happened back then, and when he was a kid. Lately they’ve been so bad that he has them when he isn’t even asleep.
He never spoke to me about his life before Coldwell. I suppose I never asked.
Perhaps things would have been different if I had.