A House Divided: An Easterleigh Hall Novel (19 page)

She sieved the remains of the flour and slumped onto the stool. Raisin yelped in his sleep.

She stared at Mrs Moore, remembering the French poodles who had yelped for two hours one night in their owners' bedroom, and why not? A strange room, and a strange country. Their owners were from Paris, and had chatted to her about haute cuisine when they came to have a look at the stables. Mrs Moore had been there, listening too.

That was it. The confusion fell from her. ‘You are a witch, you know, dear Mrs Moore. I think you have a cauldron in your apartment, one that you sit over while poor Mr Harvey wonders what spell you're about to cast. How can you sum up what's going on in my head, just like that, when I didn't even know what I was thinking, until this minute?'

‘Aye, well, I've had your mother through my hands, and look what she and Ver got up to, attending suffrage meetings, organising the hospital, dealing with things you must hope you never see. Then there's Gracie, pacing her kitchen until she packed her bags and took herself off to war. So I know “restless” when I see it. The thing is, what are you going
to do about it, apart from get on with that sponge before it spoils?'

Bridie poured the mixture into greased pans, and slid them into the oven. ‘Cookery School,' she breathed. She'd go to Paris, learn haute cuisine. Then James could come to see her when he was on his way to Spain, and she would go with him, somehow, hanging unseen on his coat-tails, if that's what it took. Then Tim would see what a mistake he'd made: he was a Nazi; they were in opposition. That would teach him.

That evening, Bridie knocked at her father's study door at Home Farm.

‘Come in, Bridie.'

She entered. ‘Have you eyes that are not only in the back of your head, but that can see through doors?'

He grinned up at her. ‘That's right, nothing to do with the fact that I've been hearing you knock on that door since you were able to walk. Come and sit with me. I'm just sorting out the stock ordering. You'll be fascinated, I don't think.'

She laughed, her heart lighter than it had been for what seemed years. She walked across the polished and spotless old oak flooring. Molly, the farmhouse housekeeper from Easton, ruled the house with a rod of iron, and the floor was her pride and joy.

She brought him a piece of the sandwich sponge she had baked that afternoon, while she and Mrs
Moore had worked on a plan to change the idea of a Paris cookery school into reality. He took the plate, as she settled herself in the ‘swing around' chair he kept next to his.

He tried a forkful. ‘Delicious. I love the gooseberry jam with the cream. Perhaps it would help if I put in an order to Home Farm dairy to feed the cows jam? Then you could just whack it in the sandwich. Is that why you're here – because I only have cake if I've been a
very
good father, or you want something
very
important? So I must eat it quickly in case I have to say no.'

He gobbled it up while Bridie laughed, but couldn't hide her nervousness. She gathered herself, then embarked on pretty much the same conversation she'd had with Mrs Moore, telling him that she was restless, that she needed to expand her experience, that she was sixteen and a half.

At that point her da put his plate on the desk, wiped his mouth on the napkin she'd brought, and sat back in his chair, looking not at her, but swinging round to look out of the window. She did the same. The trees, dimly lit by the moon, moved in the wind.

‘Goodness,' he said, ‘how very old. Sixteen and a half, eh, and needing a change of scene, and an expansion of skills.'

She rushed on, ‘Easton lads were fighting in the war and working down in the mines at my age. Alright, the soldiers lied about their age, but . . .' She stopped.

He had swung back to his desk and was doodling on his blotting pad. She swung back too, used to the ritual. Her da said into the silence, ‘Not sure that you can compare war with a cookery course, darling girl.' He looked up now, staring intently into her eyes. Had he guessed?

He continued, ‘However, I think perhaps we could compare your mother's reaction to you leaving for Paris, to you asking to join up.'

‘Paris? How did you know I was thinking of Paris?'

‘Do you think Mrs Moore would let you go into battle on your own? She is more formidable than any sergeant major I have ever had the misfortune to come across, except perhaps for Matron. She has briefed me on every single aspect of your recent conversation.'

‘Oh, Da, and you let me go on, and bring cake.' Relief and stress vied with one another.

‘I need you to convince me, Bridie, that you will brush up on your French before you leave, though I know Gracie and your mam have taught you well; I need to know that you will work hard, and most of all behave. I want you to come back. I do not want you falling in love with a Frenchman and leaving us.'

Bridie busied herself, placing his napkin on the plate, because she wouldn't be back, not for a long while, anyway, and she had never lied to her father before. She swung round, looking out at the moon
and the trees, and then turned back to him. She loved him so much, and her mam, but they had carved their own paths, so they would eventually understand that she needed this for herself, surely.

She pushed her guilt aside, taking his war-scarred hand. ‘Of course I won't marry a Frenchman. He'd probably have a poodle, and Currant and Raisin would never come and see me. Will you talk to Mam for me, Da?'

He shook his head. ‘Nope, that will have to come from you, but I will, what we used to call in the army, reconnoitre the land, and report on a way across.'

The next day her mother came into Home Farm kitchen, her arms folded, and no smile. Bridie turned back to the stove, stirring porridge, and wasn't about to stop, but instead would pre-empt her. She said, ‘You see, I do feel that Easterleigh Hall needs to move forward, Mam. Haute cuisine is that way forward.'

‘Yes, your da told me what he'd advised you to say. He can't pretend, and I know when he has something afoot, Bridie Brampton. You need to spread your wings, is, I gather, what Mrs Moore said.'

Bridie swung round, the wooden spoon in her hand. ‘Oh dear.'

Evie stood there, a smile on her face. ‘Put that spoon back and stop dripping porridge on Molly's floor, or you'll be down on your knees with a
scrubbing brush until she's satisfied. I will decide at the end of the day.'

As the day continued over at the Easterleigh Hall kitchen, Bridie was so tense she was almost beyond talking, let alone breathing, because her mam seemed to have forgotten all about the decision she must come to. In fact, she was just as she always was, and Mrs Moore was as she always was. Since it was her day for taking it easy, her knitting needles were relentless, clickety-clacking as she sat in the armchair, with the dogs on the other one, curled up together most of the day.

Bridie slipped across to her while her mam was in the hanging pantry, examining the mutton and pheasant. ‘How does Mam seem?' she asked. Mrs Moore was counting stitches and frowned, shaking her head.

Her mam returned, with the pheasant that she'd marinated overnight but without the mutton. ‘Sole,' she said. ‘That's what we'll have as an alternative, served plain, without sauce, as the guests we have staying at the moment prefer.'

Bridie flushed. ‘Oh, Mam, but perhaps they'd like to try—'

Mrs Moore called across, ‘Come and hold your arms out for me, Bridie. I need to wind some wool into balls. These scarves are using more than I thought.'

Evie concentrated on preparing the pheasant and
just said, ‘Yes, that's fine, Bridie, but I want you to make sure the vegetables are ready within the hour.'

Bridie could have screamed, but she dragged up a stool and sat in front of Mrs Moore, and held the hank of wool until her arms ached, and all the time there was a question in her eyes, which Mrs Moore firmly ignored. At last they were finished, and as Mrs Moore nodded her thanks, the elderly woman whispered, ‘Don't you be pushing it, young madam. Your mam will let you know her decision, and you might just like to show that you can await that decision like an adult.'

‘She's goading me, though, Mrs Moore. The guests we have staying might well have liked my suggestion of a light lemon sauce. We did say last week that we might consider it today.' She was whispering in her turn.

‘You need to give your mam her moment, pet, and behind the teasing she's really thinking everything through.'

After luncheon there was afternoon tea, and the usual sponge cakes and fancies to make. As she did so, Bridie actually kept her eyes shut. There, she thought to herself. I can do it without looking, which goes to show just how boring my world has become. She felt the tension rising again. What if the answer was no?

As she opened her eyes, she saw her mother looking up from her recipe bible, shaking her head as though she couldn't believe what she was seeing.
Was that a laugh behind her eyes? If so, what did it mean? She knew better than to ask, especially after she glanced past her mam to Mrs Moore, whose look confirmed it.

By the time dinner was cooked and cleared away, Bridie felt like a wrung-out dishcloth, and set off for home alone, unable to stand walking beside her mam while she ignored the subject as she had done all day. She was striding beside the yew hedge when she heard her mother call, ‘Wait up, Bridie. We can walk together, because there won't be many more times we can, once you start your course in Paris.'

Bridie halted, turned and tore back to her mother, flinging her arms around her. ‘I love you, Mam. I love you up to the sky and back down again, a million times. Thank you. Just thank you.'

Her mam's arms around her tightened. ‘I'll miss you, bonny lass, don't you forget that, and I'll long for your return.'

Bridie pushed away her mother's words. She didn't know when she would return, but her mam would understand, if not at first, then eventually. Nothing could stop her now from going to Paris to start on something really worthwhile, a world away from cooking. But then, as her mother relaxed her grip, and they started to head for home, Bridie slipped her hand into her mam's, and didn't want to leave, not at all, because now it felt wrong, and the guilt and pain took away any pleasure. ‘I love you so much, Mam, and I'll miss you all too.'

She and her mam left from Gosforn station two months later. Mrs Moore and Mr Harvey came too, and James. Her da hugged them both, telling Bridie that he'd miss her and would expect culinary miracles on her return. He told his wife that he'd miss her every second she was away settling Bridie in Paris, and that she could buy as many hats as she liked, as long as she had a lovely time, but came back at the end of the week. ‘I love you, dearest Evie, you too, darling Bridie. Just make the most of it the next four months, that's all I ask.'

Aunt Grace arrived with Uncle Jack. They still looked sad and drawn and as they hugged Bridie, she wondered, for the first time, if she had done the right thing to send Tim away, but if he'd come to compound the hurt, at that particular time, it would have been just too dreadful, especially if she'd been the one to allow him through. The guard whistled, and the porter, Gerry Wilkins, shouted, ‘Bridie Brampton, if you don't get on the train, I will throw you on myself.'

She leapt aboard, and waved until the train rounded a bend.

Bridie gazed at the Eiffel Tower. ‘By, Mam, the boys . . . well, James, would love this.'

‘Tim would too. Just because he has had a few tantrums and has different ideas to you two doesn't mean he's changed completely.' Bridie caught the uncertainty in her mother's voice, ‘But I did expect him to come to help the marras support your da when Prancer was dying. I phoned Jeb, you know, and asked him to get a message through to his office, in the hope . . .' She trailed off.

For Bridie, the sun seemed to have gone behind a cloud at these words, and she realised she had stopped breathing. Oh, God, she didn't know he'd been responding to a message. She drew in a sharp breath, almost a gasp.

‘Oh, Bridie pet, we need to forget about all that, and concentrate on today.' Her mother was holding her arm. ‘Come on, time to buy a few hats, and then we'll return to Madame Beauchesne, I promise. Just a few.' Evie laughed.

Bridie stared at the tower, dragging her thoughts back to Old Bert's Field, to Tim's face, to the savage enjoyment, to his uniform, to just about everything he had become, and knew that she'd been right to send him away, whether Jeb had given him the message or not. Nothing would have changed him from the person who told Uncle Jack he wasn't their
son. Nothing. He'd come to gloat, to laugh at her wonderful Prancer, to hurt them all again.

She felt again the soft muzzle, the last exhale, and for a sharp, slicing moment, wanted to be home. To be under the cedar tree, looking at Easterleigh Hall, both of which were the only things that never changed, in essence.

Shrugging, she allowed her mother to pull her along and was soon laughing with her.

Five hats later they were still sauntering along, following the map her da had tucked in her mam's handbag, saying that he knew if there was a chance of Evie getting lost, it would happen. They stopped for a coffee, strong and black. She almost felt the caffeine knock the top off her head as they sat at a pavement café. ‘I wonder what I'll learn at the Haute Cuisine Institute?'

Her mam was looking in one of her hat boxes, ‘It's so gorgeous, and as for the Institute, you'll learn far more than I've been teaching you, as well as more than the mastery of Mrs Moore, and let's just draw a veil over what Aunt Ver might have taught you.' They both roared with laughter, because Aunt Ver's strength was helping Harry at front of house and doing a few basic cookery chores. ‘You will learn so much, and then you'll return at the end of September and introduce all you have learned, just in time for the start of the winter. But, pet, we'll miss you until then.'