Ravenscliffe (32 page)

He tailed off and looked pointedly at the chef, who had lit a cigarette and stretched himself languorously, amorously, in his chair: legs out, head tipped back, eyes closed, the better to enhance the sensual pleasure of his first inhalation. Unaware of the charge being laid – albeit obliquely – at his feet, he blew a lazy plume of smoke from the corner of his mouth, Sarah watching him furtively with hungry eyes. Parkinson, sad as much as affronted, longed for the bulky, uncomplicated presence at the table of Mrs Adams. The appointment of Monsieur Reynard had been made in haste, and though the
original thought had come from Mrs Powell-Hughes, Parkinson had been very quick to endorse it; now, the butler lamented silently, he must repent at leisure.

Returned from Scotland and up early, the earl took a stroll through the stable yard to talk to his horses; they accepted his gentle endearments with bowed heads and modest eyes. It was a while since he’d ridden and there was some truth in the belief among the grooms that the earl preferred his motorcars to his mounts these days, but this had more to do with his stiffening joints than a diminishing love of horses and, anyway, whatever resentments the grooms might harbour, there was certainly no sign of reproach from the hunters this morning as they listened to him and nickered softly in reply to his murmured words.

Lord Netherwood was content to be back in Yorkshire. He was tired of company, tired of the sort of conversations that company made necessary, tired of travelling. He meant to remain here now until after Christmas, irrespective of Clarissa’s plans; he would be impervious to her entreaties. Things to do, he thought, things to do. Hole in the roof of the racehorse stables where rain came in. Bally great hole in what used to be the main lawn, where Daniel MacLeod was creating a canal, of all things. Great changes afoot in the pits. All three of them needed a visit from him, but especially Long Martley, where Harry Booth had a great deal on his plate – the Crookgate district should be open again by now, and the rescue centre would be up and running before too long. On which subject Booth must inform the newspapers; might as well nip in with a spot of good news before the Mines Inspectorate published their report. All of this ran through Lord Netherwood’s mind in the time it
took Absalom Blandford to trip-trap down the stairs from his estate lodgings and cross the courtyard towards his office, and the sound of his progress reminded the earl of another matter, equally pressing, which he’d been meaning to deal with ever since he heard Eve Williams was marrying the gardener.

‘Absalom,’ he said, and the bailiff stood to attention at the threshold of his office, as pristine in his worsted and pin stripes as a soldier on parade. He all but clicked his heels.

‘Your lordship?’

‘I’d like to arrange an appointment with Mr Jackson. Could you see to it?’

‘But of course.’ Absalom Blandford had arranged his features into the expression he saved only for the earl, so though he longed to know what business Lord Netherwood might all of a sudden have with his solicitor, his curiosity was hidden by an obliging, oily simper.

‘He must come here, however,’ the earl said. ‘Can’t possibly be motoring off to Sheffield, what.’

‘No, your lordship, indeed not. So soon after your return. Quite impossible. Could I perhaps save your lordship’s time even further, and conduct your business myself?’

For a tantalising moment, the earl considered this, then: ‘Doubt it,’ he said. ‘I wanted to make over the mill to Mrs Williams – wedding present, y’know. There’ll be papers to sign.’

This was said so casually that Absalom was certain he’d misheard.

‘Make over …’

‘The mill. That’s it. Struck me some time back that she should have the business, lock, stock and whatnot.’

He was beaming at the bailiff, whose own face was losing the struggle, his smile reduced to a tight, thin line, white-rimmed and unnatural. Left to his own devices, he would
have screamed and raged and hurled foul expletives into the October sky. By what dark art had Eve Williams wormed herself so effectively into the earl’s affections? That she was to marry in the family’s chapel had been a blow of near-unendurable impact, so sure had Absalom been that the brutish gardener was wildly, risibly, contemptibly mistaken. The earl had confirmed the arrangement with a casual apology for his forgetfulness – ‘I should have mentioned it earlier, Absalom, but hey ho’ – as if all he was discussing was an overlooked detail, barely worth the mention. But now here he was proposing an act of such wildly flamboyant generosity that it was surely Absalom’s duty to prevent him.

‘But, your lordship,’ he said, feigning calm professionalism. ‘The business at the mill turns a tidy profit for the estate.’

‘Neither here nor there,’ said Lord Netherwood pleasantly. ‘In fact, all the more reason to let her have it. Reward her industry.’

Absalom cleared his throat, wiped his brow, swallowed hard.

‘I do feel, your lordship, that as your bailiff I should urge you not to act rashly in this regard. The present arrangement benefits all concerned.’

The earl laughed.

‘Why Absalom! Are you defying me?’

It did appear so, and indeed the bailiff found himself unable to refute the charge; his mouth worked to no audible effect and he tugged at his collar as if it choked him. Lord Netherwood, alarmed at his evident discomfort, said, ‘Are you quite well, old chap? You look a little below par.’

‘I do feel somewhat unwell, your lordship,’ Absalom said, thinking it was a wonder, in fact, that he hadn’t vomited on the earl’s brogues.

‘Well, look here, I have plenty to do and I don’t doubt you do too. A sentimental old fool I might be, but oblige me
and send that telegram to Jackson, what? Let me know when he’s coming.’

‘I just wonder if Mrs Williams is worth the gift,’ the bailiff said, reckless in his desperation.

‘I beg your pardon?’

The earl sounded displeased now, and little wonder. Absalom flailed around inside his conniving head, desperately seeking some small fact to support his statement, knowing all the while that there was none. It was imperative, however, that this scheme be dashed to pieces before it gained momentum.

‘I mean to say, that is, perhaps …’

The earl watched him struggle to frame a sentence, irritated beyond measure that his bailiff, previously unfailingly helpful and efficient in all matters, appeared to be attempting to thwart his wishes.

‘… Perhaps the gift might look inappropriately generous to the wider world.’

‘Ah, the wider world,’ said the earl, in a deceptively measured voice.

‘Yes, your lordship,’ Absalom said, encouraged. ‘One must exercise caution in regard to the giving of gifts to lower orders. People may jump to unfortunate conclusions about, shall we say, your relationship with the recipient.’

Oh, how unwise was Absalom Blandford in his counsel. How rash and ill-advised were his words. He realised, too late, that in trying to gently show Lord Netherwood the error of his ways, he had merely succeeded in provoking in him a wave of profound indignation; it manifested itself in a dark red flush, which now rose rapidly upwards from the earl’s tweed collar.

‘You have over-reached yourself, Mr Blandford,’ he said coldly and loud enough for an eavesdropper to catch every word. ‘I will not be swayed from my resolve by the frankly dubious threat of tittle-tattle among the locals. You surprise
me. Surprise me, and disappoint me. Please do as you are bid, and do it at once. Thank you.’

He turned, and in doing so saw Jem Arkwright, who was halfway across the courtyard, ruddy faced and dressed like a farmer, his terrier bouncing maniacally at his heels.

‘Ah, Jem,’ said the earl, relief evident in his voice. ‘A word, if you will.’

He strode away from his bailiff, who stood immobile for a few moments, rooted to the cobbles by the weight of his shame and resentment, before stirring himself into motion and dipping, head bowed, into the sanctuary of his office. To his alarm, his body shook convulsively and his skin felt hot and damp, like a man in the grip of an ague. He sat down at his desk to steady himself and to think. The earl, whose reliance on Absalom’s talents these past years had been the greatest joy of the bailiff’s life, had turned on him like a viper, rewarding his loyalty and professionalism with a humiliating rebuke, an ignominious dressing-down. For all Absalom knew, the stable lads may have heard every word: they would delight in his disgrace, embellishing the incident in the retelling with vulgar additions and hoots of cretinous laughter. Oh God, Jem Arkwright may have caught the gist of it, too. The bailiff, pale and sweating, reached into his desk for a linen pouch stuffed with dried lavender flowers and pressed it hard against his nose and mouth, taking deep, fortifying inhalations of its calming scent. Slowly, his breathing steadied and his humiliation began to harden into a bitter determination not to be vanquished. He would apply his superior mind to this conundrum because Eve Williams must not triumph. The battle this morning may have been lost, but the war could yet be won. Hell had no fury like Absalom Blandford scorned.

T
he wedding was to take place at ten o’clock in the morning, which meant that Daniel, waking early, had three clear hours to spend in his garden before sprucing up. He needed to occupy himself, needed to lose himself in physical labour, so that thoughts of Eve’s body naked beneath him before the day was out didn’t drive him stark raving mad at the eleventh hour and prevent the ceremony taking place. The enforced abstinence that Eve had infuriatingly placed upon them had certainly invested this day with profound significance, though for him it was carnal, not holy. He lay in Hislop’s single bed – it was still Hislop’s, to Daniel: never felt like his own – and indulged for a while in distracting fantasies, then with an effort of will he threw back the blankets and the cold dispelled his ardour in short order. Ducking to avoid cracking his head on the beams, he pulled on last night’s discarded clothes and went downstairs. His escape from this miniature dwelling was coming not a moment too soon; any longer and he’d have had a permanent stoop. Also, it was an ill-lit place with too few windows, and those badly positioned. Daniel had never met his predecessor, but in his mind Hislop was more mole than man. He pictured him snuffling around this
burrow in the half-light, scowling, when he ventured into the garden, at the brightness of the outside world. Daniel flung open the door now in spite of the chill, to let the grey dawn light into the kitchen while he made tea and buttered a slice of yesterday’s bread. He would skip breakfast up at the hall – the talk would be all spicy innuendo for a groom on his wedding day – and have a wee bit of time to himself on the banks of the Grand Canal. He smiled and let his mind drift to this work in progress. The project was storming ahead, the long, wide basin of the canal already almost dug. A complicated system of hydraulics was planned for the thousands of gallons of water that would be needed to fill it, but the area Daniel had chosen lay relatively low, and water from natural drainage as well as from the principal fountains in other parts of the grounds would feed into the new feature; great iron pumps, housed in their own brick buildings and hidden from view by the estate reservoir, were poised, ready to be called to duty. Lady Netherwood wanted a new fountain, this time a stone Neptune rising with sea nymphs from the centre of the canal but this, Daniel argued, would defeat the object and despoil the beautiful, glassy stillness of the water. This was their latest tussle: there was always at least one. The countess’s tastes inclined towards rococo flourishes, while Daniel was for discipline and clean lines; they had been horticulturally incompatible for twenty happy years.

A rap on the low, mullioned kitchen window made Daniel jump, and he peered down to see the brown-toothed, sloppy grin of Stevie Marsh pressed up against it. Thirty-four gardeners beneath Daniel, and Stevie was bottom of the heap; if there’d been sixty-eight it would have made no difference.

‘Mornin’ Mr MacLeod. Tha ready for thi nuptials?’ he said slowly and gormlessly; he couldn’t help this, but it irritated people and this morning it irritated Daniel.

‘Away and mind your own business,’ he said, and was instantly regretful.

Stevie stared through the glass. The open doorway was two feet to his right, but he hadn’t the sense to find it.

‘Tha what?’

‘Och, it doesn’t matter, Stevie. What is it you want?’

‘Nowt really.’ He looked up at the sky then back again. ‘Looks like rain,’ he said.

‘Away you go then, and light that bonfire while it’s still dry.’

Stevie smiled a smile of fond recollection, remembering his mountain of leaves, the product of yesterday’s labour. This was all he was really fit for – raking and sweeping – but he performed the task with unmatched thoroughness. No leaf was safe if Stevie was charged with the task of clearing them.

‘Right you are,’ he said happily, then: ‘Mr Macleod?’

‘Aye, what is it now?’

‘Do you ’ave folk comin’ to t’wedding?’

‘Folk?’

‘Aye. Fam’ly, like?’