Ravenscliffe (48 page)

Henrietta stopped reading. She looked up from the dense type, rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hands. None of what she read was entirely surprising, except this last detail; she hadn’t thought her father would wilfully ignore a warning. Perhaps he hadn’t fully understood the risks. She turned to look at his handsome, solemn face, gazing above and beyond her, but it revealed nothing. He had been a fundamentally good man, she thought, within the limitations of his generation and class. At least, he had been better than many. And yet he had failed the men whose lives depended on the safety of his collieries. Accidents, of course, would continue to happen; supports and props would continue to buckle under the weight of the earth; toxic gases would continue to ignite and explode; a pit could never be a safe place to earn a living. ‘But we have to be as sure as we can be,’ said Henrietta out loud to her father’s portrait, ‘that at the final reckoning we are not found wanting.’

She often spoke to him, here in the study, though it was
rarely with this tone of reproof. She glanced back down at the document open on the desk in front of her and continued to read. The Long Martley disaster had claimed eighty-eight lives, and yet the Netherwood Collieries Company, while roundly condemned by the inspector, was not in breach of its statutory responsibilities; therefore no legal action would be taken against the owner. However, the Home Office would appoint a departmental committee to review mine rescue operations: specifically, the obligation of mine owners to provide efficient – and sufficient – rescue equipment.

She closed the report. Mr Garforth would be interested to see it; she would request a meeting with him, perhaps at Long Martley, where the rescue training centre was now fully operational. He had written to her, when her father died, a kind and generous letter of sympathy:
My heart goes out to you, Lady Henrietta. You will miss your father terribly, but be assured his memory lives on, and his reputation as a good man will endure the passing of time.

He was entirely sincere, for he was not a sycophantic man. But he had only known the late earl for a few months, in which short time her father had striven with the zeal of the converted to improve the safety of his pits. He had achieved more than most colliery owners manage in a lifetime, but still, thought Henrietta, it was too late for the eighty-eight men and boys whose names were listed here at the end of the document. She read them aloud in a sort of impromptu, private tribute and felt the burden of their passing like a lead weight in the pit of her stomach; their deaths could have been prevented if her father had heeded the concerns of his men. What had he been busy with instead, she wondered? What pressing concerns had distracted him: a hectic round of engagements in London, perhaps, or the impending visit to Netherwood Hall of the king?

She stood and walked out of the study. She needed fresh
air, and the company of an uncomplicated, guiltless man. She took the servants’ staircase and rushed through the kitchens and out of the back door, and then she crossed the courtyard to the estate offices, from where Jem Arkwright was just emerging.

‘Mornin’ your ladyship,’ he said, tipping his tweed cap. ‘Is it me you’re after?’

‘Are you busy?’ she said.

‘Fences broken down by t’brook.’

‘May I come with you?’

‘Aye. Long walk, mind.’

He whistled and his terrier streamed across the yard, followed more sedately by Min and Jess who were too old, or too dignified, to rush anywhere. Henrietta smiled.

‘Do you think they miss him, Jem?’ she said.

‘More’n likely. I know I do, anyroad.’

‘Me too. Every day.’

They set off through the courtyard. Oddly, Anna Rabinovich appeared, nodded politely at them, then rang the bell for admittance at the back door. Then they crossed paths with Absalom Blandford, who feigned distraction with a bootlace to avoid conversation. But for the rest of the morning they didn’t encounter another living soul, which was exactly what Henrietta had hoped for. By the time they returned three hours later, her oppressed spirits had recovered almost entirely.

The Wire Trellis Inn on May Day Green served an exceptional pint of Samuel Smith’s bitter and, since Enoch was buying, he had managed to persuade Amos to join him for half an hour away from the office. They could talk more freely here: neutral territory, said Enoch. At the Yorkshire Miners’ Association
people listened at doors, he said. He’d yet to catch anyone in the act, but he could sense these things.

‘Too many conflicting views, y’see,’ he said. ‘We’re all engaged in t’same mighty struggle, but there are myriad ways and means to achieve t’same end.’

‘You’ve been reading again, then,’ Amos said, doggedly unimpressed. He was out of sorts, and not much company. He would have done better to take a solitary walk, but Enoch wouldn’t have it.

‘Writing, actually,’ he said. ‘Fabian Society article on nationalisation.’

Amos looked at him over the rim of his tankard, though he said nothing.

‘Nationalisation of t’collieries, to be precise,’ Enoch said. ‘Premise being that coal belongs to t’nation, not to t’landowners.’

Amos placed his glass carefully on the cardboard beer mat. There were dark rings where previous drinkers had set their pints and he lined his up on one of them with particular care, as if how and where he rested his beer was of utmost concern.

‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘Let me know when I can claim my share.’ Out of sorts with Anna meant out of sorts with Enoch and, for that matter, with the Fabian Society too. Enoch took it mildly.

‘Right you are,’ he said. ‘Will do.’

‘If you want to waste your time, that’s none o’ my concern. But I think there are other issues to tackle before we can give t’country’s coal deposits to t’government.’

‘Aye, but Fabians like to indulge in a bit o’ dreaming.’

‘First things first. Old-age pensions for them who can’t work. Widows’ pensions for them whose men are killed at work. Compulsory free schooling for every child up to t’age of fourteen. Decent health provision for everyone, whether or not they ’ave t’means to pay.’

‘Aye, but ’ow do you pay for all that? By nationalising t’pits, that’s ’ow. And while we’re at it, let’s nationalise t’railways an’ all.’

‘Now you’re talking soft.’

Enoch smiled as if he knew something Amos didn’t. They sat on for a while in the comfortable fug of the inn: cigarette smoke, beer fumes, damp wool. Then Amos said: ‘What would you say if I told you Anna was pally wi’ t’countess?’

Ah, thought Enoch, now we’re getting somewhere. ‘Well, and are you telling me that?’ he said.

‘Aye. All of a sudden they’re like this,’ he held up two fingers, plaited around each other.

‘Since when?’

‘Beats me. First I ’eard was early doors today. She was on ’er way down to Netherwood ’all. Turns out t’countess’s been to Ravenscliffe, wants Anna to do some painting for ’er. She said she wanted to ask me what I thought – as if it’d make any difference to what she does.’

‘Painting?’

‘Aye. Decorating, like.’

‘So will Anna do it for nowt?’

‘No, she’ll get paid. But still …’

‘Well, if money’s changing ’ands, it’s a professional arrangement.’

‘Not good, though, is it, what with me being a Labour candidate. Could be embarrassing, I reckon.’

Enoch pondered.

‘Will Anna do it?’

‘Aye, she’ll do it. She reckons she ’asn’t made ’er mind up, but she’ll do it.’

‘Well then, we shall do what politicians ’ave always done – we’ll turn it to our advantage.’

‘Right. Labour candidate’s intended ’ob-nobbing with aristocrats. Pardon my dim wits, but I’m not seeing a bright side.’

Enoch tapped the side of his nose knowingly and said, ‘’ave faith, my friend.’

Infuriating little bugger, thought Amos.

‘If your intended is an independent working woman with a mind of ’er own,’ Enoch said, ‘that reflects very well on you, I’d say.’

Amos looked at him. Enoch was his political litmus paper: he detected acid, alkaline and neutral in any given situation. Now, having issued his verdict, he returned Amos’s look with mild eyes and an untroubled brow. Amos began to relax.

‘Same again?’ he said, nodding at Enoch’s empty glass.

‘That’s my boy,’ said Enoch.

M
rs Powell-Hughes led Anna through the warren of servants’ hallways that skirted the kitchens and up the back staircase. The housekeeper had kept her waiting in the boot room while the countess was located; Anna had detected a stony scepticism in Mrs Powell-Hughes’s face and voice when she heard that, while Lady Netherwood wasn’t exactly expecting her, neither would she be surprised to see her.

‘We had sort of arrangement,’ Anna had said.

‘Sort of arrangement?’ repeated Mrs Powell-Hughes, unfamiliar with Anna’s particular brand of English.

‘Yes,’ Anna said, and left it at that. She saw no reason for lengthy explanations when she was certain that she would be vindicated. The housekeeper, impressed by the young woman’s dress and demeanour, if not by her unscheduled appearance, had bid her wait, and bustled off. She came back, still flint-featured, not five minutes later.

‘If you’d like to follow me, Miss …’ and there she faltered. Anna had introduced herself but Mrs Powell-Hughes had no memory for exotica.

‘Mrs Rabinovich,’ Anna said, slightly rolling the R for effect. She made conversation as they progressed through the servants’ quarters, remarking on the sparkling condition of the copperware and the evident industriousness of the kitchen maids.

‘Like beehive,’ she said. ‘Very busy. Do you enjoy your work here?’

The housekeeper was nonplussed. She didn’t indulge in small talk with strangers as a rule, but no one had ever asked her that question before: indeed, she had never asked it of herself. Enjoyment was neither here nor there, though now, when required out of politeness to consider the issue, she realised the answer was a complex one: complex even before the late earl’s passing, more complex still under the new order. However, she had to say something, so: ‘Indeed,’ she said, in a clipped voice intended to establish distance and repel further conversational overtures.

‘I have always wondered,’ Anna said, entirely undiscouraged, ‘why all servants in great houses wear black. It is as if they’re in permanent mourning.’ Silence. They reached the staff stairs but had to stand back for two bashful housemaids, who cascaded down towards them bearing long-handled feather dusters.

‘Steady now,’ said Mrs Powell-Hughes as they passed. ‘More haste, less speed.’

Their words tumbled out in their anxiety – ‘Yes Mrs Powell-’ughes, sorry Mrs Powell-’ughes’ – and slowed to a self-consciously sedate pace.

‘Yet more black,’ Anna said.

‘White aprons, mind you,’ said Mrs Powell-Hughes, drawn into speaking. She felt unsettled and defensive as she set off up the stairs.

‘Mmm, but wouldn’t royal blue frocks be nice? Or mid-green.’

The housekeeper sniffed. ‘And show every speck of muck. I don’t think so. Here we are.’

She pushed open the heavy green baize door and held it for Anna to come through. Thea rushed at them from apparently nowhere, spilling forth a warm welcome.

‘Anna, you came, I am just thrilled, come, come, follow me, I’m so sorry you had to stand around, you should’ve come to the front door, next time do that, just walk on in and someone’ll come find me, my – I just adore that jacket, is it really oriental or a clever copy?’

Unobserved, Mrs Powell-Hughes winced. The young countess was so untutored in restrained elegance.

‘Will that be all, your ladyship?’ she said. Her tone was measured, by way of an example.

‘What’s that? Oh! Sure, Mrs Powell-Hughes. Bye now.’

Thea swept Anna away on the wave of her enthusiasm, whisking up the stairs, firing questions, which Anna answered with amused patience. Yes, she had made the jacket herself. Of course she could make one for the countess. No, she didn’t have a carriage; she had walked here. No, she much preferred to walk; too much of her life was spent indoors already. Anna was older than Thea by only three years, but she felt like an adult answering the insistent questions of a child. It was endearing though, this avid interest in detail. Better, by far, than chilly indifference or tedious self-absorption. She tried, as she spoke, to take in her surroundings: richly patterned Turkish hall carpet, occasional tables bearing glossy pot plants, oil paintings, a series of them, all of hunting dogs in various stages of the chase. The walls and woodwork looked pristine, newly decorated. This puzzled her. Thea chattered on – such a long walk, thought Anna, to her bedroom! – about this and that and then she stopped, abruptly. The dowager countess stood ahead of them.

‘Good morning, Clarissa,’ Thea said. Her voice had altered now, and a new, guarded tone was evident, even to Anna.

‘Dorothea,’ said the dowager countess, by way of greeting. She turned to Anna and smiled graciously. ‘Mrs Rabinovich, what an unusual pleasure.’

Clearly, some explanation was in order. However, Thea looked at the floor, so Anna said: ‘We’re on way to see how I can improve countess’s rooms,’ and Lady Netherwood smiled.