Easterleigh Hall (16 page)

Evie croaked, ‘I don't know what you mean. Remember, no friendships like that are allowed.' Millie looked scared. ‘I'm sorry, right silly I am.'

Evie went to her. ‘You're not silly, pet. It's the rule that's daft. Just be careful what you say.' She patted her shoulder and called through to the scullery, ‘Annie and Sarah, there's a note here from Mrs Moore:
don't forget to wash that floor
.'

Then she was gone, out across the yard feeling as though knives were cutting into her throat, drawing her shawl across her head to protect it from the cold morning breeze, her legs feeling like lead, with each step jolting her head. She turned on to the path. She'd find some dried bergamot in the vegetable store at the back, where a small furnace kept the air dry. She would infuse the herb with honey, and it might help her throat. She couldn't see Simon anywhere. Once she arrived it was Bernie who was sorting the root vegetables, and her heart sank. He grinned. ‘Parsnips today, Evie. Your Mrs Moore gave me the list yesterday. I'll bring 'em up as usual so no need for you to come down.'

She stood in the doorway, clutching her shawl at her throat. ‘I know.' Her voice was barely more than a whisper by now. ‘Just thought I'd get some air and some bergamot.' Bernie cut some down for her. ‘What's going on round here? Simon's voice has gone to the wall and I reckon he's got a fever. Could it be anything to do with a certain afternoon off?' he asked.

She decided on a half-truth. ‘I was sea-coaling and Simon was there helping Alec, his da. It rained.' Her voice ended on a squeak. She took the bergamot and almost crawled back up the path, and was turning into the yard when Roger stepped from the garage. She increased her pace, conscious of his smile as he pinched out his cigarette. He called, ‘Slow down, not a race is it?'

She croaked, ‘In a way. I need to start the breakfasts and you have duties too.' She made to sidestep him but he stepped with her. She stepped to the right, and he too. ‘Mrs Moore is up and sorting out the breakfasts, let's walk in together, why not?' His smile was crooked, his grey eyes as cold as the sky, his hair short and straight and it looked as though it was slicked down with something. His black suit and tie were pristine and his shirt so white it could have been called blindingly so, if one wanted to impress him. She didn't. He repeated, ‘Why not, we can get to know one another rather better.'

Why not? Because your reputation goes before you, man, she wanted to shout, but he was an upper servant and she knew better than to say what she thought. She smiled, but looked towards the kitchen. He stepped closer. She put up her hand, firmly, and retreated. His jaw set. She pointed at her throat and forced some words out. ‘You can hear I have a right bad throat. You don't want to fall ill so soon after being set on as Mr Auberon's valet.'

She knew the moment she said it that it was a mistake. His smile disappeared, his face flushed. She added, ‘It must be interesting to valet for someone who needs your experience, it's important for Mr Auberon to learn from you.' To her left she could see Len the chauffeur in the doorway, watching, and behind him, deep in the shadow of the garage, the Rolls-Royce. Len was moving closer for a better view. What was she, a music-hall act? Her headache was thumping.

Millie called then, from the doorway of the basement. ‘We need you, Evie, get a move on. Mrs Moore is . . . Well, she's after hurrying you up.'

Thank you, thank you. ‘I have to go,' she said, though her voice had almost gone completely. For a moment Roger watched her, as though he was assessing produce on a stall. He'd start to feel if she was ripe any minute now. Her head was spinning. He stood to one side and bowed. ‘On your way, Evie Anston. I'm sure we'll have another chance to chat, when you are in full voice, and remember, I valet for both, while Lord Brampton is here.'

She felt that she scuttled away, and hated the surrender. She dragged herself into the kitchen with the bergamot. Mrs Moore stood with her hands on her hips, waiting. ‘You do not go out until I say you may. You do not leave Millie in charge of porridge and quite alone, so what have you to say, Evie Anston?'

Evie knew it wouldn't be much, but she tried. There was no voice left. Instead she waved the bergamot. Mrs Moore looked from her to the herb. Millie said, ‘She's right poorly, she is. It's her throat. She was sea-coaling, with . . . With her family.'

Millie flushed. It was one of the longest speeches anyone had heard from her, and Evie thought she deserved a hug. Mrs Moore snatched at the bergamot. ‘Well, sit down here, on the stool, near the range. I'll make bergamot tea with honey, and just a little something else. I'll be back in a moment.' She picked up a cup from the dresser and headed for her rooms. Evie reached across and patted Millie. ‘Thank you,' she whispered.

‘I saw you with that valet,' said Millie. ‘He looks right bonny. Bit like me da. I don't know why everyone's being so nasty about him.' Evie had no voice to say that he was anything but nice, and no energy left to even try.

Mrs Moore returned with her cup and added leaves of bergamot and honey, and lastly the hot water. She drew out a stool, pressing Evie on to it, forcing her to sit while she sipped; she almost choked on the gin Mrs Moore had added. Mrs Moore shook her head in warning while bustling to the range. ‘I'll finish the breakfast, you get some energy back. It's a chill, it'll pass. I'd like to send you back to bed but it's warmer here. Rest when you can but, for land's sake, we're to have that Mr Auberon down here, and Lady Veronica, after their ride, for tea, so I'll need you to make extra-special fancies.'

‘Down here?' Evie mouthed, her head swimming even more. Next to her, Millie and Annie almost spilt the porridge they were pouring into the earthenware bowl.

Mrs Moore was whisking the scrambled eggs for upstairs, her swollen wrists slowing her. Evie drained her cup to the dregs, then took the whisk from her. ‘I'll do it, you sort out the kippers,' she mouthed. Mrs Moore patted her shoulder. ‘You're a good lass, and Millie, get that porridge across the way.' She added in a whisper, ‘The medicine I put in will help you sweat it out.'

The staff streamed down the central passageway chattering and nudging one another, with Lil almost last. Behind her came Roger. Lil was preening herself. Well, she was welcome to him. Just then Evie saw Mrs Green draw Lil away from the others, her face stern.

Millie and Annie lugged the huge earthenware bowl through to the hall, puffing and panting. The kippers were cooking, the bacon already done. The heat from the range was healing, the heat from within her was helping too, because her clothes were damp with sweat and her throat had eased. Mrs Moore looked across at her. ‘I told you Mr Auberon used to come with Wainey, and Lady Veronica too, and they've come on and off since then if they can escape from Lady Brampton's beady eyes. I expect Lady Brampton will be resting after the exertions of the dinner party. Worked her fingers to the bone, I don't think.'

Mrs Moore was wiping the table with a damp cloth, and they both laughed. ‘I reckon they need some home comforts. They get none up there. They'll talk in French if they have something they don't want me to understand. Bloody rude but then they're from upstairs so know no better. You can go into the pantry to stocktake and brush up your language. It'll be boring, mind.'

She swiped the crumbs on to the floor. ‘You sweep those up when you've got yourself in hand.'

Somehow Evie struggled through the chores, making and serving a mutton casserole from a mixture of the leavings from upstairs and mutton from Home Farm. She had little appetite. Roger sat on the male side of the table. He smiled at her. Millie nudged her. Evie ignored them both. Before the lunch was finished she left, and prepared the soup for upstairs, slicing the parsnips with shaking hands, feeling that the heat from her body could melt the butter that was in the pan. She tipped in the parsnips and sautéed them until almost tender. She added the stock and simmered the whole damn lot for half an hour, wanting to lie on the floor and just sleep.

Millie and Sarah cleared the servants' table while Evie sat on the stool, her head throbbing, forcing the soup through the sieve, and then the hair sieve, her arm aching. How was Simon? At least she was in the warm. Jack would be warm and exhausted as he hacked at the coal down in the pit. Timmie would be warm too, sitting at the trapdoor in the dark, waiting for the tubs and wagons, opening just at the right time, and shutting it straight after. He must stay awake. She shook herself to alertness too.

She added more stock and the soup was ready to serve, timed to perfection. Archie took it upstairs. Mrs Moore had prepared the forequarter earlier and it was roasting gently. They cooked the vegetables. She made the tarts and placed them in the second oven. The scullery maids kept up with the dishes and implements, washing and replacing them. Luncheon over, Evie baked cakes and scones while Mrs Moore rested in her room. When she returned she came with jams from Mrs Green's preserve cupboard. ‘For the scones,' she said. Gin was on her breath. Evie made a pot of tea; it would disguise the smell. She held out a cup to Mrs Moore and poured for all the kitchen staff. They sat around the table and Mrs Moore nodded and smiled at her. ‘You're a good lass, Evie,' she said. The others wondered why.

Millie brought a tablecloth when they were finished and set the table to Mrs Moore's instructions. The sponge cakes, fancies, and scones were fulsome, the selection of jams plentiful, and Evie whipped cream in case Mr Auberon cared for some on his scones. The house servants had been warned to stay in the servants' hall facing away from the kitchen, for no servant must watch, or cross the path of, the master. Evie felt rage filling her at the thought. It was bad enough that this was the rule upstairs, but downstairs was the servants' domain. She shut down the thought and rose, standing on legs that seemed empty of life. Mrs Moore sent her to the big pantry for the stocktake, and the others to the ice room, or the preserve pantry as requested by Mrs Green, to scrub the shelves and floor.

Mr Auberon and Lady Veronica arrived at four o'clock on the dot through the bell corridor. The pantry door was sufficiently ajar for Evie to see their faces flushed from their ride, their clothes mud-spattered. The lad's face looked worse now the bruising was coming out. They apologised for their attire, saying that they had ridden for too long, so glorious had the ground been for cantering.

Mrs Moore was allowed to sit and from the pantry where she ticked off the supplies of sugar, flour and other dry goods, Evie listened and watched. She heard them ask Mrs Moore to thank Mrs Green for the quality of the cakes, for it was she who should have made them. She heard the desultory discussion of the weather, the loss of Wainey, the coming of warmer weather. ‘Surely it will arrive soon,' said Lady Veronica. ‘Spring seems late this year.' Mrs Moore was asked about how she was and she assured them that she was perfectly well, thank you very much, Your Ladyship.

Evie was lulled because she was hearing what seemed to be real people, nice people, caring people. There was a pause and then Lady Veronica said, ‘Aub,
as-tu pensé aux économies qu'il faut faire dans
Auld Maud?'

Evie shook her head. Mrs Moore would understand they were talking about the economies which Auberon, it appeared, had to bring in at the mine. How rude, as Mrs Moore had said, but how interesting.

Mr Auberon replied in French, his lips swollen and his words slurred. ‘Yes, as I said on the ride, we'll have to cut back on the pit props for a start so I'll get Davies to pass the word down the line to the deputies. And yes, Ver, I really have thought. I know you think I should stop this, but how can I, so just stand back a bit, will you.' It wasn't a question. ‘They'll have to make do with hauling out the props as seams are worked out. There're to be no new ones. They know their jobs, it should be fine. I'm discussing my other plans with Davies but those we can bring in as time goes by. Davies argued, said the men wouldn't be happy about the props. They're being paid to do a job, I said, not to be happy. It's none of their damn business how the mine is run and I'm not sure it's yours. We're putting work their way, and bread into their families' mouths. They should be glad, Ver.'

Lady Veronica played with her fancy, peeling the icing off and eating it with her fingers. She, too, spoke in French. ‘Sounds to me just what Father would have said? Where's the real you in all this, Auberon? What about the men? They'll be at risk, won't they?'

‘For God's sake, Ver, do we have to keep on talking about this? We did enough on the ride, surely. For the last time, the props are perfectly serviceable and we use too many. The deputies just need to withdraw more, and send them along the line to be used elsewhere. Miners are always saying they're skilled, so they'll know if the roof's coming down and they can get out of the way, and then clear the coal. It saves them hacking it out.'

At those words, Evie felt the breath leave her lungs. How dare he? He was talking about her family, her friends, all the pitmen. He pushed away his plate, his cake uneaten, his lips evidently hurting – Evie hoped they stung like the devil. Lady Veronica said, still using French, ‘But think of the accidents, there are already so many every month. We should be doing more, not less, surely. How can we do this?' Evie chewed her pencil, looking with new eyes at the young woman.

Mr Auberon drained his cup of tea, banging it down into the saucer, wiping his chin, his lips not fully under his control. The teaspoon rattled. Mrs Moore was smoothing out her serviette, the colour rising up her neck. Mr Auberon looked up, straight at the pantry. Evie froze but there was no need, the door was only ajar, and his glance continued around the kitchen. He smiled at Mrs Moore while saying to his sister, still in French, ‘I can't go on and on with this, so just stop, Ver, and would you like to be the one to tell Father that the men are more important than his bottom line?'