Netherwood (24 page)

Inside the great house, the celebration lunch, which began at just after one, was at half-past five only just approaching its lavish conclusion. Toby had spent the entire meal seated between his grandmother – the forbidding Countess Gray – and his simpering maternal aunt, Lady Thomasina Boxwood, a seating arrangement that he surmised, correctly, had been devised to ensure his good behaviour. His grandmother had watched him with gimlet eyes, like an old buzzard hanging in the air above its prey. She noted every sip of wine he took, and seemed, unnervingly, to shake her head at every unspoken rebellious notion he entertained, as if his thoughts were just as clear to her as his words. Meanwhile Lady Thomasina had prattled on, providing an unasked-for commentary on each stage of the meal and detailing precisely how it was superior to the New Year banquet she’d enjoyed at Chatsworth House six months before. Toby felt the boredom like a physical pain, his limbs afflicted by a creeping ache, as if influenza was taking hold. From the moment the gong sounded in the marble hall, the monstrous boom of it bouncing off the cold, hard floor and frescoed ceiling so that there was barely a room in the house not penetrated by the noise, Toby had felt like a condemned man. He yearned to be outside, drinking with the lads and squeezing the luscious backside of Betty Cross, a Netherwood dairy maid and his latest favourite among the local girls. Earlier, as the titled house guests had gathered in the drawing room, he had glimpsed her in a crowd down on the lawn, pink-cheeked and bright-eyed, directing her come-hither laugh at Will Tucker instead of at him. When the family
assembled
en masse
on the terrace before lunch, smiling and waving indulgently, the local royalty acknowledging their subjects, Toby had found himself assessing the drop from the balustrade to the ground, as if there was even the slightest possibility that he might spring free. Self-preservation, not obligation, had kept him in his place.

The meal, even by the standards already set on previous occasions at Netherwood Hall, had been astonishingly complex and accomplished. No detail had been overlooked as the twelve exquisite, tiny courses were served with balletic grace by liveried footmen bearing heavy gold tableware, every item of which was stamped with the Hoyland crest. The table was decorated along its considerable length with an intricate, plaited garland of variegated ivy, interspersed with white and yellow roses, which snaked artfully up and around each of the twenty gold candelabras it met along its path, and at its centre arched dramatically upwards on either side, all the way to the great chandelier. Crystal glassware cast diamonds of light on to the burnished rosewood table and motes of reflected light bounced from the solid gold cutlery, which was arranged outwards from each place setting with mathematical precision in meticulous order of size and function.

The menu, handwritten for each guest in copperplate, was entirely in French, an affectation that irritated the earl; it seemed to him an unnecessary complication when English served perfectly well in all other aspects of life. Such matters were outside his remit, however, and the countess hadn’t even thought of seeking his opinion. It very much pleased her to hear the guests’ admiring murmurs as they perused the menus placed before them.
Caviar Frais, Consommé Froid Madrilène, Saumon en Croûte, Filet de Boeuf Charolais avec Sauce Béarnaise, Timbale d’Homard Royale
– on it went, proof, if proof were needed, that the Hoylands could be relied upon to entertain elegantly, and in style.

The Duke of Bowlby, an extremely grand but limited first cousin of Lady Hoyland, who had been invited not so much for his own sake but for the suitability of his eldest son Charles for Henrietta, leaned across the table towards her.

‘My dear Clarissa,’ he said, in his unfortunate and much-imitated nasal drawl. ‘This is simply magnificent. But what on earth will you do for Bertie?’

She eyed him coldly, much resenting his impertinence. King Edward, in spite of his long-established reputation for lively sociability, had still to bestow his favour at Netherwood Hall. As Prince of Wales he’d been three times and had an exceptionally jolly time, but since his accession to the throne their little corner of the kingdom seemed to have been temporarily forgotten. It hadn’t yet gained the status of a full-blown snub, but soon that conclusion would be unavoidable. All this was an immensely entertaining state of affairs for the Hoylands’ friends and acquaintances, though as a topic of conversation at the Netherwood Hall table it was entirely taboo. Frederick Bowlby, who in fact was innocent of anything worse than a clumsy assumption that the royal visit was only a matter of time, had nevertheless shown a lamentable lack of form and discretion. Lady Hoyland, prevented by good manners from cutting him entirely, instead answered his question with another on an entirely unrelated topic.

‘Must you and Madeleine leave tomorrow?’ she said, with practised sincerity. ‘I do think the evening after a party is often more fun than the party itself.’

‘Ha! Indeed,’ said Lord Bowlby, quite distracted from the king. ‘Who said what to whom! I’ll speak to Lady B. So kind of you to press.’

Hardly pressing, you old fool, thought Clarissa, but she smiled, her mission accomplished, and turned her attention politely away. She wondered if, after all, Charles Bowlby was perhaps not quite the thing for her daughter. She gazed down
the table to seek out Henrietta and found her laughing – a little too loudly than was entirely becoming, as usual – with Jonty Ogleby-James. Only a second son, thought Clarissa, but frightfully dashing. And there, a little further along, was poor Tobias having no fun at all. Poor darling. Countess Gray, catching her daughter’s tender expression, shot back a reproving, steely glance, which for all its familiarity to Clarissa had lost none of its power to chill. The old lady wore a dress of pale blue chiffon and a fine tiara in her soft, grey curls, but battledress – chainmail, perhaps, and a Norman helmet – might have been more apt.

On and on the miniature courses came, held aloft under golden domes until all the footmen were in place behind their pair of assigned diners, then placed and uncovered with unfailing symmetry of movement on to the table. A French pastry chef, with a team of unsmiling assistants, had been employed for the occasion for his continental flair and the cachet of his Parisian pedigree. Even the redoubtable head cook Mrs Adams, sceptical about the merits of foreigners in general and foreign chefs in particular, felt compelled to join in the spontaneous applause in the kitchens at the completion of Monsieur Reynard’s confection; sixty edible baskets, crafted from closely woven spun sugar to resemble wickerwork. Concealed beneath their delicate lids was a clutch of wild strawberries dipped in chocolate, resting on a pillow of strawberry mousse.

Lady Thomasina, on Toby’s left, bounced in her seat and squealed her delight when dessert was brought to the table; his aunt was long past the age when such girlish behaviour might have been excusable, but her essential silliness had proved to be a trait that hadn’t diminished with advancing years. Dickie, diagonally opposite and seated, maddeningly, between the famously beautiful Adamson twins, pulled a fleeting, cross-eyed face at Toby, a device the brothers had used since childhood
to lift each other’s spirits in adversity. Toby appreciated the gesture, but he was too firmly in the clutches of gloom to smile. Though the meal was almost over – just savouries, fruit and coffee to endure – speeches would doubtless follow, and judging by the discreet activity at the end of the room, a string quartet was threatening to further prolong the agony.

Toby gazed wretchedly into the dregs of his wine glass. Another drink might ease the pain, but the sommelier appeared to be in cahoots with his grandmother and his glass hadn’t been refilled for half an hour. Meanwhile his aunt was leaning in to him with what she thought was a winning smile.

‘And how has the Birthday Boy enjoyed his luncheon?’ she lisped.

‘Very little, Aunt,’ said Toby, smiling pleasantly. ‘You?’

Lady Thomasina, confused by the contrast between content and delivery, was unsure how to respond, so merely giggled anxiously. The sommelier passed by once again without making eye contact. And at the head of the table, Lord Hoyland was rising to his feet and calling for quiet in order that the speeches might begin.

Truly, thought Toby, had anyone ever suffered as he did?

M
ary Adams had a reputation for being always formidable and occasionally fearsome, but in fact she was only ever either of these things when a situation demanded it. Her reputation may have had its origins in her size: she was an enormously fat woman – after all, no household should employ a skinny cook – with a belly that wobbled like a soft-set blancmange and a huge jutting shelf of a bosom. Added to this generous girth were fleshy jowls, hair the colour and texture of wire wool and large, mannish hands which were as scarred and calloused as a blacksmith’s, all of which amounted to an appearance that was somewhat alarming. But Eve Williams, presenting herself for duty on the eve of the party and expecting to be coldly received by a cook with her nose out of joint, had instead been met with not exactly a warm welcome, but a welcome of sorts, at any rate.

‘You must be Eve,’ Mrs Adams had said, before introducing herself. She had held out one of her huge, floury hands and Eve shook it. She wondered, in passing, why she was Eve and not Mrs Williams.

‘I shan’t bother with any more introductions, because there’ll be no time for talking,’ the cook went on. ‘You and your pies’ll
be over there’ – she nodded her head in the direction of a large, pine work surface – ‘and your flour an’ all that is over there’ – this time she nodded at an open door leading to a series of larders – ‘so if I were you I’d get crackin’. Forty-one pies teks some baking.’

‘Forty, isn’t it?’ said Eve.

‘Forty for t’ marquees, aye. An’ one for tastin’,’ said Mrs Adams. ‘We ’ave nothin’ but Lord ’oyland’s say as to your pies, and that’s all well and good but nothin’ leaves my kitchen that ’asn’t been tasted by me.’

I can see that, thought Eve. She smiled obligingly.

‘I wish we could give you more room, but as you can see’ – the cook waved a meaty arm in a general arc – ‘we’re ’ard pressed as it is.’

‘No, no, this’ll be champion,’ Eve had said, thinking as she gazed around that Mrs Adams should spend a day in the kitchen at Beaumont Lane to understand the meaning of hard pressed. The room – there was more than one, in fact, since the kitchens extended further than Eve was able to see – was vast. It was busy as well; there were enough people to pack the platform at Netherwood railway station: a whole descending hierarchy of cooks below Mrs Adams, too many kitchen maids and lads to keep count and a couple of little barefoot village boys in ragged shorts who kept the fires stoked and staggered out with pails of peelings, and waited, silent and cowed, for a clout round the head, or further instructions, whichever came first. In a cooler room, ventilated by open windows, the visiting French patisserie chef and his slavish entourage seemed to be spinning sugar into gold, the Rumpelstiltskins of the culinary world.

Oddly, perhaps, Eve found she wasn’t nervous in this environment. More oddly still, given the humble dwelling she’d left this evening, she felt almost at home. She could see that beneath the obvious grandeur, this was simply a kitchen where
everything was kept in its proper place and was applied to its proper use. On the walls, the multitudinous pans, bowls and ladles had the burnished gleam of correctly tended copper; the four great ranges, though in near-constant use, shone a deep glossy black, like new; the work surfaces, where not in use, were scrubbed clean and wiped down; there were racks overhead with every kitchen utensil known to woman, and knife blocks well-stocked with sharpened blades for every function; decorative jelly moulds, round, oblong and square, had a long shelf all to themselves; a stock pot, large enough to have bathed Ellen in, simmered on a hob and on another, a wide and shallow
bain marie
held ten lidded copper pans of delicate sauce to accompany this evening’s supper above stairs. It was like landing in a well-run hive of bees with Mrs Adams as queen. Eve thought, this is my kind of place.

Where she stood, in front of her and just for her use, was a long worktop, about the length and width of her front door. It was equipped with scales and weights, mixing bowls, and an earthenware jug of wooden spoons and spatulas. A slab of cool marble, long and wide, had been placed on the right hand side, intended for working the pastry. The pork, 50 lbs of it, ordered at the beginning of the week from Ernest Simpson in the town – ‘’Ow much?’ he’d said – was in barrels, waiting to be chopped, and the bricks of lard and sacks of flour had been stacked on stone shelves in a cold larder, awaiting attention. Eve hadn’t really expected any help, but since there was such a great number of girls on hand for everyone else, she wondered if one might be offered. She continued on alone, however. Perhaps, after all, Mrs Adams harboured a little resentment and had decided to leave Eve to scale the pork pie mountain unassisted.