Netherwood (39 page)

L
ady Hoyland hadn’t so much persuaded Eve to work for her in London as assumed she would and proceeded on that basis. Before Eve saw her again, the countess had entered dates in her diary for three parties at Fulton House during the London season, all of which would be catered by Eve. Deaf to any objections, she breezed into the mill with the details – ‘Too thrilling, darling – perhaps one or two new nibbles, please, for the later soirées?’ – and breezed out again. Dates penned in Clarissa’s diary were indelible, as if carved in tablets of stone. And once invitations were sent, when the time was right – too early and one looked desperate, too late and one might be pipped at the post – there really was no turning back. You might more easily cancel Christmas.

The prospect of a long period away from home cast a shadow over Eve from the moment she realised the countess was in earnest, and though the date of departure had been some months distant, she would still wake each morning with a sense of foreboding as it moved inexorably closer. Even Christmas was marred for her. The festive period had been a triumph in every possible way; people had flocked to Netherwood in droves, just to buy her fruitcake and Christmas chutney
and the cinnamon shortbread stars threaded with red ribbon to hang on the tree. Such was the demand for her food that Eve had had to hire a couple of liveried delivery boys all of her own, cycling about on sturdy black bicycles with the fare carefully wrapped and packed in their wicker panniers. And all the time, while folk made merry and goodwill was heaped upon her, Eve was trying to imagine herself, come late spring, away from home; and not just away from home, but in London. London! She could form no helpful mental picture of herself in the capital. She was certain she’d be robbed and murdered the minute she stepped off the train.

‘Pah!’ This was Anna, of course, the world traveller. She had heard Eve out, brow knitted, arms folded across her chest. She’d recently cut herself a fringe, having tired of her severe centre-parting, and with her heart-shaped face and wide blue eyes it gave her the look of a serious child, wise beyond her years.

‘Don’t you
pah!
me,’ Eve had said. ‘I’m just sayin’, it’s a lot to ask. Too much, in fact. I shan’t go.’

‘You shall, though,’ said Anna. ‘I stay here, hold …’ she waved her arms, searching for the words.

‘The fort,’ said Eve, helpful in spite of herself.

‘Da.
The fort. And you go – for very short time – to beautiful London home of earl, to make food you could cook in your sleep. Easy as pie. Ha! As pie!’

Anna was really getting the hang of colloquialisms. She liked to pepper her speech with them, to demonstrate her command of the language.

Eve sighed. She’d known her friend would be all for it; Anna saw only solutions, never problems. To her, each new day was an opportunity to push forwards in some way, to improve one’s lot, to gain more ground. While Eve wanted nothing more than to keep their boat on an even keel, Anna was all for finding uncharted waters. But then, Eve had raised
the matter with Ginger too, and she’d said much the same. Told her to jump at it. She’d go like a shot, she said, given half the chance. Eve hadn’t bothered asking Alice, because she didn’t want Jonas’s opinion, but she’d asked Nellie, who had pursed her lips and rubbed her thumb and forefinger together, and bluntly asked what the Hoylands would pay her for the job.

‘I, erm, I’m not sure,’ Eve had said, slightly thrown by the question. ‘Nowt, like as not. They ’alf own me, after all.’ This was Amos’s sentiment, and she spoke the words ironically. Still, though, she wondered how she stood; the earl’s 50 per cent share was in the business, not in her, but no one had mentioned money for her time, certainly not the countess who went through life with the blithe and carefree spirit of an indulged six-year-old. She wanted Eve in London from early May for an unspecified period, though she’d gaily promised her that she’d be home by the twelfth of August for the opening of the grouse season. Grouse season indeed. Did the countess imagine she’d be off up to the Scottish moors when she got home? Lady Hoyland seemed to look at the whole venture as a grand jape, marvellous fun for everyone involved and it made Eve wonder if she’d ever experienced dread, or fear, or even disappointment. Almost certainly not, she concluded. Mind you, it seemed that neither had Nellie, hard as nails in her starched apron and helmet of grey curls.

‘Get thissen to t’estate offices and name thi price,’ she had said, as if she was born to the world of cut-throat commerce. ‘Never do owt for nowt—’

‘—unless tha does it for thissen,’ Anna chimed in, triumphantly.

‘Aye,’ said Nellie. She nodded approvingly at Anna. She might be foreign, but she was nobody’s fool.

‘Maybe you two should go for me,’ Eve said. She was only half joking. It was vexing that it was her name on the company
sign yet here she was trying to talk herself out of a potentially lucrative contract. Perhaps she really wasn’t cut out for this business lark. She already had more money than she could spend, and it seemed pointless, not to say greedy, to seek more. Then again, Lady Hoyland might value her less if her talents came free of charge. These were the arguments that ran through her mind, contradictory and puzzling.

Once upon a time she would have sought Amos’s advice, but he was less approachable than he used to be – still a friend, but always harsh and dismissive where her partnership with the earl was concerned, and a little more sparing with his pleasantries. He would leave Seth at the bottom of the entry these days, bidding the boy farewell and carrying on home instead of calling in to pass the time of day. Eve had tried her hardest, since rebuffing his proposal, to restore their relationship to an even footing, as much like their old easiness as she could manage. But Amos, though gradually feeling the benefit of the healing balm of time, still had moments when he felt bruised and resentful, as if his feelings for Eve had exposed him to the world as a weakling. His response at the time had been to throw himself into issues he felt he could influence, not those he had no power to change. He had convinced himself – brooding at home, brooding at work – that the earl’s interest in Eve had thwarted his own destiny; if it wasn’t for Lord Hoyland, she would have need of his love. And, rightly or wrongly, this belief fuelled first frustration, then anger and finally full-blown hatred, so that the earl, until lately guilty in Amos’s view of nothing worse than aristocratic complacency, became a demonic puppet master, whose interests must be thwarted for the good of mankind. His bitterness grew, calcified and stuck fast. The fight against injustice to the working man became personal, and it was not so much an ideal as a mission; Amos would see Netherwood’s three collieries unionised, or die in the attempt. It would be his sweet revenge.

So no, thought Eve. She wouldn’t go to Amos with questions concerning her business; she was liable to find herself on the wrong end of a diatribe on the evils of capitalism and the glory of an organised workforce. Instead, she gave herself a stern talking to and marched off, for a second time, to the office of Absalom Blandford, who, though it didn’t show in any aspect of his behaviour towards her, was almost pleased to see her. Not because it saved him the trouble of posting an already-prepared contract offering 12 shillings a week, plus expenses, for the unspecified duration of her London sojourn, but because there was something rather compelling about her air and appearance. She provoked in him a curious and entirely unfamiliar sensation, and he had to force himself to scowl and fight to remain supercilious. He managed, however.

Where other men found inspiration in a slender ankle, an arch smile or the enticing shadow cast in the crevice of a deep cleavage, Absalom Blandford was captivated by numbers. The beginnings of his unsought interest in Eve had therefore been kindled on the pages of his balance books, in the unnaturally tidy rows of figures that he entered there when Eve’s Puddings & Pies had started trading. Nothing thrilled him more than to breathe life into, and extract profit out of, a previously redundant building on the Netherwood estate, so when in this case the numbers quickly began to demonstrate that income was outstripping expenditure, he had to ration his own access to the information, for fear that his mounting excitement might affect his professionalism. He felt it not in his heart – that was a shrivelled thing, not capable of much beyond its most basic function – but in his groin. The effect really could be quite debilitating, and the only saving grace was that he was always alone, seated and behind a desk when he perused his books.

This secret peccadillo didn’t strike him as odd or abnormal. What he did find very strange, however, was the gradual transferral of his interest from the accounts relating to Eve’s business to the woman herself. No, not transferral, exactly, because the numbers still held him in thrall; it was more that when he laid eyes on Eve these days, though such occasions were few and far between, he experienced the same frisson of excitement. When he looked at her, he saw the numbers too, running down the ledger, credits outnumbering debits. He fervently hoped this was a temporary malaise, having no desire or intention to allow any woman, with all the complications of her blood, sweat and tears, a foothold in his perfect, sterile world. But he had to admit, if only to himself, that Mrs Williams was a remarkable businesswoman, particularly as he knew, of course, exactly where she’d begun and how far she had come. It made him blush now to think that he’d once recommended to Lord Hoyland that Mitchell’s Mill be demolished, thinking that at least the bricks could then be re-used to build something rentable. And now look at it: a wellspring of regular profit, veritable hub of the community, proof to the contrary that a silk purse couldn’t be made out of a sow’s ear.

It was most impressive. She was most impressive. He was most impressed.

The café had opened in February, Shrove Tuesday to be precise, and all day long the smell of freshly made pancakes had filtered through the open windows of the mill, making a pleasant change for everyone from coal dust and chimney smoke, and working on the folk of Netherwood like the Pied Piper’s music did on the rats of Hamelin. Free pancakes had been Eve’s idea, her way of celebrating the opening of Upstairs, as she referred to the new venture. The large, light room was simply furnished
with pine tables and chairs, though Anna had made blue gingham cushions for the seats and matching tablecloths, which added charm to the look of the place. With Eve’s new-found confidence when speaking to the earl, she absolutely vetoed anything along the lines of the last opening – no invitations or speeches or anyone in their Sunday best – and instead came up with the plan that anyone who wanted to could come along and enjoy a pancake on the house. Lord Hoyland, very much a pomp and ceremony man, was a little underwhelmed, but, as he said to Eve, it was her business so she should do as she saw fit. This was like him; once he placed his faith in an individual, it was unshakeable.

Nellie Kay on the other hand had plenty to say – not so much about the concept but the timing.

‘You want to open a café t’day before Lent?’ she said, her face a picture of incredulity.