скачать книгу бесплатно
‘Was no need to go wasting good beef,’ Alice declared firmly. ‘Not for a bump, and that’s all it was. Gracious me, folk go falling over every minute of the day and it doesn’t warrant a fuss. And don’t be embarrassing Miss Julia by staring at her, Tilda. Nobody bothered about it in London; never gave her a second glance.’
She wished she wouldn’t keep on about Miss Julia’s eye. But crafty as a cartload of monkeys, that kitchenmaid was, and all the while letting folk think she was gormless.
‘I did see one or two skirts down there just like your new one, Mrs Shaw.’ Deftly, Alice changed the subject. ‘Very nice, they looked. Ladies were wearing them with a pretty blouse with full sleeves and a brooch at the neck. And a flat straw hat, with ribbons.’
‘Hm. Might get myself a bit of material, now you mention it.’ Mrs Shaw had a brooch, too, that had been her mother’s. ‘How many yards for a blouse, Alice, would you say?’
‘Two and a half, if you want full sleeves. And as for those hobble skirts – well everybody’s wearing them in London. Tight as a sausage skin they are, and ladies having to take little short steps in them, and as for climbing the steps of a motor bus – make you laugh, it would …’
‘I don’t suppose you went to the theatre?’ Mrs Shaw indicated with her eyebrows that Alice might be allowed another slice of cake. ‘Or the music hall?’
‘Sadly, no.’ Alice refused more cake. All she wanted was for teatime to be finished and herself putting away Miss Julia’s clothes and for the slow-moving minutes to be quickly spent so she might the sooner be with Tom. ‘Women – young ladies of Miss Julia’s standing, can’t go to music halls without a gentleman – not even in London. But a lady can go sight-seeing or shopping with a servant with her, or a companion. Miss Julia went shopping quite a lot. My, but you should see the London shops. Swanky, they are. Great big places you could get yourself lost in, and the windows all set out with dummies with clothes on them; it’s an entertainment in itself, is looking at shop windows. I used to stare at those dummies – so lifelike it wouldn’t have surprised me if one of them hadn’t winked at me.
‘But will you be wanting any help tonight, Mrs Shaw? I’ve almost finished the unpacking and there’s nothing in the sewing-room that won’t wait till morning.’ She rose from the table, asking to be excused. ‘If you’re short-handed …?’
‘Nay, lass. You’ll be tired after your long journey, and I’ve only got milady and Miss Julia for dinner tonight, so we’ll manage.’
‘Then Mr Giles wants me to take Morgan for a run, if that’s all right with you.’
‘All right with me, but best you mention it to Miss Clitherow.’
‘I will,’ she whispered through a sigh of relief. ‘I’ll mention it now.’
Eight o’clock tonight, and she would be hurrying as fast as might be to Brattocks Wood. Or perhaps to the rearing field, or maybe he’d be waiting at the parkland fence? Two whole weeks it had been and oh, how she loved him, needed him. And how very sorry she felt for Miss Julia.
Reuben was digging in his garden when Alice passed.
‘Evenin’, lass,’ he called, jamming his spade into the earth, straightening his back. ‘How was London, then?’
‘Oh, you’d never believe! Wonderful, that’s what!’ And wonderful to be back, did you but know it, Cousin Reuben. ‘I’ll look in tomorrow, and tell you about it.’
‘Aye. And if Tom isn’t at the coops he’ll be doing the rounds in Brattocks …’
‘Thanks!’ She gave him her most rewarding smile without even trying to pretend she wasn’t in the least bit interested in the whereabouts of the under-keeper. ‘C’mon, Morgan.’
The rearing field was deserted, the coops already shuttered for the night. Alice stood at the gate, calling softly, but there was no answering whistle.
She walked on, slipping the spaniel’s lead when they came to the big pasture, watching him bounce off, sniffing, snuffling, yelping happily. At the lane end she climbed the fence, taking the path into Brattocks Wood, calling again as she went, a little apprehensive in the deep, dim greenness.
‘Tom? Tom Dwerryhouse?’
She heard his whistle, long and low, and ran to the sound, laughing. He was standing beside the old oak; the one with the propped-up branches people hereabouts said was as old, almost, as Rowangarth. Then she stopped her running and walked slowly, the more to spin out the delicious seconds, watching as he laid his gun on the grass at his feet.
‘Tom!’ She was in his arms, loving the closeness of him, wondering how she had endured so long away from him.
They held each other tightly, not speaking, glad to be together; touching, loving, their days apart forgotten.
‘I missed you, Alice Hawthorn.’ His voice was low as he tilted her chin with his forefinger. ‘Don’t ever leave me again.’
‘I won’t. I missed you, too.’
‘Even among those grand London folk?’
‘Especially among those London folk,’ she whispered, ‘because not one of them was you.’ She closed her eyes and parted her lips, wanting him to kiss her, but he twined her fingers in his own and tucked her arm in his and walked her deeper into the wood, teasing her, teasing himself, wanting her as much as she wanted him.
‘Was it a good holiday, then? Is London all it’s cracked up to be?’
‘It is, and more. Parks and green places, and people everywhere. And cabs and motors making such a din. And you should see those big shops and oh, the fashions. Such clothes, Tom, and ladies so elegant with their fine hats and parasols.’
‘But you wouldn’t live there, Alice? You wouldn’t take a position in London and start getting grand ideas? I couldn’t imagine you carrying a parasol, giving yourself airs. Not my buttercup girl. I don’t want her to change.’
‘Nor shall she.’ She smiled into his eyes. ‘Well, not if you were to tell her you love her, and give her that kiss she’s been waiting for,’ she said softly, all pretence gone. ‘Waiting two weeks for.’
‘Then I must do as I’m bid,’ he smiled, tilting her chin again. And she remembered how she had dreamed of this moment in that far-away London bed, and when his mouth came down hard on hers, her need of him began as a blush in her cheeks and sliced through her, shivering down to her toes. It was a feeling strange and new, but right, because she knew that what she suddenly felt was not the love of a sewing-maid for her sweetheart, but the pulsating need of a woman – a woman soon to be eighteen – for her man.
Her heart began a slow, sweet thudding and she pressed closer, because it was the only way she knew to still the tiny, wayward pulses that beat out a need only he could satisfy.
‘It’s been so long,’ she murmured, searching again for his lips. ‘Kiss me again? Kiss me …’
His mouth was rough, his arms claimed her possessively. They kissed as if there would be no tomorrow and this moment was all they would ever have.
‘I love you,’ he murmured, his voice harsh with need. ‘Never for a minute forget you’re spoken for.’
‘Not ever.’ She laid her cheek on his chest, feeling the roughness of his jacket, closing her eyes against a happiness so overwhelming that it made her cling the harder to him, so weak and useless were her legs. ‘Never, as long as I live.’
‘And we’ll be wed, Alice?’
‘We’ll be wed, and as soon as we are able.’ She sent her happiness winging to the tall trees at the far end of the wood; to the black, cawing birds that nested there. Best tell them, tell this happiness to the rooks. Best share their loving – keep it safe from harm. ‘Just as soon …’
6 (#ulink_7972e961-2fcb-54d9-a62b-d463765d7d48)
Mrs Shaw had floated on a cloud of contentment ever since the invitations had been posted on the day following Julia’s departure to London.
Things were getting back to normal. Lady Sutton was giving a dinner party, her first for three years, and though it was to be small and simple, it was a step in the right direction as far as Rowangarth’s cook was concerned. Now, once more, she could proclaim her expertise. Before the death of Sir John, her reputation had been without equal, and she had scorned bribes of a superior kitchen, higher wages, and all the scullery maids she could wish for, to remain steadfastly loyal to Rowangarth.
Acceptances were quickly received. All the guests were close friends of Helen Sutton, with the exception of Mrs Clementina and Elliot, though the presence of Edward Sutton would more than compensate for that of his wife and son, and since Judge Mounteagle and his wife would be there, it was reasonable to suppose that the lady’s ferocious stare would keep Elliot in his place. Mrs Mounteagle’s stare could stop a runaway horse, John once said, so Elliot should present no problem at the table.
Already Mrs Shaw had spent two enjoyable sessions with her ladyship, pencil poised, notebook at the ready. It gratified her that Lady Helen always consulted directly with her cook on such occasions, which briefly elevated her almost to Miss Clitherow’s station, and though the dinner party was to be small and simple, none of the joys of planning and conferring and buying-in would be wasted on a cook who had languished unseen and unsung for three unhappy years. Now the menu was finally agreed, and calculating quantities and making timetables occupied her time, for even the most ordinary of dinner parties needed three days, at least, of preparation.
Thick fish soup to start with presented no problem at all, nor the next course of poached whole salmon, served on a bed of green salad and covered, completely, with thin slices of cucumber. A joint of roast beef was child’s play to a Yorkshire-born cook, but the sorbet to follow would need ice in plenty in its making, and Miss Clitherow must be reminded to send the coachman to collect half a sackful of it, on the two mornings beforehand, from the fishmonger in Creesby.
Fruit jellies to follow? Lady Sutton had enquired, to which Cook added her own suggestion that Mr Edward fair loved ice-cream and meringue pudding and might not that be offered too?
‘Very well, Mrs Shaw, but in that case there will be no ices to follow the savouries, wouldn’t you agree? Simple, remember? And could you make your special savoury for the gentlemen? It was always so much appreciated …’
Cook purred her pleasure, for even after three years it seemed that her special, secret-recipe savoury was not forgotten.
‘You’ll see to it, milady, that Miss Clitherow asks Ellen to help wait-on?’ Sixteen at table was too much to expect of any parlourmaid, even one of Mary’s capabilities.
‘She has already done so. Ellen is willing,’ came the smiling reply. ‘I understand her uniform still fits her nicely so there’ll be no problem.’
Ellen was Mary’s predecessor, who four years ago had married a local farmer: the housekeeper had been gratified by the pleasure with which the appeal for help was received.
‘Of course I’ll come, Miss Clitherow. It’ll be just like old times again. I’ll be there good and early, will I, to help with the silver and the table?’ Time away from the demands of two young children and the promise of goodies to take home with her made the prospect of once more working at Rowangarth a pleasant one. ‘And now that Lady Sutton is entertaining again, I’ll always be willing to give a helping hand – if I’m able,’ she had added hastily, so as not to tempt Fate overmuch.
Mrs Shaw left the morning-room, casting her mind back to the huge dinner parties of twenty years ago. Almost indecent, they were, if you considered that the cost of the out-of-season strawberries alone would have fed a family of four for a week. Perhaps it was as well these days that, following the example set by the new King and Queen, entertaining had become simpler and the upper classes less inclined to dig their graves with their knives and forks.
Next Friday’s dinner was to be small and simple, but perfect for all that, and the crowning glory of Lady Helen’s visit to the kitchens, even before the guests had begun to depart, would make it a day to be dwelt upon for a long time to come. Her ladyship’s thanks to all concerned would be sincere, and her suggestion that they should cool themselves by finishing off the remaining ice-cream and sorbets before they melted, would be met with smiles of delight.
Rowangarth, thought Mrs Shaw as she returned to her kitchen, was her home and her pride and may the good Lord preserve it and, if He wouldn’t mind, see what He could do about providing an heir, which would please milady no end and maybe help the dear soul to smile a little more often.
‘Tilda!’ she called to the maid who had taken advantage of her superior’s absence. ‘Put that love book down this instant!’
There would be no time for reading now. Rowangarth was coming into its own again, and by the time Friday had come and gone, that silly girl wouldn’t know what had hit her! Oh my word, no!
The letter came long before she expected it. Addressed to Miss A. Hawthorn, there were raised eyebrows when it was handed to Alice at servants’ breakfast.
‘London,’ Tilda gloated, eyes on the postmark.
‘London,’ Alice confirmed primly, with not so much as a blush. ‘Miss Sutton’s live-in said she would write to me if I was of a mind to get a letter occasionally.’ Firmly, she pushed it into her pocket. ‘I’ll read it later.’
She hoped it wouldn’t say that he wasn’t coming. Miss Julia would be disappointed – heartbroken – if she didn’t see him again soon. The letter was from Doctor MacMalcolm, she was sure. What she wasn’t so sure about was how she could quickly – and secretly – get it to the lady for whom it was intended.
She cut a slice of bread then, spearing it with her fork, held it to the hot coals of the kitchen range.
‘Do you think, Mary,’ she murmured, eyes downcast, ‘you could give Miss Julia a message when you take breakfast up? Something I’ve just remembered. Would you tell her that I’ve run out of blue thread, and can she let me know if she’ll be going to York in the near future?’
‘Why York?’ Tilda demanded. ‘You can buy cotton just as easy in Holdenby.’
‘Because it’s special buttonhole thread,’ Alice flung scathingly, dratting the kitchenmaid’s nosiness.
‘Buttonhole thread, I’m to say?’ Mary frowned.
‘That’s right. From York – or Harrogate. She’ll know. And pass the butter please, Tilda, afore my toast gets cold.’
She could have set her clock by Julia Sutton’s breathless arrival. Breakfast at eight-thirty, with twenty minutes – give or take the odd few seconds – before she could decently excuse herself. Then half a minute from the morning-room to the sewing-room; a little before nine, it would be.
‘Hawthorn?’ At eight fifty-two exactly, a pink-cheeked Julia opened the sewing-room door.
‘You understood my message, then?’ Alice held the envelope between her first and second fingers. ‘It came this morning. From him.’
‘Andrew!’ She snatched the envelope, tearing it open with shaking fingers, pulling out the smaller one inside which bore her name – just Julia, written squarely in the very centre in black ink. ‘Oh, Hawthorn – what if …’
‘Read it and see.’ She waited, hardly breathing, as the tiny mantel-clock ticked away a long minute, loud in the silence; then Julia lifted her eyes.
‘He isn’t coming to York mid-June,’ she whispered soberly, then her cheeks dimpled and she laughed out loud. ‘No! It’s to be Harrogate, and he’s coming next week! He says he thinks it had better be Harrogate because he wants to visit the Pump Room and the Baths, and find out all he can about the water cures. Well, I suppose a doctor would be –’
‘Interested?’ Alice nodded. ‘Yes.’ Though not for the life of her could she ever have been persuaded to drink those curative waters. Tasted something awful, Cook said, and a pint of ale would do more good, to her way of thinking. ‘Did he say, miss, why he’s coming earlier?’
‘No, but does it matter? All I know is that he’ll be arriving on Monday, a little before noon, and he wants me to meet him outside the station entrance at two.’
‘And can you?’
‘I’ve got to.’ It was so ridiculous that a grown woman must be escorted everywhere, as if she were incapable even of crossing the road unaided. ‘I’ll have to think up an excuse to get away – alone, if I can.’
‘And will she let you – go by yourself on the train, I mean?,’ Alice frowned.
‘Why shouldn’t I, in a ladies-only compartment? But if she won’t allow it, I shall ask her if you can come with me. You can buy your blue thread, then.’
‘You know I don’t want thread, miss. And if I was you I wouldn’t make too many plans, because next week it’s the dinner party – had you forgotten?’
‘As if I could. Mama’s as jumpy as a kitten about it already. Well, she would be. It’s three years since she last had people here.’
‘Yes. So think, miss. Who’s to be spared to go to Harrogate with you? We’ll be busy all week, and I’ll have to help out in the kitchens, what with all the extra work.’
Silver and table-linen to be brought out and checked after so long out of use; Cook pink-cheeked and indignant and loving every minute of it, from the first menu ideas to the last of the savouries sent up to the servery in the shuddering lift; then she would collapse in the kitchen rocker and fan herself with a tea towel, murmuring, ‘My, oh, my …’
‘Busy? Everyone? Then I’ll just have to get away on my own.’
Perhaps, Julia thought, the dinner party might be a blessing in disguise. Perhaps Mama would be too taken up with it to argue the rights and wrongs of an unchaperoned trip. Or would she say no, in a voice that meant no?
‘I must see her – now!’
She was gone before Alice could offer a word of advice or warning or caution. Blue thread, indeed! It was going to take more than a reel of thread to get them out of this one.
Sighing, she returned to the kitchen, where silver fruit baskets and candlesticks and flower bowls waited to be polished, and knives and forks and spoons and salt cellars and sauce bowls cleaned and rinsed in soapy water, then cleaned again. And Cook fussing over her stockpot, complaining that the fire wasn’t drawing properly; that the flues would have to be brushed clean of soot in the morning and Tilda had better not forget it, either!
She had been so looking forward to the dinner party, Alice fretted; to the fuss and bustle and helping in the kitchen and seeing the table decorations and the lovely dresses and eating leftover goodies. It should have been nice to see Rowangarth come to life again, with her ladyship looking lovely and wearing her orchids, but now the letter had come and there was no knowing what Miss Julia would do. The cat would be out of the bag and London out of bounds for all time, if she didn’t mind what she said.
‘Oh, Lor’,’ Alice whispered. ‘Be careful, miss.’
Julia found her mother in her dressing-room, swishing aside dinner gowns, murmuring, ‘No, no, no! Oh, it’s you, child. There is absolutely nothing to wear and less than a week to go and no time at all to buy new …’
‘Blue,’ Julia pronounced. ‘Something blue, it should be.’
But Pa had always liked her in blue, so blue could not be considered. Nor the apricot silk with the draped neckline, because Mama had worn that to Pa’s last birthday dinner; nor the green satin, either, because she had been wearing it when they came to tell her that Pa wasn’t just late for dinner, but that he wouldn’t be home, ever again.
‘Blue.’ Julia reached for a hanger and removed the cover from the gown. ‘Your orchids will look beautiful with this one. And you should have Miss Clitherow make you a chignon so you can wear orchids in your hair, too.’
‘Hmm. Did you want something?’ Clearly she was in no mood to talk about clothes.
‘N-no. Nothing in particular, except perhaps could Hawthorn be spared to come with me to Harrogate on Monday? I’d thought on the noon train – or it would be better if I were to go alone …’
‘Alone? But you never –’
‘Mama! Girls go everywhere alone, now. In London it’s quite commonplace.’
‘But this is not London, Julia. Nor, I imagine, can Hawthorn be spared on Monday – or any other day next week.’
