‘Cometh the hour, cometh the man. I’m biding my time.’
‘And playing cricket in t’meantime.’
‘Exactly. We face Thorley Edge next Sat’day. Grudge match. Come on.’ Sam set off back towards the office. ‘Let’s talk tactics.’
H
enrietta’s trial had been set for 24 June, which was the day before Isabella’s coming-out ball. Terrible timing, with such a lot to accomplish before the event; nevertheless, there was great relief in the family that she would, after all, be freed just in time to attend the party. Henrietta had decided to represent herself, quite against the advice of the family lawyer, who privately thought her a strong-headed madam with an inflated ego and a lamentable lack of satisfactory male influence. He had told her that a more penitent attitude – a simple apology, a letter to Mr Asquith, perhaps – would be the quickest route out of custody. Henrietta, however, was not for turning.
She spent the days before the trial marshalling witnesses and evidence, and for theatrical effect she had subpoenaed the prime minister.
‘Really?’ her mother said. ‘Extraordinary. Can she do that?’
‘Well, she has,’ said Tobias. They were together in the Fulton House ballroom, where the ceiling was being festooned with swags of jasmine; the waxy white flowers and their dark green leaves had been woven into thick, damp ropes of wire and moss, and they looked marvellous, though the scent was rather high, Tobias thought.
‘The hothouse at Denbigh Court must be stripped bare,’ he said. ‘Don’t you find it a bit much, the fragrance?’
‘We’ll open the windows. By Friday, it’ll be almost gone. And has Mr Asquith acquiesced?’
‘He has to. That’s the thing about a subpoena. She’s called him as a witness for the defence. Hilarious.’
‘Is it?’ Clarissa could see nothing funny at all in a set of circumstances that had resulted in her first-born child being put in the dock. For Henrietta, there would be no living down the scandal, she knew that much, and the issue itself was such a peculiar, unlikely matter on which to skewer one’s social standing.
‘It is. Very clever stunt, guaranteeing maximum publicity,’ Tobias said. ‘The pressmen will lap it up.’
Clarissa arched her brows. ‘And yet I would have thought that the very least desirable of all possible outcomes,’ she said. ‘I do hope, when she comes home, she’ll behave herself for a while. Don’t let her go with you to Cowes if there’s any danger of her being rowdy or inappropriate.’
‘We’ll clap her in leg irons and send her shuffling down the plank, Mama, at the first hint of insubordination.’
‘You think me ridiculous.’ Clarissa turned away and he kissed her on one petulant, powdered cheek.
‘Fret not, darling Mama. I’ve seen Henry. The wind has been quite taken out of her sails, as we sailors like to say. I should think she’ll be good as gold after four weeks in the hell that is Holloway.’
Isabella burst in on the other side of the ballroom. She looked slightly deranged, Tobias thought: hot and bothered, wild-eyed.
‘Izzy, what is it?’
‘Nothing,’ she said, quite calm after all. ‘Why?’
‘This is how she is, these days,’ Clarissa said. ‘She looks perpetually on the brink of hysteria.’
‘It’s not easy, being a debutante,’ Isabella said, defensively. ‘I have a permanent feeling that I’m late for something. Am I, in fact?’
Clarissa crossed the ballroom, stepping gingerly over garlands that were yet to be hung. They lay in coils on top of sheets, seeping water. Once, when this house had been her own, Clarissa would have fussed about the effect of standing water on the parquet. It was so pleasant, now, to admit the thought and then simply dismiss it.
‘Gloves,’ she said to Isabella. That was all. Together, they exited the room, followed by a footman.
‘Goodbye to you too,’ Tobias called out, merrily and then, to himself, ‘Don’t mind me, I’m sure.’
The courtroom at Bow Street was small and quite friendly, with a pair of bookcases, one on each side of the door, bearing leather-bound tomes, and wooden pews for only a small number of spectators. Henrietta was disgruntled. She wished for a Crown Court and full jury; instead, she had a single, elderly magistrate, who looked at her with irritation, as though she was keeping him from the
Telegraph
. The room was packed, however: the pressmen were squeezed in standing rows behind a small, seated platoon of supporters from the WSPU headed by Christabel Pankhurst, whose presence in court added further to the press interest. Tobias and Thea, front and centre, represented the family and when the earl and countess had walked in, glamorous, glowing with wealth, steeped in confidence, there had been an audible stirring of curiosity, a ripple such as that in a congregation when the bride arrives at the head of the nave. Thea had smiled graciously here and there as if she was, indeed, the reason for the gathering; she had always shone in front of an audience.
Henrietta had been given leave to wear her own clothes rather than the prison uniform, and this she did, choosing also to sport a beautifully embroidered WSPU sash across her chest, bearing the legend ‘Law Makers, Not Law Breakers’. It had been a gift from Mary Dixon, and in the gallery her face shone with ardent pride, but Mr Arbuthnot, the magistrate, immediately asked Henrietta to remove it, which she declined to do, thereby causing the first excitement of the morning. She didn’t resist as a red-faced police constable divested her of the broad satin band, but neither did she help. Instead she stood with her arms stiffly folded, which forced the constable to rip the sash at its seam to remove it fully. All the while, Henrietta held herself erect and stared at the magistrate with a steely contempt for his petty preoccupations. Thea laughed and gave a small clap; she had come along to the trial in the same spirit with which others go to the music hall, and was determined to be amused. Tobias gave her a nudge.
‘Pipe down,’ he said,
sotto voce
. ‘They chuck you out for enjoying yourself.’
‘Oh pish,’ Thea said. She sat on the very edge of the bench, leaning slightly forwards so as not to miss a thing. Henrietta had always had a magnificent hauteur, and she employed it now to full effect. She looked thin and taut, though, and smaller: her angular features were more pronounced than before and she was pale. Her blonde hair, in a loose chignon, looked dull and heavy. Thea regarded her with surprised concern. Henrietta – vital, windblown, hale and hearty Henrietta – seemed to have faded and shrunk.
‘Is she unwell?’ Thea said now to Tobias. ‘She looks peaky.’
Tobias studied his wife for a moment. Her understanding of Henrietta’s situation was limited, he realised that; if Thea had visited his sister in Holloway she might have been better prepared for the pallor of her skin and the drabness that somehow seemed to cloak her entire person. Even with the advantage of the Ritz dinners, Henrietta had clearly suffered during the past month. She needed to come home, thought Tobias: all would be well when they got her home. To Thea, he merely said, ‘She’s fine,’ then the sharp-tongued magistrate demanded silence, and the morning’s proceedings began.
At Netherwood Hall, concern for Lady Henrietta among the household staff was universal, but Mr Parkinson, as ever, set the tone, with sorrowful reflections on shame, disgrace and the tarnishing of the noble name of Hoyland. Anna Sykes, visiting Mrs Powell-Hughes, found the atmosphere sombre indeed.
‘There can be no return from scandals such as these,’ the butler said with doleful finality. ‘Lesser crises have broken nobler families than ours.’
Anna shook her head. ‘I’m sure you’re wrong, Mr Parkinson. Aren’t English aristocrats always in trouble one way or another? It never seems to alter anything for them.’
He regarded her coolly. She was Russian, said his expression; how could she possibly hold an opinion, let alone voice it?
‘Also, I’ve seen her,’ Anna went on, impervious. ‘In Holloway.’
This was impressive.
‘Ah,’ said Mr Parkinson a little more humbly. ‘And was she in good spirits?’ He bitterly blamed Lady Henrietta for the taint of disgrace, but he didn’t have a heart of stone. He had, after all, known her for most of her life. His feelings towards her now were those of a kindly patriarch towards an unruly child: disapproving, gravely disappointed, but ultimately very likely to forgive.
‘Very good, under the circumstances,’ said Anna. ‘It must have been hard on her, when the magistrate denied bail, but at least it means they’ll set her free after the trial.’
‘I see,’ said Mr Parkinson. ‘Well, that’s certainly something.’
There was a brief lull while Mr Parkinson pictured the sixth earl, Henrietta’s father, turning in his grave. The wall clock struck four. Anna and Mrs Powell-Hughes exchanged a meaningful glance. At half past the hour Anna would be leaving; she was meeting Daniel and the girls by the wide Dutch canal where she’d left them messing about in a coracle. This was her treat, her indulgence: an exchange of news with Mrs Powell-Hughes. Their friendship had formed four years ago when Anna’s commission from the countess had meant daily visits to Netherwood Hall. Now they saw each other only rarely. Each of them wished the butler gone; it was regrettable, but true.
‘Lady Henrietta is built of stern stuff,’ Mrs Powell-Hughes said. ‘I should know, I’ve nursed her often enough when she’s come off her horse.’ She spoke briskly, hoping to discourage the Mr Parkinson’s tendency to lugubriousness; to discourage, too, his continued presence. However, he had settled into a Carver at the kitchen table; clearly he planned to share his misery in comfort.
‘Hardly comparable, Mrs Powell-Hughes,’ he said.‘We’re talking, here, about the family’s name being dragged through the mud by the newspapers. I tell you; they’re like hounds after a fox. Merciless.’
‘Yes,’ said Anna, ‘they are. But soon enough, something else will come along to distract them—’
‘And then normality will be restored, Mr Parkinson,’ said the housekeeper, sensing a way forward in Anna’s reasoning. ‘We shall all breathe easily again soon enough, Anna’s quite right. Was that the bell ringing in the front hall?’
He cocked an ear. He hadn’t heard a thing, but he had noticed, since turning sixty last December, that the world was taking on a slightly muffled quality. Either gravel was losing its crunch or his hearing wasn’t quite what it had been.
‘I think not,’ he said, though there was uncertainty in his voice. Anna, quick on the uptake, felt a little sorry to be colluding with Mrs Powell-Hughes’s deception but did so anyway.
‘No, it rang, most definitely,’ Anna said and she smiled regretfully at the butler, as if she were even sorrier than he was that he must now leave them to investigate. He stood, a little stiffly on account of his hip. His face was a study in unresolved anxiety, but the women hardened their hearts and watched him go.
‘But there isn’t anyone there, is there?’ whispered Anna, ‘The bell didn’t ring. He’ll be back in a trice.’
Mrs Powell-Hughes tapped the end of her nose knowingly. ‘Mark my words, Mr Parkinson will find another job to do, while he’s up there. He can’t help it. A mote of dust will have settled on the hall table, or a petal will have drifted from the rose bowl.’ She winked at Anna, a surprising gesture from a distinguished housekeeper with a tight grey bun and a starched collar. ‘We’ve done him a favour, dear. Taken his mind off the family’s woes. Now…’ she leaned towards Anna, proffering the teapot ‘…tell me what you’ve been up to in London.’
Daniel looked strained, thought Anna. There was an unaccustomed tightness to the set of his mouth, as if there were things he wished to say but couldn’t. They were crossing the common, having walked the couple of miles from Netherwood Hall to Ravenscliffe. Anna had done most of the talking. Then, quite suddenly, he said, ‘The thing is, Anna, I can’t be sure he’ll keep them safe,’ as if she’d asked a question and this was his answer.
‘Silas?’ she said.
‘He’s a self-serving individual, always with an eye on his own fortune.’
‘Well, yes.’ She needed no coaxing to think badly of Silas. She liked him no more than Daniel did, perhaps rather less. Both of them saw him through objective eyes, unclouded by sibling ties. When he’d strutted into Eve’s life five years ago – this was how Anna thought of him, strutting like a peacock, flashing his tail feathers – he was the long-lost brother made good, distributing largesse and worldly wisdom, whether or not it was welcome. He had made few friends in Netherwood, but then he hadn’t sought friendship from anyone other than Eve. She had been his sole purpose. In a manner of speaking, he had wooed her, thought Anna. There had been an absence of sixteen years: long enough to make a fortune, long enough to lose his humility and plenty long enough to make his surprise appearance seem, to Eve, like a gift from God. All his charm had been lavished on her and, insofar as they could help him win her heart, her children. The rest of them – husband, friends, neighbours – could all hang as far as Silas Whittam was concerned. This was Anna’s view, but while her dislike of Silas continued unabated, she at least had no qualms about Eve’s place in her brother’s affections.
‘You can’t doubt his fondness for her, Daniel. Whatever you and I feel about him, he’s a good brother to her.’
‘You’re wrong.’ Daniel’s voice was gritty, twisted with unhappiness. ‘He’s not to be trusted and they’re in his hands, my Eve and Angus.’
Anna tucked her hand through his arm, trying to offer comfort, but Daniel barely seemed to notice.
‘He lacks compassion,’ he said. ‘He lacks a proper regard for others. He thinks he loves Eve but he doesn’t know how to love.’
His face, in profile, was dark with worry; too much time in his own company, thought Anna. They’d had letters from Eve, she and he, and there was nothing in them to cause alarm; Port Antonio sounded a fine place, not a forbidding one. Eve sounded exhilarated, if anything: intoxicated by the adventure.
‘Well, just supposing Silas doesn’t guard them as you would, Eve’s quite capable of looking after herself and Angus, you know. Try not to worry.’
‘When someone tells you not to worry,’ said Daniel, ‘it’s generally because they don’t understand the problem.’