‘If he would only talk about it,’ said Mrs Powell-Hughes. The housekeeper was watching Sarah Pickersgill bottle chutney in the kitchens of Netherwood Hall. The air was pungent with the sweet-sour smell of Demerara sugar boiled with vinegar and Sarah’s fingertips were yellow with turmeric. ‘You should put that in with a spoon,’ Mrs Powell-Hughes said. ‘Terrible stuff to remove, turmeric.’
The cook sniffed dismissively. ‘I can’t gauge t’quantity unless I do it in pinches,’ she said. ‘Mrs Adams were t’same.’
They both were briefly silent, remembering Mrs Adams, the old cook who died of a seizure in the cold store.
‘I’m minded to seek him out,’ said Mrs Powell-Hughes. She was back to Daniel again, but she’d lost Sarah, who looked up blankly.
‘Mr MacLeod,’ said the housekeeper. ‘He won’t come in for meals, or for a brew, so I shall have to find him myself.’
Sarah looked sceptical. ‘I’d leave well alone if I were you,’ she said. ‘He’s grown a beard.’
‘Well, and is that a reason to keep my distance? Plenty of men grow beards.’
‘Aye, because they mean to. Mr MacLeod’s grown a beard because ’e’s forgotten to shave, I reckon. That’s quite another matter.’
Mrs Powell-Hughes saw Sarah’s point. The Daniel MacLeod she knew had always been a clean-shaven man, and now he had a wild look about him: unkempt and, she suspected, unwashed. She wondered if she might call in at that house on the common. She could find out a little more of the facts because, try as she might to disregard gossip and rumour, it was impossible not to overhear and then to worry. It would be irregular, calling in; she realised that. Then again, she’d been once before, when Anna Rabinovich married Amos Sykes and they’d held a little reception on the grass outside. She could call in one evening, perhaps. She could take a pie. That would surely be better than ambushing him in the garden. She’d seen him yesterday, with his hands thrust down into his trouser pockets, walking up through the kitchen garden without once glancing at the beans or stopping to pull out a dandelion, and he hadn’t looked approachable in the least. She hadn’t said hello: had slipped out of range to spare them both awkwardness. Could she summon the courage to knock on his door, then? It would be the Christian thing to do, but would it be pleasant or comfortable? These questions passed silently like clouds through her mind, and her brow furrowed as she contemplated them.
‘Not that long to go now,’ Sarah said, and the housekeeper knew at once what she was referring to: the regatta and their trip to Cowes.
‘Mmm,’ said Mrs Powell-Hughes.
‘I’ve drawn up menus and sent ’em on for approval.’
‘Yes, you said.’
‘As soon as Lady Netherwood gives me t’say-so, I shall start packing some non-perishables. Pity this chutney won’t be ready.’
‘I hope you’ve something better than chutney in mind. It’s not a parish picnic, you know.’ The housekeeper’s tone was quite altered; mention of the regatta made her sharp-tongued.
Sarah glanced at her, amused.
‘Don’t whittle so much about it,’ she said. ‘It’s just a week on a boat.’
Mrs Powell-Hughes didn’t deign to reply. It needled her that Sarah Pickersgill, born and raised in landlocked Yorkshire and with no idea what she was talking about, nevertheless presumed a worldly air whenever she spoke about Cowes, which was often. In the silence, Sarah bottled on contentedly, and because the conversation seemed to have dried up, she hummed a cheerful tune as she worked. It sounded, to the housekeeper, suspiciously like a sea shanty.
The family had been absent all summer, but Netherwood Hall had buzzed with activity. From the attic rooms to the basement cellars there were myriad tasks to accomplish. This was a period of recovery for the house, a respite from the rigours of lavish living. During these weeks the household staff moved more freely through the corridors and entered rooms without knocking, but it was by no means a holiday. Rather, this was the time when the chipped gilt of picture frames was retouched; when the rugs were rolled and carried out for beating; when the wooden panelling was fed with linseed oil and the wooden floors waxed; when the lightly tarnished brass of the tapestry rails, high up on the drawing-room walls, could be buffed back to a high shine; when the individual crystal droplets on the ballroom chandeliers could be washed, dried and polished until each one glittered in the electric light with diamond brightness.
Parkinson, conducting a tour of duty through the house, gazed at it now in appreciation; it was as if they’d harnessed the sunshine, he thought, and this was so uncharacteristically whimsical that he reddened, even though he was alone. He busied himself at once, patrolling the perimeter of the gracious room, pleased with the gleam of the parquet floor and the glow of the lighting. Not so very long ago it had been all candles and oil lamps, in here and throughout the house. Then, they’d kept a boy whose only job was to trim the wicks and fill the lamps, and he’d never had an idle moment. Jimmy, Parkinson thought, that was his name. The lad walked miles in the course of a working week. Now one flick of a brass switch and lo, there was light. In this room, and the dining room, the old sconces were still on the walls, although the scorch marks left by the flames were long gone, painted over. The butler stood, lost in the past, remembering the hunt balls, the Christmas balls, the birthday balls. He thought of Lady Henrietta at eighteen, her coming-out ball held not at Fulton House but here at Netherwood Hall, which was perfectly right and proper. Two hundred and fifty young guests, the blur of silk and satin, the windows flung wide to cool the dancers, the dear, departed sixth earl and the then Lady Netherwood watching the proceedings with quiet satisfaction and thanking him, Parkinson, very especially for his tireless quest for perfection. Those were the days; the family complete, the house in its pomp. The past was a happier place than the present, he felt, and the future, in the hands of a young earl and a flighty countess, was worryingly unpredictable. Parkinson enjoyed predictability; it was a very undervalued quality. Outside, the bell in the cupola struck midday, reminding him that time waited for no man, and especially not for butlers. ‘Ah well,’ he said out loud, ‘better get on.’ But he stood still, fixed to the spot by nostalgia and something akin to sadness, or regret.
There were four doors to the ballroom, and one of them opened now to admit Mrs Powell-Hughes, who looked extremely perky, and a little bit smug. ‘There you are,’ she said. ‘I’m glad I’ve found you. Lady Henrietta looks likely to join us in Cowes.’
The very best type of good news – just like the very worst bad – comes quite out of the blue, and these tidings were so entirely unexpected that the butler clapped his hands to his mouth and the housekeeper laughed.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it marvellous?’
‘Are you quite sure?’
‘Sure as I can be.’
It struck Mr Parkinson now that as head of the household staff he would usually have been the first to hear any developments regarding the family. He said, ‘And how do we know this, Mrs Powell-Hughes?’ as if he doubted the truth of it, or the reliability of the source. The housekeeper pursed her lips in irritation and said, ‘I can assure you, Mr Parkinson, that I’m not peddling idle rumour,’ and then she paused for a worrying moment, as if she might tell him no more, so he swiftly reassured her that he had meant to imply no such thing.
‘Very well,’ she said, mollified. ‘I saw Mrs Sykes in Netherwood and she’s visited Lady Henrietta in prison and then again in the infirmary.’
The butler winced at these details; the specifics of Lady Henrietta’s whereabouts caused him pain.
‘She’s thin as a lath, apparently,’ Mrs Powell-Hughes went on. ‘Not herself at all.’
‘But she’s home?’
‘Not as such. There’s a bit of paperwork, legalities I expect. But’ – she hesitated, trying to remember what Anna had said – ‘the prime minister has chosen to be merciful.’
‘We might do well to wait until the earl confirms the news, however,’ said Mr Parkinson, asserting, albeit in a small way, his seniority. ‘That is, without wishing to question the authority of Mrs Sykes in this matter, we perhaps should keep it to ourselves?’ He did wonder, privately, what Anna Sykes could possibly have to do with the sorry situation, or why she might be in a position to predict an outcome. Mrs Powell-Hughes seemed to know better, though.
‘Oh, if Anna says so, it’ll be so,’ she said rather breezily, and bobbed across the room to the door with a distinct spring in her step. ‘Anyway,’ she said, pausing on the threshold, ‘she spoke to Mr Asquith, so she should know.’
Mrs Powell-Hughes had been in Pickering’s, ordering blue and white ticking, when she bumped into Anna, who used a draper’s shop like other people used a library; she came for the peace, and to think. This morning she had been contemplating the vagaries of life over a rack of jewel-coloured slubbed silks: a boldly optimistic order by the young Mr Pickering – whose father, old Mr Pickering, had always thought mostly of worsteds and wool flannel – in this town of working-class housewives.
Mrs Powell-Hughes, seeing Anna, had voiced her concerns,
sotto voce
, about Daniel MacLeod, and Anna had reassured her that she was here, now, for a few days and would be looking after him. Lighter of heart, relieved of her imagined obligation, the housekeeper had asked if Anna was thinking of making herself an evening gown out of garnet silk. Anna, surprised, had said, ‘No, why do you ask?’ which had thrown Mrs Powell-Hughes, since the younger woman had the fabric between finger and thumb and was rubbing it speculatively.
‘Oh! I see,’ Anna had said. ‘No, no, I’m not buying.’ She let the cloth drop. ‘I just like it in here. It’s soothing.’ And she smiled and shrugged, as if to say, There’s your explanation, do with it what you will.
Mr Pickering, at the counter, looked crestfallen. If the likes of Mrs Sykes weren’t tempted by the silks, he wondered if anyone would be.
‘Beautiful colour on you,’ he said. ‘It’s not everybody could wear it, but you could.’ He was known to have an eye, the young Mr Pickering; his opinion was valued. Also, he was the only shopkeeper in Netherwood to wear a three-piece suit to work, and a necktie with matching handkerchief. This, while conferring status upon him and earning respect, also – in truth – made him feel out of his element here. Sometimes he dreamed of moving lock, stock and barrel to Sheffield.
‘No time for dressmaking, Mr Pickering,’ Anna said, crushing his hopes, and then, because she saw his disappointment, she said she might make some cushion covers and bought two yards. She left the shop with Mrs Powell-Hughes, and together they strolled along King Street, which was how the housekeeper came to learn the news about Lady Henrietta and the part Anna had played in her deliverance. It had just been a letter, she said; but in the end, it had been delivered in person to Mr Asquith.
‘Never! At Parliament? Did your husband take it?’
‘No,’ said Anna levelly. ‘At Downing Street, and I took it.’ This had seemed even more remarkable to the housekeeper, whose eyes widened in wonder. Anna, however, remained perfectly casual. ‘I hadn’t expected to see him,’ she said, ‘which is why I put it all in a letter. I was going to leave it with the constable on the doorstep, without much hope of it ever being seen, but then the door opened and someone I knew stepped out, and he showed me in. Mr Asquith was extremely pleasant, although he’s very angry with the suffragettes. Still, he listened to me most obligingly.’
‘Hang on, who came out?’ said Mrs Powell-Hughes, struggling to keep up. ‘Who showed you in?’
‘Oh, a man I know: Sir William de Lisle. We painted his summerhouse. Wasn’t that a stroke of luck? He’s something in the Colonial Office.’
‘Well well,’ said the housekeeper. ‘Fancy that.’ She was beginning to feel rather parochial. Her own world was so very small compared to Anna’s.
‘Yes, very fortuitous.’ She seemed to be stopping at that, so Mrs Powell-Hughes pressed her further; what had she said to the prime minister?
‘Oh, well, just that the best way to keep the WSPU out of the newspapers was to let Lady Henrietta go. She was becoming a martyr to the cause, you see.’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Powell-Hughes. ‘I think so.’
‘Mr Asquith finds them maniacal,’ Anna said. ‘He’s sick of being pelted with missiles, he said.’
The housekeeper tutted. ‘He would be, yes.’
‘But he agreed with me that the present publicity is bad for the government and good for the suffragettes.’
‘Did he?’ There was a respectful pause while Mrs Powell-Hughes digested the information. It seemed astounding to her that Anna could tell the tale in such a nonchalant manner, as if recounting a conversation with the postman or the butcher. Thinking this made her ask, ‘So, were you nervous?’
‘Mmm?’ Anna’s mind had drifted again, to Eve, and to Daniel.
‘Talking to the prime minister, I mean? Were you quaking in your boots? I should’ve been.’ She laughed; she felt nervous at the mere thought of it.
Anna looked at her askance. ‘No, not at all,’ she said. ‘Why?’
‘Oh, no reason,’ said Mrs Powell-Hughes. Then Anna turned the conversation to other matters, which occupied their walk to Turnpike Lane, where their paths diverged. It didn’t escape Mrs Powell-Hughes’s attention, however, that instead of walking briskly towards Netherwood Common and Ravenscliffe, Anna dawdled and checked her silver fob, and this was all done with purpose, as if she expected someone to join her. And then – this was just visible, through a break in the terrace on Watson Street – the housekeeper saw a young man, black-haired and coffee-skinned, striding towards Anna with the type of broad, open, charming smile that must surely bathe the recipient in warmth. Mrs Powell-Hughes thought she had seen him before – he was conspicuous enough, heaven knew – but she couldn’t place him or name him. It vexed her that she wouldn’t be able to quiz Anna directly, without betraying her own somewhat covert behaviour, and all the way back to Netherwood Hall she racked her brains, but his identity eluded her.
‘Penny for ’em,’ said Sarah Pickersgill, who had shoved the kitchen tabby off the kitchen step and was taking two minutes from the tyranny of pickling and bottling.