Her Ladyship's Girl (15 page)

It had taken me most of the week to pack Miranda’s things properly. Some of the trunks had gone with the others, under the supervision of Mrs Hathaway and Miss Mason, and the rest were
being loaded into the car by Tom.

‘Did you know that Mary Shelley once lived in this house?’

Miranda offered me this piece of fascinating information as we sipped the last pot of tea for a while at Chester Square and she smoked a cigarette.

‘No, I didn’t. How amazing.’

‘Yes, it was in her later years, after Percy was drowned in the Bay of La Spezia. I thought you’d be interested, with all your book reading.’

‘How long did she live here for?’

‘I’m not sure. Not more than a year or so. Her only surviving son, Percy Florence, owned the house and she stayed with him and his wife when they weren’t travelling
abroad.’

‘Which room did she sleep in?’

‘I don’t know, Anwyn, maybe yours. She died here from a brain tumour when she was fifty-three.’

She smiled maliciously when she said that. And I was stunned to think I might have been sleeping in the same room as Mary Shelley. Maybe it was best I hadn’t known, the ghost of that
unfortunate woman might be still haunting the house – keeping company with her Modern Prometheus.

The journey up to Bolde Hall was long and tiresome. Miranda had drank some wine and napped in the car. I was sad to leave London and had considered leaving the job and looking for something
else. I didn’t want to go to the country, but the girls in the tea shop said I’d be mad to leave and, anyway, there was nothing in the classifieds that interested me. Besides, I knew
Miranda would have persuaded me to stay if I told her I was leaving. And how could I leave her surrounded by spies and snakes-in-the-grass? I’d never met her father or her brother, but I
already disliked both of them. They seemed like bullies to me and I didn’t like bullies after that dance in Cricklewood when Bart got pushed around. So, I stared out the car window as the
country sailed past me – big towns and little towns and villages and hamlets and farms and fields. We drove up through Hertfordshire and Buckinghamshire and on into Northamptonshire.

We stopped for a while at a roadhouse called the Barley Mow, close to Bloxham in north Oxfordshire, and Tom stretched his legs while Miranda and I had tea and toasted crumpets. Eventually, we
drove through the big gates and up the long gravel driveway to Bolde Hall. It was a huge place, bigger than anything I’d seen before, except in pictures. It was more like a castle to me than
a house and certainly not at all like a hall. As we approached, it grew larger and larger, until it loomed over me like a great gothic mausoleum.

And I knew I’d hate it here.

B
olde Hall was the eighteenth-century residence of the Brandon family, set in five hundred acres of landscaped grounds that were now starting to
look a bit overgrown. It had two synchronised wings projecting from either side of the main part of the house and the whole facade was decorated in the gothic style – I was getting to be a
bit of a boffin on period architecture, having spent time in a few big houses. But I hadn’t seen anything like this before. It only had three storeys, but was spread out and sprawling. God
only knew how many rooms were inside – hundreds, I thought, as I emerged from the car and looked up the eight wide stone steps to the front entrance. To me, it was a crime that a building as
big as this was used to house two men, and then only occasionally.

The Edwardian days were long gone, so no servants stood outside to welcome Miranda and me, as Tom drove the car away with what looked like a couple of gamekeepers, to unload the trunks. The
front door was open, as if they were expecting us and, when we got inside, Mr Biggs had already arrived, with Miss Mason and Jacob and Heather and Beatrice, and there were three other young female
servants who weren’t from Chester Square. Mrs Hathaway didn’t seem to be there, but I could hear Mrs Jackson and the kitchen girls bustling about to the east of the main entrance
hall.

Miranda walked ahead of me and I followed her at a distance, just in case that was another piece of ossified etiquette that couldn’t be challenged by a woman – at least not yet. Her
father and brother didn’t seem to be there either and I heard Mr Biggs remarking to her in a low voice –

‘They’re out riding.’

The light was already going and it would soon be dinner time. So I imagined Mrs Jackson and her girls would be busy cooking downstairs – even though there was no ‘downstairs’
as such in Bolde Hall and the kitchen and scullery were on the ground floor. Jacob tapped me on the shoulder and beckoned me to follow him, which I did, leaving Miranda talking, with a serious
expression on her face, to Mr Biggs. The rest of the servants were already dispersing to their various duties around the house.

Jacob took me to a room on the first floor of the east wing. It was a big room, much bigger than my bedroom in Chester Square, with an enormous bed and baroque furniture that looked gaudy and
extravagant to me, but I was sure even one piece would be worth more than I’d earn in a lifetime. Dressing tables and wardrobes and chests of drawers and upholstered chairs that sneered at me
in their shameless grandiosity and dared me to sit on them. The ceiling was high and decorated with swirls and swishes and the windows were long and shuttered on the inside, with floor-length,
burgundy velvet curtains. The floor was carpeted in thick burgundy Axminster, and paintings of hounds and horses hung on the flock-papered walls. The whole room had a heavy, oppressive feel to it
and the only thing that lightened its mood was a child’s rocking-chair in one of the corners.

My trunk had already been delivered and stood close to one of the wardrobes. Despite its overbearing aura, the room was chilly, as if it hadn’t been used for some time, and I could feel a
breeze coming from somewhere. But there was a scuttle of coal and fire-making material by the grate and I soon had a lively blaze going. I was hungry from all the travelling and I’d had
nothing to eat since the tea and crumpets that afternoon and it was now 8:00 p.m. I was sure Jacob would call me to come and eat with Miranda in the dining room any minute now – but he
didn’t. So I unpacked and waited to see what would happen. I was going to go wandering and explore the house, but I’d probably have got lost and, anyway, Miranda might want me to help
her dress for dinner.

At 9:00 p.m., Heather came to my room with a tray of food and a pot of tea. I asked her if she’d seen Madam Bouchard, but she hadn’t. Mr Biggs told her to bring the food and that was
all she knew. I asked if she’d been here to Bolde Hall before and she said once, last year. I tried to find out something more about the two Mr Brandons, but she said she didn’t know
them at all and hardly ever saw them. Then she hurried away. That night, I slept fretfully and woke early next morning in the cold room with the fire gone out. I had no more fuel to re-light it and
didn’t know where to go to get any. I washed in the handbasin, using a jug of cold water, both of which were on top of one of the baroque tables. Then I dressed in my warmest clothes and
waited. At 8:00 a.m., Heather brought me a breakfast of bacon and black pudding and grilled oatcakes, with two slices of soda bread and a pot of tea. She deposited the tray on a table and collected
the one from the night before and was gone before I could ask her any more questions.

I’d hardly finished eating when Jacob knocked on the door.

‘Follow me, miss.’

He took me along the cold corridors of Bolde Hall, through the main part of the house and into the west wing. Mrs Bouchard was in a bedroom that was even bigger and colder than mine, with the
same ornate furniture crowding every corner. She had a shawl round her shoulders and was sitting up in bed eating a breakfast that looked similar to the one I just ate. Her eyes were puffy and she
looked as if she’d been crying.

‘Anwyn.’

‘Miranda . . . are you all right?’

‘Yes, of course. Have you settled in?’

Her voice was formal, matter-of-fact. It seemed to me she was making the point that, no matter how much we appeared to be friends in London, the fact of the matter was, she was the mistress and
I was the maid. Now we were here in Warwickshire, in the bosom of her family, the correct protocol would have to be observed.

‘There’s a shoot today. You’ll have to find my outdoor togs and air them, I didn’t need them in London.’

‘Where shall I find them?’

‘How should I know? Ask Mason.’

With that, she went back to eating her breakfast. I was dismissed and was about to leave the room.

‘Oh, Anwyn, could you light the fire? It’s freezing in here.’

‘Of course.’

There was a scuttle of coal and some kindling by the fireplace and I lit her a nice fire. By then she’d finished her breakfast.

‘Help me into these, will you?’

She pulled out a pair of brown corduroy Oxford bags and a buttoned-up blouse and an off-white Aran cardigan. She discarded the shawl and her underwear and washed quickly with a basin and jug as
I did. There were no en-suite bathrooms in Bolde Hall. I helped her into the clothes and dabbed her puffy eyes and made her face up as best I could, under the circumstances.

‘Things will be different while we’re here, Anwyn. Not like London.’

‘I know. It’s fine.’

Then I left her to find Miss Mason and the ‘outdoor togs’.

I wandered round the west wing of the house for fifteen minutes without seeing anyone and I realised I was lost. Then I bumped into a young man of about twenty or twenty-one as he strode quickly
round a corner. He was tall and athletic-looking, with handsome features and tanned skin. He looked a little like Miranda, except that his hair was blond and his eyes were a steely blue.

‘Who are you?’

‘Anwyn Moyle, Sir.’

‘And what are you?’

‘Mrs Bouchard’s lady’s maid.’

‘Ah, Peacock’s girl.’

He started to walk away.

‘Do you know where I can find Miss Mason?’

He stopped in his tracks and turned round.

‘Don’t you know?’

‘Know what, Sir?’

‘All the servants’ quarters are in the east wing. This side of the house is for family members and guests only.’

‘No, Sir, I didn’t know. Sorry.’

He sighed. It was an exasperated sound, coming from someone who was easily irritated.

‘Get Biggs to give you the rundown.’

He stalked away, with me following at a safe distance. He led me back to the main part of the house and from there I found my way to the east wing. Beatrice the parlourmaid was going about her
duties and she directed me to Miss Mason’s room. I expected the head housekeeper to be her buttoned-up, stony self and I was surprised when she appeared almost affable, as if the country
suited her more than the city, and she seemed to be in her element out here in the middle of gentryland.

‘Madam Bouchard’s shooting clothes are all stored in the master boudoir. Come with me and I’ll show you.’

She took me back the way I came and up a flight of stairs and into a room where rows and rows of clothing were hung on wooden rails and covered with linen sheets.

‘You’ll have to familiarise yourself with what’s in here. But I’ll find the appropriate outfit for now.’

While she was searching, she told me that both Mr Brandons liked to shoot pheasant and partridge reared on the estate by the gamekeepers and that’s what they’d be doing today. They
also liked to shoot grouse, which flew faster than the other game birds and were more of a challenge, but they couldn’t be reared intensively and they had to travel up to the heather
moorlands of Scotland for that sport. Today would be a beaten shoot and beaters from the village would walk through the woods and drive the game towards the line of standing guns in the butts.
Pickers-up with dogs would make sure all the killed and wounded game was collected.

‘Ah, here we are.’

She pulled out a set of tweeds – jacket, waistcoat and full-length skirt.

‘The boots will be in the boot room.’

By the time I’d aired and pressed Miranda’s shooting outfit and went back and tidied her room, the guests for the shoot were arriving. There was about twenty of them altogether.
Mostly men, but with about half-a-dozen women as well. They didn’t have any servants with them and it fell to myself and Miss Mason and the housemaids, Beatrice and Heather and the other
three girls, whose names were Betty and Cynthia and Sheila, to sort out their clothes and light fires after they were installed in the guest rooms. They came in deco-print full skirts and pencil
wriggle dresses and chiffon maxis and watered taffeta, and the rest of their clothes came in trunks that were carried from the cars and carriages. Cook and her girls were sending over a midmorning
brunch from the kitchen – asparagus soufflé and cinnamon toast and colcannon cakes and German crêpes, along with several bowls of brandy punch, brought in by Mr Biggs and Jacob.
Everybody assembled in the main dining hall to eat and drink and chat and laugh and catch up with all the gossip from the London season.

Miranda mingled with the guests and I saw the tall blond man again, whom I assumed to be her brother. Miss Mason pointed out their father to me – he was also a tall man, in his
mid-fifties. He had reddish-brown hair and sported a wide moustache. He was a commanding figure and the epicentre of the gathering. I waited with the rest of the servants, in case anyone required
anything they didn’t already have. Miranda approached me.

‘I want you to organise the refreshments, Anwyn.’

‘In what way, Madam?’

I started calling her Madam again after we arrived at Bolde Hall, as our relationship had clearly changed from what it was in London.

‘Cook has prepared hampers. Pick two of the housemaids to come with you.’

I assumed she meant for me to attend the shoot and serve food and drink to the guests. I picked Heather and Sheila and told them to get their coats.

The head gamekeeper arrived and told Mr Brandon that the beaters were in position. The hampers were loaded onto a horse-drawn shooting brake and the guests climbed aboard as well. They were
driven off at a slow gait across the estate, with me and the two housemaids walking behind with the gun handlers. I had no boots and neither did the maids and soon our shoes were clogged heavy with
mud. It was half a mile to the edge of the woodland and the butts, which were a line of sunken hides, some thirty yards apart and screened by rough stone walls. The guns took up their positions,
each one partnered by a loader, while the women perched themselves on shooting sticks some distance away. A signal was sent to the beaters at the other side of the trees, and soon I could hear
their calls and the barking of the dogs being carried on the early afternoon air.