The Secret Countess
‘You really like it here, don’t you?’ said Rupert wonderingly. ‘Though we work you half to death, though your hands are raw and chapped, though you’re cruelly short of sleep . . .’
They had reached the rose. ‘Yes,’ said Anna so quietly that Rupert had to bend his head to hear. ‘Yes, I like it here. I like Mrs Park, who is so gentle and so good, and James, who has struggled and struggled to make himself strong. I like the courage of your mother, who is so patient with the spirits who plague her, and I like your uncle, who hears music as if each time it had been just composed. I like the warriors on your roof and your foolish dog and the catalpa tree that leans into the lake . . . And this rose, I like,’ she said, bending in reverence to Mr Cameron’s masterpiece. ‘Yes, very much I like this rose.’
She fell silent. (And if I were to take the secateurs, thought Rupert, and cut each and every blossom from this incomparable bush and pour them in her lap, what then?)
Anna looked up at him. Her face crunched into its monkey smile. ‘And the appendix of Mrs Proom,’ she continued, ‘ah, that I truly love!’
Rupert lifted his hands in a mocking gesture of surrender. ‘Then stay,’ he said, ‘heaven forbid that I should come between you and Mrs Proom’s appendix,’ – and left her.
The dowager was tired. She had spent the morning in the village, comforting Mrs Bunford, who was still very much upset at having been asked to make neither the wedding gown nor any of the dresses for the bridesmaids and, to console the widow, had ordered her own outfit of powder blue wild silk. To give Mrs Bunford wild silk to ruin was the act of a lunatic and the dowager was already regretting it. Then as she walked to her brougham she was accosted by tiny, tottery Miss Frensham who had played the organ in Mersham Church for forty years. Miss Frensham, rheumy-eyed and quavery, wanted to know if it was true that Miss Hardwicke wanted neither ‘The Voice That Breathed O’er Eden’ nor the ‘Lohengrin March’ like they always had, but something modern that Miss Frensham was almost sure she wouldn’t be able to play since she couldn’t see too well nowadays to read new music. Because if so, perhaps they’d like to get someone else to play, though it wouldn’t be easy not to see Master Rupert married, not after she’d read him every single page of The Prince and the Pauper when he had the measles, because he always noticed when you missed a bit out, not like other children . . .
By the time the dowager had soothed Miss Frensham she was late for her appointment with Colonel Forster at the Mill House and must, she realized, have made a mess of explaining why she had to move into the Mill House immediately without waiting for the improvements that the Forsters were so kindly putting in for her, because Colonel Forster had looked at her very strangely and Mrs Forster had patted her hand in quite the wrong way when she left. And when at last she had gone home and sat down for a moment to rest, there had been the usual psychic vibrations and the voice of Hatty Dalrymple had come through as clearly as if she were still beside her in the dormitory all those years ago at school. Hatty, who had passed over as the result of a boating accident at Cowes, had always been a gusher and the information that she could see rays of aetheric ecstacy emanating from Rupert and his lovely, lovely bride did little for the dowager, remembering the look in Rupert’s eyes these days.
And now she really had to make up her mind whether or not to send a wedding invitation to the Herrings.
Mr and Mrs Melvyn Herring and their twin sons, Donald and Dennis, were not so much herrings as sheep, and extremely black ones at that. The dowager came from an old Irish family whose pedigree was excellent, but whose upbringing, on a wild and lovely estate in County Down, had been unconventional and lacking in discipline. As a result, when the dowager’s youngest sister, Vanessa, fell passionately in love with the extremely handsome hairdresser who came to prepare her glorious, golden ringlets for her coming-out ball, she had put lunacy into action and eloped with him. For this attack of passion, poor Vanessa Templeton paid dearly, coming round, so to speak, a few months later – to find herself pregnant, penniless and desperate. Whether she died of a broken heart or puerperal fever following the birth of her son, Melvyn, it would be hard to say. Whatever the reason, there now began the long process of dumping Melvyn on anyone who would have him which was to take up so much of his father’s life. For Vanessa Templeton’s love child was one of nature’s genuine abominations: a deeply unpleasant child who grew in deceit, temper and general sliminess into the kind of adult who can empty a room within minutes of entering it. Melvyn’s sojourn at the Templetons’ estate in County Down was burned into the marrow of every one of its inhabitants, from Lady Templeton herself down to the obscurest scullery maid. The dowager, inviting him to Mersham in his early adolescence, had been harrowed by this resemblance and by the fact that he looked like a smeared and blotched version of her own Rupert. During this visit, Melvyn had (at the age of fourteen) got the stillroom maid pregnant, lamed George’s favourite hunter with an air gun and stolen a hundred gold sovereigns from her husband’s desk. During a second visit, at the age of sixteen, he had started a fire in the morning room with an illicit cigarette and left with his aunt’s favourite Meissen figurine, which he sold to a dealer before it could be traced. Fortunately, Nemesis overtook him in the form of a waitress called Myrtle who, finding herself pregnant by him, got him to the altar. The birth of Dennis and Donald squared the account for the twins, growing from pimpled, puking and overweight blobs of dough into pallid, whining mounds of flesh, finally put the Herrings beyond the social pale. No one felt able to invite four horrible Herrings to their house and, after an abortive attempt by the Templetons to ship them off to America, Australia – anywhere – the Herrings dropped into obscurity in a Birmingham suburb.
But Rupert’s wedding . . . The dowager, remembering her lovely, youngest sister, dangerously allowing sentiment to overcome reason, made up her mind.
‘I’ll ask them,’ she decided. ‘After all, Melvyn is my nephew.’
And so the gold-embossed invitation bidding Mr and Mrs Melvyn Herring and Donald and Dennis Herring to the wedding of Muriel Hardwicke with Rupert St John Oliver Frayne, Seventh Earl of Westerholme, in the church of St Peter and St Paul on the 28 July at 12.30 and afterwards at Mersham, dropped on to the threadbare linoleum of the Herrings’ hall in 398 Hookley Road, Birmingham – with consequences which no one, at this stage, could possibly have foreseen.
The wedding preparations now accelerated towards their climax. Carriers drew up, continuously, delivering antique wine coolers, famille vert bowls, ormolu clocks and a set of matching beermats showing views of the Hookley Road, which the Herrings, enchanted to be taken up again by their grand relations, had pilfered from their local pub. The Rabinovitches, exceeding even their usual generosity, sent a six-hundred piece armorial dinner service decorated in sepia and gold. Muriel moved among her wedding gifts with great efficiency, acknowledging everything meticulously as soon as it arrived and personally instructing Proom as to its display in the ante-room to the gold saloon. Old Lord and Lady Templeton wrote that they would come from Ireland. Minna Byrne most nobly offered to accommodate the Duke and Duchess of Nettleford and their four younger daughters, leaving only the Lady Lavinia to sleep at Mersham. The dowager wrote a friendly note to Dr Lightbody and his wife and was relieved, though surprised, that Muriel apparently had not one living relation who would wish to see her married.
But of course the bulk of the work fell on the staff. The influx of house guests for the wedding meant the opening up of rooms in the north wing and, once again, the maids were up at dawn, blackleading and dusting, washing the wainscot, taking curtains down and carpets up. Over the wedding breakfast itself, the dowager had made a stand. This was to be her last occasion as hostess at Mersham and there were to be no taboos. Only the best champagne and the choicest dishes would be served and, though there might be a few special alcohol-free dishes for Muriel and Dr Lightbody, everything else would be as fine as Mrs Park could make it. So there was singing again in the kitchen as
the gentle cook broke thirty-three eggs into her big bowl for the wedding cake and Win’s round face beamed with relief, seeing her adored Mrs Park restored to happiness.
As for Rupert, he now did what troubled human beings have always done – he buried himself in work. Fortunately, there was enough of it. The estate had been neglected for years. Freed, now, from financial restraints, Rupert spent hours with his foresters, his farm manager, his bailiff. The new earl’s capacity for listening, his high intelligence and quick concern, were a boon to the men who worked for him. They brought him their plans and hopes, their troubles and their prejudices. As he walked through his forests, pored over drainage plans, discussed cropping programmes and roofing materials, Rupert was content. Only at night, in the little room in the bachelor wing which he still preferred to his now spring-cleaned master suite, did the facade crack and into the landscape of his earlier nightmares there entered a new figure: a still, dark-eyed girl who stood with bent head, waiting – and when he reached for her, was gone.
Then, with less than four weeks to the wedding, he suddenly announced his intention of going to Cambridge ‘on business’. While Muriel was still formulating her displeasure he had taken the Daimler and gone.
That afternoon, going into the housekeeper’s room to take tea as was his custom, Proom found Mrs Bassenthwaite sitting in her chair, doubled up and groaning with pain. The following day, in Maidens Over Hospital, she was operated on for the removal of her gall bladder.
At this crucial time, Mersham was without a housekeeper. Muriel saw this as her chance and, with characteristic efficiency, she took it.
10
Three days later, Mrs Park woke up aware that something was wrong. She looked at the round, brass clock on the chest of drawers. Half past six. Win should have been in half an hour ago with the cup of tea she always brought.
Mrs Park rose, put on her pink flannel dressing gown and carpet slippers and padded through her own snug sitting room behind the kitchens down the stone corridor to where Win slept, in a little slit of a room between the laundry and the stillroom.
There was no sign of Win. The bed was empty, the pillow uncreased, the grey blankets pulled tight over the iron bed.
Mrs Park’s heart began to pound. Instinctively knowing that it was useless, she went through the kitchens into the servants’ hall. The range had not been lit, the servants’ breakfast had not been laid. Still searching and calling she went through the sculleries, the pantries, the larder . . . In the sewing room she found Anna, changing out of her riding habit into her uniform.
‘Anna, Win’s gone! Her bed’s not been slept in!’
Anna turned, her cap in her hand. ‘It was her half-day off yesterday, I think? So she will have gone into the grounds, perhaps, and fallen asleep? The night was so beautiful. I have done this myself – often have I done it,’ said Anna, but her eyes were grave.
Within half an hour every single member of staff was searching for the little dimwit who was as much a part of Mersham as the moss on the paving stones. Mr Cameron and his underlings searched the walled garden, the greenhouses and the orangery – for Win had loved flowers. Potter rode off to scour the woods; James and Sid circled the lake.
By lunchtime it was clear that the matter was one for the police and Proom, his face more than usually grave, went upstairs to inform the family.
The dowager and Muriel were in the morning room. Rupert had not yet returned from Cambridge.
‘My lady, I have come to tell you that Win is missing. We have searched everywhere, but her bed has not been slept in and I’m afraid the matter is serious.’
He addressed the dowager as lady of the house, but it was Muriel who answered.
‘Is that the simple one? The kitchen maid?’
‘Yes, miss. Win is employed in the kitchens.’
‘Oh, dear!’ The dowager had risen. ‘We must get hold of the police at once. And Colonel Forster, too. I’ll go and—’
‘No, wait!’ Muriel spoke with authority. ‘There seems to have been some mistake. Surely Mrs Bassenthwaite told you that Win was going away?’
Proom turned to her, his face impassive. ‘No, miss. Nothing was said about it, I’m sure.’
‘Going away?’ echoed the dowager in surprise. ‘But where to? Win has no family of any kind. She came from an orphanage in Maidens Over. As far as I know, she’s been in the parish all her life.’
Muriel nodded. ‘Mrs Bassenthwaite must have forgotten to mention it. It’s often like that before a gall bladder operation – there can be almost complete amnesia. But I discussed it all with her very carefully.’ She turned to the dowager. ‘Rupert asked me to concern myself with the indoor staff without delay, as you know, and I felt that something should be done for the poor girl.’
‘What sort of thing?’ asked the dowager, puzzled.
‘Well, you must have noticed how she lives? Almost like an animal. No speech, no rational thought.’
‘Win has been very useful to Mrs Park, miss,’ said Proom. ‘Mrs Park is very fond of her. She doesn’t say much, but she’s got a way of knowing what Mrs Park wants almost before Mrs Park knows it herself. Mrs Park’ll be very upset at losing Win.’
‘I know. But of course I mean to replace Win immediately. There is to be a considerable increase in kitchen staff. And if Mrs Park is fond of Win – and I’m sure she is – she will want what is best for her.’
‘I still don’t quite understand,’ said the dowager. ‘Where has she gone? And how did she go so quickly without anyone knowing?’
Muriel smiled reassuringly. ‘Fortunately, with my connections as a nurse and with the help of Dr Lightbody, I found an excellent institution where they give first-class guidance to girls of her sort. Speech therapy, training in handicrafts, everything. You’ll see, Win’ll be fit for something much better than kitchen work when she’s been there a while . . .’
‘But why was it so sudden, Muriel? Surely Mrs Park should have had some warning?’
Muriel’s placid face turned towards her mother-in-law. ‘People don’t always understand what’s best for them. A distressing scene would have been so bad for Win. It’s like a child going to boarding school; the mother’s tears make it impossible. So I arranged with Mrs Bassenthwaite that she should be fetched away quietly by someone sympathetic and experienced.’
‘Mrs Park will want to know where she’s gone, my lady. She’ll want to be able to visit her.’ To Muriel’s irritation, Proom continued to address the dowager.
‘And so she shall,’ said Muriel. ‘But the poor girl must be given a few weeks to settle down. I’ll be in touch with Mrs Park myself. Just tell her she must be brave for Win’s sake.’
‘Though why,’ Muriel continued, when Proom had bowed and left, ‘one has to make so much fuss about the feelings of a cook, I don’t understand. I hope Rupert will be pleased at least.’
But the dowager was silent.
Mrs Park accepted it. She accepted it for Win, trusting soul that she was. Nevertheless she suffered, silent and uncomplaining, berating herself for her selfishness in wanting Win around when the girl was learning to speak properly and take her place in the world.
‘You’ll see, she’ll be back,’ said James, unable to bear the stricken look in the cook’s round, blue eyes, ‘driving a big yellow motor as like as not and talking like a duchess.’
‘There was a girl over my auntie’s way,’ Louise put in, ‘she went to one of them training places and they taught her weaving and basket work an’ all. She’s got her own shop now.’
Mrs Park nodded. ‘It’s just I would have liked to say goodbye to her,’ she said in her slow, soft voice. ‘I’d just have liked to say goodbye.’
Muriel was as good as her word over Win’s replacement. A new girl, sent down by Mrs Finch-Heron, arrived the following day. Mildred was bright and pretty and full of excellent suggestions for improving the routine. At night, kneeling by her bed, Mrs Park followed her prayers for Win’s safety and happiness by a
sking God to forgive her her wickedness in wanting Mildred to shut up – or even better – go away.
Uncle Sebastien was playing the Liebestod. He thought that this was probably the last time he would play it, for he had been shamed and caught out and was to be punished. Muriel had seen him giving Pearl a squeeze as she sidled past him in the corridor. Pearl had squealed and jumped – she liked to act up a little – and he had turned to find Muriel standing in the doorway staring at him with contempt and disgust.
And she was quite right, of course. Right to despise him and to engage for him, as she had done, it seemed, a kind of jailor, a hospital nurse who would keep him from the maids.
How had it happened, Uncle Sebastien asked himself, sitting pink-faced and wretched by his gramophone? All his life he had loved women, but he was nervous and shy with those of his own class. It was the uncomplicated, half-glimpsed servant girls that had beguiled and enchanted him for three-quarters of a century. And just as a devoted gardener lingers at nightfall over his herbaceous border, so Uncle Sebastien, overcome by misery and Wagner, let his mind wander through the well-remembered treasury of serving maids.
There had been so many in his youth. The dairymaids in blue caps like coifs to keep their curls out of the milk, their breath as sweet as that of the cows they tended. The dimity sewing girls in checked pink gingham with quick, pricked fingers . . . Scullery maids, patient as oxen with their hessian aprons and humped behinds, forever scrubbing pale circles in the darker stone . . . Laundry maids singing like blackbirds as they hung up the sheets . . .
He forgot so many things these days, but he could still remember almost all their names. Daisy, the little freckled nursemaid with streamers in her cap . . . Even in his pram he’d loved Daisy. Netta, the poor little drudge at his public school who’d still managed to force a dimple into her pinched cheek when he’d passed her in the interminable, dank corridors with her buckets . . . And Elly, the Irish chambermaid, who’d given him so lightly and gaily what most youths had to buy with trepidation and risk from some professional. Ah, the panache of that girl who’d seduced him, not in some haystack or barn but on the needlepoint rug in the tapestry room, in the still hour between lunch and tea.