Not that Glad didn’t have reasons for her strictures, as I discovered when our first crop of guests arrived. I was making beds with Glad in the married couples’ rooms and she’d informed me that dressing rooms were for husbands to sleep in. ‘How odd.’ I’d replied, ‘Don’t wives and husbands sleep in the same bed, then?’
Glad snorted. ‘Not with each other. You can always tell – by the state o’ the bedlinen. Here,’ she lifted the pillow, ‘Have a sniff of that.’
I sniffed. ‘It smells o’ bay rum – I ken that, seeing as some o’ the single gentlemen in ma rooms use it on their hairs, but I didna ken as ladies used it, too.’
‘They don’t. And she’s here without her husband. Look,’ she bent down and opened the bedside cabinet to show me the chamber, ‘I’ve not had time to see to the slops yet, so you can see for yourself – empty on this side, double-filled the other. They always do that – think we can’t work out she’s had a visitor.’
I exclaimed, ‘But that would be adultery! An’ it says in the Bible thou shalt not commit it.’
‘So I was taught. They must’ve learnt different. Come on Eve, no time to stand around chatting.’
Adultery – I knew what that was. I’d asked Apa once, when I’d been about seven, or eight. He’d been cleaning his rifle at the time, and I remember him inspecting the pull-through rag very thoroughly before he’d explained that married people shared the same bed – which I knew already from when we stayed with Mr and Mrs Benham at Naini Tal. But that sometimes they got bored with each other – or decided they liked another person better – so then they shared a bed with that person, instead. ‘But that’s quite wrong, Eve, because in the marriage ceremony a man and woman promise to keep only unto each other.’
I’d said, ‘And “keeping unto” means you must always sleep in the same bed as your husband or wife – and not with anyone else?’
Apa fussed with the small oil can, ‘Er – yes, it does.’ Then he put the oil can down, looked up at me and said, ‘But keeping unto each other where a man and wife are concerned means more than that, Eve – much, much more. It means that people who are married should always be loyal and honest and true to each other. But people who commit adultery are being the reverse of these things – and that’s why it’s forbidden in the commandments.’
So I knew all about adultery. And I shared Glad’s disapproval – as a humble housemaid should. But the truth is, though still enjoying my role of humble housemaid, I was getting slightly bored while waiting for Dr Travers to arrive. And after all, I had come here to study the tribal rituals of the upper classes, not to play. So I decided to widen the field of my researches.
At first I just watched them; by creeping along in the shadows of the great hall and hiding behind pillars or in alcoves – like stalking animals in the jungle. You could get away with it as long as you were ready to freeze instantly into stillness, like a statue – in fact there were so many statues around in that place they probably couldn’t tell the difference. So I watched. But – what were they saying? So I moved on to eavesdropping. The opportunities were not frequent, because my best access was from outside through an open window, and the availability of those depended on the weather – so only on mild evenings was it possible to slip inside. And though I had the double curtain system in my favour the rooms were awfully big, especially the drawing room – so if people moved about their voices faded. Still, my grandmother must have found it heavy going too sometimes, tramping around Africa. The other reason why I didn’t do it all that often was because, frankly, when I did manage to hear what they were saying, it was pretty boring.
The opening words, ‘Lucinda told me, in strict confidence,’ would set my ears pricking up, only for, ‘That it was quite the dullest evening she’s ever spent.’ to send them down again. Then they’d waste the next ten minutes discussing who was, and was not, a good hostess. I admit I couldn’t hear everything, but most of what they said hardly seemed worth the sacrifice of an evening behind the haystack with Billy, boomeranging rats. All those women seemed to talk about was parties, eating, or dancing – oh, and bridge. It’s only a game, for goodness’ sake – but they took it so seriously.
I tried the men next, in the billiard room; a bit tricky, that one – and not worth the trouble – all horses and shooting. I know people talked about shooting in Almora, too – but at least there it was about shooting bears, and tigers, or rabid jackals – something that could do you an awful lot of damage if you got it wrong. But pheasants and partridges – the only point of shooting a pheasant was to eat it, not to boast of how many hundreds you’d slaughtered last week.
You couldn’t eat all those – and the wretched birds had only been bred to be beaten over the guns in the first place. Stupid, I thought. I slid silently back out of the window and climbed up the drainpipe gully to the roof.
But I did slip in through the drawing room bay window again that week – and I hit gold. Dr Travers was mentioned, then another female voice said, ‘Darling Will, he is so good-looking,’ (now I knew his Christian name – hurrah!) ‘but so dreadfully serious, he even takes his cricket seriously.’
A man grunted, ‘Cricket is serious, Millicent – and young Will’s a damn fine bowler.’
‘Better than Monty,’ said another man.
A woman broke in, ‘But Monty’s batting is so exciting to watch.’
The first man spoke again, ‘Yes, on a good day he can rival Jessop.’
The woman answered, ‘He’s cleared the pavilion with a six – more than once, so Fred Parton told me.’ So Mr Parton was a Fred. I didn’t know who this Monty was, but his name cropped up again soon after as ‘Good fun at parties’ (bad mark), ‘Such an excellent bridge player,’ (another bad mark), ‘Monty and Will are such close friends,’ (good mark), then there was a reference to him as ‘Monty Rothbury’, so he was the one Norah said was such a generous tipper, (evens).
Shortly afterwards the party split up, some for bridge, and some for billiards – leaving only two or three women in the drawing room. This would have made my eavesdropping easier, but they began to stroll around the room in a very inconvenient way. I was actually thinking about leaving when I realised that the ‘Shop’ they were talking about was not a milliners, but the The Royal Military Academy at Woolwich, where Apa had been. So of course, I stayed. Luckily they’d paused in their strolling about, and were up at my end. I realised they were talking about someone who’d recently passed out high up on the list, as Apa had done. My ears were straining by now. ‘He worked so hard, no-one saw him for months – still it was worth it, now he can take his commission in the Royal Engineers,’ (as Apa had). ‘He could never have afforded the Horse Gunners. Poor Benedict, he’s got less than the proverbial church mouse – only his father’s allowance, no private means at all.’
‘Unlike Monty Rothbury, who’s got more means than even he could possibly ever spend – but he passed high up on the list at the Shop, too.’
‘Ted says he could have been right at the top of it – if he’d spent less time playing cricket and steeplechasing.’
‘But he did win the Saddle. In any case, all work and no play…’
The second voice broke in, ‘… will certainly never make Monty a dull boy!’
And a third voice said indulgently, ‘Darling Monty couldn’t be a dull boy – even if he tried.’ And then voice began to fade as they were off again, down to the end of the room. I caught, ‘Such a shame about …’ And then they were out of earshot. I wondered what the shame was until I heard them coming back,
‘Dear Helen tried so hard to hook him, I thought she’d really coaxed him over the final fence, last Christmas, but…’
Fade out. So it was his disinclination for matrimony they were bewailing; and still at it when they returned, ‘You never know – now his sister’s off his hands, perhaps some fortunate woman will be able to score a six!’ At that point I started totting up his final score: Woolwich, good, because the same as Apa; bu
t bad, because it meant he was in the army; but a sapper, so not hopelessly bad; then I heard, ‘I really thought Sophie would make a match with Will Travers,’ I snapped to attention. ‘Monty would have been so delighted to have Will as his brother-in-law.’ But Dr Travers was mine! ‘They’ve always got on so well, despite dear Will’s socialist leanings.’
Dr Travers a Socialist! Award him fifteen hundred marks, instantly!
The voice continued, ‘Monty will miss Sophie enormously – it’s a pity in some ways now that he sent in his papers after his mother died.’ So he wasn’t in the army now.
I couldn’t be bothered adjusting his score, though – I was too busy totting up Dr Travers’. A doctor, half-American, so good-looking, no stupid title – and a Socialist. Could I even count that high?
A couple of days later the white name cards were slotted into the small brass holder on each bachelor door. Dr Travers and Mr Parton next to each other, Captain Cholmondeley (pronounced ‘Chumley’, H.H. informed me) Lord Ernest Skelton, the Hon. Mr Piers Brandon, (who was only honourable on labels and envelopes, so H.H. said) and in the room at the end, beyond the stairs, Lord Rothbury.
But that was the biggest room. I said to H.H., ‘Can’t Dr Travers no have that one? Seeing as he’s her ladyship’s nephew.’
She corrected me. ‘His lordship’s nephew – his mother is Lady Elizabeth, Lord Stokesley’s sister.’
‘Oh – but doesna that make him even more of a relation? And Dr Travers, he’s a doctor, too.’
That one stopped H.H. in her tracks. ‘Lord Rothbury is a marquis! That gives him precedence over Lord Stokesley himself!’ Well, gee whizz. She hadn’t finished yet. ‘Marquises only give way to Dukes.’ Golly gosh, isn’t that exciting? H.H. was still under full sail, ‘And the Duke and Duchess of Dorset will be in the best guest rooms.’
I already knew that from Glad, who later informed me, ‘That Duke’s a fat old geezer – and when it comes to tips he’s as tight as the backside of pullet what’s not come in to lay yet.’
Interested, I asked Glad, ‘Does he commit adultery?’
She snorted. ‘I doubt if anyone’d have him for free. He probably has to pay if he wants a bit on the side. I expect that’s why he’s so stingy with his tips. She leant forward over the bed. ‘At my last place, the Duke who visited there had a regular mistress, kept her in a villa in Maida Vale, he did.’
I tried to disentangle that one. ‘You mean, he paid this woman tae sleep with him, whenever he wanted her tae?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Do a lot o’ them dae that?’
Glad nodded. ‘A fair number, so I’ve heard. But some just pay to go to tarts.’
I was completely at sea, ‘Tarts? What – who, are they?’
‘Women who’ll do it with anyone – even his grace, the duke!’ Glad’s snigger stopped abruptly. H.H. was standing in the doorway.
In a freezing voice H.H. said, ‘Gladys, may I have a word with you – outside?’
When Glad flounced back in again I asked, ‘What did she say?’
‘None o’ your business.’ She muttered, just loud enough for me to hear, ‘“Innocent Scots lassie” – huh! Her Highness’ Scotch pet, more like.’ She was in a very bad mood all morning; no more gossip from that source.
I filed the information away under ‘tribal rituals pertaining to the English upper class’, and moved on to dreaming of Dr Travers, who would obviously never need to pay anyone to share a bed with him. This time tomorrow he’d be on his way…
H.H. had informed her team that the whole party was to assemble by Friday evening, in time for dinner, and remain for eleven days. But this meant I wouldn’t even catch a glimpse of Dr Travers until Saturday morning; I wasn’t going to wait that long. So I planned my coup.
My first move was to slip outside and round to the long dining room bay windows, to see if any were open. One was. Move two was to leave the maids’ sitting room the minute supper was over and gallop upstairs. Move three was to change into my night climbing costume, comprising my faithful black breeks, black jersey and an old black woollen stocking – I pulled it over my head and then tucked my hair up underneath it. The moon was not far off full, but clouds kept flitting across its face as I climbed out of the window and over the roof. Perfect weather conditions – just what we’d preferred for poaching nights up in Helspie.
The window was still open. I slipped through just as the scuffling of chairs indicated that the ladies were in the process of leaving the dining room. Under cover of that noise I climbed up on to the top of the leaf cupboard and settled myself down, as comfortably as I could. There wasn’t much space, because I was a good eight feet above the floor, and the ceiling in the bay was lower than in the main part of the dining room, so I had to crouch.
Still, I was feeling pretty pleased with myself – until I heard Dr Travers speak. He was here, but on the side of the table nearest to me, so I wouldn’t be able to see him. Curses! I just hadn’t thought of that possibility. Maybe I could try and catch a glimpse of Mr Parton – well, Mr Parton was a very nice man, of course, but… Then I heard a voice opposite saying, ‘Cigar, Rothbury?’
I couldn’t resist it, I’d see someone, at least. Very, very gently I began easing the top of the curtains an eye-width apart, thinking as I did so that I bet Lord Rothbury wasn’t anything like as handsome as Dr Travers. He wasn’t. Not handsome at all, because he had a big long nose – rather like a horse. In fact, he was Horseface.
Chapter Twenty Five
I was so startled I broke the first rule of stalking – never stare directly at your quarry, or it will sense your presence and move away. Horseface didn’t move away, he looked up – straight at me.
I managed to draw back without rattling the curtain rings, and the gap was so tiny the heavy velvet fell back into place at once. He couldn’t possibly have seen me – could he? I was trembling, but the leaf cupboard was good solid oak, and didn’t move. The murmur of conversation was continuing – no shout of ‘Intruders!’ had been raised. He hadn’t seen me. What a relief.
I’ve got to admit that for one craven moment I considered a tactical withdrawal, then I caught the lighter tones of Dr Travers’ voice, ‘More port, Brandon?’, and my courage came back. I was here to study tribal rituals – would my grandmother Fanny have yielded the field when the enemy threatened? Of course not, so I wasn’t going to let Horseface frighten me away, either. Besides, I was certain he hadn’t seen me.
Several conversations were taking place at once, which wasn’t totally satisfactory for the serious student of tribal exchanges, but I was sure I could pick up something; especially as I suspected that Horseface was not the only one present who’d put his time in bellowing orders across a parade ground. Then they settled down to a single topic: ‘Youngsters nowadays haven’t got the pluck to take risks, the way we used to.’ That was Glad’s Duke, I think. That set them describing the risks they’d taken, when they were younger. They’d done some pretty stupid things, as far as I could hear, but they were all boasting about them now.
Then Dr Travers, who luckily had a nice clear voice, told a story about how one of his older brothers had dared him to have a go on a motor bicycle. He’d jumped on and started it – then realised he hadn’t a clue how to stop it. ‘I thought I’d have to ride round and round in a circle until either the petroleum ran out, or I fell off!’ The other men all laughed. ‘But my sister took pity on me – she’d spotted my brother flicking the petrol switch on before he dared me, so she ran alongside, waving and shouting until I finally understood, flipped the switch – and fell off anyway!’
Everybody laughed, and I had to muffle my giggles. Then the Duke asked, ‘How are your pheasants this year, Stokesley?’ And the conversation shifted to the head of the table. Lord Stokesley was another one who bellowed, but I was barely listening to him, which is why I heard Horseface, his voice much softer now, say, ‘Rather hot in here – think I’ll go and cool down by the window.’
I froze. The curtain rings rattled, light flooded into the bay – but he wouldn’t be able to see me, up here in the shadows – then they rattled a second time, and the bay recess was in darkness again. But only for a moment – he’d moved over to the window itself, and now one of those curtains swished back, letting in a faint, grey light. Very faint – but I still didn’t dare look over the edge of the cupboard. There was a distinct aroma of cigars, and I had that sense of someone being nearby – but the leaf cupboard was so high I couldn’t even see the top of his head, so he couldn’t possibly see me.
There was a roar of laughter from the dining table, and as it faded I heard a soft footfall – he was moving very quietly for such a big man, but then, they all wore those stupid lightweight pumps with their evening dress… he was heading for the leaf cupboard. But even he couldn’t reach – a creak – I craned my head further round, peering back into the darkness, and a cloud shifted so that for a moment I saw on the edge of the cupboard the pale blur of a hand. He was standing on the window seat.
The seat was low, and the cupboard high – still below his eye level – but I could see the pale oval of his face – and that white blur of a hand was beginning to travel towards my foot. If I didn’t move a muscle perhaps he’d think I was one of those statues – after all, my foot was bare. Closing my eyes I willed myself to be totally still – and a large, warm hand clamped around my ankle.
My eyes opened. I could see an expanse of white cuff, and the glint of a gold cufflink. Then a deep, bass whisper murmured, ‘Well, well – and who does this ankle belong to?’
For a wild moment I thought of claiming to be a statue, then I had a better idea. Under cover of Lord Ernest’s braying voice from beyond the curtains I whispered back, in the best Shropshire accent I could manage, ‘Thic other buoys – they did dare I to cum a-creeping in.’ I felt his grip slacken momentarily