Eve

  The food and drink was of a uniformly excellent quality, but the mealtime experience as a whole was – mixed. I enjoyed replying to Lord Rothbury’s: ‘Good morning, Eve’ with a ‘Good morning, Monty.’ I enjoyed sitting opposite him at the table; I enjoyed hearing him wave away the morning paper Mr Hayter was proferring with a, ‘Not today, thanks – I’ll read it later.’ And as Mr Hayter closed the door I especially enjoyed Lord Rothbury telling me with a smile, ‘What man reads a newspaper over breakfast when he has a brand-new substitute sister to entertain him? Would you pour my tea for me, please, puss cat?’ It was Indian, like mine. So, what was it I found less – pleasing? Well, there was the room, for a start.

  We were eating in the morning room, which I hadn’t seen before as at the time of my tour it had still been under dust sheets. The room itself was beautiful, full of light and colour – but I was less happy about the paintings. About two of the paintings, that is.

  The smaller one was of a woman: slender, dark-haired and young. She was wearing flowing golden draperies and reclining on a carved marble bench under a clear blue sky. As she was gazing out over an even bluer sea you could only see her profile, but I recognised it at once. I shifted my chair slightly so that she was out of my sight.

  The other portrait I couldn’t move away from, since it hung on the wall behind Lord Rothbury’s head. I don’t look at soldiers normally, but when you’re walking in London you can’t help seeing the troops of Household Cavalry parading around on their black horses with spurs shining and harness jingling. The man in this portrait was mounted on a jet-black horse and adorned with all the trappings of a Life Guards officer: scarlet tunic, steel breastplate and yards of gaudy gold braid and cords slung from one of his extremely broad shoulders. His big hands were encased in even bigger white gauntlets, and one was holding the reins while the other, the nearer one, was resting on the hilt of his sword. Not that people use swords nowadays, I told myself quickly – it’s just a symbol. A symbol of the fact that soldiers kill people.

  Hastily I bent my head down over my plate of egg and bacon. But barely a forkful later I was lifting my eyes again to look at that ridiculous pointed helmet with its white horsehair plume and low-slung peak – then I couldn’t help it, my gaze was resting on the face again.

  His head was slightly turned away, but that profile was as impossible to mistake as hers had been. Still, I did my best – telling myself that although obviously too young for his brother he must have cousins who resembled him – yes, surely that mouth wasn’t quite the same – don’t look, Eve – just enjoy your bacon.

  Anyway it couldn’t be him because he’d been at the Shop, and people from the shop simply didn’t go into cavalry regiments. Then there was that moustache – quite different. I glanced up again – and clean-shaven Lord Rothbury noticed and said lightly, ‘It does rather dominate the room, doesn’t it? But Mama was so keen to have me painted in uniform. And then as she used to sit in your seat she wanted it hung up there – she used to say that when I wasn’t here she liked to look at it at breakfast. Mothers do tend to dote, don’t they?’

  Did they? I wouldn’t know. I said accusingly, ‘But surely you were at the Shop – people from the Shop don’t go into the Life Guards.’

  ‘Not generally, no. But such a move is not impossible, and so my final two years of service were with the Household Brigade.’

  I asked bluntly, ‘Why?’

  He sliced through the yolk of his second egg before replying, ‘Because all other arms of the service are sooner or later posted abroad, and by then such a posting would have been – inappropriate, given my domestic responsibilities at that time.’ His eyes flicked for a moment to the second painting before he added, ‘Sophie and Bym were still only children, and there was considerable anxiety about my mother’s health over that period. So I decided to exchange into the Household Brigade, which by the nature of its duties does not serve overseas – except, of course, in the event of war.’ He held my gaze for a moment as he added, ‘Obviously in that eventuality a fellow’s domestic circumstances become irrelevant.’ At once I exclaimed, ‘People don’t fight now – they make treaties instead. So there won’t be another war!”

  He said quietly, ‘I wish I could share your confidence.’ And speared another piece of bacon.

  I challenged him. ‘But if you couldn’t go abroad, why didn’t you just leave the army altogether?’

  ‘Curiously, your own grandfather asked me that very same question.’

  ‘My grandfather?’ I was thrown. ‘He suggested you should leave?’

  ‘Rather than exchange, yes. He said a crack cavalry corps wouldn’t suit me, and that having been so thoroughly imbued with the habits and training of the technical arm, I wouldn’t suit them, either.’

  I exclaimed indignantly, ‘You’re a jolly good rider.’

  He half-smiled. ‘There’s a bit more to it than that, Eve – and your grandfather was quite right. Besides, like General Courtney – who was the most far-sighted of men, despite his great age – I’m not at all sure that cavalry will play much of a role in future warfare. I remember his saying to me at the time, “Lances and sabres have had their day, my boy – you know as well as I do that the future lies with the machine gunner and the artilleryman.”’

  ‘The artilleryman! How could he say that? When it was one of them who killed his own daughter!’ I was almost shouting by now as I told him, ‘Apa’s sister – she should have been my Aunt Kitty – that’s why Apa left the army, he said he should never have joined in the first place, not after what happened to her!’ Paris, Aunt Ethel, Kitty, grandmother Fanny – I tumbled it all out, to finish with, ‘She was only ten – and yet they killed her!’

  He said, ‘Your breakfast is getting cold, Eve.’

  ‘But didn’t you know how she was killed?’

  ‘Yes, I did know how she died. It was most unfortunate that the child was in Paris at such a dangerous time.’

  ‘Unfortunate! Those cowardly artillerymen were sitting miles away in complete safety shooting big guns at a city they knew was full of women and children! Surely you don’t think—?’

  He replied quickly, ‘Of course I don’t condone the use of heavy artillery against unarmed civilians – but that child’s tragic death doesn’t alter the fact that when used correctly, artillery is a most important and effective arm of war. May I have another cup of tea please, Eve?’

  Somehow I managed to keep my hand steady as I poured it. Then, almost desperately, I said to him, ‘But you’ve left the army, haven’t you? I mean, you really have – you’re not in the militia, or anything?’

  ‘I think you mean the territorials – no, I’m not. Finding your grandfather to have been correct in his predictions, I sent my papers in – that was five years ago, now.’

  ‘And became a marquis, instead.’

  ‘I already was one by then – that was also part of the problem. You may believe in the idle rich, Eve,’ he smiled to me though I was still too shaken to smile back, ‘But we do have a number of responsibilities – one can’t leave everything to agents and lawyers, that would be most unwise. Speaking of which, I do have a great deal of pressing business to attend to today, so I’ll move on to the kedgeree now – why don’t you try some, too? No, don’t get up, I’ll serve us both.’

  But I was already on my way to the hotplate. When I came back both my chair and my place setting had been moved round the table, to his right hand. ‘I thought the sun might be in your eyes, Eve – and in any case, Sophie always sat here.’ He patted the table beside him, and smiled to me. This time, I managed to smile back. I couldn’t see either portrait now – but they were still there. No, Eve – don’t think. Just eat your kedgeree.

  As he raised his fork he said pleasantly, ‘I believe this is an Indian dish.’

  I jumped in to follow his lead. ‘Yes, except khichri is made with lentils, not fish.’

  He grimaced. ‘I wouldn’t fancy that. Lentils are reserved strictly fo
r soup, as far as I’m concerned – and then not too often.’

  ‘Oh, people eat loads of them in India – all different types—’ We talked of dhal, chapattis and pickles until we’d both finished our kedgeree, and then Sophie’s housekeeping problems took us safely through our toast and marmalade.

  He put his napkin down on the table and rang the small silver bell. ‘By the way, I’m dining with my cousin Eunice and her husband this evening, so I’ll spend the night in Town and catch the nine o’clock tomorrow morning.’ Mr Hayter was already opening the door, giving me no time to ask if he’d have spent the night in Town if I’d really been that nineteen-year-old Eve Gunn he’d believed in. Not that I’d been going to, anyway. I’d asked him too many questions that I didn’t want the answer to already, this morning. Don’t even think, Eve.

  My attention was diverted by Mr Hayter, who was proffering a silver salver and saying, ‘A telephone message from Lady Eunice, my lord.’ I looked up hopefully – perhaps dinner was cancelled and Monty would come back tonight after all?

  Instead, after quickly scanning the piece of paper he crumpled it up and thrust it into his pocket with a, ‘No reply, Hayter.’

  The butler asked, ‘Do you wish me to send Elsie up to pack for Miss Courtney?

  Monty’s response was casual, ‘I think that would be a touch premature, since Miss Courtney will not be leaving until Monday morning. Would you tell Frank not to bring the motor round to the front door – I want a word with Paddy about that mare before I leave.’

  As the door closed behind Mr Hayter I said, ‘I’ll come and wave you off.’

  ‘Eve, do you think that’s quite appropriate—’

  I cut in quickly, ‘Wouldn’t Sophie have done that?’

  ‘Yes, of course – how silly of me. Run along and put your coat on, then, and I’ll see you in the stableyard.’

  Sometimes it’s better if no-one thinks.

  The doors of the converted coach house were open and I was already inspecting the gleaming motor by the time Lord Rothbury emerged from the stables in overcoat and motoring cap. Drawing on his leather gloves he said, ‘See you tomorrow, Eve,’ and sprang up into the driving seat. ‘Swing it, Frank!’ The handle turned and the motor leapt roaring into lite. Monty turned the steering wheel, waved to me, and was off.

  Frank, whom I knew already to be a kind of half-groom, half-chauffeur, said chattily – and with more than a touch of regret, ‘His lordship’s powerful fond o’ driving hisself, so he leaves the motor in the garage of the inn at Edgeworth, whenever he goes up to Lunnon just for the night.’

  I wasn’t quick enough to stop myself asking, ‘Does he go up there a lot, just for the night?’

  ‘Oh aye – allus has done.’

  Don’t think, Eve. Instead I asked, ‘Would he mind if I used that bicycle?’ I’d spotted it in the converted coach house – obviously Sophie’s.

  ‘Shouldn’t think so – I’ll pump them tyres up for you.’

  So instead of thinking, I armed myself with lemonade bottle and sandwiches, half-inch Bartholemew and oilskins – and cycled, for miles. Fortunately it didn’t start raining until I was nearly back.

  After tea I thought about writing to Mistress McNiven and Mrs Fraser, since I wasn’t on the run anymore. But as I was opening my writing case I saw those drawings of his. I slammed my case shut again. Don’t look, Eve, not today. Find a book – read. Read. Read. And don’t think.

  I had a stroke of luck in the library – which as Miss Evelyn Courtney I now had the free run of. I found a Watt. Not the whole eight volumes, but an updated abridged version – though why anybody should want to abridge Watt I can’t imagine! Anyway, there were still 1189 pages, all crammed with fascinating details of custard apples and candle-nuts. So I read, and didn’t think. You can’t think about anything else, not when you’re reading Watt. I fell asleep with it still on the bed, and when I woke again it was already first light. Whatever he’d been doing he’d have finished by now, so now there was no point thinking. I turned over and drifted back to sleep again, until Elsie arrived with my early morning tea-tray. And information about the expected arrival time of the nine o’clock from Paddington.

  A good five minutes before that time I was on the platform at Edgeworth, together with Jack and Span who, in their capacity as ‘his lordship’s dawgs’, had secured me entry without having to pay the obligatory penny for a platform ticket – just as well, since I’d rushed out without my purse.

  The three of us ran up and down the platform, inspecting the contents of the luggage trolley, reading all the adverts (me) and sniffing every single empty milk churn (Jack and Span). We would have got in everybody’s way had there been anybody else waiting – but there wasn’t since it was the express – which they were stopping expressly for Monty. Gosh, he really was the great Pooh Bah – ‘Look Jack, smoke!’

  At my cry the porter appeared, closely followed by the station master, hat in hand – we’re talking marquises here – With a squeal of brakes and sudden hiss of steam the great locomotive drew in – and with a rapid opening of second and third class doors half a dozen passengers jumped out. ‘How did they get on the express?’ I demanded of the porter, a touch indignantly.

  ‘Spotted ’is lordship were on it at Swindon, didn’t they? No point waiting for the slow, then.’

  The stationmaster sprang forward as a single first class door swung open – he was back. Monty was back! I ran towards him, Jack and Span racing by my side.

  ‘Goodness me – a reception committee! And in this weather, too.’ He bent to greet his dogs, then straightened up again to smile at me. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure.’ And he did look pleased. I glowed.

  As he paused in the station entrance to put up his umbrella he asked, ‘What did you do with yourself yesterday, puss cat?’

  ‘I went for a ride on your sister’s bicycle – I hope that was alright?’

  ‘Perfectly, as long as you didn’t go too far.’

  I shook my head. ‘No, only to Cheltenham.’

  He groaned. ‘That was far too far for a recent convalescent – and I presume you’ve walked the five miles here in the rain, today?’

  ‘Oh, that was only a stroll. But I’d like a lift back,’ I added hastily. ‘In the motor.’

  He grinned down at me. ‘I think we might just manage that.’ We came out onto the road, where a man was attending to the tarpaulin over his cart. He straightened up to touch his cap. ‘Morning, me lord.’

  ‘Good morning George – is Mrs George up and about again, yet?’

  Oh yes, our – or rather Pooh Bah’s – walk through Edgeworth provoked a fair amount of cap touching, forelock tugging and general-purpose bobbing – though in all fairness, he acknowledged every one.

  We arrived at the inn – predictably called ‘The Rothbury Arms’ – where, equally predictably, a man had already opened the garage door and was now standing by for handle-swinging duty. I suppose if I’d come straight from India I wouldn’t have noticed it all so much – but after the down-to-earth equality of Helspie, yes, I did.

  As I hauled off my oilskins and sou’wester Monty walked round to open the passenger door for me – and yawned. ‘Sorry Eve – I’m rather sleepy this morning, had a late night.’

  Don’t even think Eve. Anyway, he’s back now. I turned to the motor for distraction – and had this brilliant idea. ‘If you’re feeling tired, why don’t you let me drive?’

  That distracted him, too. ‘When did you learn to drive a motor?’

  ‘I read that book of your sister’s. I can see the levers on this one aren’t arranged in quite the same way, but I’m sure I could soon sort it out.’

  He neighed, loudly. ‘No, Eve – you get in this side.’

  Tossing my oilskins into the back I sprang up to the front seat. ‘Well, it was worth a try.’

  ‘Your motto, I presume.’

  I retorted cheerfully, ‘Isn’t it yours, too?’

  To which his only reply wa
s, ‘You’d better shut the glass on those dogs, or they’ll be dripping down our necks for the entire journey.’

  A journey which I found full of interest. ‘So all the time your foot’s on that one the petroleum is—’ ‘So when you change gear you have to pull the lever on your right, and press this pedal and—’

  ‘Eve, would you remove your head from the vicinity of my left foot – it’ll get trodden on. Still,’ he added, as I knelt up on the seat and wriggled round behind him to witness his final move of the gear lever, ‘You certainly got to grips with that book – I’ll give you that. I’ll root out my copy of Hasluck’s ‘Automobile’ for you when we get back – it has an excellent section on the mechanics of the transmission section.’

  As we drew into the drive entrance the smiling lodge-keeper’s wife came bustling out to bob and open the gate – and soon we had our first glimpse of the roofs and tower of Overby. He turned to smile at me. ‘Nice to be home, eh, puss cat?’

  Home. For a weekend, at any rate. Make the most of it, Eve. And I did – starting with an extended tour of the motor and its engine, conducted by Frank while Monty was in the estate office talking to his agent.

  By the time he arrived back I’d aquired a burning ambition to try my hand at driving plus two large smudges of grease on my cheek. In the drawing room he dealt with the latter by spitting on his handkerchief and rubbing, and with the former by suggesting that I just might be allowed a driving lesson on Sunday morning – if until then I was very, very good.

  I protested, ‘But being good is so boring!’

  ‘What an interesting life you must lead, Eve. Lunch in ten minutes – just time to run upstairs and tidy up.’

  Over lunch it was his turn to rearrange the cutlery, in order to give me a rough idea of the mechanism whereby a motor’s wheels could be persuaded to turn corners. After coffee in the drawing room he found me the second volume of ‘The Automobile’ – which I sat reading while the rain stooped outside and he had his forty winks in the armchair inside.