Swallowcliffe Hall
2
Grace’s Story
By Jennie Walters
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Jennie Walters
For my mother
‘War, class, romance, death, horses – a heady mix that left me looking forward to the final instalment.’ Tony Bradman, The Times Educational Supplement
First published in Great Britain in 2006 by Simon and Schuster UK under the title ‘Standing in the Shadows’
Whilst we have tried to ensure the accuracy of this book, the author or publishers cannot be held responsible for any errors or omissions found therein.
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Swallowcliffe Hall 2: Grace’s Story
Swallowcliffe Hall 3: Isobel’s Story, Chapter One
One
This day will be momentous in the history of all time. Last evening Germany sent a curt refusal to the demand of this country that she, like France, should respect the neutrality of Belgium. Thereupon the British Ambassador was handed his passports, and a state of war was formally declared by this country.
From The Times, 5 August 1914
‘Oh, Gracie, you are a sight,’ my mother said, picking leaves out of my hair. ‘I hope none of the family saw you like this.’
We’re almost the same height now, so her brown eyes were looking straight into mine. You can tell we’re mother and daughter, I suppose, although my hair’s a little fairer than hers, but it has to be said that light brown hair and dark brown eyes are about the only two things we have in common.
‘Now sit down while I put the kettle on,’ she said, ‘and tell me all the news from the Hall. Are you getting on any better in the kitchen?’
I tried to ignore that question. ‘Two footmen and one of the garden lads have volunteered for the army already. Alf told Florrie all about it.’
Florrie’s first kitchenmaid above me at Swallowcliffe and Alf’s her young man - he works in the gardens too. Florrie thought it wouldn’t be long before he joined up, although he had an elderly mother who wanted to keep him wrapped up in cotton wool and we knew she wouldn’t let him go in a hurry.
‘You don’t say.’ A shadow passed across my mother’s face and she shook her head a little, as if to clear it. Then she pulled out a chair opposite me. ‘Now, who was that I saw coming back from the railway station in His Lordship’s Rolls-Royce? Noisy great thing, it is! And the way that French chauffeur or whatever they call him sounds the horn, you’d think Judgement Day had come.’
My parents live in the gate lodge at Swallowcliffe Hall. I moved out as soon as I started working in the big house and now I share a room up there with Florrie and Dora, the scullerymaid. Ma used to be a housemaid at Swallowcliffe, but once she married my father (who was a footman at the time), of course she had to give that up. She loves the place as much as ever, though, and opening the gates lets her keep an eye on all the comings and goings. Whenever I call in at home on my afternoons off, I get a regular grilling about what the Vye family are up to.
‘They’re having a big luncheon out on the terrace,’ I told her. ‘It must have been the Duke and Duchess of Clarebourne you saw in the Rolls - they’ve come down from London specially. And old Lady Vye’s there, of course.’ (She’s Lord Vye’s widowed mother, and quite a battle-axe; I call her the Dragon Lady to myself. The way she can look at a person sometimes, it’s a wonder flames don’t come shooting out of her mouth.)
‘Oh, lovely,’ Ma sighed. ‘I bet the table looks a picture. Now, what did Mrs Jeakes give them to eat?’
‘Cold beef and chicken, veal-and-ham pies, and a whole poached salmon. Almond cheesecake and plum tart to follow.’
I had an idea what might be coming next. Sure enough, my mother pounced. ‘What did you make? Have you moved on to pastry yet? Surely you can’t still be on vegetables and garnishes?’
‘I tried my hand at mayonnaise this morning,’ I offered, hoping this would satisfy her. (Of course the wretched thing had curdled, but Ma didn’t need to know that.)
The look came over her face that I’d come to dread: half disappointment, half worry. ‘You ought to be moving on, Grace, getting your foot on the ladder,’ she said for the twentieth time. ‘Everyone knows Alf’s only waiting for a place as head gardener and a house along with it before he asks Florrie to marry him. There’s a real chance for you to become first kitchenmaid if you work at it.’
But how could I get excited about that? Most of the time all I wanted was to tear off my apron and run out of the kitchen as fast as my legs could carry me. Sometimes when I was standing over the stove in my thick stockings and heavy apron, the dress underneath plastered against my body like a hot poultice, it felt as though I was suffocating. There wasn’t even a window at head height to give us a breath of air; they’re all set up high in the wall so we couldn’t waste our time staring out. You can imagine what that was like - as if the whole room was one big oven and Mrs Jeakes, Florrie and I were being roasted inside it. I kept thinking some giant was going to reach down through the window and pluck me out when I was done.
There was no point trying to explain, though. I knew exactly what Ma would say. ‘Count yourself lucky! In my day, the second kitchenmaid had to be up at half past five every morning to light the range, and woe betide her if it wouldn’t draw. You’ve got it easy with that gas stove, not to mention hot water at the flick of a tap. The number of times I had to traipse up and down stairs, filling and emptying those blessed hip baths!’
The trouble is, no matter how much she might grumble about the old days, she still thinks working at Swallowcliffe Hall is the be-all and end-all of everything. And I’m not sure that it is, for me. So I tried to change the subject. ‘What’s going to happen, Ma? What will they do at the Hall if all the lads enlist?’
It wasn’t only the young men at Swallowcliffe who’d been on my mind. Ever since we’d heard that war had been declared with Germany, I’d been worrying about my older brother, Tom. As luck would have it, he’d just turned nineteen so he wouldn’t even have to lie to the recruiting officers about his age. He’d followed in my father’s footsteps (Da being coachman at the Hall, running the stables and driving the carriages) and was working as a groom in Suffolk for the Ildersley family. There’s four years between the two of us, but I’m closer to him than either of my sisters even though he’s a boy. Perhaps it’s because I’m so much of a tomboy myself, as Ma keeps pointing out.
I couldn’t bring myself to say Tom’s name, but surely she must have been thinking about him too. Why were we chatting about motor-cars and luncheon parties as though everything was the same as usual?
‘All the lads won’t enlist,’ my mother declared over the shriek of the kettle. ‘We’ll teach the Kaiser a lesson and the whole thing will have blown over by Christmas, you’ll see. Oh, bother it!’ She had managed to splash boiling water over her hand and would have dropped the teapot if I hadn’t been there to rescue it.
‘Here, I should be doing this,’ I said, sitting her back down in the chair and wishing I could have bitten off my tongue. Just because someone doesn’t mention a thing straight out, doesn’t mean it’s not on her mind.
We chatted about this and that while we drank our tea; safe, everyday gossip that had nothing to do with the war or my prospects in the kitchen. And then we both caught the clip-clop of horses’ hooves outside - quite a few of them, from the sound of it - so I went to the front window to see whether the gates needed opening.
‘Ma? Come and look at this!’
It was such an unexpected sight that I couldn’t trust my own eyes. Together we watched as a line of horses came walking up from Stone Martin village, one after another, not saddled or bridled but tied by their halters to a long rope which kept them together. Some I recognised: a pair of huge Shires with feathery fetlocks who pulled the hay carts at harvest time, two bays from the dairy who collected butter and milk from the farms, and my favourite, the butcher’s black mare following on behind them. I’d christened her Raven when I was little (though I once heard Mr Ryman call her Bessie) and used to bring her apples when Tom and I had been scrumping. She’d come trotting over to the fence to meet me, and delicately twitch the apple from my hand with her soft whiskery lips like a genteel old lady.
An army man, dressed in khaki, slapped her on the rump and shouted something to make her get along. What could be happening to all these horses? Where were they going? Not to the Hall, that was all we knew; they were being driven straight past our gates. I hurried outside to find out, my mother close behind.
‘They’re being shipped across the Channel,’ the soldier told us. ‘Off to serve their King and country - not that they’ve any choice in the matter.’
‘But how will we manage without them?’ I protested. ‘You can’t just take them away!’
‘Oh yes, we can, young lady. The government says so and we’ve paid their owners fair and square. What do you think our boys will do without horses to bring them supplies and drag the guns about?’
I knew Mr Ryman thought the world of his fine mare; he’d brush her coat till it shone like black satin and always got out of the cart to lead her up the steep hill on the other side of Stonemartin. He wouldn’t willingly have let her go for a hundred pounds, especially not if there was a chance she’d be hurt. ‘Good luck, Raven. Keep safe,’ I said, stroking her warm, smooth neck and wondering if I would ever see her again.
There was nothing more we could do. Ma and I had to stand there and watch that long line of horses disappear down the road: all of them patient, steady creatures who were known and loved in the village. A gang of children had come running along at the end of the procession and several of the little ones were crying. There were tears in my eyes too. It didn’t seem right, sending animals across the sea to a war which men had started.
‘Let us through, would you? We’re expected,’ called a loud voice. We turned around to see two more soldiers, these ones riding horses of their own and looking like officers, waiting at the gates which my mother - careful as ever - had closed behind her.
‘Oh my heavens, they’re going up to the Hall too. Of course!’ she gasped, a hand flying up to her mouth. ‘I wonder if your father knows about this? He never said a word.’
‘We have to warn him!’ I didn’t know which way to turn, everything was so sudden and unexpected. It hadn’t occurred to me to think how I could reach the stables before two men on horseback; nor, more to the point, what was to be done once I got there.
Ma still had her wits about her. ‘Take Tom’s bicycle from the shed. I’ll give them a drink and keep them here as long as I can. Hurry, Grace!’
I hitched up my skirts and set off hell for leather down the drive, my hair whipping out behind me and my head in a whirl. Those soldiers couldn’t take the Swallowcliffe horses too, could they? It would break my father’s heart.
‘There’s nothing to be done, Grace. We have to let these men do their job.’
Father was busy sweeping the yard; a chore for Bill the stable boy, by rights, though he didn’t seem to be around.
‘And what about your job? Are you just going to stand there and wave goodbye to that too?’
Sweep, sweep, sweep, my father went - like some machine. What was the matter with him? Didn’t he realise what was happening? But then he stopped and looked at me for a second, and I saw the pain in his eyes. ‘How can it be different for us up here than it is for everyone in the village? We can’t go on driving carriages about in front of people who’ve lost their working animals. They’ve done their duty and now we have to do ours.’ He went back to his broom.
‘Do all of them have to go?’ I could hardly bring myself to ask.
‘The ponies can stay, and Daffodil. She’s too old to be of much use - probably wouldn’t even survive the crossing. They’ve let us keep Her Ladyship’s hunter for now, and Moonlight to pull the gig. The others are off to Southampton.’
And then to war: the words hung in the air between us.
‘I’m sorry, Da.’
He nodded, and now I understood why he couldn’t look me in the face.
I propped Tom’s bicycle against a wall and went into the stable block: my favourite place in the whole of Swallowcliffe Hall, for all its crystal chandeliers and fine paintings. It has a high vaulted ceiling held up by marble pillars, flagstones underfoot with a drainage channel down the middle, and a row of stalls, each with its own hay manger and name plate. The stables felt particularly cool and airy that day after the glare of the sun, and little puddles of water lay on the floor from a recent washing. The smell was as sweet as ever: fresh straw, saddle soap and warm animal bodies all mixed up together.
I started walking along the stalls to take a last look at so many old friends. Major and Rocket, Dolly and Bramble, who pulled the larger carriages; Pearl and Snowflake, two greys who could make a gig or phaeton fly along like the wind; Mercury and Gemini, kept for hacking out and hunting; gentle Rosa, for the novices to ride. I had to give each of them a kiss for luck, and by the time I got to Rosa there was such an ache of sadness in my throat, I could hardly breathe. When I laid my cheek against her side, she bent her head down to mine and nuzzled my hair as if to comfort me. Her breath felt warm on the back of my neck, like a blessing.
I couldn’t bear to leave her - and then, about to go, I suddenly caught sight of a tall chestnut horse in the stall opposite. Surely not? It couldn’t be!
A shadow flickered across the light; I turned to see my father framed in the doorway, broom in hand. ‘Not Copenhagen too?’ I asked him. ‘He wasn’t on the list, was he?’
Da shrugged. ‘His Lordship told me to bring him in and keep him with the others. He says they’re bound to want a fine creature like that - some general will probably take him for riding about on parades.’
‘But Copenhagen’s not ours to send away. He belongs to the Colonel! Does he know about this?’
Colonel Vye is His Lordship’s younger brother - Master Rory, as my mother speaks of him in a forgetful moment (His Lordship is Master Edward, would you believe, which sounds even more unlikely). He lived in London and kept his horse stabled up there for most of the year, but he’d take him to the Hall every summer to stretch his legs and have a holiday in the countryside with some fresh grass to eat. The Colonel wasn’t at Swallowcliffe that afternoon; I’d heard Mr Fenton, the butler, telling Mrs Jeakes that he wouldn’t be down from London to join the party until the evening. ‘Busy at the War Office, apparently,’ and you could tell just being able to say that made Mr Fenton feel important too. Colonel Vye used to belong to the Household Cavalry but had to leave when he was wounded in the Boer War, although he can still ride. He’d brought Copenhagen to Swallowcliffe as a colt, ten years before, so that my father could help break him in over one long summer.
‘I knew that one would be something special from the moment I clapped eyes on him,’ Da was fond of saying. ‘He seems to know what to do before you’ve even thought of telling him.’
Perhaps that’s why they named him Copenhagen, after the Duke of Wellington’s favourite horse. I rode him myself once, when I was no more than six: Colonel Vye put me up on his back and I took him round the yard to show Her Ladyship how steady he was. (Ma had a fit of the vapours when she found out, although I was never worried for a second.) Lady Vye loves riding, but His Lordship - well, that’s a different story. He had a terrible hunting accident when he was a young man which nearly killed him and never got up on a horse again. The stables at Swallowcliffe would probably have been full of motor-cars if he’d had his way, but with the rest of his family thinking just the opposite, I suppose he had to grit his teeth.
‘This isn’t right!’ I said. ‘We can’t let them take Copenhagen, not before he has to go.’
My father shrugged. ‘I’ve had my orders; His Lordship was quite clear about the matter. Now run along. They’ll be here in a minute and I don’t want you getting in the way.’
I’m not sure exactly when the idea came into my head; as I walked over to Copenhagen’s stall, it felt as though my body were obeying instructions from somebody else. I lowered the bar and slipped inside. ‘Come on, boy,’ I whispered, quickly attaching a lead rope to his halter and taking him out.
‘What on earth d’you think you’re up to?’ My father was too astonished to do anything other than stare at me, for the moment.
‘Say he broke out of the field, or you couldn’t catch him, or he’s cast a shoe. Anything you like,’ I said, hurrying past him on my way to the mounting block. All that mattered was to get Copenhagen out of there before the army men arrived. There was no time to bother with a saddle or bridle, but I’d ridden bareback on the Swallowcliffe ponies plenty of times as a child, and this was a horse I trusted to behave himself - even though he was a fair size. Hitching up my skirts, I grasped a handful of chestnut mane alongside the halter rope, hauled myself on to his back and teetered there for a moment with my bottom waggling in the air. Not particularly dignified (lucky there was no one but Da to see), but Copenhagen stood as still as a statue, thank goodness, until I managed to swing a leg over and straighten myself up. The ground looked a very long way down.
‘Grace, you come back here right now!’ Father had broken out of his trance and was running towards me, but he was too late; I squeezed my heels against Copenhagen’s side and we were off! I heard Da shout again, caught a glimpse of his pale, upturned face, then we were out of the stables and away, clattering over the cobblestones into bright sunshine. If Lord Vye and the soldiers had been in my way, what on earth would I have done? Ridden straight past them, I suppose, for my blood was up and I wouldn’t have stopped for the Kaiser himself - but luckily the yard was empty. Copenhagen blew down his nose, scenting freedom at last after a day shut up in the stables, while I jolted about on his back like a sack of potatoes.
I didn’t dare turn around to see if anyone was watching as we careered out of the yard, miles of open parkland ahead of us and the east face of the Hall behind, but it felt as though a hundred pairs of eyes were boring into my back. Any second now, someone was bound to glance out of one of those tall windows. The last thing they’d expect to see was a kitchenmaid making off with the Colonel’s horse, riding astride with her skirts and petticoats tucked up into the bargain! The very thought of it made me laugh out loud, and Copenhagen twitched his ears back and forth as though he were sharing the joke.
We charged down a path which led away from the house and through a gate out into the park. Copenhagen set his head towards a wooded slope half a mile or so away, which would be the perfect place to hide until the soldiers had gone. A stretch of open grassland lay ahead of us and he eased into a canter; such a smooth, rolling gait that it felt like sitting on a rocking horse, and a relief after the bumpy trot. Clamping my legs against his sides, I buried my hands in his mane and held on to the coarse, slippery hair for dear life. A thrill of excitement ran through my veins. We’d done it! We had given the army the slip - this time, anyway.
We were nearly at the woods by now, but the horse showed no signs of slowing down. I began to feel afraid. Surely he couldn’t keep going at this pace? ‘Hold on,’ I called. ‘Not so fast!’ The trees were looming up in front of us; I could see a path of sorts among them, but it was overgrown and tangled. ‘Wait!’ I shouted again, more urgently this time, as we plunged into the coppice and hurtled along the track. Brambles tore at my clothes and twigs were snapping all around me. ‘Stop,’ I begged, throwing myself low around the horse’s neck as we crashed through the undergrowth. ‘Please, stop now!’
After what seemed an age, at last I felt him lurch back into a trot. I straightened up to see what lay ahead - and that’s when it happened. In one split second, a branch had loomed up across the path in front of me; ducking down to avoid it, I lost my balance and felt myself falling, the world spinning around me in a sickening whirl of sky, leaves and tree trunks. Then came a bone-jarring thud. After that, nothing more except darkness, and pain.
Two
Everywhere along the country road one meets horses, by twos and threes, dozens and scores, being brought into the temporary depots where they are to be taken over by the various units, packed into the waiting trains and despatched to the scene of action.
From Country Life, 15 August 1914
I hadn’t been knocked unconscious, only winded. Gradually my head cleared and I found myself lying on my back by the side of the path, staring up through the canopy of leaves to a patch of blue sky, far above. It seemed too much of an effort even to raise my head, but I had to find out where Copenhagen was. Shakily I propped myself up on my elbows and glanced around. He was standing a little further up the path, looking back at me with his head down low and a sheepish expression in his eye. All very well playing the hang-dog now, I thought.
Then we both became aware of a noise that made me, at least, feel quite alone and helpless. Someone was running down the track towards us. I could hear feet pounding on the ground, branches cracking and a loud whirring of wings as a bird somewhere flew up in alarm. A young man in cricket whites came rushing round the corner, sending Copenhagen backing into the undergrowth with a snort of fear.
‘Easy, boy,’ he said, slowing down and approaching the horse with his hand outstretched so as not to frighten him any more. ‘There, now. No one’s going to hurt you.’ He reached for the trailing rope and tied it over a branch, patting Copenhagen’s neck and talking to him all the time in the same quiet, calm voice. Then he turned to me. ‘Are you all right? Have you broken anything?’
‘I don’t think so.’ I tried to arrange myself in a more dignified position, but the effort made my head swim and suddenly I felt violently ill.
‘Here, put your head between your knees.’ He was beside me in an instant, his hand pressing down on my back, forcing my head towards my legs. It was horrible.
‘Don’t! Let me be.’ I pushed his arm away, fighting for breath. I couldn’t disgrace myself in front of him; that would be the end.
‘Sorry. I thought it would help.’
My eyes were shut but I could sense him rustling around in the leaves next to me. What was he doing now? Why didn’t he just go away and leave me to die in peace? Then I felt something soft around my shoulders and he was leaning me gently back until I came to rest against … a tree trunk, it must have been. That was better. I sat there until gradually the whirling in my stomach settled to a flutter and stars stopped dancing in the darkness behind my eyelids. I opened them. There was the boy, sitting against another tree a few feet away, watching me. I closed them again.
Neither of us said anything for some minutes; the silence thundered in my ears, but I wasn’t up to breaking it. We sat and listened to the birds singing, and Copenhagen nosing about in the undergrowth. When I looked again, the boy was still watching me. He had untidy fair hair falling on to his forehead and grey-green eyes, I happened to notice, the same shade as the bark of the elm trees around us. His cricket sweater was the soft thing at my neck; it smelt of dried grass and Sunlight soap.
‘So, Grace,’ he said, smiling. ‘Nice afternoon for a ride.’
He might have thought that was funny, but I didn’t. And however did he know my name? ‘That’s Uncle Rory’s horse, isn’t it?’ he went on. ‘I recognise the white star on his forehead.’
All at once everything fell into place. I would have to be sprawled over the path in front of Philip Hathaway, one of the family. (Whatever would my mother have said? I could only hope she never got to hear of it.) Philip is the son of Lord Vye’s younger sister - known to Ma in absent-minded moments as Miss Harriet, which is the most ridiculous of all, since she’s been married to a doctor for years and looks decidedly matronly. The Hathaways live not far from the Hall. Philip’s a year or so younger than my brother Tom, and at one time the two of them were the best of friends - before they grew old enough for people to notice. They’d spend hours together in the stables when Philip came over to Swallowcliffe to learn how to ride, getting up to all sorts of mischief. ‘Go away, Grace!’ I can still hear them telling me. ‘Girls aren’t allowed.’ It must have been eight years or more since then, and three or four since I’d last seen him. I had always been a little jealous of Philip for taking my brother away, and I didn’t like him a great deal better now.
Still, something had to be said. ‘I’m sorry, Master Philip - sir. I didn’t realise it was you.’
‘Come on, you don’t need to “sir” me. There’s no one to hear; they’re all at the cricket.’
Of course, I remembered now. There was a big match on that afternoon: His Lordship’s team against the servants’. So that’s why Bill wasn’t sweeping the stable yard: he was a demon spin bowler. ‘Shouldn’t you get back there?’ I asked.
Philip shook his head. ‘I’m batting last. They won’t get around to me for ages yet.’ He stretched up his arms, then crossed them behind his head and leaned back. ‘Thought I’d take a break. All that talk about whether the French Riviera’s going to be ruined for holidays next season, and whether it’s more patriotic to go out to parties or stay at home. As if any of that matters!’
Well, I had to agree with him there. ‘I know exactly what you mean,’ I said, thinking of luncheon parties and curdled mayonnaise.
‘Do you?’ He looked at me with that smile in his eyes. ‘I thought as much. When I saw you galloping up the hill, I said to myself, now there’s a girl who can’t bear to peel potatoes a minute longer and needs some time on her own to think about things.’
How arrogant he was! I had no business losing my temper, but what with feeling so peculiar and undignified after my fall - and perhaps also because there was no one around to overhear, as he’d pointed out - I just couldn’t help it. ‘There’s no need to make fun of me! Does working in the kitchen mean I haven’t the right to an opinion like anyone else?’
‘Calm down. I didn’t mean it like that,’ he said. ‘Come on, you have to admit I’ve a right to be curious. Does Uncle Rory know you’ve taken to exercising his horse? He probably wouldn’t mind if you saddled him up first.’
There was nothing for it: I had to explain. In the end I decided to come out with the truth, since nothing else sprang to mind.
‘Weren’t you worried about getting caught?’ Philip asked when I’d finished the story. ‘Anyone could have seen you. And how are you going to get the horse back again?’
‘He could easily have broken out of the field and wandered off somewhere. I’ll say I came across him in the woods.’ Somehow I struggled to my feet, but the dizziness came again and I had to grab hold of a branch to steady myself until it went away.
‘Take it gently,’ Philip said. ‘Here, see if you can walk. There’s a good view of the house from where I was sitting, further up the hill. We can watch from there until it’s safe to go down.’
He untied the horse and I followed them slowly up the path to reach the point where it skirted the edge of the trees. My stomach hurt with every jarring step I took, but gradually it became easier to get along; Philip found me a fallen branch to use as a walking stick, which helped. We stood there together with Copenhagen and gazed down at the cricket pitch, to one side of the house beside the rose garden, with little figures dressed in white dotted all over it.
‘This war is going to change everything,’ Philip said, looking at them. ‘How can they not see it?’
‘Maybe it’s time for everything to change.’ We’re like the pieces in a kaleidoscope, I thought, swirling about when somebody twists it. Who knows what pattern we shall be in when the kaleidoscope comes to rest?
‘Well, this is a cosy little scene.’ A cold voice cut through the air, making us both whirl around. ‘You must excuse me for interrupting.’
It was Colonel Vye. ‘I’ve come to fetch you back to the cricket, Philip,’ he said. ‘But you clearly have other things on your mind. Perhaps you’d like to tell me what you’re doing with my horse?’
I tried to jump in and explain that I was the one who had taken Copenhagen, and why, but the Colonel was having none of it. ‘You’d better run along now,’ he said. ‘I think my nephew can account for himself.’
So that was that: I was dismissed, and had to leave without another word. I stumbled down the hill in a daze of fury and shame, neither knowing nor caring whether they followed on behind. You could see Colonel Vye thought we’d arranged to meet up there in the wood: his precious nephew and some flighty young maid. He probably didn’t even recognise me as the coachman’s daughter who’d ridden his horse round the yard all those years ago. Yet I’d taken Copenhagen for his sake!
How could I have been so stupid? The soldiers would come back for the horse another day, my father would end up in trouble with His Lordship, and now Philip was having to explain himself to his uncle. Even if he told Colonel Vye the truth, the story would sound so far-fetched no one could possibly believe it. I felt a niggle of guilt about that; but then again, I hadn’t asked for Philip’s help. Why did he have to get involved in the first place? He’d only made everything worse. I was angry with him, too, besides Colonel Vye - but most of all I was angry with myself.
By the time I’d reached the Hall, this anger had frozen into a kind of icy resolve. I decided not to have anything more to do with the family than was strictly necessary, whatever the circumstances - neither Colonel Vye, nor Philip Hathaway, nor any of them. Philip would just have to get out of this mess as best he could. After a quick wash and change of clothes in our attic room, I flew down the back stairs to start the evening’s work. There was to be a special dinner that night, because Mr John Vye, His Lordship’s half-brother and the youngest of the old Lord Vye’s sons, was off to France the next week, and the family had gathered for the whole weekend to wish him well. Let Mrs Jeakes be in a good mood for once, I prayed, hoping to creep unnoticed into the kitchen. No such luck. She was standing behind the table, sharpening a large carving knife on the whetstone with a face like thunder.
‘You’re ten minutes late,’ she said, not even bothering to look at me. ‘Why weren’t you here at half past five?’ She didn’t wait for an answer, which was all to the good as I could hardly tell her the truth and couldn’t think of anything else to say. ‘There’s a roast leg of mutton for dinner. What are we serving with that?’
I racked my brains to try and remember what had been chalked on the slate that morning. ‘Parsley sauce?’ I certainly like to eat parsley sauce with mutton; Ma cooked it for us once at home and it was delicious, so creamy and fresh alongside the dry old meat.
‘Caper sauce, you numbskull!’ Mrs Jeakes growled, leaning towards me over the table with the knife still clenched in her fist. Her face was a mottled shade of puce, framed by downy wisps of pale hair at each side which had escaped from her cap. It made me think of a dandelion head that has turned to thistledown and been half blown away by the wind. ‘Caper sauce and carrots, so you’d better get cracking.’ The words shot out of her mouth like bullets. ‘What have you done to your face?’
Even though I was stiff and sore all over (and would probably be black and blue with bruises by the next morning), the only injury you could see was a long red scratch across my cheek; from one of those vicious brambles, most probably. ‘I went for a walk in the woods this afternoon and fell over. Sorry, Mrs Jeakes.’
‘You went for a walk and fell over.’ She stared at me for a few seconds. Then she laid the knife down very deliberately on the table, as though she had to force herself to let it go. ‘You are my challenge, Grace Stanbury,’ she said quietly. ‘You have been sent to test me, and I shan’t be found wanting. I am going to turn you into a kitchenmaid if it kills me in the process, which at this rate is highly likely. So you might as well make up your mind to stop shilly-shallying about with your head in the clouds and start pulling yourself together. Now, what do we need for caper sauce?’ That low, menacing voice was making my knees tremble; I’d rather she shouted at me.
‘Capers, Mrs Jeakes,’ I replied faintly.
She nodded her head. ‘Go on.’
‘And butter.’
She let out her breath. ‘Then you’d better go and fetch them, hadn’t you? And hurry up!’ The last two words were roared out at top volume, which gave me such a shock I nearly fell over backwards. (I noticed Florrie biting her lip not to giggle, which wasn’t very kind, but I’d probably have been the same.)
Dinner was served to the family in the dining room at half past seven, and supper in the servants’ hall at nine; we kept plates warm for the footmen. You had to keep your wits about you once the meal started. Have you ever seen those jugglers at a fair who spin plates on top of long poles and have to keep dashing from one to another to stop them falling? That’s what it felt like to me, scurrying around the kitchen. The hours we’d all spend: chopping and slicing, rolling and pounding, roasting and boiling, from morning till night. Out went the dishes, looking almost too good to eat; back came the dirty plates what seemed like two minutes later to be washed up in the china room so the whole process could start all over again. Meal after meal, day after day - it made you wonder what was the point.
When Dora came through from the servants’ hall that evening to tell us they were ready for their bread and cheese, she had some news to pass on. (Luckily, Mrs Jeakes had gone to eat her meal with the rest of the upper servants in the housekeeper’s parlour by then, so we were free to gossip.) Poor Dora: she has a terrible stammer and when she really, really wants to say something, it gets worse.
‘The C-Colonel’s g-g-g …’
‘The C-Colonel’s g-g-going to F-F-F …’
‘Henry h-heard that the C-Colonel m-m-m …’
My ears had pricked up, as you might imagine. All evening, I’d been half-expecting a summons from upstairs to come and account for myself, and the very mention of Colonel Vye’s name made me even more nervous. Did he know I worked in the kitchen? Had he complained to Lady Vye about me? You can’t hurry Dora, though; any extra pressure and she collapses completely, like a soufflé in a draught.
‘Sit down,’ Florrie said, pulling out a chair. ‘Take a deep breath - there’s no rush.’
At last Dora came out with it. ‘The C-Colonel’s g-g-going to F-F-F - you know where - !’ she said, all in a rush. ‘He’s j-j-joined up with his old r-r-regiment. He won’t be f-f-f-fighting, but he’ll be r-r-riding ab-b-bout with m-m-m-messages and r-reports and things.’
So Colonel Vye probably had more important things on his mind. I let out my breath - and then it occurred to me that perhaps he might be able to ride about (as Dora put it) on Copenhagen, and that what I’d done might turn out to be not quite so foolish after all. ‘I wonder if they’ll let him take his own horse,’ I said, fishing for news.
‘Oh, Grace! You do come out with the strangest things,’ Florrie tutted. ‘What does it matter which horse he has? I’m sure they won’t expect him to go around on some old mule. It must be a dangerous job, though, and he’s not a young man. I hope he’ll be all right.’
‘At least he d-d-doesn’t have a f-f-f-family to w-worry about,’ Dora said.
Not like Mr John Vye, with his wife expecting another baby at the end of the year. I knew all about Mr and Mrs John Vye because my sister Hannah works for them as a nurserymaid and loves every minute of it (they live in a big house the other side of Stone Martin village). Hannah’s the one in our family who really takes after Ma, although she’s shorter and plumpish. A round peg in a round hole, that’s Hannah.
Florrie thought it was wonderful that Mr Vye should be fighting for his country. ‘He knows where his duty lies,’ she told me smartly. ‘The war’s not going to wait for his convenience. Think how he’d feel if he missed it!’
I could imagine how Mrs Vye would feel - very relieved, most probably - but Florrie seemed to be in the mood for a lecture, so I kept quiet. When Dora had taken through the bread, cheese and chutney for the servants’ hall and the family were busy with their treacle tart (an extra large one, as it was Mr Vye’s favourite), as well as meringues, strawberries and cream and a blackcurrant ice from the still room, I took off my apron and slipped out of the back door. Mrs Jeakes would be in the housekeeper’s room for another half hour, I reckoned; it was time to make peace with my father. He’d be waiting to take the Dragon Lady back to her lair in the dower house after dinner.
Walking into the half-empty stables was very sad. The ponies were still out in the field with the weather being so warm, so only a few of the stalls were occupied. It was quite dark by now, but I could make out Moonlight’s pale head over the iron bar (wondering what had happened to his friends, no doubt). And there was Copenhagen - safe and sound, nibbling from the hay rack. I went over to his stall, pleased to see him even though we’d ended up in such trouble.
‘Not planning another break-out, are you?’ My father’s voice made me jump. ‘I ought to ban you from these stables, by rights.’
‘Sorry, Da,’ I turned to face him. How angry was he? It was hard to tell in the gloom. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’
‘Another of your tomfool ideas, that’s what came over you,’ he grumbled, going into Moonlight’s stall with a couple of brushes. ‘You’re going to end up in serious trouble one of these days, my girl.’
‘I won’t do anything like that again,’ I promised, watching him give the horse a quick going-over.
‘You’d better not.’ But his voice had softened a little. ‘Honestly, Grace, you could have been killed, taking off on a great creature like that without even a saddle or bridle! What were you thinking of? When I saw the Colonel riding him back to the stables I knew you must be lying somewhere with a broken neck. Don’t you ever put me through that again.’
My poor father; I hadn’t thought how worried he’d be. ‘I’m sorry, Da,’ I said again. ‘Truly, I am.’
‘So you should be. His Lordship thinks I went against his word and he doesn’t like it. There’ll be consequences, you mark my words.’ He sighed. ‘Well, you can help me get this one ready for the gig. Might as well make yourself useful now you’re here.’
I went to fetch Moonlight’s trappings from their pegs in the harness-room, where a dim light threw shadows on the wall. Everything was clean and tidy, as usual; Father always keeps the stables shipshape. ‘A place for everything and everything in its place,’ that’s what he likes to say.
We tacked up Moonlight together. He’s such a calm, steady horse, and I was so thankful we’d been able to keep him, at least. I backed him between the shafts of the gig while my father watched, his face grave and thoughtful.
When I’d finished, out came the lecture. ‘Grace, you and I are both servants in this house,’ he said. ‘If we’re ordered to do something, we have to do it right away and no argument - that’s what we’re paid for. We can’t start deciding what we think about the idea. If Her Ladyship orders beef for dinner, Mrs Jeakes won’t serve chicken instead because that’s her favourite, will she? You worry me, my girl, you really do. If you carry on this way, I don’t know what’s going to become of you.’
He went off to fetch his hat while I held Moonlight steady and gazed up at the stars, tiny pinpricks of light in the black velvet sky. What was going to become of me? I didn’t know either. The future stretched ahead: a long procession of treacle tarts, caper sauce, mayonnaise and mutton. Was that it?
Three
You are ordered abroad as a soldier of the King to help our French comrades against the invasion of a common enemy. You have to perform a task which will need your courage, your energy, your patience. Remember that the honour of the British Army depends on your individual conduct.
From Field-Marshal Lord Kitchener’s address to the British troops, 1914
I had meant to get up at dawn the next morning to say goodbye to Copenhagen, but after all the excitement of the day before, I slept like the dead until morning. Colonel Vye had gone by dinner time and I’d heard nothing from him, or Philip either, so it looked as though my little adventure would stay a secret between the three of us - and Father. I tried to put it out of my mind and concentrate on my work.
At least things seemed to be going our way in the war. We servants took to meeting up in the hall together at four o’clock, where Mr Fenton would read us out reports from The Times (His Lordship usually having finished with it by then) over tea and seed cake. Everyone cheered when we heard that our troops had met the Germans at a place in Belgium called Mons, and given them quite a beating with not too many losses on our side.
‘There you are,’ Florrie whispered. ‘I told you Mr Vye had to hurry up or the war would have finished without him.’
After that piece of good news, however, everything went rather flat, and then someone heard a rumour that British casualties had been worse than first thought. The next thing we knew, word came that our soldiers were retreating; the Germans were driving them back into France.
‘B-b-but why?’ Dora asked when we were back in the kitchen. ‘I th-thought we were w-w-winning!’
‘Because our boys are outnumbered and there’s no one to back them up,’ I told her. ‘It’s not that we’re losing, though, so cheer up! They’re just finding a better place to dig in and then they’ll give those Germans what for.’
The trouble was, we didn’t have enough soldiers in our little army, not even alongside the French. The call for more volunteers went up in earnest now; even the picture card in Father’s pack of cigarettes was telling him he should be off to war. ‘There’s a place in the line for you!’ read the cheery caption, above a row of men in uniform with one empty space in the middle. I wondered what he thought about that, though I didn’t like to ask. He was too old to offer his services, and the head of a family besides, but maybe he still felt he should have been doing something. Everyone seemed to have a son, a brother, a friend or a sweetheart who’d signed up. Lord Vye gathered us all together in the hall one morning to announce that he would understand if any more of the menservants wanted to enlist; he’d give them their old jobs back at the Hall when the war was over.
‘These are testing times for everyone.’ He looked severely at each of us with his dark, deep-set eyes. ‘We shall all have to redouble our efforts, those who stay at home no less than those who travel abroad. “They also serve who only stand and wait,” as the poet Milton says. There may be times when you are called upon to perform some small extra task which has not fallen to you in the past. Let there be no complaining! This is a way for you to help your country, and you should be glad of the chance to do so. The humblest scullerymaid can play her part as well as the highest general.’ (Dora quivered beside me.) ‘Think of our brave soldiers who may be called upon to make the ultimate sacrifice for you, and go about your work willingly on their behalf.’
‘He talks so nicely,’ Florrie sighed afterwards. ‘Do you think he writes it out first?’
By that time - early in September - we were a smaller group already. Isaac and Jim, second coachman and groom, had been quick to leave: they’d signed up with a cavalry regiment the day after the horses were taken away. Our stable lad Bill had wanted to go as well, but apart from being only seventeen, he was too short into the bargain. You needed to be at least five foot three to join the army, and he was only five foot two. At least my father had somebody left to help him, though; there might have been only a few ponies and horses left by now, but they still needed looking after and exercising every day. The stables had to be kept tidy, too, with all the harness cleaned and oiled and the gig spotless, ready for the two Lady Vyes to be taken about.
It’s confusing, there being two Lady Vyes. The younger one, His Lordship’s wife, is a completely different kettle of fish from her mother-in-law. For a start, she’s American and not half so starchy. She remembers all our names - even Dora’s - and she’ll smile and ask how you are in a way that makes you think she really wants to know. (Of course I always reply, ‘Very well, M’lady, thank you for asking,’ even if I could drop with tiredness and my feet are killing me.) Ma first met Lady Vye when she visited the Hall as plain Miss Brookfield and says she hasn’t changed a bit since then, even though it was twenty-five years ago.
Anyway, young Lady Vye was always going off to Hardingbridge for some sort of committee work to do with the war. And twice a week, twenty or more ladies would arrive at the Hall to take up residence in the drawing room for the afternoon. Florrie and I used to wonder what they were up to: they certainly had a healthy appetite for cake and scones at five o’clock.
‘Knitting,’ one of the new parlourmaids told us, when she came to collect a plateful of cucumber sandwiches. (All three footmen had gone by then, so the fetching and carrying and waiting at table was done by Mr Fenton and a couple of maids in smart livery. Very hoity-toity they were, too.) ‘The ladies are making gloves and socks for our soldiers overseas. And balaclava helmets.’
I don’t know why that should have been so funny, but Florrie caught my eye and we both collapsed in fits of giggles. The maid looked down her nose at us but I didn’t care; it was such a relief to laugh when everything was really so solemn and sad. That night I lay in bed, staring up at the cracks in our bedroom ceiling and thinking about the changes that had come upon us, seemingly out of the blue. All those young men, leaving the Hall … I could see a map of Britain in my mind’s eye, with black lines of soldiers like marching ants pouring out from every town and city, down to the coast and across the Channel. I wondered about Tom. We hadn’t heard from him, but surely he’d soon be volunteering if the country needed men so badly that they were even sailing over to help us from places like Canada and Australia. You could always count on Tom to do the right thing. Of course I thought then that the war would soon be over, like we all did, but the nights began to seem very long and bleak. I’d lie there while worries raced in circles round my head, listening to Florrie’s heavy breathing and Dora grinding her teeth as though a rusty spit were turning.
At last I decided to try and work so hard that sleep came the minute I lay down, which wasn’t difficult in the current circumstances. We were finding ourselves ‘called upon to perform some small extra tasks’, as Lord Vye put it, every day - and they weren’t particularly small, either. Poor Mr McKinley, the head gardener, was the worst off. Alf had still not volunteered for the army (his mother having begged him on her knees to stay), but the other four garden lads had gone. You could hardly blame Mr McKinley and Alf if the rose beds had begun to look tatty and the raspberries were rotting on their canes with no one to pick them. It was becoming quite a problem, though, because we were running out of vegetables for the dinner parties that were still being held every weekend at the Hall. Lord Vye had gone up to Scotland as usual for the grouse season (as if there wasn’t enough shooting going on across the Channel) and come back with a sackful of birds that we had to pluck and serve roast for dinner with pommes de terre Lyonnais and a red-wine gravy. How could we manage that when there were scarcely enough potatoes for five guests, let alone fifteen?
So Mrs Jeakes had a word with Mr McKinley, and the upshot was that Dora and I took to spending an hour or so each morning in the kitchen garden, digging up vegetables and picking fruit. (Mrs Jeakes didn’t want Florrie out there, wasting her time making sheep’s eyes at Alf.) I didn’t mind that at all - anything to be out in the fresh air and away from the cook’s eagle eye. The weather was still bright and sunny, but with a freshness about it that lets you know summer’s nearly over so you’d better make the most of it. My favourite time of year, probably, although spring is lovely too in its own way. Then one day I had the shock of my life. Who should I find, digging over one of the seed beds in a pair of Da’s old boots and her hair tied up with a red spotted handkerchief, but -
‘Ma? Whatever are you doing here?’
‘What does it look like I’m doing? Taking a bath?’ she replied tartly. ‘I’m working over this bed so you’ll have cabbages and onions for the table next spring.’
Apparently the land agent who ran the estate and employed the outdoor workers, Mr Braithwaite, had put up a notice outside the village hall to ask for help in the Swallowcliffe gardens. Ma had gone to see him without telling any of us, and now she would be there five mornings a week, along with two other ladies from the village. It made sense when you came to think about it (our garden at home was a picture), although I’d never heard of married women coming back into service - that was something new. The money would certainly come in handy, though, and anyone could see Ma was delighted to be working at the Hall again.
‘Now I can keep more of an eye on you,’ she said to me when she came into the kitchen with the vegetable hamper a couple of hours later. ‘Time for a cup of tea and a chat, Mrs Jeakes?’ You can probably imagine how I felt about that.
There was one bright spark on the horizon. Our Aunt Lizzie was coming to Hardingbridge, to sing at the Palace Theatre, and she had sent us tickets for five seats - in the gallery, no less. My other sister Ivy couldn’t get the evening off (she was a parlourmaid up in London), but Ma and Da, Hannah and I were going, and we’d probably take a neighbour with the spare ticket. There was no point asking Tom: apart from a couple of weeks in the summer, he only ever had the odd day off occasionally and it was too far to come from Suffolk just for one night. But Alf was treating Florrie too, so they’d be joining us. I couldn’t wait! We were going to see Aunt Lizzie backstage before the show, and then have supper at a proper restaurant when it was over.