Читать книгу Cavendon Hall - Barbara Bradford Taylor - Страница 13

‘It’s extremely quiet in here, Mrs Jackson,’ the butler remarked from the doorway of the kitchen, surveying Cook’s domain.

‘Did yer think we’d all died and gone ter heaven then?’ Nell Jackson asked with a laugh. ‘I just sat down ter catch me breath before I start on the main course. Can’t cook it yet, though, not till the last minute. Dover sole is a delicate fish, doesn’t need much time in the pan.’

Mr Hanson nodded and went on. ‘I’ve no doubt the hustle and bustle will start up again very shortly.’

‘It will. Right now everyone’s off doing their duties upstairs, but they’ll soon be scurrying back down here, bringing their bustle with them. As for Polly, I sent her ter bed, Mr Hanson. She’s got a sore throat and a headache. It’s better she’s confined ter her room until she feels better. I don’t want her spreading germs, if she does have a cold.’

‘Good thinking on your part, Mrs Jackson. Lord Mowbray is a stickler about illness. He doesn’t like the staff working if they’re under the weather. For their sakes as well as ours. You’ll be able to manage all right. It’s only three for lunch, with the Countess and Lady Diedre in Harrogate today.’

‘It’s not a problem, Mr Hanson,’ Mrs Jackson reassured him. ‘Elsie and Mary will help me ter put the food on the serving platters, and Malcolm and Gordon will handle lunch upstairs with ease.’

‘And I shall be serving the wine, and supervising them as usual,’ he reminded her with a kindly smile. Then he nodded and walked on down the corridor, heading for his office. The room was one of his favourites in this great house, which he loved for its beauty, heritage and spirit of the past; he looked after it as if it were his own. Nothing was ever too much trouble.

Hanson had occupied the office for some years now, and it had acquired a degree of comfort over time, resembling a gentleman’s study in its overall style. Henry had arrived at Cavendon Hall in 1888, twenty-five years ago now, when he had been twenty-six. From the first day, Geoffrey Swann, the butler at that time, had favoured him; he had spotted something special in him. Geoffrey Swann had called it ‘a potential for excellence’.

The renowned butler had propelled Hanson up through the hierarchy with ease, teaching him the ropes all the way. Starting as a junior footman in the pecking order, he rose to footman, eventually became the senior footman, and was finally named assistant butler under the direction of Geoffrey Swann. He had been an essential part of the household for ten years when, to everyone’s shock, Geoffrey Swann suddenly dropped dead of a heart attack in 1898.

The 5th Earl had immediately asked Hanson if he would take over as butler. He had agreed at once, and never looked back. He ran Cavendon Hall with enormous efficiency, care, skill and a huge sense of responsibility. Geoffrey Swann had been an extraordinary mentor, had turned Hanson into a well-trained major-domo who had become as renowned as Swann before him in aristocratic circles.

Sitting down at his desk, Hanson picked up the menus for lunch and dinner, which Mrs Jackson had given him earlier, and glanced at them. In a short while, he must go to the wine cellar and choose the wines. Perhaps a Pouilly Fuissé for the fish and a Pomerol for the spring lamb that had been selected for dinner.

Leaning back in the chair, Hanson let his thoughts meander to other matters for a moment or two, and then he made a decision and got up. Leaving his office, he walked in the direction of the housekeeper’s sitting room.

Her door was ajar and, after knocking on it, he pushed it open and looked inside. ‘It’s Hanson, Mrs Thwaites. Do you have a moment?’

‘Of course!’ she exclaimed. ‘Come in, come in.’

Closing the door behind him, Hanson said, ‘I wanted a word with you … about Peggy Swift. I was wondering how she was working out? Is she satisfactory?’ he asked, getting straight to the point as he usually did. ‘Is she going to fit in here?’

Agnes Thwaites did not reply immediately, and he couldn’t help wondering why. He was about to ask her if she was unhappy with the new maid, when she finally spoke.

‘I can’t fault her work, Mr Hanson. I really can’t. She’s quick and she’s efficient. Still, there’s something I can’t quite put my finger on … something about her doesn’t sit well with me.’ Mrs Thwaites shook her head.

‘So I’ve noticed,’ Hanson replied pithily. ‘She did work at Ellsford Manor, and you did get an excellent reference, but then the manor is hardly Cavendon. It’s not a stately home.’

‘Oh, yes, I understand that,’ she answered, suppressing a smile. It was well known that Hanson believed Cavendon was better than any other house in the land, including Buckingham Palace, Windsor Castle and Sandringham, all royal residences. ‘I have noticed there is a certain coolness between Peggy and the other maids. I’m not clear why,’ Mrs Thwaites added.

‘Has Mrs Jackson told you what she thinks of Peggy?’ he asked, a brow lifting.

‘Well, naturally Mrs Jackson is pleased with her efficiency, her quickness. It might be that Peggy is just not suitable for this house.’

‘You’d better keep a sharp eye on her, since the maids are in your care, as the footmen are in mine. And I will as well, as I think two pairs of eyes see much more than one.’

Hanson left the sitting room and walked back to his office. He sat at the desk for a moment or two, thinking about the situation in general. They were still missing a third footman, and if they had to let Peggy Swift go, they would be short of a maid. This problem would have to be rectified by the summer, since His Lordship and the Countess had planned a number of events, and there would be weekend guests. Sighing under his breath, Hanson reached down, unlocked the bottom drawer, took out his keys and went to the wine cellar.

A short while later, he was returning to his office, carrying two bottles of wine, when he ran into Walter Swann, husband of Alice, father of Cecily, and valet to Lord Mowbray.

‘There you are, Mr Hanson,’ Walter exclaimed in his usual cheerful voice, smiling hugely. ‘I was just coming along to tell you that His Lordship will make sure lunch finishes early today. He knows Alice and Cecily are joining us in the servants’ hall, and he doesn’t want us to be eating “in the middle of the afternoon”, was the way he put it. He wanted you to know.’

‘Very considerate, I must say,’ Hanson replied, glad to have this bit of pleasant news.

‘I’ll go and tell Cook, and then I must get back upstairs. I’ve a lot of jobs to do for Lord Mowbray today,’ Walter explained.

‘I’ll see you later, Walter. I’m looking forward to having lunch with Alice and your girl. Everyone loves Cecily.’

Walter grinned and hurried towards the kitchen, where he hovered in the entrance, obviously explaining matters to Mrs Jackson.

Once he was back in his office, Hanson placed the two bottles on the small table near the window, and went again to his desk. He dropped the bunch of keys into the bottom drawer, glancing at the clock as he sat down in the chair. It was ten minutes to twelve, and he had a moment or two before he needed to go upstairs to check on things. He looked down at the list he had made earlier, noting that the most pressing item on it was the silver vault. He must check it, tomorrow at the latest. The footmen had their work cut out for them – a lot of important silver had to be cleaned for the parties coming up in the summer.

Leaning back in his chair, his thoughts settled on Walter. How smart he always looked in his tailored black jacket and pinstriped grey trousers. He smiled inwardly, thinking of the two footmen, Malcolm and Gordon, who had such high opinions of their looks. Vain they were.

But those two couldn’t hold a candle to Walter Swann. At thirty-five he was in his prime – good looking, intelligent and hard working. And also the most trustworthy man Henry Hanson knew. Walter brought a smile to work, not his troubles, and he was well mannered and thoughtful, had a nice disposition. Few can beat him, Hanson decided, and fell down into his memories.

He had known Walter Swann since he was a boy … ten years old. And he had watched him grow into the man he was today. Hanson had only seen him upset when something truly sorrowful had happened: when his father, then his uncle Geoffrey, and then the 5th Earl had died. And on King Edward VII’s passing. That had affected Walter very much: he was a true patriot; loved his King and Country.

The day of the King’s funeral came rushing back to Henry Hanson. It might have been yesterday, so clear was it in his mind. He and Walter had accompanied the family to London in May of 1910, to open up the Mayfair house for the summer season.

The sudden death of the King had shocked everyone; when Hanson had asked the Earl if he and Walter could have the morning off to go out into the streets to watch the funeral procession leaving Westminster Hall, the Earl had been kind, had accommodated them.

Three years ago now, 20 May: that had been the day of the King’s funeral after his lying-in-state. Hanson and Walter had never seen so many people jammed together in the streets of London: hundreds of thousands of sorrowing, silent people, the everyday people of England, mourning their ‘Bertie’, the playboy Prince who had turned out to be a good King and father of the nation. There had been more mourners for him than for his mother, Queen Victoria.

Hanson knew he would never forget the sight of the cortège and he believed Walter felt the same – the gun carriage rumbling along, the King’s charger, boots and stirrups reversed, and a Scottish Highlander in a swinging kilt, leading the King’s wire-haired terrier behind his master’s coffin. He and Walter had both choked up at the sight of that little dog in the procession, heading for Paddington Station and the train to Windsor, where the King would be buried. Later they had found out that the King’s little white dog was called Caesar. They had wept for their King that day, and shared their grief and become even closer friends.

There was a knock on the door, and Hanson instantly roused himself. ‘Come in,’ he called and rose, moved across the room. He touched the bottle of white wine. It was still very cold from being in the wine cellar. He must take it upstairs to the pantry in readiness for lunch.

Mrs Thwaites was standing in the doorway, and he beckoned her to enter when she looked at him questioningly. As she closed the door and walked towards him he saw that her expression was serious.

She paused for a moment as she reached his desk and then said, ‘Instinct told me there was something about Peggy that was off, and now I know what it is that bothers me. She’s the type of young woman who’s bold, encourages men … you know what I mean.’

Hanson was startled by this statement and frowned, staring at her. ‘Whatever makes you say that?’

‘I saw her just now. Or rather them. Peggy Swift and Gordon Lane. They were sort of … wedged together in your little pantry near the dining room. She was canoodling with him. I was coming through the back hall upstairs and I made a noise so they knew someone was approaching. Then I went the other way. They didn’t see me. Instinctively, I feel that Peggy Swift spells trouble, Mr Hanson.’

Hanson didn’t speak for a moment, and then he said, ‘There’s always a bit of that going on, Mrs Thwaites. Flirting. They’re young.’

‘I know, and you’re right. But this seemed a little bit more than just flirting. Also, they were upstairs, where the Earl and Countess and the young ladies could easily have seen them.’ Mrs Thwaites shook her head, continuing to look concerned. ‘I just thought you ought to know.’

‘You did the right thing. And we can’t have any carrying-on of that sort in this house. It cannot be touched by gossip or scandal. Let us keep this to ourselves. Better in the long run, avoids needless talk that could be damaging to the family.’

‘I won’t say a word, Mr Hanson. You can trust me on that.’