Her Ladyship's Girl Read online

  ‘It’s because I love somebody else.’

  ‘Who?’

  She hesitated before answering and turned her face away from me.

  ‘You know who, Anwyn.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Chapter Twelve

  One afternoon, when I wasn’t too busy and Mrs Bouchard had gone out for the day with Mrs Hathaway, into Stratford-on-Avon to see a solicitor or some such thing, I got out of the fossilised containment of Bolde Hall for a breath of fresh air. I asked Miranda what time she’d be getting back, but she wasn’t able to tell me. I said I’d probably go out for a walk, as it was such a nice day, and she told me not to hurry back. I decided to go and pick some autumn flowers for my room – dahlias or cyclamen or begonias or maybe some wild crocuses if I could find any. I rambled away on my own from the big house and down past the gardens and the grounds to the fields beyond. It was a pleasant day, with an early October sun slanting across the Warwickshire countryside and shining low into my eyes. I didn’t want to pick any of the flowers from the gardens around the house, in case I got into trouble with the groundsmen, so I was searching out some feral spot that was uncultivated and untended and unlikely to cause any furore if I took a few blooms from it.

  After walking for a while, I could see a copse or an area of woodland about a hundred yards away across an open field. I climbed over the wooden fence and started to make my way across the wide space that sloped up to the crest of a hill where the sun was hovering, and blinding me to any view in that direction. Suddenly, I heard the sound of pounding hooves, but I could see nothing near me in the field – until a herd of big horses came galloping over the ridge of the hill and straight at me. I was frozen with fear. I’d never be able to make it back to the fence in time, nor would I get to the edge of the copse before they were on top of me. I stood there like a petrified statue, as the big hunters came closer. Then, a shrill high-pitched whistle cut through the sound of the hooves and the horses all turned, as one herd, and veered off to the left of me. I watched them neighing and tail-swishing past, not more than ten paces from where I stood. A rider approached me at a canter, after the herd had rushed past, and came to a stop close to me. The rider was silhouetted by the sun, and it wasn’t until harsh words were spoken that I realised it was a woman. The irritated voice flew down at me from the back of her horse.

  ‘What the bloody hell are you doing?’

  ‘Picking flowers.’

  ‘This is private property.’

  ‘I know. I work here.’

  She dismounted and I could see her better now. She was no more than nineteen or twenty years of age.

  ‘Didn’t anyone tell you we run the horses in these fields?’

  ‘No. Sorry.’

  ‘You’re lucky you didn’t get trampled.’

  I explained who I was and that it was my first time at Bolde Hall and I didn’t know ‘A from a bull’s foot’ about the estate or what went on on it. She cooled down a bit and introduced herself as Charlie Currant, daughter of the local village farrier. She worked part-time as a stable-girl and groom for the hunt and ran their horses at this time every afternoon to get them fit for the foxhunting in a few weeks’ time. I thought the name Currant was quite amusing for someone so serious and I smiled when she said it.

  ‘You think my name’s funny?’

  ‘Oh, no!’

  ‘Yes, you do!’

  ‘Well, a little.’

  The frown on her face disappeared and she smiled with me. She was shorter than me, though obviously a bit older. Her sandy hair was cropped short like a boy’s and she wore britches and riding boots and a tweed hacking jacket. She was actually quite friendly when she found out I was the personal maid of Miranda Brandon, as she called her. Apparently, Mrs Bouchard was quite a celebrity in these parts.

  ‘I know Charlie sounds like a boy’s name, but it’s not. It’s short for Charlotte.’

  I didn’t tell her it wasn’t her Christian name that made me smile. And I found out later from one of the people at Bolde Hall that the name Currant originated in Ireland and the Gaelic version was O’Currain – it meant from Currain or out of Currain and Currain was the name for a spear. So, her ancestors were probably Irish spear-throwers, but it was still a big leap of definition to associate such romanticism with Currant which, to me, was something you put in a cake. Although, if her father was a farrier, it was feasible that his people might have been blacksmiths and spear-makers, once-upon-a-time.

  Whatever her name, she was a pleasant enough person when she wasn’t frowning at me for wandering across her field the way I did, and we talked together and walked over to the herd of horses that had stopped galloping now and were huddled nodding their heads and whickering. She led her mount behind her and I gave up the idea of collecting a bunch of wild flowers to brighten my room. Charlie was an excellent rider, by all accounts, having been on horseback before she could even walk. The horses she ran were field hunters. They were big beasts and had to have stamina and sense and spirit, ‘the three esses’, as she called them, to do their job. Then she told me she was nineteen and asked me if I came from Wales.

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘I thought so by your lingo. One of my grandmothers was Welsh, you know.’

  ‘Was she?’

  ‘Yes, on my mother’s side.’

  I made a casual remark about the horses being very big brutes and she explained they were mostly crossed between thoroughbred and some other, hardier breed – maybe three-quarters English thoroughbred and one-quarter Irish draught, she wasn’t entirely sure. Apparently they had to have a safe jump so’s not to get caught on any of the solid obstacles found in the hunt field and be good, cross-country steeds that could gallop and jump over varied terrain – ditches and walls and coops and up and down banks and even through water. Then, to my surprise, she abruptly changed the subject.

  ‘What d’you think about Wallis Simpson?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The King’s crumpet.’

  I knew very little about the King’s crumpets, or his toast, or his cinnamon buns for that matter. Although he’d holidayed with Mrs Simpson on a private yacht that summer, the British newspapers kept a respectful distance. But the rest of the world’s press didn’t – and Charlie Currant had an opinion.

  ‘She’s American. And married.’

  ‘I know a married American woman . . . Mrs Reynolds.’

  ‘American women know what they want.’

  ‘Do they?’

  ‘And how to get it!’

  We gabbled away like a couple of schoolgirls and I found myself liking this little freckle-faced person. She had a forward way about her – an impertinence that was fresh in its childlike candour, even if she was older than me. Just.

  ‘You must come to the Forge for tea, Anwyn.’

  ‘The Forge?’

  ‘That’s what we call our house. Why don’t you come now?’

  I didn’t know what time Miranda would be back and she’d be sure to want me to help her change for dinner, but Charlie wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  ‘Surely she can take care of herself for an hour or two?’

  I was sure she could and, anyway, she said I didn’t need to hurry back. I hadn’t had any time off since I started as a lady’s maid and there was always Miss Mason if she wanted anything.

  ‘All right, then.’

  ‘Good. You can help me paddock the horses first. Can you ride?’

  ‘No, not really . . .’

  ‘Nothing to it. You take Firebird here, he’s easy to handle. I’ll grab one of the others.’

  Firebird?

  She helped me get a foot into the high stirrup and then shoved me up by the rump into the saddle. My skirt was up round the tops of my thighs and I was an extremely immodest sight for anyone that might happen to be watching. The big horse moved to the side when it felt the extra weight on its back.

  ‘How do I steer it?’

  ‘U
se the reins. Pretend they’re the handlebars of a bicycle.’

  Then she grabbed the mane of one of the other horses and swung herself expertly up onto its bare back. She let out a long, low whistle and the herd began to move off, back up to the crest of the hill. Charlie rode behind them, but Firebird refused to move for me.

  ‘Kick him!’

  So I did. But I must have kicked him too hard, because he took off and I let go of the reins and grabbed the animal round the neck and clung on for dear life. My feet came out of the stirrups and my skirt was now flying up around my face. Charlie grabbed hold of the horse’s bridle when we came level with her and she brought him to a halt, laughing her head off at my awkwardness and embarrassment. I took control of the reins and stirrups again and we set off at a slow trot after the herd.

  Once all the horses were paddocked and Firebird was unsaddled and turned out with the others, we started to walk the half mile to the forge. It was still bright, with an unbroken pale-blue sky and a light breeze starting to blow up from the southwest.

  Charlie Currant was an only child and it was clear her father wanted a boy when she was born, because he’d brought her up like one. She was a bit of an Annie Oakley, who I’d once seen in some Pathé News feature in the cinema, performing for Queen Victoria when she came over to this country with Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show. Charlie’s father was a big man – a typical farrier, used to handling horses. His name was Cedric and he wore a thick black beard and guffawed like a bull when he laughed. Her mother was a small, meek kind of woman who said very little and busied herself in the kitchen most of the time I was there. It was obvious Charlie took after her father in spirit and her mother in size.

  We had a plain tea of sliced, fried potatoes, fried parsnips and mutton, with an onion gravy. Mr Currant produced a large jug of home-made cider and insisted I have a glass, even though I told him I didn’t drink all that much.

  ‘It’ll put hairs on your chest, lass.’

  Then he guffawed. I didn’t particularly want hairs on my chest and the cider was cloudy and had bits floating in it that could have been toenail clippings for all I knew. But Charlie had some and so did Mrs Currant, so I felt obliged to drink it. When I did, Mr Currant filled the glass again.

  ‘So, Miss Moyle . . .’

  ‘Please call me Anwyn.’

  ‘So, Anwyn, you work for Miranda Brandon, eh?’

  ‘Mrs Bouchard.’

  ‘Oh aye, Mrs Boochard.’

  He said he remembered her growing up round these parts. She was a bit of a handful even then, always getting into scrapes and the bane of her poor mother’s life.

  The Currants gave me a brief history of the Brandons while I was there – how Miranda’s mother died of pleurisy when she was only ten. She had a series of governesses after that, but none of them could control her, so her father sent her away to a private school for girls in France, so she could learn how to be a lady. I didn’t want to talk about Miranda, as that would have been a betrayal of her trust in me – so I just listened. Mr Currant seemed to know a lot about the Brandons and I supposed he heard all the gossip while he was shoeing the horses. He knew Mr Brandon senior had lost a lot of money through naive investments in the American stock market and now he needed one of his two children to marry well. Otherwise, Bolde Hall would go the way of many other aristocratic country houses.

  ‘Why can’t James Brandon marry for money?’

  ‘Him?’

  Mr Currant guffawed again, as if I’d said something very funny.

  ‘He can’t marry no woman.’

  ‘Why not?’

  The Currants looked at each other and shook their heads and my question went unanswered. I decided not to pursue it and Cedric changed the subject.

  ‘What’s all this nonsense going on down in London?’

  ‘What nonsense?’

  He told me there’d been a battle in Cable Street, which was just across the river from where Lucy lived, and I hoped she and her family were all right.

  According to Cedric Currant, the Fascist Blackshirts organised a march through the area, which was predominantly Jewish. The government refused to ban the march, even though they knew there’d be trouble. People built barricades in an attempt to stop it – a hundred thousand anti-fascist demonstrators turned out, along with six thousand police, who tried to clear the street to let the three thousand Fascists march through. Then it all escalated, with sticks and stones and rubbish and rotten vegetables being thrown at the police. Women in the houses emptied chamber pots onto the head of the coppers and there were skirmishes and running battles up and down the street. Oswald Mosley, the leader of the Fascists, took his Blackshirts away to Hyde Park and left the anti-fascists to fight it out with the police. Hundreds of people were hurt and others arrested and the leaders of the demonstrators were sentenced to three months hard labour while the Fascists walked free. I knew nothing about this because I hadn’t seen a newspaper or heard the radio since I arrived at Bolde Hall. And I wished I’d been down there where history was happening, instead of stuck out here with the nobles and the nobs.

  By the time I left the Forge, the cider jug was empty and I was feeling a bit tipsy. Charlie said she’d walk me back to Bolde Hall and she pumped up a Tilley lamp to light our way, as it had grown dark by then. The night-time sounds of the countryside surrounded us as we walked – foxes barking and owls hooting and badgers churring and all sorts of insects clicking and clacking. I was glad Charlie was with me. She slipped her arm into mine and we linked each other along.

  ‘What’s it like down in London, Anwyn?’

  ‘It’s great. I love London.’

  ‘I suppose you get to go to all sorts of parties?’

  ‘I’ve been all over the place with Mrs Bouchard during the season.’

  ‘It must be a bit boring for you way out here?’

  ‘A bit.’

  I told her about the balls I’d been to with Miranda and the dancehalls I’d been to with Lucy and she said she’d love to live in London, if only for a few weeks.

  ‘Wouldn’t you miss the horses?’

  ‘Probably.’

  Charlie told me she was going back to college in Leicester once the new term started. She was studying to be a vet so she could help the animals she loved so much. I told her I would have loved to go to college, but I had to start work as soon as I was fourteen to help my family. She was sympathetic.

  ‘Have you got a boyfriend, Anwyn?’

  ‘No. I can’t be bothered with boys.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘More trouble than they’re worth. Except as dancing partners.’

  She laughed.

  ‘What about you, Charlie?’

  ‘Not likely!’

  I was quite tired by the time we got back to Bolde Hall and I hoped Miranda wouldn’t want to have a late night. The rough cider had taken its toll on me and I just wanted to flop into bed. Charlie stopped at the edge of the grounds. I could see the lights from the big house illuminating the rest of the way.

  ‘You’ll be all right from here, Anwyn.’

  ‘Thank you for walking with me, Charlie.’

  I went to kiss her on the cheek, but she turned her head as I did so and our lips touched. She didn’t pull away – and neither did I. The moment lingered for a lifetime, and was over in an instant.

  ‘Goodbye, Anwyn.’

  She turned and walked away into the night. I stood there watching her go. I could still see the light from the lamp swinging to and fro, long after Charlie Currant had disappeared from view, into the gloaming.

  When I got inside the house, Miss Mason told me Mrs Bouchard was looking for me. Miranda was in the dining room and I went straight to her. She was with Mrs Hathaway.

  ‘Ah, Anwyn . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late, Madam.’

  ‘That’s all right, Anwyn, I’ve not been long back myself.’

  She told me she was tired after her day and was going to have an early
night. She wouldn’t need me for anything else that evening. I was so thankful.

  ‘Have you had dinner?’

  ‘I had tea at the Forge.’

  ‘With the Currants?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The hint of a smile broke across Miranda Bouchard’s lips.

  ‘You must have met Charlotte?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And how did you find her?’

  ‘Very . . . affectionate.’

  ‘Quite.’

  I never saw Charlie Currant again.

  But I thought of her – often.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The weeks passed at Bolde Hall and the foxhunting season arrived – and with it the rich Earl and his entourage. This time the lady guests brought their own maids and it was less lonely for me having these other women to chat to. They brought all the gossip with them, which was mostly about the King and Mrs Simpson, but some had come up from London and they were gushing on about this thing called television and how the BBC had made the world’s first transmission of pictures to a little screen. Some said these little television boxes would be in every household eventually and would do away with the wireless and the picture house – but I didn’t believe them. It was great to hear Belgravia mentioned as well, and I wished I was back there with Lucy and Hannah and the girls in the tea shop.

  The Earl was, indeed, a charming man – tall and handsome and about thirty-five years old. He looked a bit like an English Gary Cooper and he had a habit of slapping his thigh when he laughed. Maybe that’s what put Miranda off him. He was courteous to the servants, unlike the Brandon men, and he had a happy and extrovert demeanour. He was a man any mature women could easily fall for, I thought, and I wondered what the untitled William Harding had to compare with this man’s appeal. But then, I knew, I felt it that day in the library – before we were interrupted. I didn’t tell Miranda about that encounter, it would only have hurt her and probably got me dismissed, even though I’d done nothing wrong. But it seemed to me that William Harding, despite his appeal, was not a man to be trusted. In the first place, he was married and, secondly, he was a philanderer. Miranda said he’d promised to leave his wife for her when the children were a little older, but I didn’t believe he ever would.