Her Ladyship's Girl (16 page)

Today was a short, afternoon shoot, I was told – often they went on all day. But because of the earliness in the season – it went on from September to February – only about
three hundred birds would be flushed, to preserve stocks, as there could be as many as a dozen shoots in the season. The beaters drove the birds to the flushing point where they flushed up about a
dozen pheasants at a time. The drives were in fifties, which meant when fifty birds were flushed and shot, they’d take a break. Suddenly, the birds began to break cover, flying out of the
woods in all directions. The air was full of the smell of cordite and the crack of shotguns and the sight of the birds falling from the skies in a flurry of feathers and the excited squawks of the
women.

‘Oh, good shot!’

Between the drives, myself and the maids served up pork and pigeon terrine, roast partridge drumsticks, sandwiches, currant and candied peel cake and plums soaked in whisky – all washed
down with port and brandy and flasks of hot sweet tea.

When it was all over and the three hundred unfortunate birds were killed and collected by the spaniels, the guests retired to the nearby hunting lodge, where Cook and the kitchen girls had
prepared a supper of hot onion soup, lamb and apricot pie topped with colcannon and crème brûlée for pudding. The wine flowed easily and everyone was getting rather merry by
now. I returned to the house with the guests, while the maids cleared away after the meal. I changed my shoes and helped Miranda to bathe in the family’s private bathroom and then dress in a
black drop-waist evening gown with embroidered front. She asked me to go and see how the other ladies were faring and I helped Miss Mason to get them all ready for dinner. After that, I helped the
housemaids to clean and tidy the rooms and to take the shooting clothes away for washing and the boots for cleaning and polishing. Dinner was served at 9:00 p.m. and I ate with Miss Mason and the
late-arriving Mrs Hathaway in a small dining room in the east wing, while the Brandons and their guests dined in the main hall. Afterwards, I waited for Miranda and put her to bed in an inebriated
state at 2:00 a.m. I gave her room a quick tidy and collapsed into my own bed at 2:30 a.m.

The next day was Sunday and everybody was up and ready for the 11:00 a.m. church service in the village. They returned for lunch and, by then, their trunks had been packed and loaded into their
cars and carriages and the guests all drove away in the mid-afternoon. That evening, Miranda had dinner with her father and brother and I ate again with Miss Mason and Mrs Hathaway, both of whom
had come to accept me as a competent lady’s maid and weren’t as snotty and sarcastic to me as they had been in the beginning. They showed me where the ladies’ bathroom was in the
east wing and I had my first hot bath in several days, lying back and luxuriating in the amniotic warmth of the water. When I dressed again, I went to find Miranda to see what she would be
requiring of me for the rest of the evening. She wasn’t in her bedroom, so I went along to the main part of the house. As I approached the library, I heard shouting. Jacob was standing
outside the door and then Mr Biggs emerged. I hid in the shadows and heard them as they went past me.

‘Best leave them to it.’

‘I’ll clear away in the dining hall.’

When they disappeared from view, being anxious about Miranda, I tiptoed up to the library for a listen. She may have been an uncaring aristocrat, but I felt something for the woman – and
her heavy heart. The door wasn’t quite closed and I could see inside – and I could hear Mr Brandon’s raised voice.

‘Everybody is having to compromise, Miranda. Things have changed since the war.’

‘Why does it have to be me, father? What about you and James?’

‘We’re tightening our belts . . . you saw the size of the shoot.’

Miranda was sobbing – softly, almost inaudibly, like a young girl who’d lost her true love. I knew I shouldn’t be listening and, if I got caught, I’d probably be sacked.
But I couldn’t just walk away and leave them to it, like Jacob and Biggs. James, the brother, spoke.

‘Come on, Miranda, be a sport.’

‘Why don’t you marry for money, James? Why does it have to be me?’

‘You know that’s impossible.’

Mr Brandon senior spoke again. This time his voice was softer, more conciliatory.

‘At least agree to see him. He’ll be here for the foxhunting in November.’

Miranda didn’t reply, but came rushing from the library, and I had to move quickly so she wouldn’t see me. A few minutes later, I went to her room.

She was quiet when I entered and I just went about my duties cleaning and tidying without saying anything much. I could tell she was distressed but was trying hard to disguise it. But the effort
was too much in the end and she broke down.

‘Oh, Anwyn . . .’

‘What’s wrong, Madam?’

‘You don’t need to call me Madam when we’re alone.’

I went and sat beside her on the bed. She told me her father and brother wanted her to marry some rich earl because they were broke and needed his money to keep them afloat. Since the Great War,
and especially with the depression in America, many of Britain’s aristocratic families were feeling the cold breath of bankruptcy on the backs of their noble necks. Those who didn’t
want to sell their estates, like the Brandons, were finding it a struggle to keep up the old appearances. I was picking up bits and pieces of information from Miss Mason and Mrs Hathaway when I ate
with them and, apparently, old man Brandon wasn’t a very shrewd businessman and he’d neglected the family’s fortunes while he’d been gallivanting round the world on his
adventures. James Brandon was an even worse entrepreneur than his father and their finances needed a shot in the arm from an outside source. The Earl had money from family investments in India,
through the East India Company, which had exported opium to China in the 1800s, resulting in the opium wars and the seizure of Hong Kong by the British. He’d long been an admirer of Miranda,
but gave up on her when she married Emile Bouchard. Since she’d become a widow, his amour had been rekindled.

The Earl promised to sort out the Brandons’ financial problems just as soon as Miranda hopped into his marital bed.

‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Is he ugly . . . old . . . smelly?’

‘None of those things. He’s quite charming, really.’

If the Earl was really a Prince Charming with loads of money, then I couldn’t understand why Miranda didn’t want him.

‘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.’

O
ne 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.