The Hungry Tide (47 page)

‘I wondered, ma-am, if it would be permissible to sup in my own room this evening?’ She felt desperately tired and in no mood to answer questions from curious servants in the kitchen. She also knew that she would be in the way, that the last thing the cook needed would be a stranger in her kitchen when they were busy preparing and serving food to the household and guests.

‘I’m sure that will be perfectly in order, Sarah. Unless of course you can make yourself useful.’ She gazed thoughtfully at her and then nodded her head carefully so as not to disturb her coiffure. ‘And then you may go to bed. Lucy and I won’t be needing you any more tonight, the maids seem to be very capable and will help us to bed. Just lay out my new green morning gown, for I understand we are to be at home to visitors tomorrow, and then you may retire.’

Sarah closed the door quietly behind her. She felt superfluous. Lucy was dressed, and already giggling and laughing in Miss Pardoe’s cousins’ room as they waited to go down to the dining room. Her nervousness at being thought provincial was forgotten, for on being introduced to them she had seen at once that she was much prettier than they. She had conceded to Sarah confidentially that whilst the elder, Cassandra, had a certain dignified elegance, Blanche was really quite dumpy and plain, and she didn’t think at all that she would ever grow out of it.

Sarah’s private opinion was that though Miss Blanche was no beauty, she seemed kind and had a nice smile, whilst Miss Cassandra had no warmth whatsoever, and no amount of elegance could compensate for her total lack of civility.

She made her way down the winding back staircase towards the sounds and smells of the kitchen. Rising heat, the clattering of pans and loud voices alerted her as she reached the lower floor and she hesitated outside the door for a moment before taking a deep breath and firmly rapping with her knuckles. There was no cessation of sound, only the shriek of someone chastising an inferior for letting a pudding boil dry.

She opened the door and looked in. The room was crowded with people. Maids in black with trim white aprons and caps, scurried hurriedly with trays of dishes which they handed to waiting footmen, whilst red-faced girls dressed in grey stirred pans over the huge smoking range, and ducked to avoid the slaps which the cook was handing out to all and sundry as she wrestled to get the food served to the ladies and gentlemen waiting upstairs.

Sarah slipped unnoticed into the room and put on an apron which was hanging behind a door. She went towards the range and looked into a pan. The sauce in it was bubbling furiously, so she drew it away from the heat and took up a wooden spoon to stir it gently. The young girl at the side of her looked at her open-mouthed and then dipped an awkward hesitant curtsey.

‘You don’t need to dip to me.’ Sarah smiled at her. ‘I’m Sarah Foster, companion to Miss Masterson.’

‘We ’eard abaht you,’ said the girl, wiping a sweating brow with the back of her hand, ‘from Rose. She said you wasn’t at all stuffy, but neither was you common.’

The cook came up and pushed the girl away, telling her to look sharp and drain the vegetables. She looked at Sarah curiously, then took the spoon away from her and examined the sauce. ‘Thank you, miss, I reckon you’ve saved it from burning. Them girls ’ave no idea in their ’eads. Full of sawdust, they are.’

‘I’m glad I could help,’ said Sarah. ‘I didn’t want to get in the way and only came down to ask if I might take my supper in my room? I’m very tired after our journey.’

‘Bless you, miss, ’course you can. I wouldn’t expect that you’d want to eat down ’ere in the kitchen.’

‘Oh, but I would!’ Sarah was abashed. ‘I do at home. I mean – unless I eat with Miss Lucy.’ She blushed in confusion. ‘Things are different there – not quite so formal as in the city.’

‘I understand, miss.’ Cook nodded sympathetically as she viewed Sarah’s quandary. ‘I’ll get Rose to bring you a tray up, just as soon as the gentry ’ave been served.’

It hadn’t been her intention to be waited on, she could have carried her own tray, but rather than complicate matters when she could see that Cook was anxious now for her to go, she thanked her and slipped out of the kitchen, only to hear her say to no-one in particular, ‘Poor young woman, doesn’t know where she belongs.’

Sarah slept well in the narrow feather bed and rose as usual at first light. She washed and dressed and then looked in at Lucy who was sleeping soundly. Quietly she crept downstairs and into the kitchen, where she found the same young girl that she had spoken to last night kneeling on the floor feeding sticks and small pieces of coal into the range in an effort to relight it.

‘Cook’ll kill me for letting it out,’ she said when she saw Sarah. ‘I was supposed to mend it before I went to bed, only I forgot.’

Sarah helped herself to a slice of bread and some cheese which she found in the cool pantry and poured a cup of milk. It was thin stuff compared with the thick creamy liquid from their own cows at home. Then she asked the girl if she could tell her how to get into the garden.

‘Do you mean the garden in the square?’ she answered in surprise. ‘’Cos that’s kept locked, and anyway we can’t go in it.’ Confusion showed on her sooty face. ‘Leastways,
we
can’t, but I don’t know about you, miss.’

Sarah felt exasperated. ‘Well, what about the garden at the back, surely we can get out there?’

The girl looked at her blankly. ‘If you mean the yard – yes, you can go out there. Through that door there.’

Sarah opened the door which led her into a small dark hallway, and, fumbling, found another door which was locked and bolted. She turned the large iron key and slid the bolt and found herself in a small, confined courtyard which had indeed a few poor plants and wilting ferns. An ivy struggled up one of the walls to reach the light and in the middle was a palm tree. It seemed incongruous to Sarah for it to have a home in such surroundings, for although it looked as if the courtyard had once been a pleasant area in which to sit, judging by the wrought iron seat, stone urns and statuary which were there, it now had a neglected air, made worse by the old cooking pans, brushes and rubbish which had been thrown there.

She opened a gate in the wall and looked down a long narrow passage leading out into the street. She decided to take the risk of getting lost and walked down it for a considerable way before taking a left turn which brought her round to the front of the street and opposite the enclosed garden.

Cheerfully she ran across the road and looked through the railings at the grassy area. Small beds of roses were set at the side of a gravelled path which ran all the way round, and slender ash and London plane trees with their smoothly mottled trunks and black branches marched alternately between them. She was delighted to see that the trees were still in full leaf and had not yet started to fall, their cascading branches casting small pools of shade over the grass, and for the first time since she had left home she felt herself relax. The birds were singing and plump pigeons were pecking at the gravel on the path making their comforting, croaking cry.

She walked on until she came to the gate but saw to her dismay that not only was it closed but chained and padlocked, so that there was no hope at all of her getting in to walk there as she had intended. What kind of place is this, she thought angrily, when they lock up grass and trees, and she shook the gate until it rattled. She walked round to the other side of the garden, hoping to find another entrance, but there was only the one. As she continued around the perimeter, she looked across the square towards the Pardoes’ residence where she saw that a groom was standing, holding a glossy bay mare which John was preparing to mount.

She ran across the road towards him, calling his name. ‘Mr John, Mr John, are you leaving already?’

‘Sarah, what are you doing out here so early?’ He ignored her question and looked down at her, a furrow wrinkling his brow. ‘How did you get out, the doors have only just been unlocked?’

‘I came out through the back, through the courtyard. I wanted to walk in the garden, only it’s locked, I can’t get in – Mr John, are you going home?’ Her voice broke as she tried to cover her dismay that he might be returning north.

He dismissed the groom who was listening with interest to the young woman who had dashed across the road in a most unladylike manner, her red hair and skirts flying, to accost the gentleman visitor in such a familiar way.

‘I’m not leaving, Sarah. Not yet. Merely going out for a ride into the park.’ He saw the relief on her face and explained gently. ‘But I shall be leaving in about a week. I can’t stay as long as I would wish, I must get back to Hull. Mr Masterson can’t manage alone for any longer.’

She nodded. ‘I understand. If you should go to Monkston, will you please tell them—’ She looked away.

‘Yes, what shall I tell them, Sarah?’ He wanted to sweep her up behind him and carry her off, away from this city of brick and stone, of statues and monuments. She looked so defenceless and vulnerable standing there in a fine London street, like a wild flower grown from a seed which had been dropped by a careless bird, and left to struggle for survival or wilt and die.

‘I’ll tell them, shall I, that you have seen the great parks and gardens, and the rich carriages and beautiful ladies, and that you still think that Monkston is the only place on God’s earth that you would want to be?’ He smiled quizzically at her and settled his restless mount as, puzzled, Sarah nodded her head.

‘Yes, please. Though I haven’t yet seen any of those places.’

‘You shall. It will be my pleasure to escort you and the young ladies this afternoon if nothing else has been decided. You shall see that London is beautiful, and though I can’t offer you the lashing of the waves of the German Ocean, I can show you the ancient Thames as a substitute.’ He bent down and touched the top of her bare head and wound a curl around his finger. ‘Now off you go inside, it will be considered unseemly for you to be wandering about the streets alone. This is not Monkston, Sarah, and you cannot expect to do the things here that you would do at home.’

There was a promenade of high fashion as ladies, colourful as summer flowers in dresses of soft draped silks cut shorter to show their ankles, paraded amongst others who favoured the classical Grecian style of transparent muslin with high necks and trailing skirts, who strolled with their friends in the afternoon sunshine.

Sarah longed to get out of the carriage and walk through the vast grassy areas of Hyde Park and enjoy the autumn sunshine, or sit beneath the trees as so many other people were doing. But Lucy and her new friends were content to drive around slowly, watching the crowd; to see, and to be seen from the open carriage and to acknowledge gracefully, but with some covert giggling behind their fans, the young men riding by who tipped their hats towards them.

‘Look, look. Cassandra! There’s Mr Anderson. See him – on the stallion!’ Blanche pointed excitedly across the park to where a thin-faced man seated on a black stallion was talking to a group of people.

Cassandra raised her eyebrows and closed her eyes in a supercilious gesture. ‘What care I?’ she said, but her cheeks turned pink and she fanned herself vigorously.

Lucy questioned eagerly. ‘Do tell! Who is the gentleman?’

Cassandra shrugged, but Blanche, her eyes alight with excitement, leant confidentially towards Lucy. ‘He’s been calling quite regularly since we arrived at Cousin Matilda’s. We rather think that he’s taken with Cassy!’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Blanche! He is simply a friend of Stephen’s!’ But a cool smile stole over Cassandra’s haughty face and she lowered her eyelids, whilst Lucy and Blanche giggled into their handkerchiefs.

Sarah glanced at John, who raised his eyebrows at the girlish laughter and conversation and smiled, rather cynically, she thought, which was unusual for him, before calling to the driver to move on to the next part of their tour. As he did so, the rider on the stallion cantered across to them.

‘Hold on, Rayner! Where are you off to with a carriage full of pretty ladies? Don’t keep them all to yourself, there’s a good fellow.’ He looked down on them from the height of his glossy black mount, his gloved hands holding the reins firmly as it cavorted impatiently.

‘’Afternoon, Anderson.’ John’s voice was polite but impersonal. ‘I believe you have met Miss Cassandra and Miss Blanche Hamilton. May I present my cousin, Miss Lucy Masterson, and her companion, Miss Sarah Foster – Mr Bertram Anderson.’

Bertram Anderson touched the brim of his bicorned hat at each introduction and his dark eyes lingered over each of them in turn. It seemed to Sarah that they rested longer on her, taking in her hair, lips and bosom, and she felt vaguely uneasy under his scrutiny.

‘Shall we have the pleasure of your company tomorrow evening, Mr Anderson?’ Cassandra, wishing to attract his attention, grew bold. ‘Miss Pardoe is giving a concert. It promises to be quite splendid.’

‘Indeed, yes, I shall be there.’ Anderson smiled, showing gleaming white teeth beneath a thin black moustache. ‘In fact, nothing would keep me away now that I know there will be such delightful company, as well as excellent music and the Pardoes’ famous hospitality!’

He raised his whip. ‘Until tomorrow, ladies.’ He nodded to John, dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and cantered off down the park, sending up a cloud of dry dust and scattering flocks of pigeons.

Lucy squealed and bit her handkerchief. ‘Oh, what a rake he is, did you see the way his eyes flashed? Cassy – what a catch he must be!’

‘Lucy!’ John’s voice was sharp. ‘That’s enough. You know nothing about him. Contain your comments until you do!’

‘I can assure you that Mr Anderson is from a very good family, Mr Rayner.’ Cassandra’s voice was cutting. ‘One of the best,
and
he is due a considerable fortune!’

‘I am sure that your information is quite correct, Miss Hamilton.’ John smiled to offset his former tone. ‘But Lucy should not jump to conclusions at a first meeting.’

Cassandra sat back in her seat and refused to take part in any further conversation, and Lucy, chagrined, sat sulkily silent. It was left to Sarah and Blanche to make desultory conversation to ease the situation as the carriage turned for home.