T Kinsey - A Quiet Life in the Country (A Lady Hardcastle Mystery Book 1)

‘Hang the laundry. Isn’t that what we hired Edna for?’

‘We did, but I was helping. I’ve finished now, though, and we have plenty of time to make you beautiful for your appointment.’

‘I’ll settle for “presentable”, but thank you. But where are my new stockings? And have you seen my small handbag? And are my patterned boots clean? And—’

‘I’ll take care of it all, my lady. Sit down and drink this tea. I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve changed into something less . . . domestic.’

She sat at the kitchen table, heaved a great, frustrated sigh, and drank her tea.

By five minutes to twelve we were both dressed for lunch and ready to go. That’s to say, Lady Hardcastle was dressed for lunch and I was dressed in my smart ‘going out’ uniform – I’d get lunch with the servants if I was lucky. I was helping her with her hatpins.

‘It strikes me, Flo, that this fashion for huge hats might have its advantages. What do you think of hiding a Derringer in there?’

‘A pistol, my lady? In your hat?’

‘Quite so.’

‘Wouldn’t that open you to the danger of shooting yourself accidentally in the head?’

‘I had a sort of holster in mind,’ she said, ‘concealing the gun inside, perhaps covered by a flap.’

‘I see. And wouldn’t that open me to the danger of you shooting me accidentally in the head as I walked beside you?’

‘You could walk a pace or two behind like a proper servant and then you’d be well clear.’

‘I could indeed. Do you think you need a Derringer?’

‘A lady should always be prepared for any eventuality.’

‘Like Lord Baden-Powell’s Boy Scouts, my lady?’

‘Similar, but with skirts on.’

‘I shouldn’t think there was anything in Scouting for Boys about skirts, my lady. The newspapers portrayed it as a very manly work. Perhaps he should write something similar for girls.’

‘Most definitely he should,’ she said. ‘As long as he places the same emphasis on being prepared.’

‘One would certainly hope he would. I doubt he would encourage the carrying of small-calibre pistols, though.’

‘I suppose it does seem rather reckless,’ she said thoughtfully.

The doorbell rang.

‘A timely interruption, my lady. I believe you’re ready, and I’ll wager that’s the car.’

I answered the door. There on the step was a handsome young man in a chauffeur’s uniform of fine grey wool. Behind him, on the road, was a similarly grey, similarly handsome Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost.

‘I’m Daniel, miss,’ said the chauffeur, ‘come to take Lady Hardcastle to Mr Seddon’s house.’

‘Thank you, Daniel,’ I said. ‘I’m Armstrong and my mistress will be with you presently.’

‘Shall I wait in the car, Miss Armstrong?’

‘Thank you, that will be fine. She’ll be a minute or two longer, no more.’

‘Yes, miss.’ And with that he turned smartly and returned to the beautiful car.

I made to return to the kitchen but Lady Hardcastle was already on her way into the hall. ‘Ready, my lady?’ I said, as she inspected herself in the mirror.

‘I believe I am, dear, yes. Let’s go snooping.’

It was a perfect driving day as well as a perfect drying day. The half-hour journey was exhilarating and all too short. The Seddons lived in a grand Georgian house on the main road into Chipping Bevington and as the Rolls scrunched onto the broad gravel drive, Mr Seddon himself appeared at the door to greet his guest.

‘My dear Lady Hardcastle,’ he gushed, as Daniel helped her from the car. ‘How wonderful of you to come.’

‘Good afternoon, Mr Seddon. It was charming of you to invite me.’

Daniel was sweet enough also to help me while this pantomime continued and I was out of the car in time to see Mrs Seddon greeting Lady Hardcastle with equal effusion. Daniel winked at me.

‘Leave the car there, Daniel,’ said Mrs Seddon brusquely, ‘and take Lady Hardcastle’s maid—’

‘Miss Armstrong, madam,’ said Daniel quickly.

‘Quite. Take Armstrong to the kitchen. Cook has some lunch for her, I believe. Does that suit, Lady Hardcastle?’

‘That will be fine, Mrs Seddon,’ she said. ‘Enjoy your lunch, Armstrong. I’ll ring through to the kitchen if I need you.’

‘Yes, my lady,’ I said with a slight curtsey. I followed Daniel round to the rear of the house where I was warmly invited into the kitchen by the cook, Mrs Birch.

The house, though spacious, was too small to have a proper servants’ hall, so the staff ate at one end of the kitchen at a large, oak table, which had already been set for a lavish lunch. It seemed I was to be treated as the guest of honour and they seated me at one end of the table, in a wonderfully comfortable chair.

In private Lady Hardcastle and I usually ate well and had shared some splendid meals. When she was staying away from home and I was dining with the household servants, the best I could usually hope for was ‘hearty and satisfying’. ‘Meagre and grudgingly served’ was more common, but this lunch was utterly magnificent. Pies, cold meats, poached salmon, Scotch eggs, fresh salads, fresh breads . . . all prepared with exquisite skill. It was like the most wonderful picnic. There was even a bottle of champagne. I sat down and tucked in.

‘I must say,’ I said, as I grabbed a slice of pie, ‘it really is astonishingly generous of you to treat a stranger to such a splendid lunch.’

‘We were eating anyway, my dear,’ said Mr Langdon, the butler. ‘And it’s always a pleasure to have company.’

‘Proper company,’ said Daniel.

‘Who works for a proper lady,’ said the lady’s maid.

There were murmurs of agreement around the table. The atmosphere was friendly to the point of rowdiness but there was a definite undercurrent of dissatisfaction and resentment. At first I was a little embarrassed by their frankness, but as lunch progressed and the wine flowed, I decided I was fulfilling a vital service as a sort of safety valve. One by one the cook, lady’s maid, housemaid, kitchen maid and chauffeur each shared with me their joy at meeting the servant of a ‘real lady’ and their dismay at their own arriviste employers.

‘Blimmin Lady Muck and her airs and graces,’ said Mrs Birch through a mouthful of pie. ‘She was a shop girl when she met him. A blimmin shop girl. And now she swans round here like the Duchess of Blimmin Lah-di-Dah, treatin’ us like the dirt on her shoe. That’s not proper class. She don’t know how to behave.’

The others nodded their agreement, and one by one added their own descriptions of their employers’ shortcomings. I’m not at all sure I would ever have complained about my employer to anyone, much less a complete stranger, but as they told their tales of extravagance, rudeness and generally gauche behaviour, I realized that they felt besieged and just needed to tell someone who might understand. I let them talk.

Mrs Birch also seemed to need to explain the extravagance of the meal. ‘We might as well treat ourselves, my dear,’ she said. ‘She don’t know what goes on, nor care overmuch, I’m sure. She don’t deign to come into the kitchen and talk to the likes of me. I gets summoned to her study to discuss menus, then sent off to crawl back to my proper place. She pays the bills without looking at them. I overheard her talking to one of her friends once. “If one has to worry about the bills,” she says, “one can’t afford them anyway.” So if that’s the way she sees it, I makes sure to slip a little treat in for us now and again. Nothing too much, mind – I i’n’t no thief – but a nice treat once a month is only what we deserves after putting up with her.’