The Passing Bells Read online

  “Let’s see a little smile now and then, Ivy. You’ll soon get used to it here.”

  “I’m sure I will, ma’am.”

  “That’s the spirit, child. Now run off with you and have your breakfast.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Ivy said, curtsying respectfully before hurrying down the passage toward the servants’ hall. Ivy Thaxton was seventeen years old, and this was her first week away from home, her first week of service. She found it all very bewildering, but not unpleasant. She was not unhappy, as the housekeeper thought, not like that Mary Grogan from Belfast, who cried all the time. It was just that there was so much to remember and so much to see. The huge rambling house fascinated her. There were so many corridors and passageways, so many stairs and rooms, that sometimes she got lost when instructed to go to the “Blenheim room in the east wing,” or the “blue suite in the south passage.” She had grown up in a comfortable but crowded house in Norwich, the eldest child, with two brothers and two sisters and another child on the way. It had been the baby in her mother’s womb that had necessitated her departure from the house. The older birds must make room for the fledglings, her father had said.

  There were a dozen or more servants seated at the long table having their breakfast, but Ivy couldn’t see anyone she knew. Valets, footmen, and the kitchen help, mostly. The kitchens were just beyond the servants’ hall, and she went in there to get served: a plate heaped with bacon rashers, eggs, and a thick piece of bread, fried golden crisp in bacon grease. Urns of tea and pots of marmalade and jam were on the table in the hall. The amount and quality of the food that they were given still astonished her. There had always been enough food on the table at home—Mum had seen to that only God knew how—but it had been plain fare, heavy on boiled greens, carrots, and thick barley soup with a few bits of meat in it.

  She found a place at the end of the table and ate her breakfast with a single-minded purpose that verged on gluttony. When she had finished and was mopping up the last trace of egg yolk with a piece of fried bread, she became conscious of someone staring at her from across the table. She glanced up into the amused face of a freckled young man with sandy hair who was nursing a mug of tea and smoking a cigarette. He was dressed in livery of some sort—a tight black jacket with pearl gray buttons, the jacket unbuttoned, revealing a starched dickey.

  “God,” the young man said, “but you don’t ’alf put your grub away. Where does it go? You can’t weigh more’n a half-starved cat.”

  “It’s rude to stare,” she said, looking down at her empty plate. Her face was burning.

  “Sorry, lass, but I couldn’t help it. I mean, I am sittin’ here and you are sittin’ there, you see. It was either look at you or look at one of them ugly mugs up the table. I’d rather glim a comely lass any old day in the week. Jaimie Ross is my name, what’s yours?”

  “Ivy,” she said, almost inaudibly. “Ivy Thaxton.” She stood up, but the young man reached across the table and took hold of her wrist.

  “Don’t go for a minute. You didn’t finish your tea. If I gave you a start, I’m sorry. I’m the sort of chap who says what he’s thinkin’. It don’t half get me into trouble sometimes, I can tell you.”

  She sat down again, and he let go of her wrist and smiled warmly at her. It was an infectious smile and she smiled back.

  “That’s more like it,” he said. “You’ve only been here a week, haven’t you?”

  “Yes . . . that’s right . . . a week since Thursday.”

  “You from London?”

  “Norfolk. Are you from London?”

  He tilted his head and blew a perfect smoke ring toward the high vaulted ceiling.

  “I’m from everywhere if you want to know the truth. Glasgow . . . Liverpool . . . Bradford . . . Leeds . . . London, too. I get about a bit in my tea half-hour an’ that’s a fact. Like to keep on the go. That’s why I took up chauffeuring.”

  “Is that what you do?”

  He stared at her in disbelief. “Can’t you tell? Can’t you see the uniform I’m wearing? Of course I’m a chauffeur. I’m his lordship’s and the countess’s driver. The poor dears couldn’t go anywhere without me.”

  One of the valets, a large, portly man, glanced down the table. “Oh, put a cork in it, Ross.”

  The chauffeur dropped his cigarette in the dregs of his tea, leaned across the table, and spoke in a harsh stage whisper.

  “They’re all jealous of me, see. ’Cause I’ve a proper trade and they don’t know nothin’ but how to polish a bloody pair of boots.”

  “I find you quite impossible,” the valet said huffily. “I shall have to change my mealtimes.”

  Ross ignored him. “I can do anything with a motor. I can pull it apart and scatter the pieces and then blindfold myself and put it back together again.”

  “I should like to see that,” the valet said with scorn.

  “Put up a quid and I’ll give you the pleasure,” he snapped.

  “Can you really do it?” Ivy asked.

  “Of course I can . . . an’ make it run better than it did before. I’m somewhat of an inventor, see. I think up all sorts of things.”

  “Think up a muzzle for your mouth,” the valet said. There was a wave of laughter from others at the table, and the man looked pleased with himself.

  “Haw haw,” Ross said. “Very funny, Johnson, but it happens to be the truth. I bet I have a hundred inventions right up here in the old noggin.” He tapped his forehead with a finger.

  “I really must go,” Ivy said. “I’ve got to help with the linen.”

  “Take ’im with you, lass,” one of the footmen called out. “He has nought to do but drive to the village and back—like a bleedin’ omnibus!”

  “Oh, is that so?” Ross said as he stood up and began to button his jacket. “I’ve got to drive Master Charles and his friend clear down to Southampton tomorrow morning. A relation of her ladyship is comin’ in from America on the Laconia. You think you could drive a car to Southampton? Not bloody likely.”

  There was a sudden silence in the hall and everyone looked at him curiously.

  “A relative? That’s the first I’ve heard of it,” one of the assistant housekeepers said. “I’m sure that Mrs. Broome would have told me.”

  Ross smiled smugly. “All in good time, dearie. They’ll get around to telling you.”

  “Well, really!” the woman expostulated. “You have your cheek.”

  “What sort of relative?” the valet asked. “Male or female?”

  “A nephew, worse luck for you. Another pair of boots to shine.”

  No one appeared sorry to see the chauffeur leave. He strutted when he walked, and Ivy thought he looked very grand in his black breeches and highly polished black leather gaiters. Rather like a hussar. He walked her down the passage that led to the linen room.

  “That bunch are nought but a gaggle of lackeys,” he said. “They don’t like me because I’m independent, see. I can go anywhere I feel like goin’. A man who knows cars can write his own bleedin’ ticket.”

  “Do you like it here?”

  “Oh, it’s not so bad. His lordship’s a proper sort, and the cars are right beauties—the Lanchester and the Rolls-Royce especially. I’ve been tinkerin’ with the Rolls and found ten different things that could be done to make it run better. I might just write the factory and tell ’em about it. Yes, I might just do that one of these days.”

  They reached the linen room door, and Ivy held out her hand. “It’s been awfully nice talking with you, Mr. Ross.”

  “Jaimie,” he said, taking her hand and giving it a slight squeeze. “When’s your afternoon?”

  “Next Wednesday.”

  “Well, if I’m off duty I’ll take you into Guildford on me motorbike . . . treat you to the pictures. Do you like William S. Hart? He’s one of my favorites.”

  “I’ve never been to the pictures.”

  “What? Never? Lor’, you don’t know what you’ve been missin’. Well, take c
are of yourself.”

  He gave her hand a final squeeze and then walked jauntily off, whistling as he went.

  “Was that you whistling in the hall?” the linen keeper asked when Ivy came into the large, sunny room.

  “No, Mrs. Dalrymple, ma’am. It was Mr. Ross . . . the chauffeur.”

  Mrs. Dalrymple made a wry face. “I know who Mr. Ross is. You stay away from him if you’ve got any sense, and don’t go fallin’ for his blather, neither. He’s ruined more than one poor girl’s reputation, I can tell you.” She took a stack of sheets and pillowslips from one of the shelves that lined the room and placed them on the long table used for folding the linens. “Take these up to the corner bedroom in the west wing. And make up the bed proper, mind. No sloppy edges.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And try not to get lost this time. It’s the spare room down the passage to the left of Miss Alexandra’s rooms. And be quick as you can. I’m shorthanded this morning. Doris took to her bed with the cramps.”

  Roger Wood-Lacy walked slowly along the corridor toward the breakfast room with a look of hazy abstraction on his face. He had been awake since dawn, seated on the window seat in his bedroom, watching the sun rise. The few moments between darkness and dawn had always been precious to him, a perfect time for creativity. The fifth stanza of the poem that he was writing on the legend of Pyramus and Thisbe was beginning to take shape in his head.

  “Now hold the brittle garment of the night in jest—” he intoned softly, ignoring the portraits of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Grevilles, who gazed stonily at him from their gilded frames, “—scoff the wearing of day’s bright mantle rare.”

  Not bad, he mused, not bad at all. He could hear a low rumble of voices beyond the breakfast room door, and he paused in front of an ornately framed mirror to look at himself. The image pleased him: tall, imperially slender, the paleness of his face accentuated by his dark, unruly hair. He was wearing a well-worn pair of gray flannel trousers and his college blazer, a blue-striped shirt open at the neck, and scruffy tennis shoes with no socks. The image of a poet if he ever saw one. A Georgian poet—new Georgian, your lordship, if you please. The recollection of Lord Stanmore’s faux pas made him smile.

  “Good morning, all,” he said, making an entrance, expecting Alexandra, Charles’s sister, to be there as well as the Marchioness of Dexford and the Honorable Winifred Sutton. But only Lord Stanmore and, God forbid, Fenton were seated at the table.

  “Hello, Roger,” Fenton said.

  The earl, Roger noticed with a flash of shame, was tucking a checkbook into his coat pocket and Fenton was slipping a folded check into his.

  “Good morning, Fenton,” he said tightly. “Good morning, sir.”

  “Ah, good morning, Roger,” Lord Stanmore said. He took a final swig of coffee and stood up. “Got to be off. Must have a chat with that damn fool Horley before he strings any more of that bloody barbed wire across his field. The farmers know the rule, but they continue to ignore it. I suppose they want to see a good horse and rider cut up before they stop. Enjoy your breakfast, Roger. Is Charles up, do you know?”

  “I tapped on his door, sir. He said he didn’t feel too well and would breakfast in his room.”

  The earl only grunted and left the room scowling.

  “Well, Roger,” Fenton said, taking out his cigarette case, “how are you?”

  “Fine. When did you get here?”

  “Last night.”

  “Staying long?”

  “A few days.” He lit a cigarette and eyed his younger brother critically. “Your hair wants cutting.”

  Roger turned his back and walked stiffly to the sideboard, on which stood half a dozen silver serving dishes, their contents kept warm by tiny alcohol lamps burning bluely beneath them.

  “As long as you’re creating an atmosphere of criticism, Fenton, let me say that what you just did is frightfully embarrassing to me.”

  “Oh? And what’s that?”

  “Cadging more money from the old boy.”

  “It was a loan . . . not that it’s any of your business. I’ve never said a word about your cadging from Charles, now have I?”

  Roger flushed. “That’s a beastly thing to say.”

  “Maybe it is, but it’s true . . . not that Charles minds, I’m sure. It’s just the principle of the thing . . . the pot calling the kettle and all that rot. Speaking of pots, try the kidneys. They’re damn good.”

  Roger’s anger began to dissipate, blunted by his hunger. He helped himself to a plate of kidneys, scrambled eggs, and a slice of gammon.

  “Changing to more pleasant subjects,” Fenton said. “My little brother has covered himself with glory at King’s. First-class honors. I’m damn proud of you.”

  “Thanks,” Roger murmured as he sat down to eat. It was impossible to maintain a grudge against Fenton. Like fighting feathers.

  “How’s Mother?”

  “Very well last time I saw her. You really should try and go up there once in a while.”

  “The regiment’s kept me busy, but I have some leave coming in September and I’ll wangle a few days with her. Anyone staying here that I know?”

  “House is rather empty for a change. Just that biddy Dexford and her daughter. You know, Winifred.”

  “Still as plump as ever?”

  “Well endowed is the polite way to put it. And, let’s see, one of Charles’s cousins is due in tomorrow from Chicago, or some outlandish place. We’re going to meet him at Southampton.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “Yes. Social activities will pick up no doubt when they move to London next week. Charles and I hope to miss that though, thank God. We’re planning a walking trip through Greece.”

  Fenton’s smile was sardonic. “Young Winifred better work fast.”

  Roger nodded as he chewed. “Bit of a scene brewing, if you ask me. His nibs and Hanna are keen as paint about joining the Grevilles to the Suttons. They keep pushing poor Charles and Winifred into the rose gardens every night to walk under the moon. Rather like pushing a couple of puppies out of the house. Not a thing’s come of it. Charles can’t think of a word to say to her. Anyway, he’s . . . well . . . he has other matters on his mind. It’s all rather hopeless. Omnia amor vincit—unless you’re the son of an earl. Going to Greece might be just what he needs. One’s troubles seem terribly puny in the shadow of the Parthenon.”

  The door opened, and two servants came into the room, carrying more food on covered salvers. Lady Mary Sutton, Marchioness of Dexford, and her daughter, the Most Honorable Winifred Sutton, followed them, Lady Mary a tall, bony woman with a sharp, birdlike head, talking a blue streak in staccato sentences, hands waving to the rhythm of her words. Her daughter trailed after her in silent resignation.

  “Ah!” Lady Mary shouted. “Both brothers Wood-Lacy! How nice! Fenton, you handsome rogue! I hear such naughty stories! My nephew Albert Fitzroy is in the Guards, you know. Grenadiers! Can’t possibly be true, can they? Oh, dear, no! Well, here you are, and I shall get at the truth, never fear. Say hello to Fenton, Winifred.”

  “Hello, Fenton,” Winifred said, almost in a whisper. “It’s very nice seeing you again.” Her soft unhappy eyes met Fenton’s, and then she dropped her gaze quickly, a blush appearing on her plump cheeks.

  Pretty, Fenton was thinking. A bit too buxom and padded at the hips, but she would bloom when the baby fat left her. She would be Alexandra’s age—just turned eighteen. Ripe for the marriage block.

  He smiled pleasantly at her. “I’m happy that you remember me, Winifred.”

  “How could she ever forget,” her mother cried in her birdy squawk. “Gave the child her first kiss! Sweet sixteen! Most gallant of you, Fenton. Most gallant!”

  He could barely recall the incident. An avuncular peck on the cheek at her birthday party. He had been invited by her eldest brother, Andrew, a good friend from Sandhurst. Now she was a woman, and a mate must be found. He felt sorry for her. The walks
in the moon-drenched rose garden with Charles must be agony for her: a young woman longing to be loved; Charles silent and moody, wishing with all his heart that he were in the rose gardens of Burgate House walking beside Lydia Foxe.

  “That’s a charming frock, Winifred,” he said. “It’s very becoming.”

  “Th-thank you,” Winifred stammered.

  Roger choked on a piece of broiled kidney and coughed it up into his napkin. “Excuse me,” he blurted.

  Lady Mary dismissed the apology with a wave of her taloned hand. “Nonsense, dear boy! Better to cough than to strangle, I always say.”

  It would be a good match for Charles, Fenton mused, and he could understand Lord Stanmore’s desire for it. The Marquess of Dexford was not only a rich man with an ancient title, but also a possible prime minister should the Conservatives ever regain power. Winifred was the marquess’s youngest child and only daughter. He had four sons. No problem of handing down the title when he died. He would probably be content to see Winifred married to any man of good family and honorable profession. Her brother Andrew was a captain in the Horse Guards, and the marquess himself had served briefly with the colors during the Zulu war, something in which he took inordinate pride. There was food for thought there. He smiled warmly at Winifred, and she smiled shyly back. An easy bit of fruit to pluck from the tree, but of course he could do nothing positive about it unless or, rather, until Charles informed his parents that he would never become engaged to the girl, no matter what pressures they put on him.

  Fenton stood up and gave a slight bow. “I leave you to breakfast. Perhaps we can form teams later for croquet.”

  “How marvelous! We will enjoy that, won’t we, Winifred?”

  “Yes, Mama,” Winifred said.

  “All right with you, Roger? You could team up with Lady Mary and show off your considerable skills.”

  Roger looked quizzical. “Fine. Although I must say, Fenton, I find your own skills to be downright humbling.”