The Buttonmaker’s Daughter

‘We’ve fixed it for the fifth – we’re saving hard.’

Elizabeth knew that money was scarce for them both and had wondered if she dared ask her father to raise Eddie’s pay. Cars were still a novelty in the countryside and chauffeurs even more so. But when the gleaming dark green Wolseley had arrived from Birmingham last year, Eddie Miller had performed the small miracle of transferring his driving skills from horse to car. The day he’d donned a motoring uniform of drab grey, together with leather gauntlets and leggings and a visored cap and goggles, he had become an entirely different man from the groom who only weeks previously had flicked his whip at a recalcitrant horse. Surely he deserved reward for that. And reward, if Joshua only knew it, for refusing her request that he teach her to drive this mechanical beast. That had been a step too far, even for a warm-hearted Eddie.

She wanted to help the couple, but she was nervous of tackling Joshua in his present mind. Her father had been mercifully quiet these last few days, but it didn’t mean he had forgotten his anger over the derelict lake, and the smallest annoyance could light the spark again.

Aloud, she said, ‘Is the bathroom free, do you know?’

‘I’ve the bath running now. Master William and his friend were in and out of there this morning like the shake of a lamb’s tail.’

‘I bet they were!’

When she walked into the breakfast room half an hour later, it was to find the silver salvers lining the buffet table almost empty. The family had already eaten. She forked a slice of ham and started to spoon scrambled egg onto her plate, but then for the second time that morning saw the hands of the clock. There was no time and she would have to go hungry. She hurried out into the hall, skimming its black and white chequered tiles, and out of the front door where the small family group had gathered to wait.

‘You’re not driving us this morning, Eddie?’ The car stood gleaming on the driveway and Eddie Miller, dressed in his Sunday best, was gently flicking the last spot of dust from its shining chrome.

‘Them’s my orders, Miss Elizabeth. But I’ll be in church, alongside Ivy.’

‘Of course you will. Your banns are to be called today.’

His face lit with a warmth she could almost touch. ‘It’s a special day for sure,’ he said, ‘and your pa was agreeable to walk. It’s not often Ivy and me get to be in church together.’

Ivy, she knew, would make sure her intended went to at least one service on a Sunday. Now that the couple were to marry and occupy the rooms above the motor house, it would be more important than ever to keep the master happy. Not that her father was a devout man, but aping the manners of the aristocracy had become essential to him, and a servant who did not attend church would be a discredit.

Joshua had a detaining hand on Oliver’s arm and was pointing upwards to the half timbering on the front façade of the house, lecturing the bored youth on how his personal choice of weathered, unstained oak had so beautifully blended a modern Arts and Crafts mansion into the landscape.

He stopped mid-sentence when he caught sight of his daughter and walked over to her. ‘You’ve made us late,’ he grumbled, but softened the words by smoothing an errant strand of hair from her forehead.

‘If we walk briskly, we will be in good time,’ Alice said pacifically, unfolding her sunshade. ‘And a walk should help curb some high spirits.’ She looked pointedly towards Oliver, who, having escaped Joshua’s grasp, had taken to kicking loose gravel along the drive and was attempting to inveigle William into a competition.

Her father sounded an irritated harrumph and rammed a felt homburg onto his head. He pointed his cane at the lodge gates ahead. ‘Come,’ he ordered.

They came, trooping after him down the magnificent avenue of ornamental dogwood, its profusion of creamy bracts just beginning to unfurl their enormous waxy flower heads. Behind the family, the first group of servants, out of uniform but soberly dressed, followed at a respectful distance. She was glad she had worn her second-best boots, Aiden Kellaway not withstanding. It was less than half a mile along a country lane to the tiny village green and the Norman church that overlooked it, but quite long enough for new boots to pinch.

The walk this morning, though, was delightful. Banks of primroses shone yellow on either side of them and beneath the shade of the hawthorn hedge, the deep, sweet smell of bluebells filled the air. Above, swallows skittered across a sky of unclouded blue. She wondered whether this might be the time to broach the subject of Ivy’s marriage. The morning was the most beautiful nature could bestow and her father was striding out as though, for once, he had a real wish to attend church. But when she drew abreast of him, his expression was anything but promising and she decided she would wait her moment. All would depend, she guessed, on the meeting with Henry Fitzroy. This would be their first encounter since the lake debacle. The Fitzroys were bound to be in church; they never missed a Sunday, never missed the chance to sit ostentatiously in the family pew. Alice had as much right as they to a seat there, but she never took it. The Summer family sat to the rear; years ago, a tacit agreement had emerged within the congregation that this was where Joshua’s family belonged. Her mother did not appear to mind the discrimination and the thought crossed Elizabeth’s mind as she entered the church that Alice was glad to be away from her brother. She was scared of him. Why, she didn’t know. Uncle Henry had never scared her.

She could see him now. He was a tall man and his head and shoulders were clearly visible through the nodding plumes and feathers of the women’s toques, donned for this special moment of a special day. He sat rigidly straight, his glance never deviating from the stained glass figure immediately ahead. The window, fittingly donated by the Fitzroy family, held the image of Jesus in an unusually martial pose. Aunt Louisa sat to one side of her husband and, next to her, Dr Daniels. That seemed odd. It appeared they had a lot to say to each other, small sharp whispers between the hymns or as Eddie Miller’s and Ivy’s banns were read or as the vicar made his way to the pulpit. She wondered if her aunt or uncle might be feeling unwell, to need the doctor in attendance.

When the last prayer had been said, the congregation trickled from the church to shake the minister’s hand as he waited in the porch to greet them. She had thanked him for his sermon and begun to walk along the brick path to the lych gate, when she realised that her mother still lingered by the church door. She looked around and saw her father taking an inordinate interest in several of the more ancient tombstones, their engravings barely visible beneath the lichen. Of William and Oliver there was no sign. They had sat almost entirely silent during the service, and she’d been about to congratulate them on their forbearance, when like two young colts freed from harness, they had chased off, one after another, to the fields that lay at the back of the church. Her mother appeared distracted and seemed not to have noticed.

It was a feeling Elizabeth shared when Aiden Kellaway emerged from the stone porch and came up to her. She had not seen him in church, had hardly dared look for him. And now he was here, in person rather than in thought, and she was most definitely distracted. He looked a good deal smarter than when she’d encountered him in the Italian Garden, though his hair had not remembered it was the Sabbath and still waved wildly across his forehead.

‘Good morning, Miss Summer.’

Her mother turned sharply at the unfamiliar voice and she became conscious that Alice’s eyes were fixed on them.

Her colour mounted. ‘Good morning, Mr Kellaway. I hope you are well.’ She tried for a neutral tone.

He gave a small nod. ‘And you, Miss Summer?’

‘Indeed, yes. And how is your work progressing?’

‘Well, I thank you. And yours?’

‘My work?’ She sounded bewildered.

‘Your painting.’

That left her more bewildered still and very slightly affronted. Art was not work, not in her world. It was an acceptable hobby for a young woman, that was how her family thought of it. And most other families, too. There were women, she knew, who’d escaped the straitjacket, a few who’d attended art school and were even painting for a living. Laura Knight, for instance – she’d heard her spoken of last year in London. But they were exceptional and she was not. At Summerhayes, she remained alone in sensing the true nature of what she did. Alone in knowing the passion that gripped her. But it was a secret, brooding passion, and one she had never shared.

‘It’s going well,’ she stuttered, thinking of the lake scene now emerging from the canvas in her studio. ‘But tell me about the temple.’

‘Tomorrow we raise the first of the columns – it’s an important moment. We should have a good idea then of how the finished building will look. But I fear the lake will be a blot on the picture.’

‘The stream is still dammed then? I’m sorry to hear it.’

She was burbling. She must sound ridiculous but she had to say something. For days, she’d allowed her mind to conjure an image of him, hear his voice, imagine a conversation. Now faced with the reality, she was flustered and flailing.

But he treated her remark seriously, or had the good manners to do so. ‘As far as I know, the situation remains the same. Though I sense there may be moves afoot.’

‘In what way?’

‘I’ve a feeling it’s to break the dam that has been constructed, though I know little of what’s planned.’

It was probably as well to know little. Breaking the dam sounded altogether too grave, but his words reminded her that her father had yesterday been closeted with Mr Harris and several of his men for some hours.

‘You must pay the Italian Garden another visit,’ Aiden was saying, ‘and see the temple as it rises. There’s an excellent view from the summerhouse and the pathway around the lake has now dried completely. We have been lucky with the weather.’

‘It would be good to see it,’ she said impulsively.

But then checked herself. Would she go? She found herself looking into a pair of misty green eyes and thought that she might. Her mother would be shocked by such forwardness, and her father disapprove heartily of her mingling with men he considered servants. But the chance of a small adventure was enticing.

She became conscious that Aiden was looking at her in the same intent way that earlier she’d run from, and found herself trying to fill the silence that had grown between them. ‘At least today you can forget about the temple. Sunday must be a day of leisure, even for you.’

He smiled down at her and she grew warm beneath his gaze. ‘Will it be meat and pickles for lunch?’ she gabbled. She’d remembered the supper he’d spoken of and there was something that appealed to her in that simple meal.

‘No, indeed.’ His eyes lit with laughter. ‘On Sunday, Mrs Boxall treats her lodgers to a feast – a leg of lamb at the very least. A trifle singed around the edges, but nevertheless roasted meat. And, if we’re lucky, a slice of Sussex Pond pudding to follow.’

She was about to ask him how such a pudding tasted, when her mother called to her. Whatever had distracted Alice, it was not weighty enough for her to ignore her daughter’s protracted conversation. ‘Elizabeth,’ she called sharply, ‘I need you here.’

She was apologetic. ‘Enjoy your meal, Mr Kellaway.’

‘And yours too, Miss Summer.’

‘Who was that?’ her mother asked, as she reached her side.

‘One of the men working on the temple, Mama. He is apprenticed to Mr Simmonds.’

The information seemed unwelcome. ‘You should not be talking to him for so long,’ Alice scolded. ‘Your place is beside me.’