Netherwood Read Free Page A

progress. The third earl, Wilfred Hoyland, had named the collieries back when they were sunk,and nobody knew where or what he was thinking of, except that by leaving Netherwood or Hoyland out of the matter he hoped to distance his family from any socially ruinous associations with industry. Of course, everyone knew anyway and rather despised him for it, and in any case his efforts went unappreciated by subsequent Earls of Netherwood, who had the good sense to recognise the truth of that old Yorkshire maxim: where there’s muck, there’s brass.
    Certainly Teddy Hoyland, the present earl, saw no conflict between his status in society and the fact that his vast fortune was increased daily by the efforts of the eighteen hundred men and boys employed at his collieries. And the mining of coal was truly a profitable pursuit. When his father died in 1878, Teddy had inherited a legacy of dazzling proportions; a private fortune of £2.5 million, a mansion in London’s Belgravia, a small, sturdy castle in Scotland and twenty thousand acres of the West Riding of Yorkshire, with Netherwood Hall at its heart. His prestige and position were unassailable and he saw no reason on earth to curtail what his wife considered a vulgar compulsion to speak openly about business matters. In the countess’s view, one’s wealth was a given, and the source of it neither interesting nor relevant, but Teddy Hoyland was proud of his collieries and proud of his men and, broadly speaking, he was liked and respected by them for his fairness and decency. It has to be said that Lady Hoyland was less of a favourite, though this gave her not a moment’s unease. A true daughter of the aristocracy, she was entirely defined by her impeccable pedigree and found there were quite enough people of her own class and position to provide diversion without having to bother much about those at the bottom of the heap. Even the county set, those neighbours and acquaintances whose situation was less grand than Lady Hoyland’s but nevertheless whose lives ran along the same lines, didn’t get much of a look in. Clarissa preferred the stimulation ofLondon society: the attack, feint and parry of cocktails in Cheyne Walk or dinner in Devonshire Place. Still, the countess was known to have a heart; it was she, after all, who forbade the Netherwood Hall kitchen staff to throw away leftover food after supper parties and banquets, and ordered instead that it should be distributed among the needy of the town. This was a mixed blessing, since devilled eggs, sole
bonne femme
and chocolate parfait, while all individually delicious, were not necessarily as palatable when slopped together in the same tin. Her motives were good, though. And her beauty and elegance, when she did deign to appear in public in the town, always caused a stir of excited interest, as if a rare and endangered bird had flown over Netherwood.

Chapter 3

    I n Eve’s kitchen, Clem had taken off his cap but left his coat buttoned and his scarf tightly wrapped. He eased himself into a chair, exhaling audibly with mingled pain and relief as his arthritic knees adjusted to their new situation. Eve filled an enamel mug with stock from the pan of stewmeat on the stove and handed it to the old man, who inhaled the beefy vapour appreciatively.
    ‘Champion,’ he said.
    ‘There’s no bread yet,’ she said. ‘It’s only just in.’
    ‘Never mind, lass. This’ll warm t’cockles.’
    ‘Well sup up – you’ve folk to wake, I’ve things to be gettin’ on with, and Arthur needs ’is brew,’ said Eve. She opened the door of the range to check the loaves and the kitchen was suddenly full of the aroma of freshly baking bread.
    ‘’E’s a lucky bugger is Arthur,’ said Clem. He applied himself to his fortifying broth; it was scalding hot and he took it in tiny, delicate sips out of necessity, not good manners.
    ‘By ’eck that’s grand,’ he said, to himself. Then, to Eve: ‘They’ve started wi’