Ravenscliffe Read Free Page A

bigger fool: his wife, for inventing the project, or himself for sanctioning it.
    In her room, the countess lay back on the pillows and picked up a writing pad and pencil that she kept at all times on her nightstand. She had many of her best ideas in bed, in those unstructured moments just before sleeping or just after waking, when the mind loosened itself from the shackles of daily routine. In bed, she had imagined any number of wonderful dresses for herself and the girls that had subsequently been realised by her dressmaker in chiffon or satin or cotton lawn. In bed, too, she had visualised garden schemes – the famous wisteria tunnel, the pagoda in the Japanese water garden, the precise combination of blooms in the white border – and last night, just before she succumbed to sleep, she had seen in her mind’s eye the exquisite rope of tightly plaited orchids in magenta and cream that must grace the table for the forthcoming royal party. She had sat up at once and sketched these and would hand them on later today to Mrs Powell-Hughes, the housekeeper. Now, though, she took up the pad and wrote ‘Motson’ to remind herself to send word that he should begin work immediately on the main bathrooms of the east wing. She had every faith in him and his smallarmy of workmen to complete the work swiftly and, in any case, everything they needed was ordered already; stylish pieces with sleek, modern lines in white porcelain with chrome accessories. For while she felt it was only polite to seek her husband’s permission, the process was, in fact, just a formality; she had not had even the smallest doubt that her wish would be granted.

    Henrietta was waiting for the earl at the bottom of the main staircase, where the graceful curve of the banister concluded its journey with a flourish in the form of a fine, intricately carved newel post. She was leaning against it with her back to her father as he began his descent. Unnoticed by her, he paused. His eldest daughter was dressed for riding: habit, gloves and boots on, her thick blond hair caught up in a knot, and he knew at once that the fact she hadn’t yet gone meant she must have something to say – to him, doubtless. Something pressing. Something that would either complicate his morning or reflect badly on his character. The shameful notion crossed his mind that he might yet retreat and take the servants’ stairs instead. He didn’t, though, dismissing the idea even as it was conceived and, as if to make up for the unrealised slight, he called cheerfully to her as he bounded down, two stairs at a time as always.
    ‘Morning, Henry!’ He almost sang the greeting.
    She turned and smiled, but it was tight and brief, with no accompanying twinkle, which meant – as he had feared – that she had something in particular on her mind and, indeed, she wasted no time on pleasantries but launched straight in to the first item on her agenda.
    ‘I have to say, Daddy, the very least you might have done is read it.’
    Merciful heavens, he thought to himself, would hiswomenfolk give him no peace? He tried a rueful smile but she regarded him sternly without a hint of forgiveness; this young woman – forceful, determined, robustly argumentative – would make a splendid governess, he thought, if ever they fell into penury. She waggled under his nose a wad of papers loosely bound in a buff-coloured folder, which had sat on his desk for three days now, growing ever less visible under the gradual accumulation of newspapers and other matters pending, but which Henry had obviously ferreted out this morning. He did wish she wouldn’t make quite so free with his study: like his club and the outside lavatory, it was no place for a woman.
    ‘Here,’ she said, handing over the document. ‘Look at it now. It’s fascinating.’
    He flipped it open and held it out at arm’s length, which was the only way he seemed to be able to read anything these days. ‘The West Riding Colliery Centre for