Ravenscliffe Read Free Page B

Training Men in Mines Rescue – bit of a mouthful,’ he said. He looked at his daughter. ‘And who is this chap, did you say?’
    ‘Mr Garforth. The safety-lamp man. He’s quite local. We could meet him, visit the centre. People do, you see. Mining engineers and whatnot.’
    ‘Whoa, now,’ said the earl, as if steadying his hunter. ‘Let’s not run ahead.’
    ‘Daddy, what possible argument could you have against making our mines safer?’
    None, of course, when she put it like that. But life was never as simple as Henrietta liked to make out. First of all, the king’s visit was imminent and, while the earl baulked at using that as an excuse to his principled daughter for postponing this particular issue, it was nevertheless a consideration, and a major one at that. Second, he doubted if any of the miners at his collieries would take kindly to going back to school and in their own time, too. Third, he was in any case sceptical about the need for any kind of extra training for hismen when all they really needed to know was how to extract coal. In this they were expert practitioners.
    ‘Thank you, Henry,’ he said, reining her in firmly. ‘Please don’t begin one of your moral monologues. I will read this, but in my own time, if you please, because just at this moment I have other more urgent business to attend to.’
    She made as if to speak, then thought better of it. She knew her father well: no progress would be made if he felt harried. But this fellow, this Garforth, he sounded simply splendid. It seemed to Henrietta a foolish, backwards-looking thing to resist innovation in their own field of industry.
    Behind her and with a decisive clunk, the oak door of her father’s study swung shut and Henrietta, taking her cue, strode through the hallway, seized her riding crop from the umbrella stand, and left the house for the uncomplicated pleasures of the saddle.

    Downstairs in the kitchens, the hubbub caused by the preparation of breakfast had subsided. All that remained were the mingled smells – grilled meat, poached haddock, fried tomatoes, coddled eggs – and the dirty skillets, crockery and cutlery now piled high on the board by the sink. These, however, were no concern of Mary Adams, who had years ago done with tedious jobs such as dishwashing. As cook, it was now her perfect right to take the weight off her swollen legs and sit down on the carver – her throne, the scullery maids called it, out of range of her hearing – and eke out what little gossip there was with the nearest available body. Unfortunately for Mrs Adams, this morning it was Elizabeth Powell-Hughes, who had a habit of nipping an opening gambit smartly in the bud. The cook’s defensive tone and thwarted expression suggested that this frustrating process was already under way.
    ‘Well ’islop never made a moment’s trouble, that’s all I can say. Nob’dy easier to please than ’im,’
    ‘Now, Mary. Hislop could be a cantankerous old devil, and well you know it.’
    Mrs Powell-Hughes regarded the cook sternly over the top of her gold-rimmed spectacles; she was a cut above Mrs Adams in breeding and status and was the only person in the household – other than the family, though they rarely used the privilege – who got away with calling her Mary. She herself, however, was Mrs Powell-Hughes to everyone – had no memory, in fact, of the last time anyone called her Elizabeth, as these last thirty years had been spent in service at Netherwood. There was no Mr Powell-Hughes, of course. Never had been. But Miss wouldn’t do for a housekeeper, so Mrs Powell-Hughes she was. Mrs P-H to the family and, very occasionally, to Parkinson the butler, but only when he’d had a sherry at Christmas, and even then he felt he was probably overstepping a line.
    ‘Aye, but that was out there, on ’is own territory.’ Mrs Adams swung a fat arm towards the garden. ‘In ’ere, ’e was as quiet as a mouse.’
    The cook was rewriting history