Dancing with Death Read online

  Hard though that had been, she had watched, learned and cooked, and by the time Monsieur Escoffier had retired five years ago she had become one of his underchefs. She hadn’t married – why should she? Why marry to be dominated by someone else’s life? She wanted her own and after four years as a chef at a manor house north of London, here she was at Wychbourne Court, busy appreciating the difference of operating in the countryside. Oh, the bliss of having an orchard and vegetable garden at one’s disposal!

  Why should she have misgivings about the evening ahead? Ghosts belonged to the past and this was a new age. A dancing age for everybody, both literally and metaphorically. The bright future lay ahead and tonight’s festivities were a mark of that, although war and its tragedies lay deep and not forgotten. How could war be forgotten when so many soldiers had come home to no jobs and no hope? How could it be forgotten during the slump of 1921? Tonight it would be put aside, however. Tonight, Nell vowed, Wychbourne would be shouting welcome to the future – and not worrying about ghosts.

  Sophy Ansley watched her brother and sister warily. They had great plans for tonight and had summoned her to the Blue Drawing Room to join them, although she wasn’t sure she agreed with them. She had to appear to do so, however. She had too much to hide not to. She had little in common with her big sister Helen and big brother Richard. They were the bright young things of the family but she preferred books. That was what was important in life, even if she had made a mess of her coming-out last year, ending it not only without a potential husband but without a flock of admirers.

  After all, Sophy consoled herself, she was only nineteen and neither Richard nor Helen was married yet at twenty-five and twenty-three respectively, even though Helen was famous for her golden-haired beauty and Richard was almost another Rudolph Valentino. Women swooned over him, which was cuckoo.

  Nevertheless, Sophy had had to face the humiliating thought that she had no eager admirers attending the party tonight. Half of her wanted to be one of the new flappers; the other half thought they were all off their rockers. And Mother’s insistence on her wearing that black and pink chiffon dancing dress wasn’t going to help. Designed by Chanel or not, her figure was too short for it and had too many bumps. Her breasts refused to disappear to fit under tight bodices in order to meet the current boyish fashion craze. She often envied Helen’s languid elegance and Richard’s sporty hail-fellow-well-met charm, but tonight she didn’t. She was Sophy and had her own plans for the evening. She would have a partner – and a very special one. Meanwhile, she must show some interest in their stupid jokes.

  ‘You have asked Charlie, haven’t you?’ Helen asked Richard accusingly. There she was, Sophy thought, looking like a goddess sprawled on the daybed in her fashionable silk house pyjamas.

  ‘Of course I’ve asked him, sister mine,’ Richard said smugly. He would smoke those awful gaspers. Sophy knew everyone did it nowadays, even girls, but they looked silly and smelt horrible.

  ‘Will he do it?’ Helen demanded.

  ‘Charlie’s a good sort,’ he answered. ‘Of course he’ll do it. Can’t wait.’ A languid wave of the cigarette in its elegant holder.

  Sophy wasn’t so sure that Charlie Parkyn-Wright was a good sort, even though everyone seemed to adore him. She prided herself on noticing things, such as the way his jolly grin disappeared every now and then and how some people seemed nervous of him, which suggested they didn’t like him at all. When in a rare, sisterly moment she had voiced these thoughts to Helen, however, her sister had been furious.

  ‘Charlie’s a dish. Can it be you’re jealous?’ she snapped.

  No, it couldn’t. And that confirmed Sophy’s suspicion that Helen had her eye on Charlie, a thought that appalled her, especially as that nice Rex Beringer was so stuck on Helen.

  The London season was in full flow, but as their London house was let – for economic reasons, Father had explained – this year they would remain in Kent at Wychbourne Court and entertain here. Tonight’s ball was surely designed in the hope of marrying Helen off – and probably herself too, Sophy thought dismally. Neighbours from the Sevenoaks and Ightham area would be coming, together with some driving over from Sussex and others from London, including Charlie Parkyn-Wright. He seemed so much in demand as a ladykiller that he could pick and choose which parties he attended during the London season. Helen and Richard had been thrilled that Charlie had chosen to accept the invitation to Wychbourne, but Sophy had not. She thought he was a rotter. And, as usual, he was among the guests staying for the weekend in the west wing.

  Charlie was Richard’s best friend so he never noticed anything amiss with him – although that could be due to the fact that Richard was too busy ogling Elise. The Honourable Elise Harlington was the toast of the town, the ideal model for Lanvin’s fashionable creations. Sophy didn’t care for her either. When Elise sashayed into a room all eyes were on her, especially Richard’s and Charlie’s – and she knew it. One of the advantages of not being a bright young thing, Sophy thought, was that one had time to see what was going on – but no one else did. That’s what she was counting on tonight, even if she had to play along with Richard and Helen for their silly game. She wasn’t happy about that, but after all, Aunt Clarice deserved it. Her and her ghosts.

  ‘We’re going to give Aunt Clarice the night of her dreams,’ Richard drawled. ‘Anyway, Charlie’s a good egg. At Harrow everyone agreed he was the tops. It will make the evening, you’ll see.’

  Aunt Clarice’s soulful insistence that every corner of Wychbourne Court boasted a ghost of Ansleys past was a running joke that was getting tedious. There was the dairymaid in the mid-nineteenth century whom the fourth Marquess Ansley failed to marry; Lady Henrietta, who’d been cut off in her prime by her unloving husband; Sir Thomas, who had been away on a crusade and returned to find his beloved wife Eleanora had seduced, or been seduced by, a minstrel; and the first marquess, who returned from time to time to see how the builders were getting on with the two new wings at Wychbourne. They were just a sample of the many with whom Aunt Clarice claimed to be on friendly terms.

  Nothing excited Aunt Clarice more than discovering an ancient tome in the library that confirmed her hopes that there might be another ghost lingering around. Now that ghost hunting was all the rage, Helen and Richard had dreamed up this idea of a midnight hunt with the entire party (or those who wished to leave the dance floor and supper room) prowling darkened corridors led by Aunt Clarice in search of her ghosts. Aunt Clarice had seized on the plan with great enthusiasm.

  ‘It’s going to be fun,’ Richard added, ‘especially with some of us, at least, in fancy dress.’

  Fancy dress was another thing that Sophy didn’t like and she had flatly refused to become St Joan of Arc for the evening, even if that did mean that she was stuck with the black and pink chiffon concoction her mother had foisted on her.

  Nell hurried back from the boot room through the great hall, aware of that ticking clock. Perhaps the ghost hunt wouldn’t be such a nightmare as she had feared, she thought optimistically. Through the open doors to the dining room and drawing room she could see the conservatory and the far-off lights twinkling in the gardens beyond it. Wychbourne would be ablaze tonight, a fantasy world of gleaming lanterns and lights, conjuring up all the riches of the world with the bright glowing colours and costumes of the fancy dress, the band playing in the ballroom and all the exciting smells and tastes of the banquet to crown it all. The best food – she liked to think her food – aroused all five senses: taste, touch, sight, smell and even hearing – the anticipation of the sound of the gong, the clatter of plates, the gas burner pops, the champagne corks or even the rustle of greaseproof paper round sandwiches at a picnic.

  Tonight was something special, though – a magnificent party right here in Kent. There’d be dancing in the ballroom and perhaps in the conservatory too, where a gramophone and records were ready. Probably some of the dancers would whirl their way to the terrace or even sneak down to
the gardens below. Whether she was cooking or watching from the serving room, or later, the supper room, Nell was going to enjoy every minute of it. Even the ghost hunt.

  Peters, as he thought of himself during working hours – the Freddie was kept for his private life and his memories of a childhood long past – was luxuriating in his task of greeting the new arrivals at the main door. As butler, he felt part of things and heard things without getting involved himself. It was like being back in the army when he was batman to the late Lord Noel Ansley, or rather Major Ansley as His Lordship had been during the war. Peters never thought he’d get another job after the war because of his record, but he did, thanks to poor Lord Noel. Even though he knew he didn’t look imposing either in height or appearance, he’d quickly learned how to be a butler and relished it, despite the fact that there was only one permanent footman under his command, and of course young Jimmy, who helped him with the Wychbourne Service plates and other jobs as well as seeing to the lights. Only the ground floor needed attention, still lit with oil, although elsewhere electric lighting was installed. Excellent, as long as the generator didn’t break down.

  It was after six o’clock now and guests had been arriving for the last hour. Some of those staying for the weekend were still not here, and the guests who were only coming for the evening dinner and dance were also due. He thought with pleasure of the ball to come. There’d be dancing in the servants’ hall too – they had a gramophone there. Mrs Fielding – his Florence – would be present, splendidly regal in her blue satin evening dress, and he thought with happy anticipation of the warmth of her sturdy body next to his as they waltzed together. None of this ragtime stuff for them. Nor rumbas and congas and whatnot, though the tango held possibilities for a bit of fun. The new chef was a lively one too, Peters thought, for all she was not as cuddly as Florence. He didn’t approve of women chefs as a rule, though. Cooks were what women were, no matter how fancy the food.

  There was Lady Warminster’s Delage sweeping to a halt in the forecourt. No driving round to the motor car park by the stables for her. And here she came.

  ‘Good evening, Peters.’ She gave a sweet smile as she swept up to him in her fur-collared cape, handing the Delage keys to his footman, Robert. She hadn’t deigned to wear fancy dress, he noted, even though she was only here for the evening. She thought she was fancy enough already with her diamonds and sapphires.

  At least she had acknowledged him, Peters thought. Some things were changing in this world, at last. Servants were no longer below notice, even though the world of the servants’ wing usually remained untrodden territory to the families for whom they worked.

  He bowed to her as she passed. ‘Lady Warminster,’ he murmured deferentially. Not that he felt deferential towards her. A jumped-up person, in his opinion. Husband something high up in the army in Persia before it was thrown out of there, he was now advising the RAF in neighbouring Mesopotamia. Where the general had found his wife, Peters wouldn’t like to speculate, and Stalisbrook Place over Tonbridge way wasn’t a patch on Wychbourne.

  Now Mr Rex Beringer pulled up in his Bentley Tourer – another motor car to swoon over. He was a gentleman you couldn’t fault. Delicate heart, they said. That’s why he’d missed the war and looked frail now. But he always had a polite word. It was said he was keen on Lady Helen but she had her eyes elsewhere.

  ‘Shall I drive it round to the stables?’ Mr Beringer asked.

  ‘Our pleasure, sir. Robert will take your baggage and park the motor car for you.’

  Ten minutes later came two more weekend guests. Charles Parkyn-Wright was a gentleman who always put a smile on one’s face. He’d been coming here for years as he was an old schoolfriend of Lord Richard’s. He was leaping out of his Hispano-Suiza sports car to assist his passenger. Down stepped the Honourable Elise Harlington. She wore a cape too, this one in glittering silver. But it wasn’t too large to hide her tall, slim, graceful figure, the black hair, the smoky dark eyes, the black Egyptian fancy dress and jewels flashing everywhere. Cleopatra was on her way to dazzle the entire assembly.

  Mr Parkyn-Wright wasn’t yet changed for dinner and no doubt the flannels and striped blazer would quickly turn into fancy dress or evening attire. He was hatless, Peters noted disapprovingly, but that was an increasing tendency among the young thanks to the example set by the Prince of Wales.

  The Honourable Elise bestowed a gracious smile on Peters as she languidly strolled past him. She was a wild one, he had heard. Every night club in London knew her. Lord Richard was sweet on her but he didn’t stand a chance. Not with Mr Parkyn-Wright around. Peters signalled to Robert as he returned from his earlier mission to take the luggage.

  Meanwhile, Mr Parkyn-Wright was beaming at Peters as though he had spotted his best buddy. ‘Keeping well, Peters? Heard you had a spot of trouble with your leg recently.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I am quite recovered.’

  ‘Excellent. The old place wouldn’t be the same without you.’

  Peters glowed. ‘Thank you, sir. May I say how delighted we are to see you at Wychbourne again.’

  ‘You may, old sport. You may. Quite like the old days, isn’t it? We’ll have a chat about them while I’m here.’ Charlie chuckled as he continued on his way in the wake of Cleopatra.

  Peters’ glow faded. What did Mr Parkyn-Wright mean by having a chat? Surely it couldn’t mean he’d heard the old story?

  TWO

  The last half hour before dinner was served might be the worst, Nell thought, but it was the most exciting. Their familiar Alice in Wonderland caucus race was in progress. Everyone had to be winners tonight. Dishes were lined up on the central kitchen table and a procession of footmen seized them, completed the circular route round the table and disappeared into the corridor to head for the serving room in the main house. They then reappeared a few moments later for another delivery. No one actually ran – they just moved so quickly it seemed as though they did.

  Poor devils. Many of these footmen hired for the occasion were probably ex-soldiers who couldn’t find other work. The aftermath of the war and the following slump had hit men at all levels of society. Nell had bought matches in the street from men she had seen dining at the Carlton in earlier years; she had bought them from men who had been seriously injured either physically or mentally; she’d bought them from men who in a pre-war world would have been labourers or office clerks and could find no work now.

  ‘Take that back, Michel.’

  Nell spotted a small dish of marigold eggs that failed to please. On the menu the dish was oeufs d’or, Lady Ansley having reluctantly decided that the menu had to be French tonight even if the occasional English dish such as this slipped in under a French name. Monsieur Escoffier would have nodded approvingly, Nell thought. He was all for simplicity and so was she. Thankfully that style of cooking was now becoming more fashionable. Using English recipes with all their colours and smells and tastes thrilled her. They enabled her to use Mr Fairweather’s wonderful array of herbs and fruits in the vegetable garden and orchards, together with the spices in which England had once revelled and which were beginning once again to delight diners. In the Wychbourne library she had discovered a treasure trove of Ansley family recipes harking back to earlier centuries, but tonight’s guests would be expecting French dishes. Mousses, not tansies. Fruit soufflés, not fools and whim-whams.

  Mrs Fielding couldn’t bear to be left out of the proceedings. ‘Those raspberries don’t look ripe to me,’ she said with great satisfaction. For a moment, Nell thought she was right – but she wasn’t. The Soufflé Helen had cooled nicely and the raspberry purée was ruby red.

  ‘Perfection,’ Nell assured her.

  ‘Don’t say I haven’t warned you.’ Mrs Fielding glared. ‘You should have used my preserve.’

  When the dinner began, Nell would begin the cooking of the noisettes of lamb. Frying pans were ready, as was the butter, on her trusty Golden Eagle range. She knew where she was with that. The
new electric stoves were splendid, if you didn’t mind your food being either burnt or uncooked, as the ovens offered one heat only. Mrs Fielding had one in her still-room and indeed Nell had one here in the main kitchen, but you couldn’t beat her Eagle for reliability.

  It wouldn’t be long before the gong went now. They couldn’t hear it in the kitchen but Nell could tell the time was coming because Miss Checkam, ladies’ maid to Lady Ansley and her daughter Lady Helen, had appeared, and in her wake came her counterpart, Mr Briggs, Lord Ansley’s valet. That signalled that the Ansleys must be present at the gathering in the great hall where Peters would be superintending Robert and his hired team as they maintained the flow of champagne cocktails, juleps, love’s revivers and horse’s necks. It wouldn’t be easy to keep to the set time for dining as some of the guests might have wandered through the drawing room and conservatory out on to the terrace outside on such a fine June evening.

  ‘Tell us the worst, Miss Checkam,’ Nell said cheerfully. There was often some titbit of doom to be teased out of her and, provided it didn’t stop the flow of work in the kitchen, her arrival was a useful guide to what was going on beyond what was once a green baize door between the servants’ wing and the main house.

  ‘There’s something afoot,’ Miss Checkam said darkly. ‘Lady Sophy’s up to some mischief.’

  ‘Perhaps they all are,’ Nell joked. ‘After all, this ghost hunt is asking for trouble. You should see all the equipment Lady Clarice has been gathering.’

  Mrs Fielding snorted. ‘How do you hunt a ghost? There are no such things.’

  ‘Lady Clarice says there are lots of them here,’ Miss Checkam retorted.

  She too had problems with Mrs Fielding and was on equal footing with her, as were Mr Peters and Mr Briggs. Mr Briggs had no problems with Mrs Fielding or with anyone. He just smiled and lived in his own world, which consisted of his work for Lord Ansley, eating, sleeping and going into the gardens to watch birds – ‘it was something in the war’ was the whisper.