‘Crape goes limp, true,’ said Henry, ‘but bombazine is more expensive.’
‘Or pure silk, which is better than both,’ said Amelia, smoothing her hands over her waist, which was not as slim as the woman’s in the picture but still nicely shaped and graspable. Henry Cathcart was conscious of her closeness, of the movement of her hands.
‘I hope it will be many years before you are faced with the choice of wearing pure silk or bombazine, Mrs Slater.’
‘Every woman dreams of how she will look as a widow, Henry.’
Henry felt a little jolt at her use of his first name. He thought of his wife upstairs. It was the late afternoon, and the end of a miserable foggy day. Constance would be either resting or being attended to by Grace.
‘It is not a happy dream though,’ he said. ‘To dream of being a widow, Amelia.’
‘I think of it often,’ she said, and touched him on the arm.
He didn’t know what came over him, whether it was her touch or her words, but he kissed her, at first on her cheek and then, as she did not pull back, on her lips. They stayed like that for an instant then drew apart. Amelia was slightly flushed. She smiled slightly and, more self-possessed than he was, said again, ‘I think of it often, Henry. Of being a widow.’
Before Amelia Slater left, Henry gave her a little nosegay of flowers. He took them from a display in the drawing room. It was an impulsive gesture, one which he almost regretted afterwards. It was this nosegay which Amelia was wearing when she encountered Tom Ansell outside The Side of Beef later on that foggy evening. And it was inside the same hostelry that Cathcart had first seen Tom, the spit of his dead friend. Cathcart dined from time to time at The Side of Beef, when he tired of eating alone. On that evening he’d eaten little. Nor had he said a great deal, apart from quizzing the landlord. Nor did he sleep much that night, recalling Thomas Ansell, thinking of the teasing words of Amelia Slater.
Northwood House
The train journey from Salisbury to Downton was short, scarcely more than ten minutes. Tom Ansell spent the time turning over the question to which he would soon, presumably, get some sort of answer. Why did Percy Slater wish to see him? Tom would have been perfectly justified in turning down the request since the older brother was no longer a client of his firm. According to David Mackenzie, he’d had a falling-out with one of the other partners. Tom might have telegraphed to London for Mackenzie’s opinion but he’d not have been certain of getting a reply by the time fixed for his meeting. Besides, Tom believed this was a matter where he could act without consulting his employer.
He wondered how Percy Slater had got to know of his visit to Salisbury. The obvious answer was through Walter Slater, whether the son had accidentally let something slip or had deliberately informed his father — though why he’d do that, Tom couldn’t think. Tom was curious to meet this man who was apparently so different from his churchefied brother and son. The tone of the letter was civil enough if a bit peremptory. It didn’t show any of the feebleness or decline which — according to his brother — Percy Slater was subject to.
The train chugged through the flatter landscape which lies to the south of Salisbury. An early sun had been swallowed up by clouds rolling in from the west. The train reached the small town of Downton a couple of minutes before it was scheduled to arrive. Tom got off, together with a trio of women who’d been doing some shopping in Salisbury. Shopping for drapery or clothes, he assumed, since their bags were marked Cathcart’s. It was beginning to rain and the women made a show of opening their umbrellas.
On the stand outside the little station was a four-wheeled clarence with a bay horse in harness. The coachman nodded at Tom as a sign to approach. He was a slight man, hunching himself against the rain. He had a small, disagreeable face with a great dimple in his chin, as though someone had tried to bore a hole in it. He was wearing a billycock hat.
‘Mr Ansell?’
‘Yes. Mr Slater sent you?’
‘Get in,’ said the coachman, after a moment adding as an afterthought, ‘sir.’
Tom climbed in and the carriage pulled away. They turned into a wide street and almost immediately had to halt because of a herd of cattle jostling in front of them, the animals under the control of a diminutive boy with a switch. They crossed a bridge over a river. Through the ill-fitting windows of the clarence, his nose was hit by the acrid smell of a tannery. The road began to climb slightly and the houses and cottages accompanying them petered out. Tom had no idea how far they were going. He looked out at the leafless trees which crowded the sides of the road. The window-glass was smeary with dirt and rain. The upholstery of the seats was frayed and the springs protruded so that it was difficult to find a clear patch to sit on. Whatever Percy Slater spent his money on, it wasn’t to give himself a comfortable or striking means of conveyance.
After a time they began to pass a low wall on their left. Tom, by now in carping mood, noted that the wall was broken down in places. The carriage turned into an entrance and passed a single-storey lodge with blank windows and a corkscrew chimney. Though it was a cheerless morning there was no smoke coming from the chimney, no gatekeeper, no sign of life at all. Beyond the gate and on either side of the drive stretched acres of grass dotted with trees and bushes.
Tom wasn’t aware they’d reached the main house until the carriage veered past its facade. He glimpsed a large covered porch, with steps and pillars. They rounded the corner and pulled up in a walled yard. The driver clambered down and stood by the coach door but didn’t otherwise move. Tom opened the door himself and stood in the rain.
The driver was a head shorter than Tom. He jerked his dimpled chin in the direction of a side entrance.
‘It’s open. Just go inside and call. Nan’ll hear you. She knows you’re coming.’
Tom did as he was told while the coachman began to attend to the horse. As he’d said, the side-entrance was not locked. Tom stood in a flagstoned lobby. It struck colder and damper inside than out in the open. There was no one in the lobby. He felt slightly foolish and also irritated — after all, this visit to Northwood House was not being made at his suggestion. Perhaps he should demand to be taken back to Downton station, without troubling his host. He remembered that he hadn’t thought to check the railway timetable for his return.
There was a touch at Tom’s elbow. A woman was standing there. He hadn’t heard her approach. She was old and tiny, all wrinkles. She was wearing a black shift-like dress, also old and creased. This was Nan, he supposed.
‘I am here to call on Mr Slater.’
He had to repeat himself several times since she was hard of hearing. Eventually she said, ‘Mr Slater is in the smoking room. This way.’
Her voice didn’t rise much above a whisper. But she moved decisively enough down the passageway which led from the lobby. They passed a kitchen and various store-rooms before going through the baize-covered door separating the servants’ area of the house from the family rooms. On the other side of half-open doors Tom saw sheets draped over the furniture, swathed chandeliers, dust and decrepitude everywhere. What had David Mackenzie and Felix Slater said about Percy’s wife, Elizabeth? That she spent her time in London. He wasn’t surprised.
The door of the smoking room was ajar. Nan extended a twig-like arm as a gesture that Tom should go in. She didn’t announce him but by this stage Tom wasn’t expecting anything so elaborate. A man was sitting in a window-seat gazing out at the grounds, at the rain. He turned his head, reluctantly as it seemed, to look at Tom standing in the entrance to the room.
‘You must be Mr Ansell,’ he said, ‘Well, you are welcome to Northwood.’
This was the most effusive greeting Tom had received so far this morning and he felt almost encouraged by it. Percy Slater detached himself from his place by the window. He picked up a walking stick which was resting against the cushioned seat, although Tom observed that as he made his way across the room he scarcely used it. It seemed to be more of a theatrical prop than a literal one.