A Commercial Enterprise Read online

  It was a handsome, red-brick building, symmetrical and harmonious. The ground-floor windows were arched, while those on the two floors above were rectangular, and the raised double front doors were approached by a magnificent flight of seven white marble steps. Above this regal entrance was a long balcony stretching across the front of the house, offering a commanding view of the court, over the wall, and into Mayfair Street itself.

  They alighted at the steps, and Caroline looked up at the house where her father had been born and where, but for fate, she too might have been born. It was a strange feeling to be looking at this building which carried her family name, and she was suddenly glad that for six months at least it would belong to her.

  Mr. Jordan glanced approvingly around. “It is indeed a handsome place. It was designed by Sir William Chambers—Mr. Chambers as he then was—in 1771 and was built on the site of an older house, which had been purchased by your grandfather, the eleventh earl, for the princely sum of sixteen thousand five hundred pounds.” He gave a wry laugh. “It is worth considerably more than that now, I promise you.”

  She did not reply, for at that moment the double front doors of the house were opened and a woman appeared at the top of the steps. She was about fifteen years Caroline’s senior and was handsome in an austere, almost forbidding way. Her dark hair was swept up severely beneath a crisp white mobcap, and she wore a plain brown wool gown and a starched apron. A large bunch of keys was suspended on a chain from her waist, and those keys immediately proclaimed her to be the housekeeper, Mrs. Hollingsworth. With a silent curtsy, the woman stood aside to admit them, and slowly Caroline and the lawyer mounted the wide, white steps.

  Inside the echoing vestibule it was ice cold, the chill emphasized by the pale blue walls and black-and-white-checkered marble flags on the floor. Some sofas were hidden beneath dust sheets, and the chandeliers above were wrapped in ugly brown holland bags. To one side there were rolled carpets, lying limp and colorless against the wall. Caroline gazed around, her glance carried from the vestibule and into the heart of the house by a vista of arches opening on to the inner hall where rose a truly magnificent black marble staircase, more impressive even than that at the Oxenford.

  Her first impression was one of vastness, but that was because her eye was deceived, as the architect had intended. As London mansions went, this house was not very large at all; there were many others which were more than twice its size. Her second impression was that the house, like its housekeeper, was austere and forbidding, and this feeling was reinforced by the dull, echoing thud with which the housekeeper closed the outer doors. The sound reverberated through the empty rooms and corridors, and Caroline felt the urge to shiver.

  Chapter 13

  Mrs. Hollingsworth’s keys chink-chinked as she came to where they stood. “Shall I conduct you on a circuit of the house, madam? Sir?”

  Mr. Jordan hastily declined, declaring that he had taken circuits enough when compiling the inventory, and turning back the dustcover on the nearest sofa, he prepared to sit down the moment the two ladies had left him.

  Caroline turned a little apprehensively toward the housekeeper. “I would like to see the house, Mrs. Hollingsworth.”

  “If you will come this way, madam.” The keys chinked together again as the woman crossed the vestibule to an impressive doorway above which was fixed a coat-of-arms emblazoned in the bright green, white and gold of the Earls of Lexham.

  The door opened onto the private apartments, formerly occupied by the late earl and countess. The rooms were in darkness, for the curtains were drawn and the shutters closed, but in a moment Mrs. Hollingsworth had opened everything up to allow the sunlight to stream in. The light revealed still more ghostly dustcovers, more brown holland over the chandeliers, and more rolled-up carpets. The paintings on the walls were covered with brown paper, and the only item of furniture which did not appear to have been protected in some way was the immense canopied bed with its carvings and heraldic devices.

  From the private apartments they proceeded into the library, which was once again in darkness, its furniture covered. The opening of the tall bay windows revealed a prospect over the extensive gardens to the rear of the house; it also revealed a magnificent painted ceiling which was dazzlingly colorful and depicted mythical scenes. Caroline gazed up at it in admiration.

  Mrs. Hollingsworth spoke with some pride. “It was painted by Cipriani, madam, the Florentine master.”

  “It’s very beautiful.”

  “Everything in the house is beautiful,” replied the housekeeper, her voice catching unexpectedly. To hide this display of emotion, the woman hurried across the library to the great pedimented doors opening onto the red saloon beyond.

  The same cold, desolate atmosphere pervaded this handsome chamber. The opened shutters revealed dull crimson brocade walls and elegant French furniture stacked to one side. Their steps echoed in the carpetless floor as they proceeded quickly through to the next room, which was the dining room and which occupied the opposite corner to the library.

  Immense Sheraton sideboards were ranged down one wall, but they were bare now of the gleaming plate which would set them off to such advantage. Indeed, as Caroline glanced at them, she realized that she had seen no porcelain, silver, or gold, none of the treasures Mr. Jordan had mentioned, except the paintings, all of which were so carefully covered by brown paper. The dining room was dominated by the long mahogany table which stretched almost from the window bay to the low Ionic colonnade screening the entrance to the butler’s pantry, the kitchens, and other offices forming the one flanking wing of the courtyard.

  Mrs. Hollingsworth did not conduct Caroline to these lowly places; instead she led her out of the dining room to the inner hall and then up the grand black marble staircase to the next floor. Here the rooms were smaller in size but more in number, and like their counterparts below they were all shuttered and in darkness, their paintings concealed and their furniture covered. There was something so very sad about these unused chambers with their cold, yawning fireplaces and musty, closed atmosphere, for this was a house which cried out to be occupied again and needed to be warm and lively.

  Before ascending yet another flight of stairs to the next floor, they emerged briefly onto the balcony overlooking the courtyard. It was a magnificent vantage point and afforded a view as far as Piccadilly, the chimneys of Devonshire House, and the trees of Green Park. Down below, Mr. Jordan’s chariot waited, the stamping and snorting of the impatient horses echoing around the empty stables and coach houses and the long dormitories above them where the male servants normally slept.

  The circuit of the next floor was completed more swiftly, and they spent little time in the attics, which comprised storerooms and small bedchambers for the lower female servants. Descending the grand staircase to the ground floor once more, Mrs. Hollingsworth inquired if Caroline would like to see the cellars, where all the valuables were stored, as well as a considerable stock of wines and other such beverages.

  Lighting a candle and shielding the weak flame with her hand, the housekeeper unlocked the door and led the way down into the icy darkness, where the raw cold was such that it took Caroline’s breath away.

  Mrs. Hollingsworth heard her gasp and turned with a smile that quite transformed her stern face and told Caroline that the housekeeper was not as unamiable as she had at first appeared. “I’m afraid that these cellars are said to be the coldest in London, madam.”

  “That I can well believe!”

  “But such cold does have a singular advantage for a fashionable household.”

  “It does?”

  “Such low temperatures ensure that ice placed here in the winter endures almost through the hottest summer.”

  The housekeeper indicated a deep hole in the floor, where by the candlelight Caroline could just make out the straw that would be packed around the ice to insulate it. “The late earl regularly purchased large quantities of ice from the Icelandic suppliers; indeed I r
ecall one memorable summer when Messieurs Gunter, the confectioners of Berkeley Square, had to come to him for ice when their own supply was exhausted. He charged them handsomely for the privilege.”

  They walked a little farther into the cellars, past casks and barrels, racks of wine, and boxes of expensive candles. There were numerous crates packed carefully with the porcelain, plate, and Chinese jade Mr. Jordan had spoken of, and finally they reached the coal cellar, which was filled almost to capacity with enough fuel to warm the house for several months. It was here that Caroline halted, for she detected a strange gurgling sound.

  “Whatever is that?”

  “The Tyburn, madam.”

  Caroline stared. “Do you mean the river?”

  “Yes, madam, it flows directly beneath the house.”

  “What an unpleasant thought,” replied Caroline, moving away with a shiver.

  The housekeeper smiled. “It passes beneath several Mayfair houses, and I know for certain that it flows beneath the Pulteney Hotel in Piccadilly before disappearing somewhere in Green Park. They do say that it is because of the invisible waters of the Tyburn that that part of Piccadilly is so often enveloped in mist.”

  Caroline was not sorry to emerge again from the sepulchral cellars. Mrs. Hollingsworth carefully extinguished the candle and then locked the cellar door again. The sound of her keys echoed through the house. The housekeeper turned to Caroline again then. “Apart from the grounds and the kitchens, madam, you have now seen the entire house.”

  “I would like to see the kitchens, if you please.”

  The woman could not conceal her astonishment. “You would?”

  Caroline had to smile a little. “It will not have escaped your notice that there can be little hope of my becoming the permanent mistress of this house, Mrs. Hollingsworth, which naturally means that soon I must return to my home in Devon. That home contains a stout country cook by the name of Mrs. Thompson, and she would never speak to me again if I failed to examine the kitchens of a great London mansion. She will hear of my visit here and she will fully expect to be regaled with every last detail, especially the kitchens.”

  Mrs. Hollingsworth smiled, and again it was a genuinely warm smile which revealed a kinder nature than one would have expected. “I see that you are truly Master Philip’s daughter, madam, for it was your father I heard in your voice then. Of all the Lexhams, he alone was kind and concerned about the servants, just as you are about your Mrs. Thompson.”

  “You knew my father?”

  “I was a very young parlor maid then, and like all the other servants, I thought the world of him because he was so natural with us. He did not give himself airs and graces, he laughed with us and he sympathized with us. He was sorely missed when he left.”

  The woman looked away for a moment, as if afraid to say fully what was on her mind, but then she looked at Caroline once more, taking a deep breath. “It is this house’s great misfortune that Master Dominic does not more resemble his uncle Philip, madam, for all those who had places here have looked elsewhere for employment rather than exist under the new earl’s tyranny. Apart from myself and three others, everyone has gone, finding the hazard of seeking positions elsewhere preferable to the thought of your cousin as master. Forgive me for speaking out of turn, madam, but I thought you would understand.”

  “I do, Mrs. Hollingsworth, for I too have made my cousin’s acquaintance now. But tell me, why do you remain here?”

  “Because I was paid for one year only last August, just before the old earl closed the house and went back to County Durham for the winter. I am an honest woman, madam, and when I undertook to serve in this house for one year from that date, I considered myself bound by honor so to do, even if Master Dominic had succeeded to the title.”

  The housekeeper smiled a little. “When first Mr. Jordan told me that you were the new owner of Lexham House, I confess that I was overjoyed, for I knew in my heart that the daughter of Master Philip could only be a good and kind woman, but my joy was short-lived, for Mr. Jordan pointed out that it was unlikely that you would be able to keep the house. But I tell you this, madam, if you were to retain this house, I would regard it as an honor to serve you.”

  “I wish too that I could keep the house, Mrs. Hollingsworth, but as Mr. Jordan told you, I am afraid it will be impossible. Come, shall we look at the kitchens now?”

  Mrs. Hollingsworth nodded, leading Caroline back into the dining room, beneath the Ionic colonnade and into the butler’s pantry, with its special repository for the most valuable plate. Before conducting her to the kitchens proper, the housekeeper showed Caroline her own little rooms, comprising a parlor, bedroom, and tiny storeroom. There were other such rooms for the upper servants, such privacy being regarded as a necessary acknowledgment of their superior position.

  The kitchens were bright, warm, and welcoming after the main house, for the fires were lit, the windows unshuttered, and there was a delicious smell from the joint of mutton turning slowly on a spit. The walls were a gleaming white, their lower portion tiled in the same color, and against them stood enormous dressers laden with crockery for everyday use.

  On their tops were the largest of the numerous saucepans, while smaller utensils occupied rows of shelves next to one of the immense fireplaces. Copper shone around the hearths and the flames reflected warmly in the burnished metal. At the windows were sheets of fine metal gauze to exclude insects when the casements were open, and the walls that were free of dressers or shelves were hung with countless implements, the uses of which Caroline could only begin to guess.

  There were ovens and larders, cupboards and washrooms, pantries and laundry rooms, and in the main kitchen there was even a miraculous supply of hot water from a tap protruding above a stone sink, supplied, Caroline was told, by a heated boiler in the adjacent airing room. In this same large chamber the rafters were laden with cages, baskets, and hooks from which were suspended bunches of herbs, muslin-wrapped hams, and dried mushrooms. Meat and bread occupied their respective cradles, and there was one of the largest sugarloaf cages Caroline had ever seen. She gazed around in wonderment, for never before had she seen such modern, well-equipped kitchens, and she was sure she would not be able to remember even half of it to tell Mrs. Thompson.

  There was one marvel she had yet to see, however, and now Mrs. Hollingsworth proudly led her to a curious, low, red-brick construction about the height of a table, occupying the center of the flagstoned floor. This was, announced the housekeeper, the famous set of closed ranges designed scientifically by Baron Rumford, Fellow of the Royal Society and creator of the much lauded kitchens of the Royal Institute in Albemarle Street.

  These ranges were a very modern invention, a brilliant advance in cleanliness and convenience for the cook. Special long-handled pans nestled in the holes provided for them in the flat top, and Mrs. Hollingsworth pointed out that it was a simple and swift exercise either to damp down the heat or to bring it up to full strength. There were few houses in London which possessed such magnificent closed ranges, and none which possessed finer examples, and Mrs. Hollingsworth took immense pride in telling Caroline all she knew about them.

  Caroline could only wonder what Mrs. Thompson would make of such an innovation—or indeed what Gaspard Duvall would say of these kitchens, which were everything he desired and everything the Oxenford’s odieuse offices were not!

  When she had seen all there was to see, she was conducted briefly into the servants’ hall where waited the only three remaining members of the staff: the woman cook, an underbutler, and a kitchen boy. Then Mrs. Hollingsworth prepared to conduct Caroline around the grounds, but Caroline thanked her and said that she would prefer to walk alone. The housekeeper quite understood and showed her to the little door opening onto the kitchen garden.

  She emerged into the surprisingly warm February sunshine, went through a wicket gate and onto lawns studded with fruit trees that would soon be in blossom. She sat on a wrought-iron seat by an ornamenta
l pool, gazing across the lawns at the house, its red bricks bright in the sun. She no longer felt that the house was austere or forbidding, for now that she had been all over it, she felt a strange affinity with it.

  Her gaze moved from window to window, from the library with its Cipriani ceiling to the crimson-walled saloon, from the dining room with its Sheraton sideboards to the low roof of the kitchen wing, just visible from where she sat. What would those elegant, sumptuous rooms be like if they were opened up again and filled with all those treasures hidden away in the safety of the cellars?

  She could imagine the gleaming chandeliers, free of their ugly holland bags, the paintings without brown paper to hide them, the carpets rolled out once more to cover the floors with beautiful designs and colors. And then there was the staircase. Oh, what a staircase! It was far more regal and beautiful than that boasted by the Oxenford, and she smiled a little, thinking to what advantage Jennifer Seymour would appear in her silver tissue and wreath of diamonds descending the Lexham House staircase; and also thinking what a wedding feast Gaspard Duvall would be able to prepare in the magnificent kitchens, which were everything the Oxenford’s were not.

  Suddenly, and quite without any warning at all, an impossible thought entered her head. It was a ridiculous thought, but it would not go away, it insisted upon being considered. Her eyes became pensive as she stared at the house, and then slowly she stood. The thought was improbable, nonsensical even, but with a sudden excited gasp, she gathered her skirts and hurried back to the house, calling Mr. Jordan’s name.

  The lawyer came running into the kitchens as a startled Mrs. Hollingsworth inquired if something was wrong. Caroline’s eyes shone and she shook her head. “No, Mrs. Hollingsworth, indeed I believe the very opposite may be the case.” She looked at Mr. Jordan’s alarmed face. “I think I have thought of a solution, a way to defeat my uncle’s conditions.”