Free Netherwood by Jane Sanderson

discreetly placed around the perimeter were four footmen in green-and-gold livery, while Parkinson, soberly clad in his immaculate black tailcoat with silver buttons, stood motionless near the door. The table was set for six, but Saturday luncheon was always an informal, come-when-it-suits-you affair, so Lord Hoyland was in no way perturbed at the absence of his family members. On the contrary, he found his newspaper rather better company than his family, with the notable exception of Henrietta who could always be prevailed upon to talk rationally on the subjects closest to the earl’s heart: the estate, the collieries and the damnable impertinence of the Yorkshire Miners’ Association.
    On the long sideboard were cold cuts, pickles, bread and a pat of butter, the Hoyland crest now incomplete on its surface since the earl had started tucking in.
    ‘What’s your take on the Grangely affair, Parkinson?’ he said.
    The earl was prone to this, a sudden unlikely question to whoever was closest, be they family, friend, servant or complete stranger. His valet was more accustomed to it than Parkinson,being more frequently with him in close quarters, but the butler, too, had to be always on his mettle.
    ‘A regrettable business, m’lord,’ he said now. A typical Parkinson response, nicely ambiguous, leaving him free to join his master on whichever side of the debate he favoured. He had a whole arsenal of non-committal replies for just these occasions.
    ‘Quite, but entirely predictable, what?’
    ‘Indeed, m’lord.’
    Lord Hoyland folded the
Chronicle
and set it to one side. It was the local weekly, which he read every Saturday and which every Saturday got his dander up with its tendency to romanticise the struggles of the proletariat.
    ‘If I owned this blasted newspaper I’d veto strike coverage,’ he said. ‘Why pay the troublesome blighters the compliment of publicity?’
    ‘Quite,’ Parkinson said.
    ‘What mystifies me is that the whole damn business dragged on for so long.’
    ‘Baffling, m’lord.’
    ‘Mind you, the owners are scoundrels. No interest in mining, except what it can earn them, what!’
    ‘Shameful, m’lord.’
    ‘And the colliers are wastrels. Wastrels employed by scoundrels. If you ask me, they deserve each other.’
    ‘Oh, Papa, do leave poor Parkinson alone.’
    This was Henrietta, who breezed into the dining room with a rosy outdoor flush to her cheeks and a beech leaf caught in her hair. She was fresh out of the saddle, brimful of energy and good health. She grinned at the butler.
    ‘You’re off the hook now. He can harangue me instead.’
    Divided now in his loyalties, Parkinson executed a graceful, all-purpose incline of the head and pulled out a chair for the new arrival.
    ‘May I serve you with lunch, your ladyship? Or would you prefer to help yourself?’
    ‘A slice of everything going, please,’ she said, then turned to her father. ‘Simply gorgeous out. Cold, though. By the way, Jem said to say he’s repairing the fencing by the gallops if you want to find him.’
    Lord Hoyland reached across to extract the rogue leaf and said: ‘Any sign of Tobias? I want to take him to New Mill today. I thought, if he’s actually there at the sharp end, as it were, it might help him take an interest.’
    Henrietta said nothing, though her expression was easy enough for her father to interpret.
    ‘I know, I know,’ he said. ‘Uphill struggle.’
    ‘Losing battle, more like. Ooh, yum. Thank you, Parkinson.’ A brief silence descended while the butler placed a loaded plate in front of her, then she said: ‘Terrible business at Grangely. Have you been over there?’
    ‘To Grangely Main? Don’t be absurd. None of my business.’
    ‘Well, no. But perhaps we could help. I’m sure they must be desperate for donations.’
    The earl, irritated by her wrongheadedness, spoke sharply.
    ‘Condone the strikers? Preposterous notion.’
    ‘Mmmm,’ she said, mildly. ‘I suppose it was