by A. M. Howell
Clara’s skin tingled. He had things to do? What could be more important than helping his brother? She shook her head. And she carried on shaking it as she pushed past Robert and sprinted across the grass to Gardener’s Cottage.
Mr Gilbert was sitting at the bottom of the stairs, his cap in his hands. He stood up as she walked in. “Wherever have you been?” he said, his voice low with disappointment.
Mrs Gilbert came running from the kitchen, her bare feet slapping on the tiles, her nightdress billowing behind her. “Oh, Clara,” she said, a hand flying to her neck, fiddling with her necklace. “We’ve been so worried.”
But at that moment Clara did not care if they had been worried or not. “Will is not the fruit thief!” she said, the words bursting from her lips.
Mr Gilbert’s normally ruddy cheeks were an unusual shade of pink. He strode to where Clara was standing. “How do you know about Will?”
Clara straightened her shoulders. “He’s my friend.”
Mr and Mrs Gilbert exchanged disbelieving looks which tightened their jaws and narrowed their eyes.
“You…know this boy…this thief?” The furrows between Mr Gilbert’s eyebrows stood to attention like exclamation marks.
“He would not have taken the fruits. I swear it. He can’t have…because…I was with him.” She looked at the floor.
Silence peppered the hallway.
Clara glanced up. Anger. Bewilderment. Disbelief. These were some of the emotions that twisted Mr Gilbert’s features into a face she did not recognize at all.
“You come with me,” Mr Gilbert eventually said in a gruff voice, taking her by the arm. His grip pinched a little. She tried to pull away, but his fingers tightened. “Come with me and I’ll show you the damage that boy has done. And then you tell me whether or not he’s your friend.”
Mr Gilbert’s strides were large and purposeful as they made their way across the grass to the hothouses, which winked in the misty early-morning sun. It was something of a mocking wink, as if they knew the truth and were withholding it. Clara desperately tried to piece together everything that had happened, to arrange the facts so that she could convince Mr Gilbert they had made a terrible mistake in apprehending Will.
At the top of the steps, Mr Gilbert paused. “This is the pineapple house,” he said, glancing at Clara.
“I know,” she replied.
Mr Gilbert stared at her for a second. “You were in here last night? With…Will?”
Clara nodded. Thomas must have told Mr Gilbert he had seen someone with Will. Had the Gilberts checked her bed, found her missing? A small snake of guilt curled around her middle.
Mr Gilbert shook his head, turned abruptly and walked down the steps. “I thought better of you. I really did.”
A flush stained Clara’s cheeks. She followed Mr Gilbert down the steps, squeezing her hands into fists in her pockets.
Mr Gilbert walked to the middle of a planting row and paused. Clara stood beside him. He was staring at a pineapple plant, at the crown of leaves brushing the soil. It was Will’s favourite plant, the Scarlet Brazilian, the one that was just ripe. Except…the pineapple had been hacked off from its stem – it was no longer there. The plant had been cut roughly, without care, leaving a jagged white scar where it had been.
“No,” she said breathlessly. “Not the Scarlet Brazilian. Will would not have done this. He loves this plant.”
Mr Gilbert gave her a sidelong glance. “This is what your friend did last night, Clara.” His tone sent a chill down her back.
“No,” Clara said again. Her voice was small, and seemed not to belong to her at all. “We were watching for the thief last night – we’ve been watching every night.”
Mr Gilbert’s eyes widened like overfilled balloons. For one awful moment Clara feared they might pop. “That was irresponsible. Not to say dangerous. What would your parents say?”
Clara’s skin bristled. “We thought if we caught the thief, you might give Will a job in the gardens. He’s good, Mr Gilbert. He knows so much about plants and how they grow. He draws them in his notebook. If you would only look at it—”
“I’ve seen it,” Mr Gilbert interrupted in a grim tone. “There was a list of the produce he’s taken. He’s spun you a tale, Clara, made you his accomplice.”
Clara swelled with frustration. Why did he not understand?
“The fruits were found in the boiler house. In a sack. Pineapples, figs and a handful of peaches,” said Mr Gilbert.
In the boiler house? Clara closed her eyes for a second, her insides feeling like a scooped-out eggshell.
“Did Will tell you that Robert is his brother?” Mr Gilbert asked.
Clara flicked her eyes open and nodded.
“Robert says young Will had a bit of a reputation back home, for stealing and the like.”
Clara’s legs buckled. She stared at Mr Gilbert. She stared at the sorry-looking pineapple stalk. Was this true? Had Will pulled the wool over her eyes – led her to believe he was something he wasn’t? She remembered his eyes as he spoke about the fruits…his tears as he buried his father’s possessions… Were those the actions of a thief? Her heart was beating fast – too fast. Blood was pounding in her ears. She turned on her heel and ran out of the door.
“Clara. Wait!” cried Mr Gilbert.
His voice bounced from her ears as she ran up the slope, past the orchard and The Bothy and towards the Big House and the one person who could still save Will.
Clara walked briskly up the hill, glancing behind her every few minutes, but hers were the only boots treading up the road to the Big House. Mr Gilbert was not following her.
It was near breakfast time, which meant the house staff would be eating together in the servants’ hall – an event Mrs Gilbert sometimes spoke about (often reporting tales of sloppily dressed housemaids or footmen who had lost their neckties). Which also meant Clara should have a greater chance of sneaking into the House unnoticed.
She hovered at the steps to the servants’ entrance. She straightened her back, picked some fluff from her grey woollen cardigan and tucked her hair behind her ears. Robert seemed determined to have nothing further to do with Will. He said it was in the hands of the police and the Earl – so it was the Earl she needed to persuade to free Will. But before she found the Earl, she would try and find Will himself. She had to talk to him about what had happened the night before, and let him know she hadn’t given up on him.
At the bottom of the steps, Clara found herself opening a door which led to a dimly lit corridor filled with a low humming noise, much like a small bee swarm. The noise was coming from a strange box-shaped contraption on the floor filled with coils and wires and metal. A generator for the electric lights. She lowered her head and walked quickly down the corridor, the lights flickering every so often as if protesting about how hard they had to work. She was lucky and had not encountered anyone yet, but she needed to be quick. The passageways were sure to be bustling with activity as soon as breakfast had finished. The ceiling became lower, the corridor narrower, the lights fewer. “Hello, dank, gloomy corridor,” Clara whispered under her breath as she passed under a brick archway, and then another. Saying the words calmed her, and made her skipping heart beat a little slower.
A barking cough came from Clara’s right.
She jumped back against the wall. There was another cough, the type that would make your ribs ache. It came from a dark recess in the wall between two of the arches.
“Will?” Clara whispered. As her eyes adjusted, she saw that the recess was piled high with coal. On top of the coal perched two owl-like eyes.
“You shouldn’t be down here, Miss,” the eyes said. They blinked. The eyes were attached to a head. A boy’s head, his hair and face almost as dark as the coal pile.
Clara cast an anxious glance up and down the corridor. What if the boy called for help? Would the cook or the butler come running and put a stop to Clara’s plan before it began?
“I’m looki
ng for the cellars,” Clara said quickly. “Can you help?”
The boy scrabbled down from the top of the coal pile, pieces of coal chasing him like a miniature rockfall.
Clara bent down and picked a piece up, holding it out in her palm.
The boy stepped forward. He was not much older than she was. Underneath the coal dust, his thick hair was rusty-red.
Red. Was this the hall boy Robert and Will had spoken of?
The boy took the coal from Clara’s outstretched hand, threw it onto the pile behind him and wiped his hands on his trousers (although as far as Clara could see, that would only serve to make them dirtier still).
“My friend is being held in the cellars. I need to speak with him. It’s jolly urgent,” Clara said.
The boy’s eyes narrowed. He glanced down the corridor, then back at Clara. Did he not know how to talk? He coughed again. His eyes watered. Clara pulled her handkerchief from her pocket and offered it to him.
“Thank you, Miss. But I will stain it.”
Clara pushed it into his hand. “Take it. And please, call me Clara. You’re Red, aren’t you?”
He nodded, staring at the small embroidered daisy on the left-hand corner of the handkerchief. He rubbed his eyes and cheeks, streaking the white cloth with black. Beneath the dust, Red’s cheeks were almost translucent, like a creature who lived mostly underground. He offered Clara the dirty handkerchief.
“No. You keep it,” she said, giving him a quick smile.
Women’s voices drifted down the corridor. They were getting closer. Red scrabbled around for the last pieces of fallen coal and hurled them onto the pile. He gave Clara a quick push, and she suddenly found her stomach pressed against a wall, her back to the coal pile. Red looked at Clara and put a finger to his lips.
Clara felt her right eyelid twitch. Fear wobbled her knees. What would the women do if they caught her lurking in the depths of the Earl’s house? Would she be locked in the cellars with Will? An image of her mother’s and father’s shocked eyes when they heard about her recklessness sprang into her head. She would be able to cope with their crossness, but their disappointment would be hard to bear.
“…I can’t stop thinking about that blasted Zeppelin that drifted off course over the Norfolk coast last week,” said a woman’s voice.
“Scare the living daylights out of me, they do,” said another voice.
Clara held her breath. They were so close she could hear them breathing.
“Have you seen the pictures of the bombs? Huge big things, like bells. You’d be flattened if one of those got you.”
The voices grew muffled as they walked away.
Clara’s heart was beating hard against her ribs.
“It’s clear,” Red whispered.
Clara crunched over the coal, her boots slipping and sliding.
Red’s forehead furrowed. “Oh,” he said with dismay.
Clara followed his gaze to the collar of her dress and her cardigan. They were smudged with dust, as if she had rolled in the coal like a dog. As was her apron. As were her hands. “Can you show me where the cellars are?” Clara asked quickly, pushing all thoughts of Mrs Gilbert’s reaction to her clothes away.
Red glanced nervously up and down the corridor.
“This is important. My friend Will has been accused of stealing. Please help me, Red. I must talk to him before I speak with the Earl.”
Red’s eyes widened. He jammed his hands into his pockets and shook his head, pressing his lips together tight.
Clara stared at him. Would Red help her? And if he didn’t, what an earth should she do next?
Clara stared at Red as they lurked in the shadows of the servants’ corridors. “No one is allowed to speak to the Earl,” Red said to her in shock. “Except his butler. And the housekeeper. Maybe some other people too. But not the likes of us.”
“But I have to,” said Clara. “Before the police come to take Will away. Only the Earl can help.”
Red chewed on his lip. “You’re a good friend to this…Will,” he said, a little enviously, Clara thought.
“I’m trying to be,” Clara replied.
Red pulled Clara’s handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. “Your friend Will – is he Robert’s brother – the gardener with the funny eye? Has he been staying in the boiler house in the gardens?”
Clara nodded.
“Robert owes me some coins for keeping quiet about that,” Red said, scrunching Clara’s handkerchief into a ball.
“He hasn’t paid you?” Clara asked.
Red shook his head and lowered his eyes. “The coins aren’t for me. Pa’s away fighting and there are six of us to feed at home.”
“I have some money,” Clara said. This was perhaps an even bigger emergency than the broken tapestry. She just hoped her parents agreed when she next saw them.
Red looked up and smiled. He glanced down the passage again. “Soon the corridors will be filled with people leaving breakfast. We’ll need to be quick.” Red was whippet-fast as he led Clara along the winding corridor, ducking past the kitchens where the smell of warm bread and frying bacon made Clara’s stomach groan and gurgle. They passed another staircase leading upwards. “You’ll find the Earl up there, most likely in the library this time of day – reading the early papers. It’s at the back of the entrance hall.”
“Thank you,” said Clara, giving him a broad smile.
The blush which stole onto Red’s cheeks shone through the streaks of coal dust.
The corridor began to narrow and Red paused in front of a small open doorway leading to a winding spiral staircase. “Cellars are down there,” he whispered, his eyes darting back and forth. “I’ll stay here and keep watch.”
Dampness curled around Clara’s neck, sending a clammy tremor down her back. The electric wall lights were dimmer in the stairwell than in the corridor, the flickering more frequent.
A cough rasped up the stone stairs.
Red’s eyes widened.
Clara’s heart almost stopped in her chest. Will. She ran lightly down the twisting staircase until she arrived in the cellar. It smelled musty and damp. One electric light buzzed and hummed, the far corners of the cellar hidden in the dark. Iron gates – prison-like gates – filled the gaps between three arches, behind which lay half-empty wine racks, wooden boxes and dusty barrels. The gates to each archway were shut – and padlocked.
Clara stood for a second, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. She had no urge to greet this horrible place. The only thing she wanted to do was find her friend. “Will,” she whispered. “Are you there?”
There was a scuffling behind the metal bars of the middle archway. Then another cough, which made Clara’s toes curl in her boots. Will’s pale-as-the-moon face appeared from the gloom. His fingers clutched the metal bars. They rattled, sending an echo bouncing around the cellar. “Clara?” he said, his voice loaded with disbelief.
“I can’t believe they’ve locked you up down here,” Clara cried. Her feet felt heavy as she ran to him.
“It wasn’t me,” Will said in a cracked voice. “I didn’t take the fruits. I swear it.” He slumped to the floor, wrapping his arms around his knees. “I was wrong, Clara. I wanted to believe it was Mrs Gilbert taking the fruits. But it wasn’t.”
Clara swallowed, kneeled in front of Will and gripped the metal bars. “It wasn’t Thomas either, Will. He is Mr Gilbert’s brother.”
“I know. Thomas said after he’d caught me,” Will said miserably.
Clara held onto the bars a little tighter. “Robert said…you have stolen things before.”
Will lurched forward. “I didn’t, Clara. I swear on my father’s life.”
“But why would your brother say such things?” Clara whispered. “And why were the stolen pineapples hidden in the boiler house? Who put them there?”
Will’s face crumpled. He wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “Robert…he got in trouble. When he was younger.”
Clara
’s insides unfurled. “What?” The metal bars felt cool against her palms.
“He stole from a neighbour. It was a joke gone wrong. There was a fight and Robert got hit in the eye…almost lost his sight. When Father found out, I’d never seen him so angry. That’s when Robert left home and got the job here on the estate. Father tried to make things right when we came to visit. But…it was never the same between them. When we left, Robert said he wanted nothing more to do with Father, that he never wanted to see him again. He never did.”
Clara sat back on her heels. Robert’s eye had been injured in a fight? He had lied to her – he’d said he was born with his eye like that. His argument with their father – was that why he had been so quick to deny he had any family, and refused to come with Will to bury their father’s things? Was that why he had said on their trip to the hospital that some disappointments would stay with you for ever?
Will’s eyes were grey pools of pain. Clara wished with all her might that she could make herself small, slink through the bars and comfort her friend until his face was less broken and more Will-like again.
“I’m sorry. I should have been honest with you from the start. But Robert’s all I have left. If he goes to prison…” Will whispered.
Like the strike of a match, the thought came to Clara in an instant. “All this time…you thought Robert was the one stealing the fruits?” she said softly.
Will nodded. “I’m sorry I accused your aunt. I half-believed it might be her, after you’d told me about seeing her with the basket, and then seeing her with Thomas in the woods. But deep down…I knew it was my brother.”
Clara was shocked. She had been diverted by Will and Mrs Gilbert and Thomas and had not given Robert a second thought. Clara had trusted Robert, liked him. But what kind of person let their younger brother take the blame for something they had done? “You think he put the fruits in the boiler house to make it seem like you stole them?”
“He had a key. He could have come in any time he liked,” Will said, wiping his nose on the back of his hand.
