The Housekeeper's Daughter

by Rose Meddon

  ‘You feeling peculiar again?’ she enquired of her at one stage.

  ‘No, I’m perfectly all right,’ Edith responded. ‘Just didn’t sleep well.’

  ‘I know the feeling,’ Kate replied, glad that there was no need for her to enquire further but sensing that, unlike her own situation, the reason for Edith’s poor sleep had nothing to do with feeling excited. ‘Maybe try and get some fresh air.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  Eventually, with the bustle in the scullery quietening down and activity in the kitchen turning from breakfast to luncheon, Kate spotted her chance to slip away. There was no time to go and check on her hair or her face but then Ned never seemed overly concerned by how things looked: another reason to like him.

  She went first to the old tack-room; if anyone had spotted her, at least she wouldn’t be leading them directly to Ned. Once there, she stood for a moment, wanting to be sure that she hadn’t been followed, the air feeling warm and still, the only discernible sound the cheeping from a family of house sparrows echoing around the yard as they picked about in the straw. Eventually, satisfied that she was alone, she slipped through to the stables. And there, she waited.

  To pass the time, she turned her thoughts to Ned. Although he could depart Woodicombe at almost any moment, she knew she couldn’t rush him. He liked her, of that she was sure. But it was going to take caution and patience to get him to let his feelings be properly known. So, for the moment, she would aim only to strengthen their friendship, letting it blossom, naturally, almost without him noticing, until – hopefully – it turned into something more.

  Exhaling a long sigh, she noticed a flicker of movement away to her right. She stiffened. Although she hadn’t heard anyone approaching, she felt certain she’d seen something akin to the flick of a skirt – the flick of a pale grey skirt, like the one Edith wore. She frowned. What business could Edith have out in the stable yard at this time of day? Where could she be going? Even had she taken her advice about getting some fresh air, she wouldn’t come all the way to the stables to get it – she would take a few steps close to the back door. There could be only one explanation: her sister had followed her. She must have. Somehow, she must have become suspicious. Either that, or Luke had been to tell her what had happened. It would be just like the two of them to get together and spy on her. Well, she would turn the tables on them. She would catch her sister lying in wait – see how she explained herself. And then she would decide whether to risk alerting Ned to the possibility that they were being followed.

  On the toes of her shoes, she crept past the empty horse-stalls, reaching to the rails and posts to steady her balance. Her heart pounding, she found the prospect of creeping towards something no less disquieting than when she so frequently found herself creeping away from it.

  ‘Remember you? Why on earth would I remember you?’

  She froze. She’d been right to think someone was there, although, since the voice was unmistakeably a man’s, wrong to suppose it was Edith.

  ‘It has been a long time since you were here. That much I’ll grant you.’

  What? Edith was there? What on earth could she be doing in the stable yard, talking to a man – a man whose voice she couldn’t place? It seemed such an unlikely thing. Edith didn’t know any men – certainly not the sort she would have cause to sneak away to meet.

  ‘Clearly, you mistake me for someone else. I have never been here before this week. And so, if you will excuse me—’

  ‘It is you who are mistaken. In the days when the place was still owned by old Mr Latimer, you came a-visiting with his grandson, Mr Sidney.’

  ‘No, as I say, you are mistaken—’

  Who the devil was Edith talking to? Who would she have the nerve to address in such a forthright manner? And what were they talking about? Perhaps, rather than trying to identify the man’s voice, she might be better served by listening for clues in what they were saying.

  ‘‘Course, in those days, you went by the name of Bertie.’

  Bertie? Who the devil was Bertie?

  From the man, there came the sound of coughing.

  ‘And as I say… you are mistaken—’

  ‘And back then, you weren’t wed, neither. Although, seems to me now, you must have scampered up the aisle with some haste, certainly before that year was out.’

  ‘Now look here, I don’t know what you’re alleging—’

  ‘And yet it seems you do. It was the resemblance that stopped you dead in your tracks, wasn’t it? I mean, if the likeness struck me, then it can’t have failed to strike you.’

  Hidden behind the stable door, Kate hardly dared to breathe. She’d never known Edith be so plainspoken.

  ‘Now look here, missy,’ the man continued, ‘I don’t know what your game is, but it would serve you to remember how I can land you in a lot of trouble.’

  ‘Trouble. Huh. There’s irony for you. You really don’t remember me, do you? Don’t remember all those hot afternoons? Don’t remember how—’

  ‘Look, what is it you want from me? Money? Is that it? You think to blackmail me? Threaten to tell my wife if I don’t pay—’

  Blackmail? What the devil was Edith mixed up in?

  ‘It’s too late for your money—’

  ‘Well, I shan’t be blackmailed. Can’t be blackmailed. Not only would my wife see right through your scheming, but my marriage is well beyond being harmed by tawdry scandal. So, my advice to you would be to save yourself the ignominy.’

  ‘You don’t listen, do you? It’s not your money I’m after.’

  ‘Then what, damn you? What the devil are you after?’

  ‘I’m after having you bring an end to something. Something that otherwise left alone, could see you and yours up before the constabulary—’

  ‘All right, all right. But for Christ’s sake, woman, not here—’

  With the conversation beginning to fade from her hearing, Kate let go of the breath she’d unwittingly been holding in her chest. Whatever had that been about? What on earth had her sister been doing? And with whom? As much as she wanted to know, she hadn’t dared to peer around the doorway to find out. And it hadn’t sounded like the sort of conversation she could just ask Edith about next time she saw her, either. So, how was she to find out?

  ‘Sorry I’m so late!’

  Turning away from the brightness, Kate squinted in the direction of Ned’s voice. She’d clean forgotten about him.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said, her head filled with so many questions that she felt in completely the wrong mood for talk of war.

  With an easy smile, he waved a rolled-up newspaper. ‘Here to report on the latest news.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, her mind still on Edith. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I say, is everything all right? You seem… troubled.’

  She shook her head. ‘Sorry. I was just thinking about something. Maybe you could help.’

  ‘Help with what? What would you like to know?’

  There seeming no sense in beating about the bush, she said, ‘Have more guests arrived?’

  The expression that came across his face was one of puzzlement. ‘More guests?’

  ‘I know Mr Latimer came with your father – although I haven’t seen either of them yet – but did anyone else come with them?’

  ‘Not with them, no. Separately from them, the Rattray-Smyths arrived. They’ve been staying on Exmoor and decided to pop down for a few days. Although it rather looks now as though they might be heading straight back to London. Donald Rattray-Smyth is a Whitehall solicitor.’

  ‘Has he been here before?’

  Ned pulled a face. ‘It’s possible. He’s clearly an old friend of Sidney Latimer.’

  Then it had to be him, Kate decided of the mystery man. She’d overheard Edith say he’d previously come to stay with the Latimers, although it still didn’t explain what they’d been talking about in such agitated fashion.

  ‘Why do you ask? Has one of the guests bothered
you in some way?’

  Quickly, Kate shook her head. ‘Oh, no, nothing like that. No, it’s just that I heard a voice and didn’t know whose it was. That’s all.’

  ‘I see. All right. Well, if nothing’s wrong, then to the subject of war!’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, determining to get the bottom of the mystery by some other means. ‘To the subject of war.’

  * * *

  Kate drew back the curtain. From her bedroom window the following morning, everything looked much the same as it did at this early hour on any other summer’s day: beyond the far hedge, Abe Pardey’s cow-boy was calling the animals up for milking; in the yard, the kitchen tabby was slinking about in search of an easy breakfast; circling the chimney stacks, house martins were plucking insects from thin air. All of that was the same as it ever was. And yet, last night, in London, the Government had declared war on Germany.

  The news had been relayed to them by Mr Latimer. Late into the evening, he had received a telephone call, after which he had gone straight to the drawing room to inform his guests. A little while later, he had appeared in the servants’ parlour, where he had conveyed the information to those members of staff still there. Digesting the news, Kate had felt a sort of betrayal; for all of their supposed intelligence, the old men of the government had somehow made the wrong decision, the news leaving her feeling numb and struggling to work out what it would mean for them. The only real certainty was that Luke would now take himself off to join the army but, by that same token, so would Ned. As for the effect upon her own position and that of everyone else left behind, she supposed that only time would tell.

  Now, with the breaking of the new day, she felt no less shocked. But, since presumably, for the moment, her own days would be unaffected, all she could do was carry on as usual and wait to hear from Ned’s cousin Elizabeth. And so, she stripped off her nightdress and splashed her face with water. Then, slowly, she pulled on her undergarments and her slip. Returning to stare out of the window, she buttoned her uniform and then, reaching for her apron, tied it about her waist. More than anything, she needed to see Ned. She needed to know how soon he might leave – to discover how little time she now had to get him to feel as strongly about her, as she did about him.

  Silently, she went along the landing and down the three flights of stairs to the basement. It was still early, but, as she neared the kitchen, she could hear the sound of breakfast being prepared. Dare she slip outside – just in case Ned was taking an early morning stroll? She peered along the corridor towards her mother’s office. It would be tricky: Ma would already be at her desk, going over arrangements for the day ahead. Undecided, she ventured a couple of steps further.

  ‘Ah, Kate, there you are.’

  Damnation. Faced with her mother choosing that moment to leave her room, Kate tried to persuade her scowl into an unconcerned smile. ‘Morning, Ma.’

  ‘I’ve just had word from Luke that Mrs Channer won’t be up at all today.’

  ‘No? She must be took real bad, then.’

  ‘It would seem so – stiffened right up and can’t barely move, poor soul. They’ve had Dr Brinsworthy out to her, though why they bothered with him I can’t imagine – never could tell the breathing from the departed. Anyway, since she won’t be up to change the flowers, you’ll have to do it. According to her list, today is the turn of the morning room, the entrance hall, and the landings. Obviously, you won’t be able to do the morning room now until after breakfast but you can still make ready with the arrangements—’

  As it dawned on Kate that her mother was serious, it was as much as she could do not to laugh out loud. ‘You’re wanting me to do the flowers?’

  ‘I’ve no one else to do them, love. And it’s been that warm they won’t last another day.’

  ‘But you know I’m hopeless with that sort of thing – fiddly stuff.’

  ‘Then stay away from fiddly. Salvage the greenery from the vases, go out and cut some big and colourful blooms from the border, and then just… do your best. I’m sure they’ll turn out fine.’

  With a long and weary sigh, Kate shook her head. ‘Yes, Ma.’

  ‘But don’t go messing about in the morning room until breakfast has been cleared away.’

  ‘No, Ma, you said.’

  ‘And I mean it.’

  Flowers. It beggared belief. But, bubbling up through her incredulity came a thought: since she would have to go around to the cutting-border, the tedious flower arrangements had just given her the perfect excuse to be outside. She would have to be clever, though; not knowing whether or not Ned was up yet, she would need to leave it as late as possible. In the meantime, to satisfy Ma that she was doing as she’d been told, she would collect the vases from the hall and the landing and make great show of emptying and cleaning them. Then, once it was more likely that Ned was up and about, she would go out into the garden. Dear old Mrs Channer: may the Lord be praised for the decrepit state of her legs!

  Wasting no time, she set off up the stairs, pausing for a moment at the top to run a hand over her hair and drag her teeth across her lips in the hope of making them look plump and rosy – just in case he was about. When she carefully opened the door to the hallway, though, much as she had been expecting, it was deserted. Unseen by anyone, she came and went, ferrying the wilting flower arrangements down to the sink in the boot room. There, following her mother’s advice, she set aside those fronds of ferns and stems of laurel that were still presentable, scoured the vases with bicarbonate, and then carried the spent blooms to the waste heap in the yard. That done – and with a quick glance to the clock – she folded her arms and leant back against the sink. Now she would wait.

  She listened to the sounds of breakfast being prepared: Edith chiding the daygirls as they prepared the chafing dishes for the morning room; Ma chastising a latecomer; feet scurrying across the floor tiles. She glanced again to the clock. Very shortly now, the guests who liked to take their breakfast early would start coming down: Aunt Diana would be in from her walk; Mr Lawrence, already smartly attired, would be reading the Daily Telegraph. And Ned would be… well, that was the problem. Ned’s movements were difficult to predict. But, wherever he was, she had to get to see him. With war having now been properly declared, he might be thinking about changing his plans, something she might not discover until it was too late and he was on the verge of departing. Damn the daft old men in the government; until they’d declared their stupid war, her plan had been going along nicely.

  Eventually, growing bored of dallying in the boot room, she made her way to the flower border, one eye out for Luke, the other for Ned. Once there – and with no sign of either – she took her time selecting and cutting the showiest of the fiery zinnias, some of the longest-stemmed Shasta daisies, and a dozen or so of the globe thistles so favoured by Mrs Channer, before reluctantly making her way back indoors. In all of the time she had been out there, she hadn’t seen another soul.

  Later still, having made up four vases of what she felt might loosely be termed arrangements, she lifted the first two from the bench and set off for the landing. On the other side of the door into the hallway, though, she was sent lurching sideways by something in her path. Cursing rather too loudly and with water slopping from the vases, she cast over her shoulder: two suitcases. What sort of hare-brain left two suitcases right behind a door? Suitcases. She stared down at them. Someone was leaving? So soon after last night’s announcement? Or was that simply coincidence? Either way, who would have chosen to leave so suddenly?

  With the two vases of flowers now slippery in her wet hands, she padded up the staircase, her eyes drawn back over the bannisters to the two pieces of luggage. They were small and matching – something about the battered leather suggesting they belonged to a man rather than a woman.

  Arriving on the landing, she placed the first vase on its plinth and then, to set off its best side – in truth, its slightly less messy side – she gave it a half-turn. From there, she went on to the next pl
inth and set down the second vase. Then, going to stand between the two, she looked from one to the other and gave a helpless shrug. They were flowers in vases. She’d seen worse.

  Below, in the hallway, the owner of the luggage still hadn’t appeared. And, from the look of them, the cases didn’t have any labels. Feeling uneasy to be loitering, she stole back down the staircase. Fortunately, the remaining two vases gave her a genuine reason to return and, with a bit of luck, by then, it would be apparent to whom the luggage belonged. Please Lord, don’t let it be Ned.

  Once back in the boot room, she leant against the sink and chewed on a thumbnail. No matter her feeling of panic, there was no sense rushing back: the longer she left it to return, the better her chances of finding out what was going on. After a couple of minutes, withdrawing her thumb from between her teeth, she picked up a single vase and set off back along the corridor.

  In the hallway, the first thing she noticed was that there were now four suitcases, two larger, non-matching ones having appeared. Feeling conspicuous, she crossed the hall and set down the vase on the side table where she proceeded to tweak the blooms. But, as time passed, the only sounds to reach her ears were those from the morning room – the gentle murmur of conversation broken by the occasional clatter of cutlery.

  Drawing a long breath, she urged herself not to panic. There was no reason to suppose it was Ned who was leaving. The suitcases could belong to anyone. Perhaps Mr Latimer had chosen to return home, or even Mr Russell. By all accounts, he had been hoping for this war, rubbing his hands at the prospect of the opportunities it presented for his business. Maybe, then, he couldn’t wait to get back to it, even if he had only been away for a couple of days. Perhaps Mrs Russell would even go with him. Please let Mrs Russell go with him!