by Amy Cross
Alan stares at me for a moment, before turning to the other men. They remain silent, but it is as if the mood here in the saloon is souring with each and every passing second. By the time Alan turns back to me, he looks positively concerned.
“Is he moving back to the area?” he asks cautiously.
“The matter is complicated, and private,” I reply.
“So he is?”
“His Lordship has made his home in London now,” I explain, keen to avoid mentioning my employer's illness.
Alan stares at me again, and then once more he turns to the assembled men at the bar. Silence has well and truly fallen, and I am beginning to feel outnumbered.
“That place has been empty for a long time,” one of the men says finally. “It's not his intention to open it up now, is it?”
“I fail to see how that is any of your concern,” I reply.
“And the investigation's over, I believe?” another man adds. “The police, I mean. They gave up looking for her, didn't they?”
I force a smile that I very much do not feel, and then I adjust my position in the seat. I should have known that, here in the far-flung outskirts of society, these grubby little men would have their minds in the gutter.
“His Lordship's reputation is not to be impugned,” I say, a little archly. “The newspapers -”
“Some people say she ended up in an asylum,” Alan says, interrupting me yet again. “I suppose a man like Matthew Fetchford could -”
“Lord Fetchford, to you,” I point out, and now it's my turn to be a little brusque. “One should not drop a gentleman's title.”
“Lord Fetchford, then,” he replies. “I'm sure a man like him could arrange for things to be hushed up. From what I hear, Catherine Fetchford – sorry, Lady Fetchford – was quite the pain in the backside by the end of it all. I heard she was all over the place, out of control and the like. No wonder he wanted rid of her.”
“If you believe that His Lordship did anything untoward,” I reply calmly, determined to stamp out this kind of talk, “then you obviously do not know him at all. He is a man of the highest honor, respected by royalty and prime ministers and diplomats. He is generous and caring, and it is to his great credit that he never demeaned himself by deigning to respond to the slander and libel that became so popular a few years ago.”
“Aye,” Alan says, leaning back in his chair, “but it all comes back to the same question, doesn't it? Where's his wife?”
I stare at him for a moment, before getting to my feet.
“You must excuse me, gentlemen,” I say, trying to refrain from further admonishment, “but I feel I must retire to my room for the night.” I turn to the landlord. “Perhaps I might have a sandwich sent up later. Nothing with pickles, thank you.”
The landlord nods, but at the same time I'm very much aware that I am being watched by the men at the bar. I nod politely at them before heading to the door that leads through to the stairs, but then I stop for a moment as I realize that I am in danger of failing His Lordship. I simply cannot permit any derogation of his character to go unchallenged, and I have not yet been sufficiently strident in my defense. Slowly, I turn to the assembled men and I realize that I should perhaps keep things simple.
“You would all do well to avoid gossip,” I remind them, “for such topics reflect as much upon the speaker as upon the subject, if not more. Unless you have met and spent time with Lord Fetchford, you have no need to opine on the nature of his character, and I hope you do not believe the crude nonsense that ends up in the newspapers. Lord Fetchford is among the finest men that England has to offer, and we should all be grateful for so long as he still is among us.”
I wait for them to admit that I'm right, but they simply stare at me. Finally, realizing that this truth has stunned them all into silence, I turn and head to the stairs, and I resolve to not come down again until morning.
***
“Terrible business,” I mutter as I finish reading another article in the newspaper, concerning the political situation in London. “Where are the strong leaders when they are required?”
I turn to the next page, but in truth I am rather exhausted. I try to read another piece, but I find myself having to re-read several lines and finally I lower the newspaper and look over at the clock next to the bed.
It is slightly after half past seven.
If I go to bed now, I can be up nice and early.
The sandwich I requested has not materialized, but I have no intention of going down to the saloon and asking again. I can already hear voices laughing down there, and I have no desire to face a gang of inebriated farmers. They were bad enough earlier, when they were more or less sober; now, this late in the evening, I imagine that they would be utterly intolerable, and most likely they would want to once more discuss my employer and his history. I could defend His Lordship, of course, and I would do so most resolutely. However, I feel I would be shouting into the air, and a bunch of ungrateful drunks are hardly likely to bow down to logic and honor.
They are beneath His Lordship and, as such, beneath me as well.
Folding the newspaper, I set it on the table and resolve to go through to the communal bathroom, although after a moment I stop as I spot my own reflection in the window. I am still wearing my uniform, of course, albeit with my coat now hanging on the hook behind the door. If I might say so myself, I look every bit the butler and I am sure that I represent His Lordship well on my travels. After a moment, however, my focus shifts slightly and I begin to contemplate the darkness beyond the window.
I step closer and peer out, and I try to determine which way is north. It takes a moment, but finally I am able to look out to the left, and I realize that Aldburn Park is waiting out there in the darkness.
I should not feel apprehensive, but I do. The truth is, I think I had perhaps anticipated that I would never have to visit Aldburn Park again. Several years have passed since I was last there, although at this precise moment those years feel like nothing at all. I still remember the very last night, when Lord Fetchford and I stood in darkness, staring up at the windows of the house.
I remember looking from window to window.
I remember I was holding my breath.
I remember that in each window, I half expected to see a figure.
“Come on, then,” Lord Fetchford said finally, his voice drained of all its usual color. “Let's get going, shall we?”
I remember I did not initially respond. I had heard His Lordship, of course, but for some reason I had not reacted to his instruction.
I remember watching each empty window in turn, absolutely convinced that at any moment I would see -
“Mr. Lawrence.”
I remember suddenly turning to His Lordship, as if I had been snapped out of a strange daze.
“Let's get going, shall we?” he said again, and I recall that his hair was rather a mess and that he seemed rather unkempt. “We're leaving, Mr. Lawrence. Now.”
“Of course,” I remember replying, shocked by my own tardiness.
I remember heading over to the motor car and opening the door for His Lordship, and I remember His Lordship stopping for a moment as he was about to climb into the back.
“I can rely upon your discretion, Mr. Lawrence,” he said to me that night. “Can't I?”
I remember nodding.
“Of course, Your Lordship,” I told him. “Now, and always.”
I remember he looked past me for a moment, toward the house. What was that expression on his face? Fear? Regret? Sorrow? He has never been a man given to emotion; indeed, I have never seen so much as a tear on his cheek. In that instance, however, I saw something in his eyes that I cannot name. Perhaps there is no name for it at all. I remember he then turned and climbed into the car, and I carefully shut the door before going around to the driver's side, and then I glanced one final time at Aldburn Park and I looked at the windows and again I expected to see someone.
See someone, however, I
did not.
Then we drove away, and I thought at that moment that we would never again return to Aldburn Park. The curious thing, though, is that the nameless expression has never since entirely left His Lordship's face. Even during the gayest of nights in London, some trace of that expression has remained on his features, as if he has never been able to shake it away. I have often pondered what name should be given to the expression, but no name has ever seemed satisfactory. Is it possible that it was an entirely unique expression, worn only by His Lordship?
Now, standing here at the window, I stare out at the darkness and think of Aldburn Park. Tomorrow morning, once the sun has risen and I have driven a short way, I shall see that grand old house again. It is my duty.
Chapter Three
A Majestic Sight
Shortly after setting off from the Dartford Arms in the morning light, I begin to recognize the country lanes that lead north. Having at least been served a good breakfast following the lack of food the night before – a matter I chose not to raise with the landlord – I am rather full as the motor car dives down into a dip in the road and then begins to climb a hill. Perhaps I should not have indulged in that second sausage.
And then, suddenly, I see it.
I slow the motor car and bring it to a halt, and then I climb out and step onto the grass verge. Holding a hand up to shield my eyes from the sun, I look out across the rolling English countryside and I squint slightly as I spot a dark shape on the horizon.
I take a deep breath.
There it is.
Aldburn Park.
In the glorious morning sunshine, the entire scene looks utterly beautiful. Indeed, I would challenge any man – or any woman, for that matter – to stand here now and observe this wonderful scene, and to not feel that England is the finest land in all the world. How could anybody not feel peace in their heart, standing in this spot and admiring the absolute best that this fine island has to offer? As I stand here now, Aldburn Park appears utterly serene, and I smile as I realize that this greatest of houses still holds its place.
I climb back into the motor car and set off again, driving along winding roads until I reach the turning that leads directly to Aldburn Park's driveway. For the next few minutes, I drive through the forest, and I am surprised to find that precious little has changed. Parts of the verge are overgrown, of course, but otherwise I remember almost all the twists and turns. And then, finally, I spot Aldburn Park ahead, beyond the trees, and I immediately bring the motor car to a halt at the side of the road.
The engine is still running as I sit and stare at the house, which now stands only a few hundred yards away.
“Hmm,” I say out loud, trying to sound jolly, “now how about that? I am back, after all these years.”
I wait.
I should set off again and drive the short remaining distance to the house, but instead I sit with my hands on the wheel, waiting for...
For what?
If I had simply carried on, I would be at the house by now. As it is, I am sitting here for no reason that I can determine, content to glimpse the house beyond a line of trees. Nothing appears wrong, yet I find myself still not pressing the pedal that would propel the motor car forward, and I cannot understand why this is the case. I have so much work to do, and every lost second is valuable.
“Okay,” I say finally, once again speaking out loud. “Time to get going, then.”
And then, for a moment, I realize that perhaps I should wait for Mrs. Ferguson. After all, she will now be here in only a little over twenty-four hours, and that would still leave us some time to prepare the house for His Lordship's arrival one day later. I am but one man, and I am quite sure that the house is in good order, and that it requires little more than a good dusting. Why, then, did I hurry here like this? I have been so utterly foolish, and the best option would now be to turn around and find somewhere else to stay for the night, and wait until Mrs. Ferguson is here before I set foot inside Aldburn Park.
No.
What am I thinking?
I take a deep breath, and that moment of madness passes. I am here to do a job, and I am already later than I had intended.
Finally, once I have regathered my composure, I ease the car away from the side of the road and complete the last leg of my journey, until I stop outside the front of Aldburn Park and pull to a halt. Then, determined to not give myself any further time in which to procrastinate, I switch the engine off and climb out of the motor car, and I look up a the grand, magnificent facade of one of England's finest houses.
Oh, but time has “done a number on her,” as my old father used to say.
Vines cling to the walls, in some areas threatening to obscure the windows. In the years since anybody was last here, the vegetation has grown rather unkempt, albeit not to a disastrous degree. Even from here, I can see cracks in the stonework, especially around the edges of the steps that lead up to the large, oak front door. There is a distinct lack of life in the area, and a moment later I realize that several roof tiles have fallen down and smashed on the ground. The house might not look entirely abandoned, but there is certainly a great deal of work to be done before it is restored to its former glory.
I have a little over two days before Lord Fetchford arrives, and for a moment I cannot comprehend how I am to begin making the place presentable.
Soon, however, my mind gets to work. I might not be able to fix everything, but I am certain I shall be able to determine certain minor cosmetic changes that will please His Lordship. Besides, my employer is a realistic man and he himself said to me, not more than forty-eight hours ago, that he understood Aldburn Park had been left untouched. He will know not to expect the house to appear perfect, and I am sure he will be satisfied so long as I am able to show that some effort has been made.
Reaching into my pocket, I feel for the key and then take it out.
“Well,” I say out loud, attempting to sound calm and happy, “time to go inside, I suppose.”
My suitcase is in the boot of the car, but I can fetch that later. For now, I start making my way across the carpet of leaves that covers the driveway, and I am soon at the foot of the stone staircase. Staring up at the house's front door, I feel a flicker of concern in the pit of my belly, and I must confess that I stop and look along at the dark windows of the house's lower floor.
All I see, however, are reflections of the sky and the tops of the nearby trees.
“Well, this is fine,” I say, forcing a smile. “Everything looks splendid. Truly splendid.”
I hesitate, and then I begin to make my way up the steps, only to stop suddenly as I feel a ripple of something sickly running through my chest. I take a deep breath and step forward again, and sure enough the same thing happens again. I take another deep breath and admonish myself for such foolishness, and then I take another step forward.
And then I stop.
What stupidity is this?
It is as if my body has seized up, rebelling against my mind and protesting against the decision to enter the house. I am, quite frankly, shocked by this reaction.
Taking another deep breath, I resolve to calm myself. I am not one of Mrs. Ferguson's mindless, gossiping kitchen girls. I am not in any way superstitious. Therefore I must banish such matters from my mind and stay focused.
I take another deep breath.
Then another.
And slowly, I feel that the matter is now settled.
I am calm again.
Relieved that I have stayed strong, I begin to continue my way up the steps.
Suddenly I am utterly overcome by a violent sensation in my chest. I turn and stagger back down the steps, and then – before I can stop myself – I lean over and am immediately sick, bringing up much of my breakfast. I then retch several times, each feeling more severe than the last, until I drop to my knees and feel a small amount of bile run from my mouth.
Shocked by what has just happened, I remain on my knees and wait in case anything els
e is on the way up. For almost a full minute, I do not dare move, but finally I feel as if the moment of nausea has passed. I look down at the terrible mess of half-digested breakfast, and I then I wince and look away.
I do not know when last I was sick in this manner, but it must have been at some point during my childhood.
Once I am sure that the moment is over, I get to my feet. My knees feel a little weak, and I take a moment to wipe my lips with a handkerchief. I do not understand what just happened, although I quickly start to wonder whether perhaps the food at the public house was cooked in an unsanitary manner. The sausages certainly seemed to be hot all the way through, but I suppose that out here in the sticks one can never be too careful.
Turning, I look up once again at the front door, and then at the windows high above.
I know I should go inside, but suddenly it occurs to me that perhaps I should check the perimeter of the building first, just to be on the safe side. Yes, that would be a splendid idea, so I set off along the eastern edge, looking out for anything that might be amiss. As I go, I tell myself that this is in fact the proper course of action. The house has stood untouched for several years now and my duty is as much to the exterior as to the interior. As I reach the very farthest end, I spot several missing sections of masonry, and I begin to regret very much that Lord Fetchford overruled my requests to have men sent to periodically check on the property. I know he wanted it left very much alone, but still, some cursory care would have been appropriate.
I stop at the corner and look up at the windows. Again, I cannot see through into the house, due to the various reflections and plays of light. After a moment, however, I allow myself a hearty chuckle at the quietness of the whole scene. The house – glorious though it might be – is just a house, and the only sound since I arrived has come from my own feet trampling across the leaves that cover the path. And I am emboldened by the realization that, although there is much work to be done here, I can certainly make some significant improvements in the two days before His Lordship arrives. Yes, the thought of such hard work makes me smile.
