by Nunn, Kayte
‘Yeah,’ replied Fenella. ‘It’s Sabrina’s.’
TWENTY-THREE
March 1769, Oxleigh
‘There is no need for the doctor.’ Patrick Hollander stood in front of his wife regarding her with curiosity but not concern. Her breathing, although shallow, had steadied and her eyelids fluttered like a moth before a lamp. ‘Let us spare that expense for the moment.’
Though her mistress had cause to mention money from time to time, it was the first instance Rowan could remember that her master had shown the slightest concern for their finances. Perhaps things were worse than they appeared?
Patrick reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and withdrew an enamelled snuffbox. He tapped a small amount of the yellowy-brown powder onto his hand and raised it to his nose before sniffing deeply. ‘Caroline is perhaps overtired.’
Rowan was taken aback by his lack of concern, and in any case, how could her mistress possibly be overtired? She had only just risen from her bedchamber, and her days consisted of reading – usually a prayerbook – by the fireside, playing her pianoforte or taking tea with her friends. But Rowan knew her place and so held her tongue, for fear of reprimand or worse. Perhaps Caroline was no stranger to fainting, though Rowan had not seen evidence of it in the months she had been at the merchant’s house. ‘I’ll fetch some water,’ she said, wanting to do something other than stand idly by. As she left the room, she caught sight of Alice, who was as pale as her mistress, and registered the glance that flew between her master and the lady’s maid.
When she returned with the water, her mistress had revived somewhat, her eyes were open and a little colour had returned to her cheeks. ‘Perhaps you can help me to sit up?’ Caroline asked. Alice lifted her mistress as Rowan placed pillows behind her back until she was comfortable. ‘I have a vinaigrette.’ She reached into a pocket in her skirts and produced a pretty little silver box, opened a catch and inhaled. Rowan had seen one of these once before, when the lady of the manor had been overcome by the ordure on the path between the cottages of Inkpen. When she had asked later what it was, her mother had told her that it contained a small sponge that had been soaked in vinegar. Though her mistress grimaced as she inhaled and her eyes watered, it seemed to revive her a little.
‘I am feeling slightly better,’ Caroline said. ‘I confess I did not feel much like eating breakfast earlier, but perhaps some bread now?’
‘Of course,’ said Rowan, taking the vinaigrette from her and placing it on a nearby table. She was relieved to see that her mistress’s eyes had lost the glazed, vacant expression that had so frightened her earlier.
‘Well, if there’s nothing more I can do,’ said Patrick distractedly. ‘I must return to the shop.’
Rowan bit her lip, for she wanted to say that he hadn’t actually done anything to assist his wife. She remembered the look she had seen on her master’s face when she had stumbled upon the cockfight, the same expression she had seen as he threw the bolts of fabric on the floor in the shop, the argument she had overheard … There was no longer any doubt in her mind: he was an unpredictable and sometimes cruel man and she needed to remember that.
When Patrick had left the room, Rowan turned and closed the door. ‘Are you certain you are quite well now?’ she asked. Then, when Caroline did not answer, ‘Have you been taking the draught, as I advised?’
Caroline nodded and sudden knowledge lit up her eyes. ‘Do you think …’ she began.
‘I am not certain it could have taken effect so quickly,’ Rowan replied.
‘You have not had your courses for quite some months now,’ Alice said quietly.
‘Yes, but they have never been regular,’ Caroline said.
‘You must rest,’ said Rowan. ‘I shall make up a tonic, to strengthen the blood. Perhaps you should return to your bedchamber after a little breakfast,’ she suggested.
‘Indeed,’ Caroline agreed. ‘Alice, please go and see that it is ready.’
Rowan noticed the expression on Alice’s face as her mistress gave her orders. A flash of disdain, or was it envy?
She had a feeling that Alice had her sights set on a far grander life than that of a maidservant. Once, when Caroline was in Salisbury, she’d caught a glimpse of Alice turning in front of the looking glass in her mistress’s chamber. She had been dressed in one of Caroline’s most sumptuous silk gowns. Rowan had said nothing at the time, for she could hardly blame her: had she not herself imagined the feeling of fine silk against her skin?
The mistress spent several more days lying in bed and Prudence prepared her breakfast for her on a tray that Rowan or Alice carried from the kitchen up several flights of stairs. Rowan remained silent as her mistress complained of cold toast and bitter chocolate.
One morning, as Rowan was carrying the slops down the back stairs, she almost collided with Alice. The maid recoiled from her, a hand clamped over her mouth. Rowan stood back just in time, watching as she crashed through the back door. Curious, she followed her, seeing her retch in the gutter that ran along the side of the garden.
‘Are you unwell?’ Rowan asked when Alice had finished.
Alice straightened and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘Must’ve been summat I ate,’ she said, a scowl marring her pretty features. ‘Don’t trouble yourself. ’Twas nothing.’
They had both partaken of the same meal the night before – cold tongue and barley bread, washed down with small beer – and Rowan had not felt any ill effects. ‘Are you sure?’ she asked, searching her face, which, she saw, was drained of colour, just as her mistress’s had been before she fainted.
Alice’s hand went involuntarily to her belly and she would not look Rowan in the eye.
In that instant, Rowan knew without having to be told what it meant.
‘Who?’ she asked quietly. ‘Surely not the master?’
Alice shook her head violently. ‘Tommy Dean,’ she replied, a calculating expression on her pretty face.
Rowan’s heart stuttered. They had shared one kiss, but she had become very fond of the butcher’s boy, even imagined – a flight of fancy, mind – a future with him one day. She knew him to be a good and kind young man and had believed that he had a care for her. Had he so readily transferred his affections? That it was to Alice knocked the breath clean from her lungs.
‘Tell me why I should take you at your word,’ she demanded. ‘Do you wish to hurt me that much?’
‘Believe me when I say that it has absolutely nothing to do with you,’ said Alice.
Rowan couldn’t say exactly why, but something in Alice’s voice chilled her to her marrow.
‘I must hence to Bath,’ Patrick declared as he sat with his wife taking their breakfast a week later. ‘For I am convinced the time is ripe to increase our business. I believe there is a growing need for merchants of fine silk in the town. We saw it ourselves when we last visited, did we not?’
Rowan, who had entered the room with a pot of chocolate and placed it next to her mistress, gave, as she always must, the appearance of being oblivious to their conversation, disappearing into the background, though the truth was she listened carefully to whatever was said, her mind hungry for information of any kind. It seemed to her that the Hollanders’ finances ebbed and flowed like the stream at the bottom of the garden: sometimes in full flood, at others no more than a thin trickle. She supposed it must be the way of doing business. Indeed, there were similar times in her village, good seasons and bad, bounty and scarcity. She had learned to live with such uncertainty, but she could not help but be interested in her employers’ fortunes, for they surely affected her as well. She was still reeling from Alice’s allegation, but had not been able to find Tommy to ask for the truth from him. Time and again she had returned to the riverbank, but he had failed to appear, his absence only serving to lend weight to Alice’s words.
‘I wager that you make a good point,’ Caroline said, taking a sip of chocolate. ‘But I am anxious for you not to extend yourself to the p
oint of fraying, husband dear.’
Patrick laughed as if she had made a good joke. ‘Do not fuss, especially about the complications of business. A wife should not have to bear that burden.’
‘I am no simpleton, husband,’ she replied.
‘Of course not, but ’tis better that you fill your head with the concerns of our household, our growing family.’
‘Will you be gone for long?’ she asked.
‘No more than a month, I imagine,’ he replied. ‘I am to see about a lease on a property on the Westgate. In any case, I do not wish to leave you for long, not in your condition.’ He placed a hand on hers and regarded her with affection, the first time in many months that Rowan had seen him look at his wife that way.
It was confirmed, then. That it was so soon after giving her mistress the draught led her to believe that the seed must have already been planted before her mistress’s departure.
Rowan supposed she should not have been surprised to see her master treat his wife rather differently now. He was most solicitous, speaking to her with a new gentleness and reverence.
As she checked the dishes to determine if they required replenishment, an idea began to form. Could she perhaps take advantage of her master’s absence to absent herself? To return to Inkpen and her brothers, even if only for a few days? She missed them so terribly, and wondered often if they were well, if Albie was in good health, if Will was being a help to his uncle, if Joseph and Elias were less mischievous. Anything could have happened to them in the months she had been away and it gnawed at her not to be able to see them, to feel them close to her once again. Their company would surely be a salve to her bruised heart.
When Rowan came across Patrick later that afternoon, she put the question to him. ‘My mistress hinted that I might soon have leave to visit my family,’ she said. ‘I believe she was to raise the matter with you.’
‘She has not. However, I am not at all certain that I can spare you.’ Patrick Hollander was dismissive. ‘With Alice unwell, your mistress may have need of you.’
It was true that Alice had been recently confined to her bed, and even that day Rowan was attending to both her master and mistress, ascending and descending the steep back stairs so many times that she was almost dizzy with the effort. She held her tongue, frustrated that she had no argument to refute this, and that there was no choice but to accept her master’s dictates. Rowan’s amenable nature deserted her for once: in that moment, she disliked her master intensely, Alice even more so.
TWENTY-FOUR
Now
‘Perhaps you might explain how it was that my daughter came to be halfway down a sheer hillside on her own this afternoon, Miss Rust?’ The headmaster’s voice was calm, but Thea could feel the ice in his tone.
‘I take full responsibility. She was in my care and I failed to keep her safe. She became separated from the rest of the group and stumbled in a steep part of the woods.’ There was no point in making excuses. She and Fenella had scrambled down the sheer side of the track, finding Sabrina in a crumpled heap, and between them had managed to help her back up to rejoin the others. She had some cuts and bruises and a sore ankle but appeared not to have sustained more serious injuries. She was pale and shaken, but with the assistance of two of the girls, had been able to walk the remainder of the way out of the woods. As soon as they returned to Oxleigh, Thea had seen the girls safely back to the boarding house and then hurried over to the headmaster’s house to inform him of the incident.
‘I see,’ he said, making a bridge of his fingers. ‘I have to say that – aside from the fact that she is my daughter – your supervision of the girls was careless. Some might argue it was negligent, Miss Rust. For such a thing to happen, not to mention that the girls have been here scarcely a week … I shall have to think carefully about whether more serious action is required.’ He peered at her over his glasses. ‘For now, it’s probably best that you go and get yourself dry. You’ve doubtless had a shock yourself.’ There was a slight note of kindness in his voice now.
When Thea returned to Silk House, she went straight to her bathroom and stripped off her wet clothes, shivering with cold until she thawed out under a scalding shower. It was not until later, when she went to her study to fetch some marking, that she noticed the small piles of earth on the floor again. She had left her hiking boots in the cloakroom at the back of the house – everyone had – meaning that she couldn’t have brought it upstairs with her. So, what was the origin? She knelt down to take a closer look. It seemed to have come up from the joins in the floorboards, where there was a slight gap. She prodded the wood, finding a softer spot where the board crumbled beneath her touch. She stood up and glanced around for something to dig at them with when her eyes fell on the bookshelves. Something was missing.
The tin. The one she’d brought with her from Melbourne.
It had been on the shelf in her study when she left that morning.
Frantically, she scoured the other surfaces, her eyes travelling up and down the small bookshelf, and then across to the desk.
Ah. There it was. She was sure she had not moved it, and no one came in to clean, certainly not on a Sunday. She left the floorboards and went across to the desk, resting her fingertips on the lid of the tin as if to reassure herself that it was still there.
The warmth from her shower was fast leaving her and so she returned to her bedroom, flopping back on the duvet, closing her eyes and promising herself a few minutes’ rest. She was asleep within moments, and dreamed she was back in the forest clearing, sitting in the centre of the beech trees. The branches were thin and snaky, reaching out to her and catching on her T-shirt, scratching her arms, but she couldn’t move away from them, was as frozen as a statue …
The bright, brassy sound of trumpets rudely cut through Thea’s dream, causing her to jolt awake. She still had no idea who set the alarm music – or quite possibly it was randomly generated – but she appreciated violins or the flute more than the trumpets. The room was dark and she reached for her phone, looking blearily at the figures. Eight-thirty. For a moment she didn’t know if it was morning or night. She lay and listened to the thunder of footsteps on the stairs, the snatches of conversation, and guessed that it was suppertime. She felt around for a pair of shoes, pushed her feet into them and left to join the girls.
The dining room was warm, but Thea couldn’t seem to stop herself from shivering. She glanced around the room to see if anyone else was similarly affected, but the girls all looked bright-eyed and animated as they chatted away. Sabrina was the focus of attention, as they fussed over her, helping her rest her sore ankle on a cushion.
‘You are unwell,’ the Dame said after the meal was over and the girls had left.
‘A chill. Really, it’s nothing,’ Thea protested, though beads of sweat had broken out on her forehead and it hurt her throat to swallow.
The Dame produced a small paper bag and handed it to her. ‘Brew a teaspoon of this in some hot water and add some honey and lemon. Keep taking it until it’s finished.’
‘That’s very thoughtful.’ Thea was touched by her concern. ‘Dame Hicks …’
‘Yes?’
‘I meant to mention it earlier, but I’ve noticed that there are often piles of dirt on the floor in my study. I’m worried there might be termites.’
‘It’s probably best to speak to the porter. He can organise an inspection,’ she replied tersely.
‘Okay, will do.’ She forced a smile. Surely the Dame could handle it, couldn’t she? Though the older woman knew more about school protocol than Thea did, so she let it be.
‘And how is your thumb?’
‘Oh,’ she said in surprise, raising it to check. ‘I had forgotten all about it. It’s completely healed.’
‘Good,’ said the Dame. ‘We must make sure you stay safe. A couple of aspirin wouldn’t be a bad idea, either.’
It seemed the Dame wasn’t entirely about herbal remedies. But what did she mean by making sur
e Thea was safe? If she said it about one of the girls Thea could understand it, but herself?
Thea took the bag to the kitchen and found a mug, putting the kettle on to boil. The kitchen staff had finished clearing up and only one was left, wiping down the benches. Thea recognised her as the woman with the tattoo; indeed, she saw it again on the inside of her wrist as she came closer and wiped the surface next to her.
‘We haven’t met properly,’ said Thea, introducing herself.
The woman started, as if surprised at being spoken to. ‘Moira,’ she answered.
‘Do you mind me asking why you got that?’ Thea indicated her wrist.
‘It’s supposed to protect a person from harm,’ she shrugged.
The kettle boiled, beeping an interruption and the woman moved away. Thea’s head was thick with fever and she was too tired to think more about it. For now, anyway. She stumbled up the stairs, sipped her drink, wincing at its bitter taste. Minutes later, she was sound asleep.
A woman sat on the end of Thea’s bed, curling tendrils of jet-black hair escaping a hooded cape. Her eyes as dark as pansies. Thea willed herself to move, but it was as though a weight sat on her chest and try as she might, she could not.
‘What?’ she finally whispered, her breath coming in quick gasps. ‘It’s not real. It’s not real,’ she repeated to herself. ‘It’s all in your head.’ But a creeping sense of dread filled her, pressing her down into the mattress. She had the distinct feeling that the woman did not want her there.
A blaring beep went off and she jerked awake. She blinked and looked towards the end of the bed, but the woman had vanished. The powder that the Dame had given her; had that been the cause of such a bizarre dream? Whatever had been in it had certainly worked on her cold – she felt much better and even her sore throat had eased. Thea closed her eyes again. She was so very tired …
Seconds later the bedroom lights flashed on and then off again and the beeping continued without stopping, growing even louder. It had to be a fire alarm, for there could surely be no other reason for the infernal racket. She reached for her glasses, stumbled out of bed and stepped out into the corridor, where she found Fenella, a small white face showing in the glow from her torch. ‘It’s all right, Fen, it’s all right,’ she said, trying to keep her voice as calm as possible. ‘Just a fire drill, so we all need to leave the house. The assembly point is in the street, two doors down, outside the Lamb and Flag.’
