“Here?” Sebastian strode ahead, down the stone passage. If one more person told him how good he was being he would scream. “It’s very cold,” he murmured.
“It is a gaol, sir. Can’t have the felons getting off easy.” The turnkey chuckled.
Doors creaked open, slammed shut. The metal bones of the keys jangled like witches’ teeth. Sebastian had a strange feeling that he was heading deeper into a cave, into one of those old pagan burial sites, with long tunnels leading down deep into cold barrows where steel rusted and bones mouldered. He shuddered.
To either side were bars, and behind some of them were men. Some were silent, others muttered or shouted to themselves.
“It’s this one, sir.” The turnkey stopped. It was dark and Sebastian hesitated. He could see no one in the cell.
“No need for you to go farther, sir, if it takes you funny,” the turnkey said. “It’s not a place a gentleman would feel comfortable in.”
Sebastian screwed up his courage and strode forward to the bars.
“Oliver?” he said.
For a moment he still could see no one in the shadows, and then his eyes grew used to the gloom and he saw Oliver standing in the center of the cell, arms folded. He looked the same, his dark eyes, his proud face, the hair Sebastian longed to run his fingers through. The only changes were a growth of stubble and the prison clothes that looked like a joke. Sebastian could not stop the smile that flooded over his face. He ran to the bars and Oliver did the same. Sebastian remembered himself enough to turn and say to the turnkey. “You may leave us now.”
The man bowed and retreated. Sebastian moved closer to the bars, glad now of the darkness that covered them. His fingers and Oliver’s clutched each other through the bars. They did not speak until the turnkey’s footsteps had faded away completely and the only sound was the mice scrabbling inside the walls.
“How are you? How is it?” Sebastian whispered. His mouth was dry.
“I’ve known worse.” Oliver smiled, but Sebastian saw the glint of pain in his eyes, and something else—fear.
“You must let me give myself up.”
“We’ve been through all this. I forbid it entirely. You have much more to lose than I do.”
“Yes, but I can’t stand by and watch you go to court on my account!”
“It’ll never come to that,” Oliver said confidently. “The barrister will sort it all out—by the way, it was good of you to engage him.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I couldn’t have done less.” Sebastian tightened his grip on Oliver’s fingers. “What else can I do for you? Your family—they must want to know where you are.”
“Never mind my family.”
“But they must be frantic. I can get them here. I’ll send Jackson to pick them up.”
“Please, leave it.”
“It doesn’t matter about the cost. I’ll pawn my cuff links—”
“I have no family!” Oliver almost shouted. His voice rang from the bars. Sebastian was shocked by the fury in it. The scrabbling of mice paused for an instant, then went on again. Oliver’s voice softened. “Just you.”
Sebastian looked into his eyes. They drew close together, and their lips touched through the bars. Sebastian closed his eyes, aching with the need to pull Oliver closer, remembering a summer lake, cold wine, a time of happiness and freedom before all this insanity had entered his life, a time that felt like a thousand years ago. A single act of violence could be the touchpaper that blew up the ground you stood on.
He heard footsteps approaching and pulled back. Oliver did the same. He backed away into the center of the cell.
“You’d better go,” he said. His face was shadowed, but his voice told Sebastian everything he needed to know.
Sebastian pulled his gloves from his pocket and adjusted his hat before turning to the door just as it opened.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Brompton,” he said, recognizing the barrister he had retained for Oliver.
“Mr. Templeton!” The barrister’s jowly face wore an expression of startled displeasure. “I hadn’t expected to see you here, sir.”
Sebastian didn’t reply immediately. Instead he placed a hand on the man’s arm. “You must tell me if there is anything I can do, anything that you might need to make the case go well,” he said in a low voice.
“Of course. Of course.” Brompton still sounded troubled. He turned to follow Sebastian as he tried to walk on.
“I feel I must say something, sir. It’s best for you not to come here.”
Sebastian raised an eyebrow.
“There are newspaper men outside. It’s become something of a cause célèbre in the gossip papers. You being so concerned about your valet…well, it’s admirable of course, but it can lead to tittle-tattle.” He avoided meeting Sebastian’s gaze.
“Tittle-tattle.” Sebastian gave a slight, mirthless laugh. “Well, if that’s the worst the world can do, let them do it. Oliver’s suffering is a lot worse than mine, and I will not cease to do what I can to lessen it.”
He turned away before Brompton could reply and followed the turnkey up to the main gates. He hardly noticed the passage this time. He was seething with fury inside, at the world and its prying eyes, at himself and his impotence. Why the hell, he thought, can’t everyone just leave other people alone?
He found Jackson and the car in front of Moss Booksellers. The window was filled with a display of a new novel by someone called R. J. Peak. Jackson was reading a copy himself—A Duke for Daisy the cover said—and seemed entirely engrossed in it. He jumped when Sebastian tapped his shoulder.
“Sorry, sir!”
“Somerton, please.” Sebastian got into the car and settled back into the luxurious leather seats. As they drove away he sat suddenly forward. His brother, Michael, had just come out of the bookseller’s, with a package wrapped in brown paper. Odd, he had never thought of the pup as a reader. His mother couldn’t even get Michael to return to Eton. Maybe he had picked up the habit to impress some young lady. But Sebastian’s thoughts quickly returned to Oliver and the storm of troubles headed their way.
Somerton
“Thank you so much, Mrs. Grundy. We will be sure to let you know our decision as soon as we can.”
Georgiana closed the door of the housekeeper’s room after the latest applicant for Mrs. Cliffe’s position, and turned to Mrs. Cliffe, who sat at the desk with her notes before her.
“Oh, my goodness,” Georgiana said as soon as she was sure the woman was well out of hearing. “Did you smell her breath? Pure gin!”
“Not one we will be inviting for a second interview,” Mrs. Cliffe said with a sigh. She leaned forward and made a cross next to Mrs. Grundy’s name.
“I don’t know how the agency can think it right to send them.” Georgiana put her hands to her forehead, where a headache was beginning to pulse. She had never imagined that interviewing for a housekeeper could be so frustrating and exhausting. She looked around at the comfortable room, and heard the tick of the old clock pulsing like a heartbeat around it. It was impossible to imagine anyone but Mrs. Cliffe sitting here, ruling the household. What would Somerton do without her?
“There is a national servant crisis, I’m afraid, my lady,” Mrs. Cliffe said.
“So I hear. I suppose it must be attractive to live in town, but I can’t think a dirty, noisy factory a more pleasant place to work than Somerton.” She furrowed her brow. “I hope we make things pleasant for the people who work here, Mrs. Cliffe. I certainly try to.”
Mrs. Cliffe smiled at her, a warm, motherly smile that comforted Georgiana to the core.
“Everyone here feels lucky to work for the Averleys, my lady. You couldn’t ask for more generous employers.”
Georgiana smiled gratefully at her. It was nice to feel she was getting it right for once. It was so difficult with Papa and Ada away. Neither William nor Edith seemed to care about the estate, and she had found that if anything was to be done, she had to take charge.
/> “Thank you, Mrs. Cliffe,” she said. “I must go and tell Lady Edith that this one didn’t suit either. She won’t be happy, but what can one do?”
“Nothing indeed, my lady,” Mrs. Cliffe agreed. She followed her to the door, and held it open for her. “Somerton must have an excellent housekeeper, and I certainly will not leave until one is found.”
Georgiana stepped out of the door, but hesitated. She turned to Mrs. Cliffe, wanting to express something of her gratitude for the support she had received.
“It will be very hard to replace you,” she said. “In every way.”
Mrs. Cliffe smiled. “Have no fear. We will find someone capable.”
I do hope she is right, thought Georgiana as she hurried through the servants’ passage and up the stairs to the green baize door. Or we’d have to manage it all ourselves, and a pretty pickle we should make of it! She felt she was just beginning to realize exactly how much work went into running Somerton. It was quite frightening—and yet it was pleasant to take on such a challenge, to feel, well…needed. She had been ill for so long, it was a nice change to be able to look after others for once.
As she entered the hall she saw Cooper opening the door to her older stepbrother. “Sebastian,” she said in surprise. “I’m glad to see you, but I didn’t know you were coming.” She faltered, noticing that he looked tired and sad. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes…” He handed Cooper his hat and picked up the local newspaper, frowning at the headline before putting it down again and looking at her. “I’ve come directly from the gaol, that’s all.”
“Oh…” Guiltily Georgiana remembered what must have brought him to the area. “Poor Oliver. Did you see him? How is he?”
“As well as can be expected, I suppose.” Sebastian’s usually sparkling voice was flat. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some letters to write.”
“You’re staying then?”
“Afraid not. I must go straight back to London. My mother gets restless if I am not at her side for the season.”
“Of course.” Georgiana followed him with her gaze as he trudged up the stairs to his room. She was touched at the obvious pain he seemed to be in. She turned to Cooper. “Will you see that something hot to eat and drink is sent up to Mr. Templeton?” she asked. “He looks as if he would like it but won’t think to ask for it.”
“Of course, my lady.”
“Do you know how the case is progressing?” Georgiana asked. “It seems such a tragic thing. It must have been an accident, surely.”
Cooper inclined his head. “All of us liked Oliver, my lady. An excellent servant and a pleasant young man. None of us imagine him capable of murder. But whether the jury will see things our way…”
“Surely they must!” Georgiana exclaimed. “He’s so young, and he has an excellent character.”
“But there is the matter of the money he was owed. Some might see that as motive.”
“I suppose so.…” Georgiana sighed. “Well, I feel very sorry for him.”
“We all do, my lady.” Cooper coughed discreetly as Georgiana was about to move away. She turned back. “I wondered, my lady, whether the person had been found satisfactory.”
Georgiana realized he meant the gin-sodden Mrs. Grundy. “Oh, no. I’m afraid not, Cooper.”
“It is just that…” He lowered his voice. “Some of the staff have been expressing…doubts.”
“Doubts?” For a confused moment, Georgiana thought he meant religious doubts. “Surely the vicar—”
“About working under Mrs. Cliffe. Now that her history is so widely known, you see… They feel it lowers the reputation of the house, that she should continue here. I wondered if it might be possible to remove her to a different location, at least until His Lordship returns—”
“Cooper, that’s enough.” Georgiana felt her cheeks flush, both with anger on Mrs. Cliffe’s behalf and with embarrassment at conversing with a servant on such a subject. “I know you only mean to help, but we must give Mrs. Cliffe all our support at this time. I won’t hear a word against her.”
Cooper pressed his lips together, frowning. He merely bowed, however, and withdrew. Georgiana watched him walk away, offended dignity in every inch of his bearing. After the first impulse to defend Mrs. Cliffe had died away, she had to admit that he had a point. But the trouble, if there was any, had not entered into the upstairs world, and she had to trust Mrs. Cliffe to look after the downstairs one. It was unfair to meddle in her authority while she still held her position.
Annie groaned as she looked at the pile of mending that Lady Edith’s maid had put up for her. Sometimes she dreamed of it, napkin after napkin, sheet after sheet, shift after shift. It seemed deeply unfair that she should spend her life growing squint eyed and callous fingered and hunchbacked from hours of darning. While other people, just because of who they were born to, waltz at balls with royalty and suchlike.
“I should be enjoying my youth,” she sighed. Resentfully she picked up the pile of mending and lugged it to the kitchen.
“How that boy can get through so much linen is beyond me,” she complained to Martha, who was hosing down the sink, where she had been gutting a chicken. “He tears everything! There’s a devil in that Master Augustus, I’m sure.”
“Think yourself lucky,” Martha snapped back. “Some of us would give a lot to have a nice clean job like a housemaid’s.”
“Lucky!” Annie sniffed, picking up the first piece of mending, a napkin. She didn’t feel lucky. The white mountain of mending loomed at her. It meant hours of peering at tiny stitches, painstaking, fiddly work that pricked your fingers and left you with work-hardened hands. Not like Miss Sadie Billesley’s hands, she thought, and threw the napkin down again.
“Where are you off to?” Martha called after her as she got up and made to leave.
“Breath of fresh air, not that it’s any of your business.”
Annie went to the back door and breathed in the afternoon air. Why was life so unfair? Why did she never get a chance? She glanced over to the shining motorcar that stood in the middle of the stable yard, the doors open. Why was she never riding in a car like that, instead of standing watching them go past her?
A man came out of the servants’ entrance. He carried a trunk and called out behind him, “One more, James.”
Annie wondered who he was, then remembered. Mr. Templeton was clearly about to leave. This was his valet.
“Off to London?” James said as he came out with the other suitcase.
“Thanks. Yes, back to London.” The valet took it and put into the trunk of the car.
“Wish I was,” James said with a short laugh.
He headed back into the house. Annie stood where she was. A thought had struck her like a bolt of lightning: Wish I was.
Her hand closed on Rose’s letter in the pocket of her apron. She needn’t stay here, needn’t resign herself to a life of the same old drudgery and being passed over for better things. She had friends in high places. Why on earth shouldn’t she go to London and become Rose’s maid?
Her heart soared. She could see it now—the two of them riding off in motorcars to parties and dress fittings. Rose would make the best mistress, she was so kind and generous. It wouldn’t be like work at all. It would be like being a lady.
She turned round and whisked back inside. She had enough saved for the train ticket. All she needed to do was hand her notice in, and she’d be away.
London
Rose had expected to be in ecstasy at her first visit to the Royal Academy of Art’s Private View. It was one of the most exclusive events of the London season. An invitation to show at the Academy’s summer exhibition was jealously sought by every artist of note. But as she strolled with Sebastian through the halls of Burlington House, past dutiful landscapes and predictable portraits, she could not help but feel it all a little…dull.
“The Academy’s lost its fire,” Sebastian commented, as if he had read her thoughts. “I feel
I’ve seen this all a thousand times over.”
“I’m glad you say that. I thought it was just my lack of taste,” Rose answered. She glanced around her. She had wondered if she would see Alexander Ross here. Or maybe she had hoped. Of course, there was no reason he would be visiting at the same time she was. There was no reason to suppose he would visit at all. Young men like him were generally more interested in hunting and punting than in art.
She had danced with him twice more since the state ball and spoken to him in company. Their paths had crossed in the foyer of the opera house and the drawing rooms of important hostesses. This was the season, after all, and it was a small world. The intimacy of their first dance had never been repeated. He danced with other women, talked to other women, laughed with other women. And yet she couldn’t help believing that the smile he kept for her was warmer, more genuine, than the ones he gave to other people. More than once she had caught him looking at her, and each time he had smiled as if the sight of her gave him pleasure. It was pleasant, she thought, to have a friendly face among all the unfriendly ones.
“Do look at those women,” Sebastian murmured with a gentle wave of his cane toward an elegant group gathered by the work of the latest society portraitist. “More interested in each other’s dresses than the pictures.” He sighed. “Somehow it all seems so disconnected from what’s happening outside the doors. To look at these pictures you’d think we were not living in an age of motorcars and trams and electric light.” He lowered his head as if a weight lay on his shoulders. “They don’t seem to see that everything has changed.”
Rose glanced at him in concern. She sensed he was not his usual self, and knowing where he had been, she could guess why.
“How is Oliver? Did you see him?” she asked. “What does the barrister think of his chances?”
“Not much.”
“I’m sorry.” She laid a gloved hand on his. “It was such a shock to all of us. Everyone will be sorry if Oliver—”
Diamonds and Deceit (At Somerton) Page 6
