Mrs Harcourt herself had an ill-humoured look. She, too, was dressed in expensive clothes that had seen better days. She set about abusing her maid, an elderly, tired-looking woman, before declaring she had a headache and commanding Helena to send her an infusion of camomile at once.
‘Of course,’ said Helena.
As she left the room, Mr Harcourt cast a speculative glance in her direction.
‘Don’t send any of the girls up to Mr and Mrs Harcourt’s room,’ she warned Mrs Beal, as she entered the kitchen and set about making the tea.
‘I wouldn’t think of it,’ said Mrs Beal with a snort. ‘We’ve had Mr Harcourt here before. Mrs Carlisle had her work cut out for her, keeping him away from the maids.’
Helena pitied her aunt, knowing it could not have been easy. Her aunt would have been polite but strong and Mr Harcourt . . . . her thoughts stopped. What would Mr Harcourt have done if her aunt had crossed him?
‘When was Mr Harcourt last here?’ she asked.
‘Not for a long time, at least not to stay. He visits the castle from time to time on county business, but his lordship won’t have him here overnight if it can be helped.’
Helena dropped a handful of camomile flowers in the pot and poured the water on to them.
‘And when did he last come on business?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. I don’t see him come and go. I’m down in my kitchen, and glad of it. Dawkins shows him in and out.’
Helena resolved to speak to Dawkins about it when she had a chance. If Mr Harcourt had been at the castle on the day of her aunt’s disappearance, perhaps he had had something to do with it.
‘Are there any more guests I need to be wary of?’ asked Helena, as she set a cup and saucer on a tray.
‘Stay away from Lady Jassry. She’s a tongue as sharp as my kitchen knife, and Mrs Yorke will likely accuse you of stealing her jewels if you go in her room. But the others are mostly well behaved.’
Helena gave the tray to the oldest village woman, a stoutly-made matron of ample girth, and told her to carry it upstairs.
She was kept busy throughout the afternoon as carriages rolled up at the door, spilling out their guests. They were elegant and well dressed, and were accompanied by valets and maids, who hastened to do everything to ensure the comfort of their masters and mistresses, whilst managing to banter between themselves.
Helena was kept busy showing guests to their rooms and making sure that the servants knew where they were to eat and sleep. Many had been to the castle before, but for some it was their first time, and twice Helena came across tearful maids who were lost in the castle’s corridors.
Mrs Beal was like three women, seeing to the roasting and boiling of meats, overseeing the preparation of mountains of vegetables, putting the finishing touches to the pies and puddings that had already been made, and were in the pantry, ready for their grand entrance at the end of dinner. She chivvied the maids who were making the tea and checked each tray before it left the kitchen, making sure there was a good selection of cakes and biscuits to go to each room.
The musicians arrived. They knew where to go, having played at the castle before, and they established themselves in the minstrels’ gallery, tuning their instruments before trying out a variety of tunes.
The holiday atmosphere was infectious, and for the first time Helena saw the castle as it must have been when Lord Torkrow’s parents were still alive. Every downstairs room was open, and every bedroom in the west wing. The dust sheets had gone and the fires had been lit. The candelabras were set in front of polished mirrors that reflected the dancing light.
At last, the overnight guests had all arrived, and were safely in their rooms. Helena retired to the kitchen, where she and Mrs Beal had a sandwich and a slice of pie before turning their attention to preparing dinner for Lord Torkrow’s guests.
‘I’ll be glad when dinner’s over,’ said Mrs Beal. ‘Then we can get on with laying supper out in the dining-room.’
Four o’clock arrived, and dinner was served to Lord Torkrow and his guests. Mrs Beal waited impatiently for them to finish, and as soon as they had left the dining-room and retired to their bedchambers to prepare for the ball, she began to organise the maids and footmen, who quickly cleared dinner and then started carrying the less delicate supper foods upstairs.
At seven o’clock, Helena paused for breath, looking over the groaning tables. The white damask cloths could barely be seen beneath silver platters, candelabras and crystal bowls on tall stems containing pyramids of fruit.
At ten minutes to eight, Lord Torkrow appeared in the hall. He was dressed in a black tailcoat with black pantaloons.
‘Is everything ready?’ he asked Helena, as she hurried through the hall.
‘Yes, my lord.’
The sound of a carriage crunching on the gravel outside could be heard. Helena glanced to the door. Dawkins was there, dressed in his best livery, ready to open it. Helena had taken the precaution of locking the door to the west wing of the attic so that he could not get on to the battlements, and if he had noticed, he had not said so. Indeed, how could he mention it, without revealing that he had a reason for wanting to go there? The ruse had kept him sober, and as a loud knock came at the door he opened it with aplomb.
It was the Fairdeans who had arrived. Helena showed them to the ladies’ withdrawing room, where their maid helped them to remove their cloaks. Miss Fairdean looked exquisite in a daring costume proclaiming her to be a wood nymph. The diaphanous material of her gown was skilfully woven in different shades of blue and green which changed with the light, giving a magical impression. She preened herself in front of the mirror, ignoring Helena in the way she ignored the chairs and washstand, whilst her maid and her mother both flattered her.
Helena followed them out of the room, whereupon they sought out Lord Torkrow, congratulating him on the splendour of the castle – ‘a magnificent sight’; his attire – ‘so clever of you to resist the urge to dress up, I’m sure the rest of us must seem like children to you’; and his goodness in holding the ball – ‘for it must be quite a burden to you, but all your friends do so enjoy it’.
Helena saw his look of contempt, and thought that Miss Fairdean should say less if she wanted to attract him more.
Helena was kept busy as more and more guests arrived. Footmen hurried past her, carrying trays of wine, the musicians played lively airs, and the ballroom began to fill with dancers.
When all the guests had arrived, Helena allowed herself a few quite minutes in the housekeeper’s room, glad of the forethought that had led her to place a tray there so that she could refresh herself before proceeding with her plan.
It was still not too late to abandon the idea. If her masquerade was discovered, she could find herself in danger. But if not, she could learn something useful.
She had a small glass of ratafia and several biscuits. Her energy renewed, she was about to go upstairs to change when the door opened and Mr Harcourt entered. He was dressed as Don Juan, with a short black cloak over black trousers and white shirt, and on his head he wore a black hat. Strings dangled from it, falling loosely beneath his chin. His eyes were covered with a black mask, but Helena recognised him by the ring on his finger and the smell of brandy on his breath.
‘I’ve been waiting for this moment all evening,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d never get you alone, and then I saw you slipping in here. All you seem to do is work. That doesn’t seem fair, when everyone else is enjoying the ball.’
‘It is my job,’ said Helena.
‘It doesn’t have to be,’ he said, sitting down on a corner of the desk, with one foot touching the floor and one foot left dangling. He leant forwards in a familiar way. ‘There are better ways to earn a living. Easier, too. No more lighting fires and cleaning grates.’
‘I am a housekeeper. I do not light fires or clean grates,’ she told him coolly. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I am just on my way to the ballroom.’
He sto
od up and blocked her path.
‘It’s a pity to see such a young woman wearing such an old gown,’ he said, stroking her shoulder. ‘And a pretty woman, too. Such beautiful hair . . . so rich and thick . . . It could be properly dressed, if you had a little money to play with.’
‘Is this the way you always behave with housekeepers?’ she demanded, as she shrugged away from him. ‘Did you insult Mrs Carlisle in this way too?’
‘Mrs Carlisle?’
‘His lordship’s previous housekeeper.’
He laughed.
‘I’d have had to be desperate to do that. The women was old and sour, and fit for nothing but drudgery. But you —’
‘Enough,’ said Helena.
She attempted to side step past him, but he stepped to the side as well.
‘Why so hasty? I have a proposition to put to you, one that would be worth you listening to. You don’t have to go around in old rags, you could have something new and pretty to wear.’ He plucked at the sleeve of her thick woollen gown. ‘Not something coarse like this, but something made of silk, or satin. Something bright, like a butterfly. You could have jewels at your throat and a bracelet on your wrist.’
He stroked her arm as he said it. She shuddered, and pulled it away.
‘I am satisfied with what I have,’ she said quellingly.
‘Oh, no, not satisfied. You don’t know what it is to be satisfied,’ he said suggestively. ‘But I can teach you. You’d be a good student, I’ll be bound.’
‘I must go,’ said Helena. ‘I am needed to give instructions to the maids. I will be missed.’
‘Not for a few minutes you won’t, and a few minutes is all it takes for you to earn a golden guinea.’
He took one out of his pocket and held it up in front of her.
She was enraged. It was bad enough that he should think the sight of gold would dazzle her and it was a hundred times worse that he should think one guinea should suffice to buy her. The final insult was that he would think she would earn money in that way in the first place.
‘Get out of my way,’ she said, all politeness gone.
‘So you’re a woman of passion,’ he said, bending forward to whisper in her ear. His breath was hot and wet and made her shudder. ‘I like that. But I can teach you how to channel that passion in other, more exciting ways, and I can teach you how to earn money from it as well. There’s a guinea for you now, and another one when you come to my room tonight. Or would you rather have a lesson here?’
She pushed past him and ran into the hall, losing herself quickly in the crowd of guests. She glanced in the mirror hanging on the wall and saw no sign of him having followed her, so she put the incident behind her and went upstairs. She made her way to the empty bedchamber and then closed and locked the door behind her. She was suddenly nervous. If she went through with her plan - if she dressed up and went to the ball - then she would probably lose her position if she was discovered. But if she did not, then she might never find out what had happened to her aunt.
She slipped off her dress, feeling the cold bite of the air as her limbs were exposed. She almost wished she had ordered a fire lit in the room. But no, it was better this way, for with its abandoned air, the room had not attracted any unwelcome guests: young ladies retreating from the noise, or couples keeping secret assignations.
Quickly she took off her petticoats and donned the red velvet dress. As it whispered down over her skin, she felt herself taking on a new persona, and as she put on the wig and fastened the mask over her eyes she thought to herself that it was a disguise within a disguise: the medieval lady was a disguise for Mrs Reynolds, and Elizabeth Reynolds was a disguise for Helena Carlisle. She put on a pair of shoes with red high heels that had been in the tea chest with the dress, and then put on the hat.
Even Aunt Hester would not know me now, she thought.
She opened the door and the sound of music became louder. Voices rose up from below, chattering and laughing. She went along the corridor and down the stairs, keeping to the shadows so as not to draw attention to herself. As she descended, she cast her eyes over all the people. Kings and queens, monks and fairies, knights and ladies all mingled together, filling the sombre castle with their brilliance. Masks covered their faces, some no larger than was necessary to cover their eyes, some obscuring their entire heads.
Everywhere she looked she saw illusion, as people pretended to be something they were not. And then she saw Lord Torkrow, black against the dazzling background. He disdained pretence, and proclaimed to the world who he was. His face was unmasked. He was something real and solid in the sea of disguise. His strong features were shown off by the candlelight, and it created light and shade in patterns across his face. It was like his character, she thought, a perplexing mix of light and shade.
‘Champagne?’ came a respectful voice at her side.
It was Dawkins. She stiffened, afraid he might recognise her, but his face was impassive. She took a glass and he moved on. She felt her confidence grow. She moved through the room with ease, as though it was her right to be there, sipping her champagne. But her new-found security vanished when, going into the ballroom some five minutes later, she saw Lord Torkrow walking towards her. He was not looking at her, though, and after briefly faltering she continued, but as she drew level with him, his eyes flicked to hers, and she knew a moment of panic. Her pulse escalated still further when he stopped and looked at her curiously, as if trying to remember where he had seen her before. Then he said: ‘May I have the pleasure of this dance?’
She searched her mind for an excuse, but before she could think of one he had taken her hand and led her on to the floor.
There was a stir of interest around them. The opening chords of the dance sounded, and Helena swept a curtsey. The dress made the action extravagant, and she was beginning to find the evening stimulating. She had never been to a ball before, and the sounds and scents were intoxicating.
Opposite her, Lord Torkrow bowed. She seemed to be seeing him more clearly than usual, as though the stimulation of her other senses had stimulated her sight as well. The deep-set eyes, the high cheekbones, the pointed chin all drew her eye. He was not handsome, and yet she found his features strangely compelling, and her gaze roved over his face, taking it in.
They began to dance. As they walked towards each other, Helena felt a shiver of anticipation as their hands touched each other in a star. They separated, and she found herself looking forward to the next contact. They repeated the measure and came together again.
‘I don’t believe I know you,’ said Lord Torkrow, looking at her curiously.
Helena did not reply.
‘Are you a friend of Miss Cartwright’s?’
She smiled and shook her head.
‘Then a cousin of Mr Kerson?’
Again she shook her head.
The dance parted them, and she was relieved to be away from him. So far, she had answered all his questions with a nod or a shake of the head, but there would be other questions, more difficult to answer.
When they came together again, he asked: ‘Will you be staying in the neighbourhood long?’
She shook her head.
‘Do you never speak?’ he asked, his voice intrigued.
Castle of Secrets Page 16
