‘Why did he keep me on?’ I asked.
‘Now is not the time, Euphemia.’
‘You say that every time I ask!’
‘Good gracious, girl. We need to get this woman to bed and ring for a doctor and you want to stand around here talking about your situation in a manner, I might add, that is quite out of character for a maid.’
‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’
‘Don’t grit your teeth at me, Euphemia. You might try being grateful that you have a job at all. Now help me get Mrs Wilson through to her room. Careful of the floor.’
Grateful! If I hadn’t been holding up the housekeeper, I would have boxed his ears and damned the consequences.3 So really, it was just as well Mrs Wilson was between us. I am not normally this hot-blooded, but Mr Bertram and his often confusing actions do stir my blood. It does not help that he allows me to talk to him in a manner that is quite unfitting for our relationship.
We half-carried, half-dragged the unconscious woman through to her room, which fortunately lies a little beyond the kitchen and not on the upper floor. Despite being thin she proved as awkward in her comatose state as in her waking one. Her rake-like limbs and sagging body required an unusual effort to remove her to her bed. As we finally lowered her down onto the counterpane, I was panting heavily.
‘The unconscious are always heavier than the awake,’ remarked a red-faced Mr Bertram.
I suspect he felt that, in requesting my help, he had lessened his manly standard in my eyes but, instead of responding reassuringly, I gazed horrified at Mrs Wilson’s form.
‘Should her leg be bent like that?’ I asked. Mrs Wilson’s skirts had risen up somewhat exposing one limb lying at a sickening angle.
Mr Bertram averted his face. ‘Really, Euphemia. Lower the poor woman’s skirts.’
‘But I think it’s broken.’
‘Cover her and I will ring up for the doctor.’
I obeyed his request. ‘She was drunk, you know.’
‘Euphemia!’
‘You smelled the whisky on her breath – sir.’
Mr Bertram sighed. ‘It has been a most difficult time for all of us. She was very attached to my late father.’
‘Your father,’ I repeated in a marked tone.
‘Not all children are lucky enough to have as positive a relationship with their father as you obviously enjoyed.’
Immediately I found myself blinking back tears. A stray one escaped onto my lashes. Mr Bertram turned quickly, muttered something that might have been an apology and left.
While he attempted to convince our local doctor to come out to the house I searched Mrs Wilson’s room for bottles. I disliked her immensely. She was cruel and capricious, but what Mr Bertram had said made sense. Although I acquitted her of impropriety, she had been most attached to the late master of the house. Now, with him gone and the mistress absent, it must feel as her whole world had turned upside down. Besides I had laughed at her misfortune and, for a vicar’s daughter – let alone the granddaughter of an earl (albeit an incognito one) – my behaviour was unacceptable.
I found and removed five bottles; three empty and two whose contents I poured down the kitchen sink. Mrs Deighton shook her head. ‘You’re a good girl, Euphemia. It’s been her weakness many a long year. Considering how she treats you maids. The old master might have turned a blind eye, but I reckons the new Lord Stapleford would have had ’er packing her bags while she was still ’opping.’
‘Was she always like this?’
‘A drunkard, you mean?’
I grimaced at the distasteful word.
‘You know me. I calls a spade as I see it.’
‘I know you wouldn’t want to see Mrs Wilson turned away without a reference.’
‘Hmm, well, that’s as maybe, but it goes to my heart to see brandy that good pouring down the drain. A drop of that in this syllabub would go down a treat.’
I stopped pouring, startled. ‘I never thought.’
Mrs Deighton shook her head. ‘Nope, you started pouring away like one of those temperance people. You’re not, are you?’
‘Who is going to run the household while she’s ill?’
‘A broken leg won’t stop her giving orders. You wait and see. You girls’ll be working harder than ever you have before. Pain is a bad master.’
I stored the last empty bottle in the pantry for cleaning. ‘Euphemia,’ Mrs Deighton called after me. ‘You’d better get a wash before the master sees you. You smell. Sorry, ducks, but I ain’t got time to heat you any water.’
I groaned. The only hot water the servants were allowed in this house was heated on the range and, with dinner underway and the master expected home at any moment, this meant a wash in cold water. ‘Yer better get that dress into soak too.’
I nodded. ‘I’d better stay with Mrs Wilson until the doctor arrives.’
‘Doesn’t sound like she’s going anywhere. Make sure you’re changed before the master gets home. He’s due.’
My mind suddenly darted back to the hall – the bucket, mop and general mess I had left behind. If I didn’t clean it up it would be the first thing the master saw on entering the house. Then I would be the one in need of a reference. I raced back to the hall only to find another set of dirty footprints across the hallway. I could have screamed.
This time working as fast as I could I slopped water around. ‘Yer making a right mess of that.’ The other senior maid’s freckled face, surrounded by its mass of brown curls, bobbed up over the landing railing.
‘Merry, give me a hand. The master’s due. Find me some rags so I can get this sorted before he arrives, will you?’
‘Seeing as you caused the Old Crow’s accident, I think I might,’ she replied jauntily.
‘Merry!’ But she was gone. Moments later she reappeared with some rags and together we mopped up the rest of the water on the floor.
‘What happened?’
‘Mrs Wilson …’
‘Nah, not her. The water.’
‘Miss Richenda felt the need to visit her horse several times today.’
‘Why? Did she kiss it in the hope it would turn into a handsome prince?’ Merry giggled irrepressibly at her own joke.
I shrugged.
‘She knew you were covering for Daisy’s day off, didn’t she?’ asked Merry shrewdly. ‘Cor, but you have a way of getting under people’s skin.’
The door behind us opened and in walked Mr Bertram with the doctor. He must have gone to fetch him. Merry quickly bundled the rags into the bucket and picked it up. ‘And here’s someone what would like to get under your skin.’
‘Merry!’ I gasped in horror.
‘Euphemia!’ cried Mr Bertram. ‘Why aren’t you with Mrs Wilson?’
‘I thought I had better ensure no one else suffered a similar accident, sir. When I left Mrs Wilson was asleep. No doubt the pain and shock. I’m sure her leg is broken.’
The doctor, a dour-looking man in his late 50s and a worn tweed suit, unexpectedly smiled at me. ‘More like the bottle, if I know Mrs W. Come along with me, young lady, and we can observe the proprieties. You, Bertram, wait outside.’
The doctor’s examination of Mrs Wilson was quick but thorough. She groaned when he manipulated her broken leg, but her eyes remained closed. ‘Quite right, my dear. A very nasty break. It’s a pity you moved her. Was it your idea?’
He fastened a pair of intense hazel eyes on me.
‘No, sir,’ I stammered.
‘Bertram and his desire to have everything in its place, no doubt.’
‘I believe he was acting as he thought best, sir.’
The doctor flashed me another curious glance. ‘You’re a sharp one, young woman, and you’re unfortunately pretty. Mr Bertram is the best of them, but don’t go springing to his defence too readily.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Family doctor. You’re on his mind and that’s dangerous.’ He smiled in the face of my obvious shock and patted my shoulder. ‘I knew Mrs W when she was you
ng, you know. Used to be a pretty little thing, though you’d not believe it now. I’d rather not see history repeat itself.’
He threw open the door. Mr Bertram shot back into the corridor. ‘Going to be a plaster of Paris job, this one. I’ll need a couple of men to hold her down while I set the leg. Should probably warn the household there’ll be a bit of screaming. I’d rather not give her anything on top of what she’s already consumed. This way to the kitchen, isn’t it? They’ll have the things I need.’ And with that the doctor strode out of the room.
I felt my own legs grow rather shaky. I put out a hand to steady myself. ‘You’ve done enough, Euphemia, go and clean yourself,’ said Mr Bertram.
‘Yes, sir.’ I forced my unruly legs to carry me forward. The thought of the poor woman in such pain made me feel nauseous. I took a deep breath and kept my head down. Mr Bertram touched me on the sleeve. ‘I’ll be down here with the doctor for quite some time.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Down here, with the doctor,’ he repeated. I fought the nausea to look up to his face. He wore an expression of exasperation. ‘Down here with the doctor, so if some servant should take advantage of my absence to use my bathroom, provided she cleaned up after herself, I would never know.’
‘Sir!’ I gasped torn between the thought of luxurious hot water and what would happen if I was caught going into his bathroom, which adjoined his bedroom.
‘Don’t be a prude, Euphemia. It’s only a bath for bathing.’
Though I blush to confess it, I did take advantage of his offer and washed as quickly as I could. The bath had a curved standing area with water outlets at one end, so I could eradicate the dirt from all aspects of my person. I have to say, it was quite an amazing contraption, providing what I can only describe as directed indoor warm rain all over my person. I had in the past been tasked to clean this strange new-fangled device, but I had never, of course, seen it in operation. It was quite marvellous.
In very short order I closed Mr Bertram’s chamber door behind me and scurried back towards the servants’ stair. The hair in my braid was wet, but I no longer smelt of the stable. Unfortunately I had no clean spare uniform and I had not been able to find Merry to borrow one, so I had decided to put on the demure dress I had worn on my arrival. As long as I kept out of the family’s way it would not matter. My other uniform which had needed to be washed, after Miss Richenda had “accidentally” tipped tea all over me, would be dry by tomorrow. Delicious smells floated up from the kitchen. I hoped Mrs Deighton had kept some supper aside for me.
I was almost at the staircase, carrying my dirty garments, when Lord Richard’s door flew open and Miss Richenda stormed out. She glared at me and strode past, then called over her shoulder. ‘Use Euphemia. She would already seem to be dressed for the position.’
I froze open-mouthed. Lord Richard followed her out. London had not been kind to him. His fiery hair was already thinning at his crown and he had the beginnings of a paunch billowing over his trousers. He stared at me. ‘That dog, Bertie,’ he barked.
I dropped a quick curtsy and headed towards the stair.
‘No, wait,’ commanded Lord Richard. ‘Me sister may have a point. Why shouldn’t you do it?’ He came unnecessarily close and tilted my chin, so I was forced to look into his watery blue eyes. ‘We both know you’re capable of being more than a mere maid.’
I inhaled. He pinched my chin.
‘Now, now, I’d rather not hear that impressive scream of yours again. Thanks to my brother we’re stuck with each other, Euphemia. I propose to make the best of the situation. You can take Wilson’s place.’
‘B-b-become housekeeper?’ I stammered.
‘Ha-ha-ha! Don’t worry, it’s not for ever. It’s the opening of the grouse-shooting season, girl! I need someone to oversee a little hunting party of mine and it seems my sister is not up to the job. I’ll take you, Merry and a couple of others, what? There’s a local man coming in to cook, Mrs D not being up to the journey. You can oversee the servants for me.’
‘Of course, sir. I’d be honoured.’ I tried to step back, but he pinched my chin harder.
‘Don’t worry you’ll be well chaperoned, Euphemia. Up there.’ And then, with blinding quickness, he pressed his bristled lips to mine. The effect was most unpleasant. I pulled back, shrieked, dropped my bundle and fairly flew down the stairs. Behind me I heard his mocking laughter.
Hot tears pricked behind my eyes, blurring my vision, but I refused to shed them. I wiped the back of my hand roughly across my mouth as if my own skin could rid me of his touch. At the bottom of the stairs I paused to compose myself. Why any woman of good breeding should allow herself to be kissed, I have no idea.
I headed through to the kitchen. To my astonishment it was empty. Pots bubbled on the range and wonderful smells wafted from the ovens. The dishes for serving lay, still clean, on the table. Then there came a long drawn-out scream and I realised Mrs Wilson’s leg must be being set. No doubt Mrs Deighton had been called upon to chaperone and everyone else not unhappily tasked with holding down the poor woman had made his or her escape. A slight smell of burning issued from the high oven. I looked at it helplessly. Cooking is not an ability I number among my skills.
I stepped into the corridor, only for another scream to send me hurrying back. Nothing connected with Mrs Wilson was ever easy and it seemed it was so with her leg also. The doctor had described it as a bad break. The smell of burning increased. I was almost certain of the oven it was coming from. Taking up an oven cloth, left neatly folded over the back of a chair, I approached the oven door as a cautious trapper might approach a bear’s lair. I opened the hatch quickly and pushed the door back. Inside a joint of some indiscernible kind smoked in the darkness. I wrapped the cloth tightly around my hands and pulled out the heavy dish.
‘Are you the cook?’ asked an unfamiliar male voice.
I whirled round in surprise to be confronted by a tall, well-dressed young man, with burnished gold hair and green eyes of startling luminosity. He was quite the most handsome man I had seen.
Smash!
The dish of meat – never that secure in my cloth-wrapped hands – had fallen from my startled grasp as I turned. The ceramic dish that had contained it, and which I now recognised in the bright light of the sunny kitchen as Mrs Deighton’s favourite, split in two and juices from the shoulder of blackened lamb spilt out over the floor.
‘Oh!’ I cried in dismay. ‘Look what I’ve done.’
‘If you don’t mind me saying it looks a mite overdone.’ There was a faint burr to his accent I couldn’t quite place.
‘Oh, Mrs Deighton will be so upset,’ I cried snatching a plate from the table. ‘Maybe I can salvage something!’
‘Mrs Deighton? Am I in the wrong place? I thought this was Lord Stapleford’s house?’
‘She’s the cook,’ I said kneeling and attempting to extricate the meat from the wreckage.
‘Easy now,’ said the stranger kneeling down beside me. ‘No one is going to want shards of china in their dinner.’
I sat back on my heels. ‘It’s ruined!’ And to my dismay I burst into tears.
‘Now, now, lass. Don’t fret. It’s not the crown jewels. Only a piece of meat. You compose yourself while I get this mess off the floor before someone slips in it.’ He gently guided me into a chair and set about stacking the remnants onto a large salver. At the word “slip” I felt a huge sob rise up within me. Thank goodness I still had hold of the cooking cloth. I hid my head in it and indulged in a bout of hearty weeping for a minute or more. When I resurfaced the man had placed the salver on the table and was running a cloth over the meat juices on the floor by dint of pushing it round with his shoe. This proved to be quite efficient. It was only a pity he was using one of the best linen napkins.
‘I’m so sorry, sir,’ I said wiping my face clean. ‘I’m afraid I’ve had a rather difficult day. I wouldn’t normally indulge in such a display.’
The man stopped a
nd gave me a half smile. ‘Would you not? I’m glad to hear it. Don’t be worrying if anyone complains – I will take the blame. I should not have been startling you, but I arrived to find the front door open and no one in attendance.’
I blushed. ‘I assure you, sir. We are not normally so lax a household, but our housekeeper Mrs Wilson was subject to a bad accident this afternoon and we are without a butler at present, so things are a little out of hand.’
‘I see. And who might you be?’
‘I’m Euphemia, sir. One of the maids.’
‘A maid? If not the cook, I took you for the housekeeper. Although, now I see you without a cloth over your head, I suppose you are a bit young for such a position.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Are you without curiosity? Are you not going to ask me who I am?’
‘It’s hardly my place to question Lord Richard’s guests, sir.’
The man laughed at this, but not in the mocking way Lord Richard would have done. ‘You give me too much credit, lass. I’m Rory McLeod.’ He held out his hand to me. I regarded him in confusion. ‘Your new butler.’ he said. ‘Never say I wasn’t expected?’
‘I really have no idea, Mr McLeod.’ I said rising a little unsteadily and taking his hand. ‘But it is very nice to meet you.’
‘Likewise, lass. Now … this accident?’
I hung my head. ‘She slipped on the stairs.’
‘And?’ asked Mr McLeod. ‘There’s a bit more to it, if I don’t mistake your expression.’
I sighed. ‘I’d been cleaning them and she slipped in the soapy water.’
He frowned. ‘You were cleaning them in the middle of the day?’
‘They were dirty,’ I said not wanting to unfold the whole sorry tale and sound like an ungracious servant.
‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘That’s not everything, is it? I’m known for my observations. Staff under my care learn this. It’s up to them if they learn it the easy or the hard way.’
I bit my lip and wondered what I could say. Another long drawn-out scream punctured the silence. Mr McLeod paled slightly and raised an eyebrow in query. ‘Mrs Wilson,’ I said. ‘She broke her leg.’
A Death in the Highlands Page 2
