by Janet Woods
‘Yes, Miss.’
Maggie snorted.
‘Is there something you need to say, Maggie?’
The cook whirled around. ‘Who do you think you are marching in here giving us orders?’
‘I’m the new housekeeper. If you don’t like it, say so.’
Maggie’s arms went to her hips and her chin thrust forward. ‘I don’t like it.’
‘Thank you for being honest; I shall be likewise. I don’t like doing the work other people are being paid to do. This kitchen is dirty, and that will attract vermin. Please clean this kitchen up and get on with your job. If you’d rather not work under me then I know somebody who would be happy to step into your shoes.’
Maggie gasped, and her voice took on a whine. ‘We’ll see what the master has to say about this.’
‘I doubt if Mr Leighton will appreciate the fact that he’s paying his staff a wage to sleep all day,’ Sara said drily. She could almost see Maggie’s mind working, and wondered which way she’d jump. To her relief, eventually the woman came to the conclusion that she was better-off doing as she was told.
Maggie shrugged. ‘I was just having a nap, that’s all, Miss. I’m sorry, it won’t happen again, I’m sure.’
‘So am I, Maggie . . . neither will drinking your employer’s port happen again, I hope, since I think it was that which caused the need for a nap.’
‘Yes, Miss . . . I mean . . . no, Miss.’
Sara exchanged a glance with Mrs Cornwell, who smiled encouragingly at her. She noticed a young man at the door. About her own age, he was muscular, had hair the colour of ripe wheat, pale-blue eyes and a ready smile. ‘You must be Giles.’
‘Aye, I am, that.’
‘I’m Miss Finn, the new housekeeper. Did you pick my trunk up from the railway station? The stationmaster was keeping it safe in his office.’
‘He wasn’t there. I’ll pick it up tomorrow when I take Mrs Cornwell to catch the train.’
‘Why weren’t you there to meet me, Giles? I was told to expect someone.’
He flushed. ‘Sorry, Miss Finn, I had something else to do first, and when I got there you’d left.’
‘Where’s Joseph Tunney?’
‘It’s his day off, Miss.’
She nodded. ‘I see.’ And she saw only too well because it accounted for the stationmaster’s remark about the mice playing when the cat was away. She’d already formed the impression that most of this household took advantage of the absence of the owner, and the house lacked an efficient manager. That would come to an end. ‘Try not to let it happen again, Giles, else I’ll have to talk to Mr Tunney about it. You can all go about your business now.’
After dinner, and she had to admit that the lamb stew was excellent, Mrs Cornwell showed her how to do the menus for the week, then they went through the stores list and the linen inventory. ‘The house provides skirts, blouses and aprons. Two outfits a year apiece. They’re in the linen cupboard. No doubt you can find something to fit, though the hems might need taking up. If you pin them up, Fanny will do them. I’ve taught her to sew, and she enjoys it and is good at it.’
‘That’s nice to know. I can sew, but it’s something I dislike doing.’
‘I’ve ordered the stores a month ahead, so it will give you time to get used to what is where. There’s a market in Taunton, and Joseph keeps a vegetable garden. Giles fetches fresh milk from the farm every morning. There’s no mistress in the house. Finch Leighton is a widower and he relies very much on the housekeeper to keep everything up to date.’
‘What’s Mr Leighton like?’
‘Easy-going, but he gets restless and bored easily. Don’t move any of the furniture around. He likes everything to be in its proper place.’
After that there was very little to be said. In the dying light the air took on a misty purple hue and was filled with insects and perfume. They walked around the garden together, visiting the stable with its one horse, named Curruthers. It snickered softly at them.
Later on, and lacking her nightgown, which was in her trunk, Sara stripped down to her chemise, wrapped herself in a blanket and stretched out on the couch. This little domain would be hers tomorrow, was her last thought before she fell asleep.
Fanny woke her, bringing an offering of a neatly hemmed skirt, a blue striped bodice and a white starched apron, all of which had been ironed.
‘Thank you, Fanny. Your stitching is so neat. Well done.’
Her words brought a wide smile to the girl’s face.
Sara dressed, tidily braided her long hair then headed for the kitchen. She had to set the employees a good example.
She found she didn’t have to. Maggie was already up and cooking breakfast. The kitchen looked cleaner, and the woman gave her a wary look until she smiled and said, ‘That smells delicious.’
Maggie beamed at her. ‘Fresh eggs, smoked bacon and sausages, and some fried tomatoes if you like. And there’s some toasted bread, or you can have it fried. Giles likes it fried, but Mr Tunney prefers toast.’
‘Toast sounds wonderful. If you pass me the toasting fork and bread I’ll make my own.’
An hour later, Mrs Cornwell had been sent on her way with Giles in the cart. Sara was touched to see that they’d bought her a farewell gift to remember them by, a pair of kid gloves with pearl buttons for best.
‘More than she deserved,’ Maggie said. ‘She’s only worked here for five years – not that she dirtied her hands, mind, she made poor Fanny do it all.’
When they’d finished waving they all went back inside and Sara told them. ‘I understand the master is to arrive tomorrow. We need to get this house looking much brighter. The silver needs polishing, Maggie. Fanny, you can put a shine on all the mirrors.’
‘It’s ironing day.’
‘You can do the ironing afterwards. I’m going to clean my rooms, then the study, in case the master wants to use it.’
‘There’s no reason why he should,’ Maggie said.
‘Which doesn’t mean to say that it should be left to collect dirt, and neither should the rest of the house come to that. It will make a bad impression on visitors, who will think Mr Leighton keeps a slovenly household,’ Sara said.
Maggie’s hands went to her hips. ‘Here, you watch what you’re saying. I’m not slovenly, and the state of the house is none of my business. It was Mrs Cornwell’s, and now it’s yours. Besides, the master doesn’t often have visitors.’
‘I know the state of the house is my business, Maggie, and I’ll be keeping an eye on the kitchen as part of it. Where’s Mr Tunney, has anyone seen him?’
‘Joseph had his breakfast early, and is spreading compost. After that he’s got the border to weed. You’ll get to meet him at dinner. Did you want him for something?’
‘No, it’s just that I haven’t met him yet.’
‘Joseph is a bit bashful. Chances are that he’ll make himself known sooner or later,’ she said, and Sara had to be contented with that.
It was a busy morning, but the house was beginning to take on a soft glow.
The study was filled with books that had wonderful leather bindings with gold letters. There was a picture of the late Mrs Leighton on the wall. She was beautiful, with light-brown hair, gleaming blue eyes and a mischievous pursed smile that made her appear to be about to burst into laughter.
The dress she’d worn for the portrait was hanging over the back of the chair in her room upstairs. The rich, dark-red satin was faded, the fabric ripped and stained. Her personal items were still on the dressing table. Perfume bottles, a dressing-table set, and a pair of silk gloves. A diamond ring and bracelet and a string of pearls with a locket clasp were where they’d been left.
‘The master knows where everything is, so don’t move anything,’ Mrs Cornwell had said, and she’d turned back the blue satin spread to show her the stains. ‘Diana, her name was,’ and she’d lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘The room is kept locked. I’m showing it to you so you know. When the mas
ter’s down here, sometimes he comes in here and sometimes he don’t. It’s morbid keeping things like this, if you ask me.’
‘How did she die?’
‘There was an accident in the rig, a deer came out of the hedge, the horse reared and Mrs Leighton was thrown. She banged her head on a log. Mr Leighton had the reins. He blamed himself, even though he was badly injured himself. I don’t like coming in here. It makes me shudder just thinking about it. She died on that bed, her skull cracked open like an egg. It was a blessing really because the fall addled her wits. When she was conscious she didn’t know anyone. She just lay there dribbling and couldn’t do anything for herself. That was several years ago.’
A sad tale, Sara thought, but it was in the past and self-pity was not a trait to be either encouraged or admired, Reverend Pawley had often told her. There were plenty of jobs to be done that would keep her busy, like the unoccupied rooms. Once the house was clean it would be easier to keep it clean.
She went into the garden to pick a bunch of roses. Rounding a corner she came across a weathered-looking man sitting on a log. He touched his cap. ‘Miss Finn, is it then?’
‘It is. You must be Joseph, or would you prefer Mr Tunney?’
‘Joseph will do. You’re making the dust fly, I hear. I can’t say it’s not about time.’
‘It certainly is. I’ve never seen such a dirty house, but I like to keep busy.’
‘It’s a sad place that needs to feel cared for again. If those roses are for the house they needs their thorns clipping off. Give them over here.’ Taking a knife from his pocket he nipped the thorns off. ‘There, now they can’t be the cause of an accident. You’ve got to be careful with roses, sometimes a scratch can cause a body a lot of damage.’
‘Thank you. Where’s Giles?’
‘Can’t rightly say, Miss. Gone out on the cart, I reckon.’
She hoped Giles would remember to collect her trunk.
Back in the house she arranged the roses in a glowing copper bowl, set them on a table in the small sitting room then went into the study with her dusters and a bucket of water. It was going to take her longer than she expected. All the books were covered in dust and the ashes from the last fire were still in the grate. She was soon busy, and an hour later everything was to her liking.
The clock struck midday and she made her way to the kitchen. Maggie gazed at her. ‘Mrs Cornwell used to have her meals served in her rooms. She kept herself to herself, she did.’
‘I’d rather eat in the kitchen with the rest of the staff, if you don’t mind.’
‘It’s a bit more friendly-like, so I don’t mind, seeing as you ask. Mrs Cornwell thought she was a cut above us, especially when she got herself engaged.’ Maggie sniffed. ‘She answered a notice in the newspaper from a man wanting a mother for his brats.’
There was some chicken soup and freshly made bread to revive them. Sara was relieved to see Giles come in, and asked him, ‘Did you remember to fetch my trunk, Giles?’
‘Yes, Miss.’
‘Good.’ She supposed he’d put it in her rooms. ‘Have you finished the ironing, Fanny?’
‘Yes, Miss.’
‘Then you can help me with the drawing room after we’ve had a break. That was a delicious soup, Maggie.’
‘There’s nothing more tasty than a nice bit of chicken,’ the woman said, ‘except a nice bit of beef or pork, of course. Then there’s lamb. The master is partial to it. He likes it roasted with potatoes and parsnips. And he likes apple pie. He’s very easy to please, really.’
The drawing room caught the morning sun. Like the rest of the house it was dirty. She pulled the dustsheet off the piano and smiled. Elizabeth Pawley had made piano lessons part of her education, and although she wasn’t an expert, she had picked it up easily. She ran her fingers up and down the scales to warm her fingers and make them more flexible, as she’d been taught. The piano needed tuning, but it wasn’t too bad, and she played a couple of short Bach pieces before moving on to a lively Chopin waltz.
A crash interrupted her short concert. Her heart thumped against her chest when somebody uttered a solid curse, followed by, ‘What in hell’s name is this I’ve tripped over, Oscar?’
Two
‘It appears to be a travelling trunk, Mr Leighton.’
Her employer!
What a stupid place to leave a trunk. Help me up please, Oscar.’
Sara flew through the drawing-room door, across the hall and to the porch, where a man was being helped up by another. ‘I’m so sorry . . . it’s my trunk . . . are you all right, sir?’
‘Apart from a bruise or two, though I dare say I’ll survive it. Where’s Mrs Cornwell? Go and fetch her.’
‘Mrs Cornwell has left.’
‘Damn it to hell, I was hoping to get here before she departed.’ He turned her way, the brim of his hat shading his eyes. ‘Has the new housekeeper arrived?’
‘I’m the new housekeeper, Sara Finn.’ When she held out a hand he ignored it, so she brought it down to her side. Perhaps employers didn’t lower themselves to shake hands with servants.
‘You sound too young to be a housekeeper.’
‘As you see, sir . . . but I’m competent.’
‘Not if you leave travelling trunks in my path.’
Finch Leighton was younger than she’d expected him to be, in his early thirties. ‘Actually, I didn’t leave it there. I didn’t know it was there.’
His mouth twitched. ‘Ah . . . that explains everything satisfactorily, Miss Finn. It’s your trunk, but you didn’t leave it there and didn’t know it was there.’
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘Am I to think it grew legs and trotted there all by itself?’
She wanted to laugh at the scene that conjured up, but didn’t dare. ‘It’s not up to me to tell you what to think, sir, but that action would be highly improbable unless the leather it’s made from is still attached to the animal it came from.’
Mr Leighton looked disgruntled. ‘Do you have an answer for everything? No . . . for God’s sake don’t answer that.’
She shrugged, and didn’t, just murmured, ‘Sorry.’
Oscar picked up Mr Leighton’s walking stick and put it in his employer’s hand with a cheerful, ‘Here you are, sir.’
‘Thank you, Oscar. Take the luggage and unpack then make sure my room is ready for occupancy. I’ll be in the sitting room.’
Fanny had come into the hall and was gazing at them with her mouth open.
‘Can I get you anything, sir?’ Sara asked him.
‘I dare say you could, but I’m not satisfied with the explanation you’ve given me with regards to the trunk being left for people to trip over, and I’m not going to allow you to wriggle out of it that easily. Also, I need to know more about you if I’m to trust you with my family home.’
She smiled at Fanny. ‘Fanny, go and tell Maggie that Mr Leighton has arrived. Perhaps you’d like some refreshment, sir?’
‘Hello, Fanny,’ he said without looking at the maid. ‘Tell cook I’m ravenous and we want tea, and whatever she has handy in the way of cake. After you, Miss Finn.’
Fanny smiled and scurried off as Sara headed for the sitting room. There was something odd about her employer. Apart from the slight limp, there was the way his fingers trailed lightly along the furniture. Well, he wouldn’t find any dust left from her cleaning that was certain. In her last position she’d been kept at it from dawn to dusk, and work had become an ingrained habit. Closing the door she watched him head for the couch. He removed his hat, set it beside him then turned towards the bowl of roses. Gently he cupped his hands around them and inhaled their perfume.
‘Lovely,’ he murmured and turned to gaze at the chair on the other side of the table. He was a handsome man with a fine-boned, but taut-looking face. His eyes were a soft brown. ‘Where are you, Miss Finn?’
She became aware with a sudden, pitying jolt of shock. ‘I’m here, near the door. I didn’t realize you
couldn’t see.’
His head moved her way. ‘Nobody told you?’
‘No.’ And she hadn’t picked up the clues. No wonder he’d cursed. ‘I’m sorry the trunk was left there. I walked from the station and couldn’t carry it by myself, so I left it with the stationmaster to be picked up.’
‘And it was picked up by Giles and left on the doorstep while he unhitched the cart, then stabled the horse. No doubt he was lured into the kitchen by the smell of Maggie’s cooking and forgot about it. It’s Thursday . . . chicken broth, yes?’
She nodded, and then remembering he couldn’t see her, she cleared her throat. ‘Yes.’
‘The house smells different, of polish and fresh air. The trouble with not having anyone living here is that the staff don’t bother. Except for my room, it usually smells of dust. Come and sit opposite me.’
When she’d settled herself, she told him, ‘Be assured, I will bother and so will the rest of your house staff from now on.’
‘You are how old?’
‘Eighteen.’
‘Good Lord, am I employing babies now? Was that you I heard playing the piano?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘How do you look . . . no don’t tell me. You have a quick, light step so will be fairly small. Your voice is low, but you have laughter in it, so at least you won’t screech.’
When she laughed, he smiled. ‘You don’t giggle, you chuckle. Musically, you’re competent, but the piano is not. It hasn’t been played since . . . well, for quite some time, really. I must get it tuned so you can provide me with entertainment occasionally. Can you sing?’
‘Like a crow at Christmas.’
He laughed.
‘Do you play the piano yourself, sir?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘You should practise.’
‘You think so? Perhaps I will. Ah, here comes Maggie.’
A few seconds later a knock came at the door and Maggie entered carrying the tea tray. She had a beaming smile on her face. ‘You’ll never guess, sir.’
He sniffed the air. ‘Almond cake.’
‘No, sir . . . it’s apple and cinnamon. You never could tell the difference.’
