Emeralds & Ashes

by Leila Rasheed

  “Yes, that will be Annie. I can hardly blame her—she is not trained for this work. But oh, what are we going to do.” Lady Georgiana sat down on the bed, tears in her eyes. “Once they’re in, it’s impossible to get them out.”

  Rebecca took a deep breath. “I think, my lady, that there is something I could try. My mother used to be a lady’s maid, and she told me about it. If you place the furs in a box of ice, the eggs will freeze and die.”

  “Ice! Won’t that harm the coats?”

  “No, my lady. They will dry before the countess even notices. I can simply take them down to the ice house.”

  “Are you sure?” Lady Georgiana looked doubtful.

  “Quite sure, my lady.”

  “Oh, well, in that case, please do it at once.”

  Rebecca quickly and carefully removed the furs from the wardrobe. Lady Georgiana watched.

  “I can’t thank you enough,” she said. She managed a smile; her eyes met Rebecca’s. “I’m sorry I was so silly. It’s just the strain…everything seems to be going wrong at once.”

  “I know, my lady. Is there…is there any news of Master Michael?”

  “There is.” Lady Georgiana’s face lightened. “I think we will be able to bring him home—that is, if his battalion is not posted abroad first, and if the army do not take it into their heads to be stubborn and not let him go. But I—I wish it had never happened. He will feel it very much, being brought home like this. It will hurt his pride.”

  “I couldn’t be sorrier that I didn’t try and stop him enlisting. But I simply didn’t know, my lady, please believe me.”

  “Of course not, how could you have? Please don’t take the countess’s words to heart. She was simply upset, afraid for her son…”

  “Naturally, my lady.” She looked down, and bobbed a curtsy. That was hopeful, but she knew how kind Lady Georgiana was. The countess might not be so quick to forgive. “I’d best go and start on these furs, my lady. Will there be anything else?”

  “No. No, thank you. That is…” Lady Georgiana hesitated. “How are things downstairs, Rebecca?”

  Rebecca thought before answering diplomatically. “Everyone is doing their best, my lady, but of course it’s very hard on Cook having to manage the upstairs staff as well.” She wondered if she should mention Mr. Wright’s reluctance to trust her with footman work, then decided it would not be fair. They had to sort out their own differences.

  “Yes. I do think that we need a housekeeper, whatever my father says. These moths only prove it. I just don’t know where to look for one.”

  “Perhaps you might write to the previous housekeeper?” Rebecca suggested. “I understand that Mrs. Cliffe gave excellent service. She might know someone, perhaps, or at least be able to give some advice…”

  “What an excellent idea, Rebecca!” Lady Georgiana’s eyes brightened.

  Rebecca curtsied. “Will that be all, my lady?”

  “Yes. Yes, and thank you Rebecca.”

  Rebecca went downstairs with the furs, feeling more cheerful. Lady Georgiana was a treasure, she thought, and she would do all she could to help her. As she came to the foot of the servants’ stairs, she heard Annie and Martha gossiping as they scrubbed pans. She walked down to the kitchen knowing what she would see: Cook doing all the work as usual while Annie leaned against the table and Martha swilled dirty water round the same pan again and again.

  “…got a cousin in the War Office, well, he’s the errand boy there. He says that this war is all the bankers’ doing.” That was Annie. “They’ll make money selling to both sides.”

  “Well, what can you expect from a pack of Jews?” Cook replied. She turned to the door and saw Rebecca standing there. “Oh, Rebecca. Take this tea up to the library, will you, and hurry up before it goes cold.”

  Rebecca didn’t reply. The weight of the furs in her arms suddenly seemed to overwhelm them, their musty smell to suffocate her.

  “Did you hear me, hoity-toity? Don’t stand there gaping; you’ll catch flies. Whatever are you doing with those furs anyway?”

  Thomas was coming up behind them, and Annie said, giggling, “Oh, Mr. Wright, Rebecca thinks she’s too good to carry the earl’s tea upstairs. I expect I’ll have to do it.”

  Rebecca turned and almost ran, away from the kitchen, out to the refreshing freedom of the garden. Her heart pounded, and the furs dragged at her arms. Just as she thought things were going well, she was reminded that everything could come crashing down at any moment.

  Georgiana stood with the countess at the drawing room window, watching as the motorcar approached down the long drive. The trees were bare and the frost looked almost like snow covering the lawns. The message from her father had come that morning: he was on his way back, with Michael. Relief fought with fear about how Michael would be feeling. Georgiana knew him so well, and knew that pride was key to his character.

  She looked down and realized she had torn the rose in her corsage almost to pieces in her nerves. If only Ada or Rose were here. At this moment she would have even been glad of Charlotte’s company—but she was still in London. The countess complained about her failure to write, but Georgiana sensed that she was really quite pleased about it—the countess was sure that it meant Charlotte was spending all her time with the suitable Bertie Castleton.

  As soon as the car drew close enough for her to be sure that her father was not alone in it, she turned and almost ran to the door. Thomas was just opening it, and Rebecca was standing by, ready to receive the driving coats, hats, and goggles. The chauffeur opened the door, and the earl got out, followed the next moment by the person Georgiana had been longing to see—Michael.

  “Oh, I am so glad you’re home safely!” she exclaimed.

  Michael’s scowl silenced her. “I expect you had a hand in this,” he said in a low, furious voice. “Don’t think I’m grateful!”

  He exchanged a single, resentful glance with the countess and then stalked off up the stairs. The countess seemed about to call him back, but the earl stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Better to let him be, my dear,” he said quietly.

  The countess clearly made an effort to control herself. The earl beckoned Georgiana toward them. “I must speak to you in the study,” he said.

  Georgiana followed him in, nervously. The study was reserved for stern talkings-to, or for official meetings. She was never comfortable here.

  Her father waited until the door closed behind them, and then stood before the fireplace, his hands behind his back. He looked, Georgiana noticed, as if he was holding in some great excitement. There was something indefinably younger about his expression, a suppressed spark that, oddly, made her heart sink.

  “I have to tell you that I shall be going away, just for a month or so,” her father began.

  “A month?” Georgiana said in surprise. “But then will you be away for Christmas?” Her heart sank. Even though she knew Christmas would not be the same in wartime, it still seemed a shame not to be all together as much as possible.

  “No, I hope to be back before then.”

  “Are you going to London?” The countess did not seem surprised; she was used to her husband leading quite a separate life when he wished to.

  “Yes, to London, and then”—the earl looked self-conscious—“to France.”

  “France!” Georgiana exclaimed.

  Her father glanced at her quickly, and now she saw that he was embarrassed. Embarrassed, but defiant. In fact, she thought with growing anger, he reminded her of Michael.

  “Yes, while I was in London I bumped into my old friend Horatio—he is an admiral now—and he happened to mention that Field Marshal Sir Douglas Haig was in need of some advice regarding the Indian troops who are currently fighting in the area, and as you know, I have some expertise in that field—”

  The countess frowned. “I can’t pretend I am pleased, but surely you won’t face any real danger. You won’t be at the front, will you?” Georgiana could see real concern
beneath her cold words. The earl seemed to hear it too, and he reached out and took her hand affectionately.

  “My dear, I will be quite safe. They will keep an old man like me out of harm’s way, believe me.”

  “That is almost worse,” said Georgiana.

  Her father looked at her, and she saw hurt in his eyes. But she could not keep silent. The whole horrible stupidity of it, the ridiculous, murderous bloodshed—and it seemed that now her father was as foolish as Michael. She took a step backward, her voice trembling. “Your power and influence might have been used to try and stop this war. But instead you are just like Michael, a little boy wanting to see a fight. I am sorry, Papa. But I cannot say I think you are right to go. I don’t. I don’t want anything to do with it.”

  She turned and went out of the room. She managed to keep her tears held back until she reached her own room, and was mercifully alone.

  Rebecca laid out Michael Templeton’s evening clothes on the bed, taking special care to crease nothing. She smoothed down the silk of his dinner jacket and made sure the white tie was placed exactly where Thomas would know where to find it. She wondered how Master Templeton was feeling. She hoped that he was not too angry at being ordered home. If only she could comfort Michael as he had comforted her that day in Palesbury. But of course, she thought, if he knew the truth about her he would probably want her sacked too.

  The door burst open and she turned with a gasp of shock to see Michael Templeton stride in. One look at his face told her that he was on the brink of tears of fury. He caught her eye, and she saw him struggle to disguise his feelings, but he couldn’t. “Excuse me—I didn’t realize—” He backed away again, but Rebecca, full of sympathy, went toward him.

  “No, please, sir. I’ll leave.”

  She was about to go past him when she caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror. There were tears in his eyes. Her heart seemed to twist, and without thinking she turned to him and said. “Sir, are you—please let me comfort you.”

  “I’m a fool,” he said thickly.

  “No, no—”

  “I am. Damn it!” He swallowed, forcing back tears. “Brought back like a child! I wouldn’t have believed Mother would do it. I wouldn’t have believed it of Georgiana. I’ll never live this down. The servants must be laughing at me, I expect.”

  “None of us think less of you. On the contrary, we admire your bravery.”

  “You’re very kind.”

  “I’m only speaking the truth, sir.”

  “I’ll apply for a commission as soon as I’m nineteen. My birthday is near enough.”

  “Did you see France, sir?” Rebecca couldn’t help asking.

  “No such luck.” He smiled, and it transformed his face. “Got as far as a training camp in Kent. Played at soldiers for a while. I felt as sick as a dog when my mates went off to the front. I thought I was going too, but I was called into the sergeant’s office to see the earl standing there.” His voice darkened again. “My mates will be facing bullets and bombs now, and I—I’m dressing for dinner. I feel ashamed.”

  “Sir, there is nothing to be ashamed of,” Rebecca said, gently. She reached out to lay a hand on his arm. He smiled at her.

  Behind her, someone cleared their throat. Rebecca realized in an instant how compromising their position could look. She turned, her throat tightening as she thought that it might be the countess.

  It was not the countess. It was Thomas. Rebecca had never seen him look like his. His eyes snapped fire, and though he was standing as discreetly as a professional servant should, there was a look about his shoulders that made her think that every muscle was tense. He was furious. “Excuse me for disturbing you, sir,” he said with the quietness of a tiger.

  “Not at all,” Michael said at once. “Rebecca was kind enough to help me remove this lint from my sleeve.” He flicked an invisible piece away from him.

  Rebecca edged away from Michael, grateful beyond words for his defense.

  “Very good, sir,” said Thomas. Rebecca could hear he was not convinced. “Rebecca, you are wanted downstairs to help lay the dinner cloth.”

  He went into the room to help Michael Templeton dress. Rebecca hesitated outside the door for a second, then scurried to the servants’ stairs, feeling as close to despair as she ever had. She had just reached the door when Master Templeton’s opened and Thomas came out again. Glancing left and right to see if they were alone, he came straight up to her. Rebecca, frightened at his expression, took a step back.

  “What was that?” he said in a low, furious voice.

  “I—” Rebecca stared at him startled at the passion in his voice.

  “Was he taking liberties? If he touched you—”

  “No!” Rebecca was horrified at the thought. “No, we were simply—I was telling him I was sorry for his disappointment, having to come home. I—I know it was very familiar of me, and I’m sorry…” She trailed off. She had thought that Thomas’s anger would be directed at her, but it seemed he was more concerned for her safety. “Please, don’t worry,” she said softly. “I was quite safe. Master Templeton is a perfect gentleman.”

  Thomas met her eyes, and she knew he saw she was telling the truth. He nodded. “That’s good,” he muttered, looking a little embarrassed. “Well…” He backed away, and returned to Master Templeton’s room. Rebecca stood where she was until the door shut behind him. Then she went through the servants’ door and onto the stairs, feeling even more miserable. She had not been in the house more than three months and already she had made the countess detest her, and now the butler thought of her as a flirt.

  Sussex

  Left, right, left, right—the pounding rhythm of the march was in Sebastian’s head, drowning out his thoughts. The rolling Sussex countryside was all around him, but he didn’t look up; he kept his gaze fixed on the back of the head of the man in front of him. His legs were dead and aching, and it was an effort to lift them, but he forced himself, bringing each boot down on the road with fierce determination. The pain blotted out any thought, any feeling. The pain was good. The pain was what he had enlisted for. It drowned out the other pain, the pain that welled back up like blood from a wound that wouldn’t heal, every time he had time to think and feel.

  “Company…halt!”

  Sebastian fell out with the other men, and, with them dropped down onto the grass verge to rest his legs and catch his breath. His feet were swollen, and he knew that if he took his boots off he would never get them back on again. The sweat was running down his face and his head was thumping, even though the air was cold. He took out his water bottle and swigged from it.

  He became aware that the lad next to him was prodding him in the side, gesturing, without the breath to even speak, for his water bottle. Sebastian had a savage impulse to ignore him, but then he caught sight of the boy’s white face. It isn’t the poor lad’s fault anyway, he thought. He handed him the water bottle.

  The boy gulped the water down gratefully. “Thanks, chum,” he managed, eventually. “I’m dead beat.”

  Sebastian didn’t reply. The boy sat up with an effort. “Another ten miles, heaven help us. Still, I suppose we’ll be glad of the practice when we get to France.”

  Oh great, a talker, thought Sebastian. He grunted and looked away. All he wanted was to be left alone, to march, to shoot, to follow orders and obey and drive his wretched heart so deep underground that he forgot he had ever had one.

  But the boy didn’t seem to notice. He sat up on his elbows, looking across the downs toward the sea. “Blimey, that’s the Channel. Never thought I’d see it up close. Never thought I’d cross it, come to that. Still, I suppose that’s why I joined up—to see the world. How about you?” The lad looked questioningly at Sebastian.

  Sebastian shrugged. There was no way he could avoid answering, though, without drawing even more attention. “Just want to do my bit,” he muttered.

  “Me too. I wish I’d known how hard it’d be, though! Never done anything
like this. Makes me realize what a good place I had. Still, too late now.” He lay back again. “My father was gamekeeper on the Millrace estate in Warwickshire. The local regiment was up to strength, so I came down to London to try my luck. Not sure I don’t regret it now.” He laughed, shakily. “I remember the woods and the fields there,” the boy went on. “It was a good life: we always had enough to eat, and I’d have gone into my father’s job if I’d have stayed.”

  He went on, describing an estate that was so like Somerton that Sebastian found himself feeling homesick. Somerton’s rolling hills, lush copses, the river that curved around the hill so the stone house was framed like a jewel, all came to his mind’s eye as the boy talked. The boy finished with a sigh, “Still, this war might be over soon enough.”

  Sebastian did not reply. He could hear, or perhaps feel, something trembling through the ground. A dull and distant booming. It troubled him.

  “You’re a prodigy, though, aren’t you? Crack shot, you don’t seem to think anything of the route marches. You been in another regiment before this?”

  Sebastian was suddenly on his guard. He had to reply, to put the boy off the scent. Enlisting as a private soldier, he was aware that he had the advantage of having been in the Officer Training Corps at Eton that the others didn’t. Most of them had never handled a gun before, were not used to long marches on little food, whereas he had been to several summer camps, practicing semaphore, drill, musketry, tactics, and map reading. If the boy put two and two together…“I expect I’m just used to it.”

  “Is that right? What were you before you signed up?”

  Sebastian did not know what to answer. He’d told some lie on the official form—what, he could not remember. It struck him that he would have to do a lot more lying in the time to come. Luckily, he did not have to lie now.