‘I’ll save you some, so just slip down when you can,’ Mrs Arden promised with a smile.
At last, I walked slowly back towards my house, the young moon providing just enough light to tempt me to take the short cut through the shrubbery. I was halfway through when I realized I was not alone. A young female spoke, to be cut short by sharp words in masculine tones. There was what sounded like a slap, and a gasp. This was more than a simple tiff. I stepped forward. But I trod on a twig, which cracked loudly.
The ensuing silence was instant and absolute.
I called out, ‘Who’s there?’
Still silence. I frowned; I had no idea who the girl might be, but the man’s voice wasn’t that of a yokel. Was I foolish to believe the accent was one from a public school like my own? There were instances where a young man with that background had serious feelings, honourable intentions, towards a servant girl. But there were far more, in my experience, of a man simply toying with the other’s emotions, with nothing but his own pleasure in mind. It was not the job of a steward to make enquiries, of course. Were Mr Pounceman a man of sympathetic understanding, I could approach him. But Mr Pounceman was not my grandfather, who despite his loving and steadfast union with Grandmama, had once as a very young man truly loved a chambermaid.
Much as I hated the idea, surely I must confront the couple? No, I would feel soiled by the act.
III
I must. I can. I will.
The slate is in my hands. I pick up the chalk. I copy each line and curve of the letters. Some must touch the lines. Some must drop below them. Some must soar above. But what do they mean?
Our Father, which art in Heaven
FOUR
‘Of course I mean today. Is that not what one means when one says “immediately”?’ Lord Croft slapped his desk. ‘You inform me that there is a dispute on one of my estates in – where did you say? Somerset? – and I tell you to deal with it. Now.’ He picked up a letter and pretended to read it.
‘My Lord.’ I bowed and withdrew, furious – both at his lordship’s imperious folly and my own reaction to it. I was a servant, neither more nor less than young Maggie, was I? Yes, of course, that is precisely what I was, which is why I was so galled. I strode to my office, to write brief but courteous notes to all whose appointments with me would have to be postponed, from one with his lordship’s lawyer to another with a tenant whose roof had collapsed, narrowly missing his wife and child. Another note told the estate builder to institute immediate repairs: the family must not sleep in a stable another night.
Then I seized my hat, and marched out, meaning to leave, as usual, by the grand front doors, as my own petty assertion of pride. Instead, I turned, as befitted one in servitude, to the backstairs. There were very few of my fellow-servants in evidence. Should I tap on Mrs Faulkner’s door and make my excuses for missing this evening’s supper? There was no need even to tell her, as his lordship would see it, but I felt … yes, an obligation. Even as I raised my hand, I heard voices. Should I interrupt?
Instead, I returned to my office to write another note, which, like the others was brief. Should I ask a footman to deliver it?
I was just about to slip it under her door when it opened. Three or four servant-girls trooped out, curtsying as they went. Mrs Faulkner watched them on their way.
‘I have just come to the end of our reading hour,’ she said, with a smile. ‘Reading may not open physical doors, Mr Rowsley, but think of all those in the mind it can fling wide!’
‘Indeed! Alas, Mrs Faulkner, I may not even stay to hear what book they were enjoying: I am bound urgently for Gloucestershire, where I understand civil war is likely to break out on the Snellworth estate.’ I bowed, donned my hat, and was gone. It was only as I left the building that I remembered I still did not know what it was that had troubled her the previous day.
I rarely saw Mrs Faulkner looking anything other than in calm control – of her staff, of any situation and most of all of herself. But today, returning from my trip to Gloucestershire, when I tapped at the door of the Room, I found her with an expression of weary exasperation on her face. Her cap was askew and two or three curls had escaped from their stern knot. Her curtsy was perfunctory. She gestured apologetically at the wicker case, shawl and bonnet which lay by her bedchamber door.
‘I can see I have come at a bad moment,’ I began, sympathy outpacing tact. I tried to redeem myself. ‘And I was truly hoping to sit with someone for a reviving cup of tea.’ Yes, I was cutting a wheedle, but I was rewarded with another, mock-gracious curtsy.
‘I could not think of a better suggestion,’ she said, smoothing down her hair before ringing her bell. ‘Unless,’ she added, almost impishly, ‘it was a glass of Mr Bowman’s medicinal port. Tell me, how does Mrs Kenton go on?’
‘Alas, I was hoping you might be able to tell me. I was sent …’ I waited until she had given her orders and Bessie had bobbed her way out before continuing. ‘I went all the way to Snellworth to cast judgement on some infertile field – a little patch of ground—’
‘That hath in it no profit but the name. To pay five ducats, five, I would not farm it,’ she concluded, sitting down carefully and easing the small of her back.
‘Exactly so. As soon as I saw the papers relating to the issue, I cut what they claimed was a Gordian knot and, having banged a few heads together, headed back.’
‘Through all that rain! The roads must have been quagmires.’ She shifted in her seat again.
‘Indeed. But – far more important – you are in pain, Mrs Faulkner!’
A tap at the door. Bessie had returned, placing the tray and its load, which included scones, cream and jam, just out of Mrs Faulkner’s reach. As soon as the child left, I stood to pour and hand the tea. ‘May I find your laudanum drops?’
‘Do you imagine me to be an artist or a poet? You will find no laudanum drops anywhere in the part of the house I run, I assure you, Mr Rowsley. I have read – I have seen! – the harm they can do.’ Raising an eyebrow, she nodded upwards.
‘You mean – her ladyship?’
‘You will excuse me if I do not answer your question. The tea will suffice,’ she added, holding out her hand for the cup I still had not yet poured. ‘Thank you. I have been on a fool’s errand too. It seems that Lady Keynsham over in Wellington told her ladyship that she feared that her housekeeper was failing to keep proper accounts, and that someone reliable and respectable—’
‘Like yourself!’
‘Should inspect them. However reliable and respectable I may be, I am not an expert bookkeeper. Indeed, I spent most of my time gossiping and helping her in her still-room.’
‘Which is how you hurt your back?’
She snorted. ‘The Keynshams’ drive is as full of holes as a Gouda cheese. And John Coachman failed to see a particularly deep one.’
‘You were sent in her ladyship’s coach?’ I could not conceal my surprise.
‘I was indeed. And came back in it too. But I find – Mr Rowsley – I do not yet know what I find. An atmosphere. Something is amiss. Do you sense it too?’
Placing a tea-plate in front of her, I made sure the scones and their accompaniments were within easy reach. ‘I have had little opportunity to.’ As soon as a weary Esau was stabled, and I had changed my travel-stained garments, I had made my way up to the House. Surprising myself, I said aloud, ‘My presence here always unnerves the younger staff, and not just the indoor workers. I suspect they see me as an ogre about to throw them into the workhouse. I am always greeted with downcast eyes and the most formal of responses whenever I speak, whatever I say.’
She nodded sadly. ‘Any agent will always create anxiety – though I should imagine that to many you are a welcome change.’ She took a scone, buttering it and adding jam, but not cream. ‘You and I and Mr Bowman, Mrs Arden too – we are neither flesh nor fowl, nor ever will be. That is the way of the world, Mr Rowsley.’ There was pain in her sigh that I suspected might not have been caused
by her injured back.
‘Indeed.’ I met her eye, but she turned away. Whatever the cause, she did not wish to discuss it now. For a few minutes we spoke of something but nothing. I put down my cup and saucer. ‘I fear I must take my leave. I’m sure his lordship will wish to know that the business he deemed so urgent has been satisfactorily concluded.’
She raised a finger. ‘I believe his lordship is not at home. Luke Hargreaves said he had just ten minutes to pack for his lordship and himself – of course, he accompanies his master. They travel to visit some old friends in his lordship’s latest toy – a landau that outlandaus all others on the road. You’ll be asked to settle the coachmaker’s account soon enough!’
I felt a huge surge of anger, that at his whim I had wasted time that could have been far better spent and now he did not even wish to know the outcome. ‘Another carriage? When he might travel more swiftly by train? He even has his own private station!’ I shook my head. ‘And how long does he mean to stay away?’
‘Who knows? I believe his friends are to embark on some sort of tour of each other’s houses, playing cricket at each one.’
‘You, not he, should be there,’ I said. I got to my feet. ‘No, pray do not stand. And promise me you will not try to lift your case yourself. In fact, with your permission, I will put it into your bedchamber myself.’
As I walked to my office, I paid special attention to those I passed. Mrs Faulkner had been right: there was an extra tension in the air. I wrote a memorandum to his lordship, stating the facts and little more; the dispute was now settled, after all. And who was I to criticize my employer for assuming that I would deal with it without his needing to see if I was successful. Perhaps I should be flattered, that he trusted me.
Yet our last meeting still rankled.
My grandfather had warned me that I would have to learn to be obsequious to fools. In body I had. But not, it transpired, in my mind.
A great deal of work had accrued while I was absent, so much that by the time I had sorted it into baskets according to its urgency I barely had time to dash back to my house to change for supper in the Room. The company was depleted. Naturally his lordship’s valet had accompanied his master; Mr Bowman had taken advantage of his lordship’s absence to visit his aging mother in Stafford; Mlle Hortense was permitted to partake of the entrée only, her ladyship having a migraine that required her maid to be in silent attendance with cloths soaked in iced lavender water to apply to the ailing brow. Then she was to finish her ladyship’s packing; she had a notion that bathing in the waters of Droitwich Spa might ease her aching joints and she was leaving on the morrow.
Mrs Arden was unwontedly quiet, confining herself to a gracious acknowledgement of our praise of her cooking, till Tim had gathered the last plate and left, closing the door behind him. Now, with a faint smile, she pointed at the ceiling. ‘All that we say remains beneath that, doesn’t it?’
‘Of course.’ Mrs Faulkner moved painfully to the door, opening it silently and shutting it again.
‘I’ll make sure you have a hot brick for that back of yours,’ Mrs Arden promised. ‘Now, Mr Rowsley, many would say what happened while you were away is beneath the notice of such as you, but Mrs Faulkner and I think you have your finger on the pulse more than most, and I’d further venture that you like to keep it that way.’
Bemused but intrigued, I nodded.
Mrs Faulkner took up the story. ‘It seems one of the maids has disappeared.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘Just like that. Young Maggie Billings,’ she added, her voice showing how hard she was trying to control her emotions.
‘Short? Plump, with a round face?’
‘Yes. Plump. And maybe with good reason,’ Mrs Arden said sagely.
‘There is no proof,’ Mrs Faulkner said quickly. She added more soberly, ‘But it is not impossible – sickness, Mr Rowsley, for a few weeks and … other signs.’
‘If she had only come to us for help!’
‘We could have given her advice,’ Mrs Faulkner said quickly, and perhaps a little too loudly. ‘As it is there is no sign of her, apart from her few pitiful possessions. Her fellow tweenies might have had their lips sewn together. I would have asked Mr Bowman to summon the men, both indoor and outdoor, to ask if they might have seen anything.’
‘You would like me to take on that role? Of course I will. But – if she was indeed with child – would any man admit to being the father? Because that is whom we should seek. He, if anyone, would know where the girl has gone. Perhaps if I questioned them individually …?’ That would be a week’s work on top of what I needed to do urgently. ‘Have you spoken to anyone yet?’
They shook their heads. ‘This only came to my knowledge two hours ago. It will be my first task in the morning. Mr Rowsley, her last sweetheart was Silas Kenton’s brother. Yes, of course she was too young for any sort of follower, as I pointed out to her. She seemed to relinquish his attentions with no backward glance.’ She gave no hint that we had already spoken about this. Neither would I.
‘Suspicious in itself,’ Mrs Arden chipped in, with what seemed a triumphant nod. But her tone was more apologetic, as if she feared she had implied something she would regret, as she added, ‘A more handsome young man in the offing, wouldn’t you say, Mrs Faulkner? A footman?’
‘Mr Bowman would no doubt be able to offer information there. But we speculate. The child is gone. Her bed was not slept in last night, and no one recalls seeing her about her duties during the day.’
‘Did anyone think to send out a search party? She may have gone for a stroll and hurt herself – in the woods, perhaps.’
Mrs Faulkner cast me a pitying look. ‘I fear no servant in this house or any other is encouraged to go walking in the woods during the working day. My reading hour is known only to people like Mrs Arden who want girls to have a chance to improve themselves. And I would be grateful if it stayed that way, Mr Rowsley. If some good man wished to organize something similar for the young men it would be a blessing.’
I thought of my daily schedule. ‘In many parishes it is the rector who undertakes such tasks, or at least his curate.’ The women’s snort of derision told me not to pursue this suggestion. ‘But we wander from the point. We must search for the child. I will set the men on to it at first light, whatever else they might be doing. I will also speak to this man Harry Kenton.’ I clicked my fingers in irritation. ‘Her parents – have they been informed? No? That must be done at once – after all, it may be a simple case of homesickness, and we will find her there. Can you furnish me with their address?’
They exchanged a glance. ‘Lord love you, you passed their home on your way in. The Billingses keep the main gate. At least she does. He fathers a brood on her and gets himself paralysed with a stroke. Some might say it’s a pity he didn’t do a proper job and die of it.’ Mrs Arden nodded home the information as if Billings’ illness were a deliberate act of idleness.
Mrs Faulkner said quietly, ‘It would be kind of you to do it. But—’
‘It would be better done by a woman? However, you are unwell, and I should imagine that Mrs Arden has to be up and working before six.’ We exchanged rueful smiles. ‘I can do it: my father was a parson, you know, and I hope I know how to be gentle.’
IV
If I might only ask for help. But it is not my place to know things. But I must not be stupid either. Not like Effie, who was beaten for not knowing what a bain-marie was. As if they had such things in the workhouse.
Hallowed be Thy Name
FIVE
The main gates were firmly locked and the lodge itself in darkness when I reached Maggie’s home. I could have rung the enormous bell on the gate pillars, as if I were an impatient traveller demanding admittance. In fact I hunted for a knocker on the heavy oak front door – a door far sturdier in appearance than the rest of the cottage, which was very small in scale and must have been designed when the Gothic style was all the rage. It must also have been designed to house very short pe
ople, perhaps as a visual jest for visitors. I cannot imagine that the people living there thought their cramped conditions a source of laughter.
How many children had Mrs Billings raised in this doll’s house? Where had they all slept? But of course, as soon as one was old enough to be put out to service or sent as a labourer to a neighbouring farmer, off they would go. Only tiny children, who would in my own village have been in school, were allowed to be under the maternal feet – and how many of them would be out in the fields scaring birds or picking stones? I felt my jaw tighten. There should and would be a school in Stammerton. And in Thorncroft and in every other village within his lordship’s estates. There was talk that universal education would soon be required by law; those in my care must not wait that long.
Eschewing the heavy knocker, I tapped the door with my knuckles, wanting to summon Mrs Billings but not disturb her sick husband’s rest. At last she appeared, swathed in a shawl that meant I could barely see her face in the deep dusk that had now enveloped us. She brought no candle.
‘I am sorry to disturb you, Mrs Billings, and sorrier to be the bearer of disquieting news, but I have to tell you something. It concerns Maggie.’
Did her eyes widen? Did her head jerk back? She made no other response.
‘It grieves me to tell you that she is missing. Neither Mrs Faulkner nor I knew anything about it till we returned from our duties elsewhere, which is why no one told you before. But I promise you that we will do all in our power to find her. Tomorrow every man on the estate will be searching for her, and every indoor servant will be released from their duties to join them. I promise we will do everything we can to find her – God willing – alive.’
What response did I expect? Hysteria at the news, especially as I was telling her so late? A tirade that we were leaving it till the morrow to search? All I got was a stiff bob of a curtsy, her head lowered and her shawl pulled even further over her face. And to my amazement, she stepped back inside and firmly closed the door.
The Wages of Sin Page 4
