Chapter Nine
NINE
ARABELLA AND I treat one another very civilly after our encounter on the landing.
The fire of her passion has gone out. I keep catching myself regretting having said anything to her.
Missing her attention. But then I remind myself that the uncertainty had been driving me doolally. A little boredom never hurt anyone.
Christmas Day arrives with a stiff, frosty breeze.
I get a nice card through from Lou and Gladys – handmade, with a Welsh dragon done in silky red ribbon – and one from Peggy and Ellen, too.
Nothing from Mam or Dad. After breakfast, we all gather in the morning room to exchange presents.
Arabella hands Mrs Allen a bolt of cloth – the traditional gift for female servants.
The fabric is a deep blue colour, bringing out Mrs Allen’s eyes when she holds it up in front of her.
‘Oh, that’s lovely, that,’ she says. For Tom, there’s a tin of high-end tobacco, which I intend to persuade him to share later in the day.
In the meantime, he shakes first Arabella’s and then Reacher’s hands appreciatively.
Last, Arabella comes to me, presenting a brown paper package.
It has a textile squash to it, but it’s smaller than the one Mrs Allen received.
‘I didn’t think you would want any cloth for a pretty dress,’ says Arabella.
‘What gave you that idea?’ I quip, allowing the familiar joke since it’s Christmas.
Pulling back the wrapping, I reveal a pair of gloves.
They’re made of a buff capeskin, with a simple embroidered pattern on the wrist-length cuffs.
When I dip my fingers inside, I find warm fur, softer than a bed of dandelion seeds.
‘Russian rabbit,’ says Arabella.
Reacher snorts. ‘Not rushing enough.’ Despite his warm manner, I can’t help but remember what I overheard him say to Arabella after the card game.
He’ll spend his Christmas Day cracking jokes with us, but – deep down – he doesn’t see the Allens and me as anything more than the staff.
A little of the warmth I’d previously felt for him has died.
Arabella ignores his interruption, tilting her head at me. ‘Try them on, do.’
They’re a perfect fit. I flex my hands, enjoying the creak of new, creaseless leather.
‘I sewed the pattern myself,’ Arabella adds casually, as if this is nothing, something any employer might do for her staff.
I re-examine it, noting that what I’d first taken for abstract shapes are in fact stylized flowers and foliage.
‘They’re beautiful,’ I breathe, holding them up for Tom and Mrs Allen to admire, then down for Mutton to sniff.
I can already tell they’re ten times warmer than the wool gloves I normally wear through winter. ‘Thank you, Arabella. I love them.’
Arabella shrugs. I note she’s folded up the brown wrapping paper, will most likely be keeping it even though I’ve torn it quite a deal. ‘It’s more a gift for myself,’ she says. ‘I can’t have my gardener losing her digits to frostbite, can I?’ But she can’t hide how pleased she is that I like them.
‘I’ve got a present for you as well,’ I say.
‘Oh, you didn’t have to.’
‘Well, for everyone, really,’ I add – though that’s not strictly true. ‘You all have to follow me. It’s outside.’
‘God, it’s not a treasure hunt, is it?’ mutters Reacher, but he dutifully files along behind the others as I take them to the front door.
I nod at Arabella to open it. ‘Go on. You just need to stick your head out.’
She gives me an appraising glance, then does as I command.
The four of them cluster in the doorway, looking out over the yew bushes.
I had a busy Christmas Eve, out there with my shears.
The two largest plants have been transformed – no longer hares, they’re now a pair of fine hounds, modelled after our very own noble beast.
Tom, Mrs Allen and Reacher step outside to admire them properly. Grinning in delight, Tom grabs Mutton around the neck and asks, ‘Who’s that, then?’ The dog catches the excitement and starts up an ear-splitting series of barks, his wagging tail threatening to knock Tom over.
I sidle up behind Arabella, who has remained on the front step. ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ I say, ‘but I thought it was time to turn over a new leaf. Let’s start again. No more blessings, no more curses.’
She turns her face slightly, so I can just see part of the profile.
I’d worried she might be upset at the desecration of the hares, but no – she’s smiling.
‘No more games,’ she whispers. Then, before I can properly register the words, she strides out on to the path, clapping her hands.
‘Mutton, you are honoured!’ Laughs as the dog bounds over to her.
Now I’m the one left watching on the step. This fizzing in my chest. A hope I’ve not been allowing myself to feel. Warm all over – not least in my hands, held tight in their new gloves.
Later in the day, we all head to St Anselm’s church in Harfold village – even Reacher.
Even Arabella. She’s dressed almost soberly for once, in a smart grey suit and hat.
A simple green necklace round her neck – only one chipped bead at the back.
Something appealing in the severity of the outfit.
It’s clear neither she nor Reacher has graced the flock with their presence in a long time, as there are many turned heads and whispers when we enter, some hurried shuffling near the front as villagers evacuate what must be the Lascy family pew.
The church is far smaller than I’m used to seeing, and the pews are crammed together, with room for only one arch on either side of the nave.
I suppose it was designed centuries ago for an even sparser congregation – the very first Lascys, Allens, Wights and so on.
The walls are done in pale grey limewash, but festive sprigs of holly, green ribbon bows and tapering red candles have been arranged to bring in Christmas colour.
There’s just the one stained-glass window in the chancel, depicting a white-bearded man – presumably Saint Anselm – carrying a curling, golden staff.
On second glance, I notice the face of a hare peeping out from behind his robes, as if hiding.
Arabella and Reacher take their seats impassively, not once looking round to meet all the eyes on them.
As servants, the Allens and I sit at the back with our fellow common muck.
Bruce is here with a woman I assume is his sister – she has a flushed face and is letting out a stream of discreet hiccups, in any case.
Peggy and Ellen spot me and give a wave.
I wiggle my fingers back, feeling a bit bad on account of using them to wind up Arabella.
Peggy’s a nice girl: she doesn’t deserve to be shuffled around like a playing card.
I haven’t been inside a church in a while.
My family were never regular attendees, though Mam liked us all to go for the main holiday services.
For several months after what happened with the Reeses, I started going at least once a week, thinking I’d better put on a show of godliness.
Looking back on it, though, that probably made me look more guilty – like I was warring with my own conscience.
I’m tall enough that I can still see Arabella’s hat from here, over the heads.
I barely listen to the service. All I can think about is how Arabella must have turned me over and over in her mind as she deliberated on what gift to give me, must have picked these gloves out from a catalogue, imagining me wearing them.
Sketched up the design to add to the cuffs.
Then what she said to me this morning, on the doorstep.
‘No more games.’ I keep turning the phrase over, trying to find the meaning.
Some kind of promise. An answer. A decision.
Or just another game in itself? My mouth is dry as sand.
I pull my eyes away from Arabella, trying to concentrate as we rise for a hymn.
Mrs Allen sings with gusto at my side, making up for my weak contribution as my attention wanders over to the door to the bell tower.
That’s where George Allen drew his final breaths.
Peggy had said that he was the churchwarden before her dad.
For those who remember George, his presence must still be felt all around this building.
That door always a reminder at the corner of their vision.
I glance at Tom, suddenly self-conscious, as if I’m intruding on something private by thinking about his brother.
His expression is peacefully attentive, nodding along to the words of the song.
A soft smile on his face. If he is thinking about George in this moment, it must be a happy memory.
After the service, Tom and Mrs Allen turn into the churchyard. ‘Me and Nora are going to visit that lot,’ says Tom, nodding in the direction of the graves, ‘if anyone wants to join us?’
Reacher looks to Arabella, as if waiting for her permission. Arabella shakes her head. ‘I have spent enough of my time in that awful graveyard,’ she says. ‘I will not be going back there until I’m in my own coffin.’
‘Merry Christmas,’ says Reacher, pulling a face at the rest of us.
Tom shrugs. ‘We’ll catch you up then, shall we?’
‘I’ll come with you,’ I say to the Allens. ‘That is, if you don’t mind, Arabella? I’d like to thank Charlie for lending me his bed.’ I’ve heard so much about these dead Lascys that I have a morbid need to see them for myself.
Arabella tilts her head at me, amused. ‘By all means.’