The Housekeeper’s Secret

Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Jem was cleaning Mr Goddard’s shoes in the footmen’s wardrobe when he saw her crossing the yard to the laundry the next morning. He had barely slept and had moved through the day’s tasks with limbs of lead, a head fogged with self-recrimination. But that glimpse of her made his blood surge and infused him with a strange sort of energy.

Dropping Goddard’s narrow black oxford, he wiped his hands on a cloth and ran nervous fingers through his hair. The others were leaving London this morning; by teatime the basement would be full of people and noise and activity. He had to talk to her, now. He just wasn’t sure what to say.

Not the truth, obviously.

He’d thought she might be useful in his search for answers, with her keys and her authority to move through the house. He’d seen her as a chess piece. And now he’d discovered that she was warm flesh and soft lips: a woman with a battered heart and bruised past and more courage than he could properly comprehend. A girl who had been hungry for life and eager for love, who had been manipulated by a man who had only thought of how useful she could be to him too.

The shaving mirror on the bench showed a face that was grey tinged with fatigue. The bruising around his eye was a jaundiced yellow; he looked as seedy as he felt. He’d known he wasn’t worthy of her. He just hadn’t appreciated how much.

Outside a silvery dawn had hardened into another hot, overcast day. The yard was quiet as he crossed it and went through the open door of the laundry. It was a bit like stepping into the coolness of a church, and he hesitated. This was a female domain. On Mondays it billowed with steam and rang with the raucous voices of the village women, but now it was stopped and still and smelled of damp stone and soap flakes.

A sound from the adjoining room told him Kate was there. He trod quietly over the uneven floor, past the huge copper by the chimney breast and the long wooden trough where the clothes were soaked, and into the dry laundry.

‘Kate?’

He spoke softly. The room was high and hung with linen. It was Friday, and normally Eliza and Abigail would have taken it down ready for ironing by now, but nothing about this week was normal. Sheets were still draped over the drying racks suspended from the ceiling, like the elaborate sails of some Napoleonic galleon and, as he stood in the doorway, they shivered, as if caught by a gust of wind. He went forward, ducking through them, until he saw her.

‘Here—let me help with that.’

She had her back towards him and was unwinding the rope for the pulley from its hook. She didn’t turn round. Jem felt a beat of unease.

‘I can manage.’

‘I know you can.’ He squashed down the flutter of nerves in his stomach and went closer, lowering his voice. ‘I thought we should probably—’

‘Mind your head.’

She unhooked the last loop and the rope slid through her hands. With a creak, the rack above him plunged downwards, just missing his shoulder.

‘ Jesus— ’

‘Sorry,’ she said tonelessly and turned to move past him. Her face was as pale and expressionless as her voice. ‘We should probably what?’

‘Talk.’ His throat was full of sand. ‘Before the others get back. About what happened last night.’

She kept her eyes downcast as she pulled a sheet from the rack, but a faint flush appeared on her cheeks. ‘I don’t think there’s much to say. Except that it can’t happen again.’

Jem wasn’t sure what he had expected, only that it wasn’t this. She was as brittle as spun sugar, as cool as the stone beneath his feet. It disorientated him. It felt as if last night had never happened; as if he’d fallen asleep beneath Black Tor, waiting for the rain to pass, and everything since—her shuddering body in his arms, her mouth against his in the midsummer twilight—had been part of some mad, brilliant, inappropriate dream.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I didn’t mean for it to happen at all. I didn’t set out to—’

‘No.’ She cut him off impatiently. ‘It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have gone up there with you. I wasn’t thinking.’ She gave her head a little shake. ‘I’d be grateful if you didn’t speak of it. To anyone.’

‘I won’t.’ He struggled to keep his voice even, as frustration and despair beat discordantly inside him. ‘ Of course I won’t, Kate. Do you think I—’

‘ Any of it.’ Her chatelaine clinked as she hoisted the rack up again. ‘The things I told you about my past, my… my marriage, as well as what… took place between us.’

‘Kate—’

Briskly she picked up the sheet and held it high to fold it. He went forward, catching the corners at the other end, like he used to do when he helped his mother. It seemed like the only way to step into the orbit of her attention. They worked together without speaking, as if following the familiar steps of a dance. He let her lead, and they folded the linen along its length and pulled it taut, then came together to fold it in half. Their fingers touched on the edge of the sheet, and in the sudden stillness he felt a tremor go through her.

‘ Please , Jem…’ For the first time she looked at him properly, with eyes that were shadowed with anguish. ‘I’d lose my job… my home… I’d have nothing. Less than nothing if word got out and my reputation was ruined. I’d have to start afresh, and I’m not sure I can do that again.’

‘Jesus, Kate…’ He wanted to be angry that she could think he would betray her, but his conscience wouldn’t let him. What he’d considered doing was just as bad. ‘I understand, and you have my word. I won’t ever speak of what you told me, and no one will ever know what happened, I swear.’ His hands moved to cover hers. ‘I could tell you that I wish it hadn’t happened, but that wouldn’t be true. All I can do is assure you that it won’t happen again. I can promise to stay away from you, if that’s what you want. I’m a footman, you’re the housekeeper…’ From the depths of his self-loathing he summoned a broken smile. ‘I know my place.’

She gave an odd laugh, which caught in her throat and became a sob. Taking the sheet from him, she bundled it roughly and set it aside. ‘Since when has it mattered what we want?’

‘It matters to me. What you want matters to me .’ He caught her by the shoulders and held her firmly. ‘Look at me, Kate… Do you want me to leave? Because if you do, just say the word… I’ll go.’

He hadn’t planned to say it. As soon as the words were out, he felt light-headed. Panicky. Everything he’d worked towards… everything he’d been through… in her hands now. Her eyes were huge and haunted as they held his, searching them. The moment quivered into an eternity. He heard her exhale and felt her rigid body yield so their faces were inches apart. And then she was tearing her gaze from his and pulling away. Shaking out her skirts and smoothing the chains of her chatelaine, squaring her shoulders.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m sure that won’t be necessary.’ She moved so the table was a barrier between them, and her voice became clipped and frosty again. ‘You know how difficult it is to replace staff, and we can’t afford to be a footman down with a wedding celebration to organise. I hope we can both conduct ourselves in a professional manner.’

His legs felt weak. He wanted to stagger outside and take in great gulps of air, but he stayed where he was and said nothing as, with precise, practiced movements she finished folding the sheet and held it against her body like a shield. ‘You’re very charming, Jem, but I’m not some… swoony housemaid.’ Her smile was withering. ‘I’m sure I’ll be able to resist you.’

And then she left, slipping out of his sight behind the curtains of linen, so he could only hear the tap of her footsteps and the musical chime of her keys.

It had been a dangerous gamble. He was lucky to have got away with it.

So why did it feel like he’d lost?

Kate had dreaded the return of the servants. Everything in her shrank from the prospect of brisk normality resuming, of having to reassemble the shattered fragments of her professional mask and take up the reins of responsibility again. She wanted nothing more than to keep to the solitude of her parlour and wait for the fit of madness that had seized her to pass. She still felt shaky and fragile, and the ten days they had been away felt like ten years.

But in the end, she felt relief when the cart came clattering under the archway as the heat began to subside on another oppressive day. Voices rang around the kitchen yard as they all jumped down from the wagon, hauling boxes and dragging wicker hampers across the cobbles.

‘Home sweet home,’ said Eliza sourly, setting her box down in the kitchen passage and looking around with an air of disdain. ‘I swear it’s got even dingier since we’ve been away.’

‘It looks the same to me.’ Thomas beamed, coming in behind her. ‘Sounds the same too. Listen—’

He rested the box he was carrying on top of the one she had just put down and cupped a hand round his ear. Eliza gave an impatient shrug. ‘I can’t hear anything.’

‘ Exactly . No traffic. No bells. No racket from the street. No Mr-blessed-Dewhurst on my case. Heaven.’

The strange, suspended time was over, the spell broken.

Keen for any comparisons with the London cook to be favourable, Mrs Gatley had spent the day preparing what was, by Coldwell standards, an extravagant tea of pork pie, cold roast chicken, and a strawberry tart. When the luggage had been unloaded and carried upstairs, they took their usual places at the table in the servants’ hall with Mr Goddard at its head saying grace and carving the meat.

Although he’d been cynical about it, his role in the village coronation festivities seemed to have revived the old butler’s spirits somewhat. He wasn’t convivial exactly, but he responded to Thomas’s polite enquiry about the tree-planting ceremony with a (rather too detailed) description of the event and didn’t reprimand the girls when their voices tumbled over one another, describing the mob of servants in the Portman Square basement, the airless attic bedrooms, the excitement of getting out for an hour on the morning of coronation day to catch a glimpse of the procession and the spectacle of the flag-festooned streets.

‘The kitchen is half the size of ours, but they’ve got a fancy stove, heated by gas,’ Susan said excitedly. ‘You can adjust the temperature as easy as anything—Mrs Gatley would give her right arm for something like that. They’ve got no stillroom though,’ she added loyally.

‘Why would they need one?’ Eliza snapped. ‘All the things we spend our lives slaving to make, they can have delivered, and a lot more besides. Walter says—’

‘Here we go,’ muttered Abigail. ‘ Walter says…’

Eliza threw her a look and went on doggedly. ‘Walter says that Sir Randolph’s looking to hire a foreign chef from one of the big hotels, so he can have all those fancy continental pastries and the like here.’

‘Yes, well, you don’t want to believe half of what Walter says,’ Thomas grunted, helping himself to another slice of pork pie. ‘Why would Sir Randolph want to do that? Nowt wrong with Mrs Gatley’s English pastries if you ask me.’

Kate let the conversation swirl around her. The food on her plate was untouched, and she felt that if she tried to swallow she would choke. She was painfully aware of Jem to her right, half-hidden by Joseph (who seemed to have filled out and grown two inches). She watched his hands as he buttered a piece of bread but noticed he didn’t eat much either.

‘I don’t see why a foreign chef wouldn’t come here,’ Abigail was saying. ‘Sir Henry wasn’t one for modern ways, but Sir Randolph’s a different kettle of fish…’

Was he finding it as difficult as she was? This pretence that everything was as it had been? She’d tried to be firm earlier, to leave no room for doubt, but was he still feeling the same pull towards her as she was to him? The same sensation that, although the room was full again, the voices of the others were somehow muted and distant and they were alone together.

‘… I heard Mr Dewhurst talking to Mrs Bryant about interviewing chauffeurs, so he must have bought a motorcar. And I never thought I’d see the day when there were bathrooms at Coldwell, neither,’ Susan was saying. ‘Are they finished?’

It took Kate a moment to realise the question was directed at her.

‘Oh—yes. Almost.’ Jolted out of her thoughts, she felt the creep of colour into her cheeks. ‘Lady Hyde’s is almost ready. The bath has been installed and—’

Abigail gave a moan of envy. ‘I couldn’t half do with trying it out. I’m that hot and sticky after the journey… Just imagine, lying back in water right up to your chin…’

At the head of the table, Mr Goddard sucked in a sharp breath and peered at Abigail as if she’d just committed some indecency. ‘I’ll thank you not to imagine anything of the sort.’

Kate’s face was numb with the effort of keeping her expression blank. Sweat prickled beneath her corset and she reached for her glass of water. As she picked it up her eyes met Jem’s. His smile was so brief, so slight that she wondered if she’d imagined it.

Thomas—always the one to smooth over any awkwardness—summoned a bright smile and directed it down the table: ‘So—what’s gone on here then, Mrs Furniss?’

‘Nothing,’ she said curtly, brushing fallen crumbs into her hand. ‘Really, nothing at all.’

Eliza huffed out a dissatisfied sigh. ‘Nothing ever does.’

In fact, there was plenty happening at Coldwell that summer.

Too much for Abigail’s liking. After London she would have preferred things to be as quiet as they had been in Sir Henry’s time, to give her poor feet a chance to recover, but no sooner had Mr Kendall and his men completed the installation of the bathrooms (and she and Eliza had finished clearing up the mess they’d left) than the decorators arrived to paint and wallpaper, leaving dusty boot prints along the upstairs corridors and the smell of turpentine hanging in the hot air.

Sir Randolph’s wedding date had been set for mid-September, so there was a rush to get everything finished. Mr Goddard was very miserly in the details he shared, but then the wedding itself sounded like a pretty miserly affair. Abigail had got most of her information from Margaret, one of the parlourmaids in Portman Square, with whom she’d struck up a friendship while Eliza was busy making eyes at Walter Cox. Apparently Miss Addison had wanted the wedding to be held at Coldwell and include local villagers and tenants, but Sir Randolph had flatly refused. Instead, it was to take place in London—a private ceremony at St George’s in Hanover Square with a small wedding breakfast afterwards at the Savoy. Discussing it up in the sewing attic (where they couldn’t be overheard by Mr Goddard), Susan said Miss Addison deserved a much more extravagant celebration than that, to make up for marrying an old windbag like Sir Randolph. Eliza pointed out that marrying an old windbag like Sir Randolph was no cause for any celebration at all.

Beggars couldn’t be choosers, Abigail thought, though honestly—Miss Addison might have improved her prospects with the help of a lady’s maid who was a bit more proficient at hair styling than that Miss Dunn.

The old windbag himself had remained in London to squeeze the last drops of pleasure out of the Season, but as the city emptied at the end of July he returned to Coldwell for a few nights, before travelling up to Scotland for the start of the shooting season. Instead of being collected from the station by Johnny Farrow, Mr Goddard received a letter from Mr Dewhurst to say that Sir Randolph would be arriving in his brand-new motorcar, driven by his brand-new chauffeur.

‘Stanley Twigg showed me the room that’s been made for him above the new motor house,’ Thomas said the afternoon before their arrival, as he polished the dining room candelabra in the servants’ hall. Glancing furtively round to make sure Mr Goddard wasn’t in earshot, he let out a low whistle. ‘Very cushy. I reckon he’ll be thinking he’s a cut above the likes of us, this “shuvver” chap.’

‘Well, if he is, he won’t last long out here,’ Eliza sniffed, half-heartedly rubbing silver polish off a coffeepot. ‘Why would anyone want to leave London for a place like this?’

Even so, Abigail noticed her checking her reflection in the silver surface and practising the smile that showed her dimples. She’d been in a foul mood ever since they’d left London, where she’d flirted herself silly with Walter Cox. Trust her to perk up at the prospect of a new man at Coldwell.

If the motorcar symbolised the modern age, it turned out they were quite unprepared for it. Davy Wells would have had to sprout wings to be fast enough to get down to the church in time to warn them when it turned through the gates, and so the first they knew of Sir Randolph’s arrival was the crunch of tyres on gravel and the blast of a horn, which sent Thomas sprinting upstairs to fling open the doors to receive him while Mr Goddard was still struggling out of his post-lunch snooze and into his tailcoat.

Eliza dragged a chair across to the servants’ hall window to peer out. Standing behind her on tiptoe, Abigail saw a man in a sleek uniform (quite unlike the footmen’s ancient livery) get out from the shiny green motorcar and walk round to open the rear door. His face was shadowed by the peak of his large cap, but a strip of neck, as thick as a rolled gammon joint, showed above the collar of the tunic stretched wide across his broad shoulders. His arms swung slightly as he moved, giving an impression of swagger, like a fighter entering the ring.

‘Crikey, look at that.’

Eliza sounded dismayed, and no wonder. The uniform might be fancy, but even she wouldn’t waste her dimples on a man with a neck like a Sunday joint. (Mind you, Abigail would have thought she wouldn’t waste them on loudmouth Walter Cox either. It seemed there was no accounting for taste.)

‘I wonder where on earth Sir Randolph found him ?’ Abigail said.

‘Not from a respectable servants’ registry, I’ll bet,’ Eliza muttered, swiping the mist of her breath from the glass.

Sir Randolph got out of the motor, his dog bounding in his wake. His white flannel trousers were creased from the journey and he had loosened his striped tie, which gave him the appearance of an overgrown schoolboy, home for the holidays. His braying voice reached them through the inch of open window.

‘Ah—there you are, Goddard! Caught you napping, eh? So what do you think? Rolls-Royce! Quite a beauty, isn’t she?’

Pausing to light a cigarette, he waved it in the general direction of the chauffeur, standing by the car’s shiny flank. Abigail just about made out ‘This is Robson’ (at least she thought it was Robson) before Eliza suddenly ducked down and scrambled off the chair.

‘Bloody Henderson’s seen me,’ she hissed.

Abigail had been too taken up with the spectacle of the motorcar to notice the figure in the front seat. Sir Randolph’s valet was just a shadow behind the glinting glass, but in five minutes he’d be a very solid presence in the servants’ hall, and the atmosphere would feel entirely different.

Another of the changes at Coldwell that summer. And this one was definitely for the worse.

The kitchen passage was empty when Kate went downstairs after seeing that Sir Randolph was settled in the library. Everyone had gone out to the stable yard to admire the new motorcar, and she couldn’t begrudge the girls their curiosity. Going to the stillroom, she checked that water had been set to boil for Sir Randolph’s tea and the trays were laid, then retreated to the sanctuary of the housekeeper’s parlour.

She smelled his hair oil before she saw him.

‘Good afternoon, Mrs Furniss.’

‘Mr Henderson! What are you doing in here?’

He was standing by the fireplace with his hands in his pockets, looking entirely at ease. With a shrug of his shoulders, he rocked on his shiny heels. ‘It’s been a long journey. Very trying, travelling in this heat. I was just thinking how nice it would be to have somewhere to relax at the end of a journey like that—a nice armchair in which to take tea—and I remembered how comfortable you’d made it in here. I hope you don’t mind…?’

She did. She very much did.

He looked nothing like the man she had been married to. Alec Ross was taller and less stockily built, but still—something in the speculative way his gaze moved over her reminded her of her husband.

‘Shouldn’t you be seeing to Sir Randolph’s luggage?’

Her eyes darted around the room, wondering if he’d touched anything. He couldn’t have been there long—a few minutes at most—but that didn’t bring her much reassurance. He was here now, in her space, and something told her that he intended to be there more in the future. That it wasn’t really her space at all anymore.

Sliding a hand out of his pocket, he picked up the china dog from the mantelpiece. ‘One of the footmen can do it. Thomas or—’ He pursed his lips and pressed his fingers to his forehead in a pantomime of forgetfulness. ‘What’s the other one called? The good-looking one?’

‘Jem. Jem Arden.’

‘Of course.’

Those eyes. Narrowed and noticing. She made herself meet them and willed her cheeks not to redden.

‘Well then, Mr Henderson. Was there something you wanted?’

‘Not at all, Mrs Furniss. I wouldn’t presume to ask anything of you. Quite the reverse, in fact. I’ve been thinking…’

‘About?’ she enquired, though she would have greatly preferred not to be privy to Frederick Henderson’s thoughts.

‘We seem to have got off on rather the wrong foot.’ Carefully he replaced the dog. ‘I understand that you and Mr Goddard have your particular ways of managing things here and you might feel a certain amount of… resentment at the intrusion of a new figure of authority, so I wanted to reassure you that my increased presence at Coldwell need not be a threat to you. Indeed, I hope you’ll come to consider it a change for the better. An opportunity, for us both.’

‘I’m not sure I follow your meaning, Mr Henderson.’

If he heard the impatience in her voice, he didn’t let it trouble him. Unhurriedly he removed his hat, unleashing a further waft of pomade. ‘Only that change is on its way, Mrs Furniss. Indeed, it’s already arrived—and Mr Fortescue informs me that you’ve managed the renovations magnificently so far, which is no less than I’d expect. But the fact is, bathrooms and motorcars are just the start. Without putting too fine a point on it, Mr Goddard is advancing in years, and Sir Randolph will be seeking a replacement soon. Someone younger, with more energy for all that the job entails…’

‘And you want to be the replacement?’

He smiled indulgently, as if she’d said something foolish. ‘My dear Mrs Furniss, I may nominally be Sir Randolph’s valet, but in reality my role is rather more than that. My background is professional, not in service. I began working for Mr Hyde as an administrative assistant in his Bombay office, you see; we were both with the East India Company. After all these years he has come to… rely on me somewhat. Not just for organising his wardrobe and seeing to his personal care but in more important ways. Put it this way, I don’t see myself in the dining room, supervising the passing of the port.’

‘I’m not sure what this has to do with me, Mr Henderson.’

He regarded her thoughtfully, his head on one side.

‘I admire your resilience, but the changes will be unsettling for everyone—you most of all. You’ve worked alongside Mr Goddard for a long time; it won’t be easy adjusting to a new man in the house.’ He set his hat down carefully on the table where she usually put her tea tray. ‘I just wanted to make it clear from the outset that you can rely on me, Mrs Furniss. You have… my full support. Regardless of who takes the position of butler, I believe we could make a powerful alliance, you and I.’

A powerful alliance.

Kate snapped open her watch. She wasn’t sure what Henderson was suggesting, but she didn’t need to understand to know she wanted no part in it. With the air of someone who had other things to get on with, she let the watch fall back against her skirts.

‘Well… I’m sure that we will work alongside each other as courteously as we always have, Mr Henderson, though of course as housekeeper and valet our roles are quite separate. Except for at mealtimes, we probably won’t see much of each other at all.’

There was a pause. The heavy air seemed to shift and settle, as if a door had closed somewhere. She got the impression he was making some mental recalibration, as if she had given him the wrong answer.

‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that…’ His voice retained its reasonable tone, but his bearded jaw had hardened. ‘I know you don’t have much previous experience in service, so perhaps you’re not aware that the housekeeper’s parlour is generally used as a sitting room by all the upper servants?’

‘I am aware of that, Mr Henderson. Perhaps we’re unusual at Coldwell in that Mrs Gatley returns to the gardener’s cottage at the end of the day and Mr Goddard prefers to keep his own company in his room. It’s the way it’s always been here.’

His smile was as smooth as butter. ‘It’s the way it’s always been, up until now . But things are changing, and we must change along with them. The new Baronet Bradfield will be doing a lot more entertaining than the old one, and the way the servants’ hall is managed says a lot about a house.’ His gaze skimmed the room again, more critically now. ‘We’ll need another armchair, of course… and I’ll ask Goddard to supply us with a drinks tray and some ashtrays… If that wouldn’t offend you, Mrs Furniss?’

It would.

It did.

The whole idea offended her, but she wasn’t going to give Frederick Henderson the satisfaction of knowing that.

‘I’m afraid it’s impossible, Mr Henderson. With both Mrs Gatley and Mr Goddard preferring to spend their leisure hours elsewhere you must see it would be entirely inappropriate for only us to share this room. It would set a very unfortunate example to my girls.’ She managed a cool smile. ‘I’m sorry, but I simply can’t allow it.’

He nodded slowly. ‘Very well. I understand. However, in a few weeks’ time Sir Randolph will be married, and the new Lady Hyde’s maid will join our ranks. I’m sure Miss Dunn will appreciate having a nice sitting room, away from the lower servants. Presumably her presence will reassure you?’

It would do nothing of the sort, but Kate was outmanoeuvred. After a moment’s hesitation she managed a nod of acquiescence.

‘Excellent.’ Retrieving his hat, Henderson sauntered to the door, spinning it rakishly on one hand, like a variety show performer. ‘Oh, and a tip, Mrs Furniss. You’ll find that I make a far nicer ally than adversary. Bear that in mind.’

He winked. He actually winked. And when he left the room, his smile seemed to hang, Cheshire Cat–like, in the cloud of hair oil he left in his wake.

June 28th

The weather is making us all restless. In spite of the rain it’s stiflingly hot, and the air is heavy, so you feel you can’t breathe. We haven’t seen the sun for days.

One of the men said that he couldn’t remember a summer like it.

But I can.