Chapter 17
Chapter 17
On the day that Sir Randolph Hyde was taking Miss Leonora Addison to become his lawful wedded wife in a small, private ceremony in London, Kate made her fortnightly visit to Hatherford, to settle the accounts and place orders in the shops.
Johnny Farrow was even more taciturn than usual, barely acknowledging her ‘good morning’ as she climbed up onto the wagon in the stable yard. They had just begun their swaying progress up the drive when a shout from behind made them both look round. Jem had emerged from the arch and was running easily after them.
‘Can I join you? Mr Goddard’s asked me to go to the brewery, to check the beer order for the dance.’
Kate’s heart soared.
It wasn’t fair to slow the horses on the hill, so he had to jump up onto the moving wagon. ‘Forgive me, Mrs Furniss,’ he said, with a convincing mixture of humility and regret. ‘There’s not much room.’
She was struck by what a good actor he was. But, as servants, weren’t they all? Used to keeping their feelings hidden behind expressionless faces.
Autumn had gilded the parkland and the circling hills, and clouds trailed languidly across a sky of blameless blue. (Mrs Gatley had pro nounced it perfect weather for a wedding, though Susan had swiftly soured that sentiment by informing them that rain on a wedding day was a sign of good luck.) This was the gently glowing tail of summer’s searing comet, and it bathed everything in its golden light. Kate relaxed back on the wooden seat and felt a burst of quiet joy at the sensation of the sun on her cheeks and Jem’s hip hard against hers, his arm resting on the back of the seat behind her.
Hatherford seemed busier than usual. The change of season carried a crackle of energy as people began to make their preparations for the winter ahead. Johnny Farrow set Kate down, as he always did, outside the bank. The brewery was behind the Bull’s Head, where he hitched the horses, so there was no reason for Jem to get down with her. She caught his wistful smile as he handed her basket down.
‘Midday, same as usual,’ Johnny Farrow called, flicking the horses on, and Jem’s eyes held hers as the wagon moved away.
Inside the bank, she slid Mr Fortescue’s cheque beneath the glass partition at the counter, watching the teller’s bony fingers as he counted out the money for her to settle the household accounts. She could still feel the warmth of Jem’s hand on her shoulder. With the money folded in her bag, she crossed the road and went into the spice-and-soap-scented interior of Pearson’s the grocers.
Kate took her place in the queue and idly watched the other women waiting. They were mostly farmer’s wives or countrywomen, in clogs and hats that were functional rather than fashionable, but a woman at the counter wearing a coat of moss green velvet caught her eye. It was not new nor particularly smart, but somehow… stylish. The kind of thing Kate would have chosen for herself, had she been able to choose.
She found herself thinking a lot lately about the things she would choose, if she were able: the kind of house she would live in, the way she would furnish it, the life she would have. It was idle dreaming, she knew that, but there was a grain of something more behind it too, an element of self-discovery, perhaps. Her life so far had been dictated by her roles, as daughter, wife, housekeeper, but Jem had uncovered the person she had never had the chance to be. Someone who surprised her. Who laughed, and made love. Who wanted a cottage in the countryside, with fruit trees in the garden, and roses… where the skills she had acquired would be used for her own benefit instead of someone else’s. Who wished for a life of simple domesticity, in tune with the seasons.
With Jem, of course.
‘Mrs Furniss. What can I get for you today?’
The woman in the green coat had moved away and Mr Pearson was looking at her over the top of the Fry’s Chocolate cabinet. He had sandy hair, a thick moustache like a fox’s brush, and an air of permanent harassment, as if the queue of customers in his shop was something of a trial to him. Kate pushed her dreams aside and placed her list on the counter.
‘There’s quite a lot this week, I’m afraid.’
Mr Pearson picked it up and adjusted his half-moon spectacles as he studied it, glancing up at her with an expression that lay somewhere between incredulity and outrage. ‘ Three cones of sugar, Mrs Furniss? Six pounds of tea?’
‘It’s this week Sir Randolph returns to Coldwell, isn’t it?’ Mrs Pearson, serving another customer, bustled behind her husband, nudging him out of the way none too gently as she reached for a tin of treacle. ‘Bringing his new wife. My sister lives in Howden Bridge—she says there’s a dance on Friday, to welcome home the happy couple.’ Kate heard the cynicism in her tone. ‘It’ll be quite a change for you, I daresay?’
‘A new era for Coldwell Hall,’ Kate said smoothly. ‘Speaking of which, perhaps you might be able to help…? With Sir Randolph and Lady Hyde in residence we’re going to need more staff. I’m looking for girls—kitchen maid, scullery maid, and housemaid—I wondered if you might know of anyone looking for a place. I don’t mind if they’re young—full training will be given, and a good wage—’
There was a muffled snort to Kate’s right. She looked round and saw that it had come from the customer Mrs Pearson was serving; a solidly built woman, with iron-grey hair escaping in wisps from beneath her battered hat and an expression of undisguised hostility. ‘You could pay a king’s ransom and you still wouldn’t get any takers for that place, girl or boy,’ she muttered, just loud enough to be heard. ‘Not now he’s back. People hereabouts aren’t daft. And they’ve got long memories.’
Kate felt the colour creep up her cheeks as embarrassment burned down inside her. The criticism felt personal, though she didn’t know what had prompted it. She was aware of eyes on her—Mr Pearson’s, the woman who’d spoken, the other customers behind her. The hum of conversation had stopped, and there was a moment of frozen silence before Mrs Pearson stepped in to fill it.
‘Perhaps you could write to the matron of the Barnardo’s Home in Sheffield? Their girls are always grateful for a place,’ she said, addressing Kate with soothing courtesy. ‘Now, leave that order with Mr Pearson and we’ll get the lad to deliver it tomorrow, as usual. Won’t we, Mr Pearson?’
‘ If we’ve got it all,’ her husband muttered dubiously as he hurried round to open the shop door for her. ‘But I’ll always do my best for you, Mrs Furniss, as you know.’ He lowered his voice, as if admitting something shameful. ‘The Coldwell account is very valuable to us and we’re grateful for your business. Good day to you.’
The brewery was at the scrag end of town by the river, where the neat streets of shops and houses gave way to sheds and workshops and privies and the cobbles were slick with mud. Once Jem had got down from the wagon at the back of the Bull’s Head it was easy to find. He just had to head towards the tall brick chimney and the smell of yeast and roasting hops.
Mr Goddard might have refused his request for a day off, but it hadn’t been hard to find an excuse for the trip. The old man was so vague these days, he could barely remember what year it was, never mind whether the beer he’d ordered for Sir Randolph’s homecoming dance was adequate. Jem had casually sown the seeds of doubt and seen the relief on the butler’s face when he’d offered to go to the brewery himself, reassuring Goddard that, with his experience from the Station Hotel, he was well-placed to make sure they had secured the best deal for the best ale, and enough of it.
He’d planned his strategy carefully, using his last Sunday half day to go to church in Howden Bridge. He’d positioned himself at the back and spent the tedious service studying the congregation, looking for the woman he had spoken to on coronation day. It was easy to spot her red hair, especially as she had a brood of children with the same striking colouring. Slipping out quickly at the end, Jem had lit a cigarette and waited by the door to catch her.
‘Is there a Mullins here?’ he asked the foreman now, raising his voice above the hiss of steam and the mechanical clank of the great pumps.
The man barely glanced at him. ‘Why d’you ask?’
‘Just curious. If it’s the Mullins I’m thinking of, I might have found something that belongs to him.’
He was as certain as he could be that it was the Mullins he was thinking of. The woman with the red hair had eventually confirmed that Mrs Mullins, who’d helped her with the teas at the coronation fete, had a lad who’d once worked at Coldwell. She too had asked why he wanted to know, and he’d told the same lie.
He followed the foreman across the dusty floor of the brewery, past the gleaming, steaming coppers to the wide mouth of the cavernous space. ‘What kind of something?’ the man said.
‘Personal.’ Jem shrugged. ‘Something that might have sentimental value, if it’s his. It might not be, but I found it in an old coat that had his name in it. Heard he worked here so I thought I’d ask. Of course, if he’s not—’
‘ Mullins!’
The foreman pushed his cap back and bellowed across the yard. Having done that, he gave Jem a cursory nod and disappeared inside.
A head appeared over a stable door; a broad, blank face with the mouth hanging open. Jem went unhurriedly over, sliding his hands into his pockets and closing his fingers around a small fold of paper so he could feel the hard disc inside it. It was his own St Christopher medallion, the only thing he had that had belonged to his mother. He didn’t want to lose it, but he hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
‘Are you Mullins?’
‘Who wants to know?’
Jem had thought about this. It was likely that for the duration of his brief stay at Coldwell Jack would only have been known by the name of his employer, as was the custom for visiting servants. However, he couldn’t be sure, and couldn’t risk revealing too much at this stage. ‘I work at Coldwell Hall,’ he said, watching the lad’s face. ‘I think you used to have a place there? We were going through the old uniforms and came across a coat with the name Mullins in it. Tiger’s livery.’
Mullins’s eyes narrowed and his slack mouth closed like a trap. ‘Yeah, well, it’s a common enough name round these parts, ain’t it?’
He was half-hidden by the stable door, but his agitation was obvious. Behind him, the heavy horse seemed to sense it and shifted its hooves, scraping them on the stone floor. Jem patted his pockets absently, making a show of looking for something. Eventually he pulled out the square of folded paper.
‘This isn’t yours, then? Belongs to some other Mullins?’
‘What is it?’
‘Found it in the pocket of the tiger’s coat. But if you weren’t at Coldwell—’
‘I never said I wasn’t. I don’t like talking about it, that’s all. It was a long time ago—I was glad to get away. So… you going to give it back then?’
The hand he stuck out over the door was deeply ingrained with dirt. Playing for time, Jem took a half-smoked cigarette out of his waistcoat pocket and relit it, pausing to inhale deeply.
‘How long ago were you there?’
‘I dunno—a few years. Like you said, I was a tiger. Just a kid.’ He thrust his hand forwards. ‘Now, if you’d give me what’s mine, I’ll get back to work.’
Frowning, Jem exhaled a column of smoke. ‘The thing is, I’m not sure now that it is yours. It seems like a sentimental thing; if you’d lost it, you’d probably know…’ He began to unfold the paper. ‘You don’t remember misplacing anything?’
Mullins’s eyes were fixed on the paper. Opening the last fold, Jem slid the St Christopher into his other hand and flipped it in the air. It glinted and flashed for a second before he caught it. ‘If you can tell me what it is, it’s yours.’
‘A sovereign.’ Mullins’s voice cracked. He gripped the top of the stable door, his ruddy face suddenly waxy. ‘It’s a bloody sovereign, isn’t it? That bastard—’
Backing away, he gave a bitter and broken sort of laugh, and rubbed his black-nailed fingers across his forehead. ‘You can keep it. I don’t want it.’
‘What makes you think it’s a sovereign?’
A pulse had begun to throb uncomfortably in Jem’s temples. Inside the stable Mullins spun round, grasping the fork he’d been using to muck out the stall. ‘I said I don’t want it, whatever it is. And I don’t want to talk about it, neither. Now bugger off and leave me alone.’
For a long moment they stared at each other, then Jem nodded. ‘All right,’ he said softly. ‘All right. But if you change your mind, you know where to find me. My name’s Jem Arden. I think you know who I am.’
It was a gamble, and one that he’d lost before. But he’d never been this close to the truth; he’d never found himself face to face with someone he was pretty sure had the answers he was looking for. Mullins held all the aces.
Jem walked back across the cobbles with his head bent, his hand closed around the St Christopher in his pocket, the curse Mullins called out after him ringing in his ears.
The church clock was striking the half hour when Kate came out of the chemist with her packages of tooth powder, witch hazel, and oil of cloves. Usually she would be glad to have finished her errands and have time to browse the shops for her own pleasure, but the exchange in Pearson’s had unsettled her.
There was a cool nip in the air, a bite that hadn’t been there the last time she was in town, but that wasn’t what made her pull the collar of her coat up around her face. All this time she had been afraid of being discovered and exposed, had thought she was safe in this small, cut-off town in the Derbyshire Peaks. The people here knew her as Mrs Furniss, respectable housekeeper of Coldwell Hall, but it seemed she was just as ignorant of their lives as they were of hers. She felt self-conscious, tainted by a secret that everyone seemed to know but her.
She walked slowly, aware of her own ghost in step beside her, slipping in and out of the corner of her vision in the shop windows. She passed the tea shop where, when the weather was cold, she sometimes ordered a pot of Darjeeling to sip while she watched the passers-by on the street, savouring her aloneness and anonymity.
Little did she know that she hadn’t been anonymous and unremarkable at all, and that people must have been talking, whispering , about who she was and where she was from. It wasn’t her past associations that tainted her here but her present one, with Coldwell.
She stopped in front of Holdsworth’s Pawnbrokers, hitching her basket onto the other arm as she peered in through the window’s small panes. Some shopkeepers favoured a methodical approach to showing off their wares—symmetrical towers of tins and packets, serried rows of produce, but here everything was piled into the dusty window space without design or forethought. Kate’s gaze moved over china jugs, children’s shoes, smelling salts bottles, and pocket watches, until a small box in the far corner of the window caught her eye.
A dragonfly nestled on folds of blue satin, its enamelled wings delicately veined in gold. She stared at it wistfully, thinking back to the day of the fair, and the walk back to Coldwell over the steaming moor.
It took a moment to notice that someone had come to stand beside her, and another to realise that it was Jem. Neither spoke, but she felt the comfort of his presence; a loosening of the tension in her shoulders, as if she had stepped out of the teeth of a gale into shelter.
She heard his soft outward breath, like a sigh, and felt him move fractionally closer. The effervescent joy she had felt when he had jumped up onto the wagon had dissipated, leaving a quieter, more wistful longing in its wake. Almost like sadness.
After a while he said in a low voice, ‘I wanted to come and find you, but—’ He glanced round, over his shoulder. ‘There’s nowhere we can go, is there? Nowhere that we won’t be seen, and people won’t talk.’
The reflections of people on the street behind them slid across the window. The inside of the shop was dark and murky, but Mr Holdsworth would be lurking somewhere in its depths. He would be watching them.
Someone was always watching them.
Jem turned away from the window. With an impressive show of nonchalance, he leaned against the wall, flipping a silver coin from one hand to the other.
‘It’s the way it is,’ she said quietly. ‘The way it has to be.’
Since the night of the downpour, they had survived on snatched moments and stolen kisses, furtive glances and fleeting smiles. It was harder than she’d imagined, but she sometimes wondered how she had got through the days before—the blank, flat years without him. She had only been half-alive. Frozen, like a fly trapped inside one of the blocks of ice hauled up from the icehouse. He had quickened her blood again. He had brought her back to life, and however difficult it was, she couldn’t regret it.
He put the coin back into his pocket and turned to look up the street. A muscle flickered in the hollow of his cheek, and inside her gloves her fingers ached to touch him.
‘I wish I could court you properly,’ he said softly. ‘I wish I could hold your hand and sit across a table from you in a tea shop, like any other man with his sweetheart…’
He made it sound so ordinary. So blissfully commonplace. She couldn’t help smiling.
‘You want to buy me tea?’
His head was bowed, but he cast her a sidelong glance from beneath his dark lashes. A half-smile.
‘Yes. I want to buy you tea. And when the waitress isn’t looking, I want to peel your glove back and kiss the inside of your wrist.’ His voice was a husky growl. ‘I want to take your arm as we walk down the street and put my hand on your waist. I want to take you home to a place where we can shut the door and be alone. Where we can… I don’t know. Just be .’
Just be . Together. No guilt or fear or weighing up risk. No lies or excuses. No elaborate code system, and notes left in the Chinese vase on the scullery shelf.
‘I like the sound of that,’ she whispered, moving away from the window to stand beside him. ‘A home, where we can shut the door and be alone.’
‘A bedroom with a big brass bed, where I can fall asleep with you in my arms…’
In her head she saw the cottage, with the apple trees and roses in the garden, and found she couldn’t speak anymore.
She had known from the first time she touched him that there was no future for them. It was the nature of service. Occasionally you came across a married couple in the roles of housekeeper and butler, but aside from that, relations between staff were simply not tolerated. As a female servant you either lived a half life in someone else’s home, a shadow in the wings of their three-act play, or you left to get married.
She was married already.
There was no way out. No happy ever after awaiting. It was scraps and crumbs and compromises. That was the deal she had made for her freedom, and she had considered it a good bargain. She had no right to want more.
But she did.
Oh… she did.
We’re all tired. The guns make it difficult to sleep and they are always there, even in your dreams. I’m tired of the waiting too, though I’m not finished writing yet. I have yet to make my confession.
Before I left Coldwell for the last time I went into Goddard’s room and found the photographs that were taken that day on the steps. The one showing the whole staff was hung on the wall, but the others were in a pile of old newspapers and unanswered correspondence on his desk.
There was one of you with Goddard, Mrs Gatley, and Henderson. In it you look beautiful and composed, and only someone who knew you well would spot how you were turning away from Henderson and your mouth was set tight. I cut you out from the rest of the group, so it looks like you’re standing on the steps alone. Your expression seemed softer then. I’ve carried that scrap of photograph with me ever since and looked at it a thousand times. I’m looking at it now.
I left the half with Goddard and Mrs Gatley on the desk amongst the others. I threw Henderson into the fire.