Chapter 20
Chapter 20
The sky had darkened into bruised twilight, but strings of lights, powered by a throbbing generator, had been hung between the tents and around the wooden platform that had been set up for dancing. They shone on the faces of the couples circling the rough boards—flushed with drink, smiling, or glassy-eyed—and those clustered at its edges, tapping their feet and swaying as they watched.
Jem stood outside the ale tent with a half-empty pewter mug, and impatiently searched the crowd of drinkers and dancers. The two beers he’d drunk already had done nothing to calm the restless pulse inside him or slow the whirr of his thoughts, which circled between Mullins and Kate. His senses were on high alert, ears straining to hear the stable yard clock above the music.
‘What time is it, do you think?’
‘About ten minutes later than last time you asked.’ Thomas drained his tankard of ale. ‘And time for another of these. Drink up, I’ll get more, before they run out.’
‘It’s all right, I’ll go.’
He didn’t want more beer, and Thomas certainly didn’t need it, but it was an excuse to have another scout round for Mullins. He’d looked earlier, but hadn’t been able to find him in any of the tents where beef stew was being dished out from great vats by the staff of the Bull’s Head, nor amongst the crowd around the wooden dance floor. It was past eight o’clock. Time was running out.
There was no sign of Kate either. He was torn between willing the time to fly by so he could be with her, and wanting to stop the clock and search for Mullins. Frustration sluiced through him as he ducked beneath a flap of canvas to join the crush around the beer table. He considered asking the man in the grimy neckerchief who served him if he knew of Mullins or his whereabouts, but the tent was noisy and if he shouted to be heard he risked drawing unwelcome attention. He carried the brimming tankards back to where Thomas stood, swaying out of time to the music.
‘Did the lasses find you?’ The three pints had gone to Thomas’s head and his words were beginning to run into each other. ‘They were here a minute ago—Eliza’s looking for you. Said you promised her a dance.’ He nudged Jem’s arm, splashing ale onto his sleeve. ‘She likes you, you know.’
Jem didn’t answer. Through the slow-circling carousel of dancers he’d caught a glimpse of Kate. Mullins dissolved from his thoughts.
‘Look—there she is,’ Thomas grunted, then turned to Jem, blinking stupidly. ‘Ha—you like her too! You do, I can tell!’
Jem hadn’t even noticed Eliza. It was Kate his eyes were fixed on as she wove her way through the crowd. Her eyes melted into his, making heat build in the pit of his stomach as she approached.
She was with Miss Addison’s maid, who fluttered nervily at her elbow, her head darting every which way. They were a few feet away when Thomas noticed them.
‘Watch it, there’s Mrs Furniss,’ he remarked, loudly. ‘And what’s ’er name—’
The band were playing a lively folk tune and the dancers’ feet thudded on the wooden boards, but even above the noise it was clear that they’d heard him. ‘Miss Dunn,’ Jem said, smoothing over Thomas’s oafishness as they reached them. ‘Mrs Furniss. Are you enjoying the evening?’
‘We’ve only just come out,’ Kate said. The dark green dress she was wearing was less formal, a little more bohemian than her housekeeper’s uniform, and her hair was loosely pinned, with soft curls framing her face. ‘It took longer than I thought, tidying up, though Miss Dunn very kindly offered to help.’
Her eyes telegraphed a message: exasperation and an appeal for assistance. Jem smothered a smile. ‘Could I perhaps get you both a drink?’
‘ No, thank you ,’ Miss Dunn said vehemently, pressing a hand to her chest where her temperance ribbon was pinned. ‘Lady Hyde assured me there would be a tent where tea would be served? Perhaps, Mrs Furniss, you and I might—’
Jem became aware of Eliza and Abigail approaching, drawn by Thomas’s clumsy waving. He could see the direction the evening was in danger of taking; him stuck in a four with the other servants, Kate condemned to hours of tea and polite conversation with Miss Dunn. As the tune ended and the dancing couples fell apart, hot and exhilarated, he seized his chance and extended his hand to Miss Dunn.
‘Plenty of time for tea later,’ he said. ‘For now, might I possibly have the pleasure?’
‘Oh no, I—’
‘Oh, you must!’ Kate had clearly read his mind and understood the exit route he was preparing. ‘Please, don’t feel you have to stay and keep me company. In fact, I might go and…’
Already backing away, she trailed off vaguely, but Jem caught the gleam of her eyes in the second before her lashes swept down. His stomach tightened with anticipation and want; just as well he’d changed out of his flat-fronted livery breeches, he thought, as Miss Dunn put a hand in the crook of his arm and reluctantly allowed him to lead her to the dance floor.
She assumed it was some sort of private joke; Coldwell’s handsome footman asking the new mistress’s plain maid to dance, the housekeeper insisting she accept. If not jest, then charity. They thought they were doing her a kindness, assuming she would be grateful, when really she would far rather be left alone.
There was plenty to be getting on with in the house, unpacking the trunks of garments Lady Hyde (it still felt strange to think of her as that) had gone mad ordering for her trousseau. Miss Dunn had only come out because she wanted to speak to Mrs Furniss. Needed to. Anguish made her stomach gripe as the footman steered her through the circling couples. She held herself stiffly, straining to see past the people gathered at the edge of the dance floor and beyond the strings of lights, trying to keep track of her.
But it was impossible. The dusk had deepened, blotting out anything outside the golden lamp glow, and the housekeeper’s slim figure was quickly swallowed up by the crowd. The strangers’ faces around the platform blurred as the steps of the dance spun her round, but she picked out the other Coldwell servants (the stillroom girl scowling as she followed their progress). Miss Dunn felt giddy, her head still thick and throbbing, and was almost glad of the footman’s light hand on her back, supporting her.
‘How was the wedding?’
If he was playing a joke on her, he didn’t seem to be finding it very amusing. His expression was grave, his tone as respectful as if he were addressing Lady Hyde herself.
Sarah Dunn bit her lip, not knowing how to answer. Her experience of nuptials was limited, but it had been a strained and cynical affair by anyone’s standards. Sir Randolph had been firm about keeping the celebrations small and private, depriving Miss Addison of the support of her Shropshire friends, yet it was amazing how many of his acquaintances just happened to be passing through the Savoy Grill that afternoon, all keen to partake of a celebratory drink with the bridegroom. No wonder he had insisted on holding the wedding in London rather than out here at Coldwell.
‘It went well enough,’ she said tersely. ‘That said, it would have been nice for my lady to have had more say in the arrangements and more of her own people present.’
‘She had you there. I’m sure that was enough.’
He meant to be kind, not twist the knife of her guilt—how could he know that she had abandoned her mistress and retired to bed halfway through the afternoon? She pressed her lips together and turned her head away, willing herself not to cry.
The need to find Mrs Furniss swelled on a tide of panicky shame. For the hundredth time she cursed herself for her earlier cowardice in not asking the housekeeper if they might talk. She had hoped that an opportunity might present itself naturally, but Mrs Furniss seemed distracted and not her usual professional self: she had ignored all Miss Dunn’s hints about the unfortunate events at the wedding. Blinking back tears, she peered past the twirling couples, through the milling crowd. The music went on and on, the scrape of the violin sawing on her raw nerves, until her gaze suddenly snagged on a figure standing in the mouth of the beer tent.
Frederick Henderson’s eyes met hers. Before she could look away, he smirked and raised his tankard to her in a sort of mocking salute.
Revulsion rose in her throat. Wrenching her hand from the footman’s she pulled away, cannoning into the couple behind them and almost causing a pileup.
‘Miss Dunn? Are you all right?’
‘I think I’ll go back to the house now.’
‘Of course.’
At the edge of the wooden platform, the blonde stillroom girl was slipping the shawl from her shoulders and handing it to the other maid, readying herself to take Miss Dunn’s place in the footman’s arms. Even so, he offered to walk her back to the house. She should say no and leave him free to enjoy the rest of his evening, but just knowing that man was nearby made her feel shaky and ill at ease. Swallowing her pride, she gave a quick nod.
‘That would be kind, if you don’t mind.’
‘Not at all.’
She had to admit, he was very professional. He even made it sound like he meant it.
After all these years, Kate thought that she was familiar with the Coldwell parkland, but everything looked different in the dark.
Earlier a harvest moon had hung low in the sky, its creamy light as bright as the lantern in the stable yard, but it had been muffled by cloud as it rose, and now there was nothing to be seen of it except a silvery marbling across the heavens. The way through the woods to the gamekeeper’s cottage seemed farther at night, but at last she made out the outline of the chimney, the glimmer of the white-painted porch, and her breath came a little more easily.
She’d spent the day trying to temper her anticipation, but what had happened earlier had tipped anticipation over into need: uncomfortable, urgent, impossible to ignore. When Miss Dunn had come to the housekeeper’s parlour as Kate was getting ready, it was all she could do to be civil. She was in no mood to encourage the woman’s clumsy attempts at conversation.
For a woman who’d barely spoken two words previously, Miss Dunn suddenly seemed very keen to talk, and had kept up a disjointed monologue as they went out to join the festivities. Kate had barely listened. She was aware of Miss Dunn darting odd, furtive glances at her as they walked, as if there was something she wanted to get off her chest. Whatever it was—if there was some issue with Lady Hyde’s new rooms or a grievance about household management—it could wait until tomorrow.
Tonight belonged to her and Jem.
There was a smell of leaf mould and damp stone by the squat little cottage. As she felt for the key, the back of her neck prickled with the sensation of being watched, but she shrugged it off and refused to give in to the urge to look behind her.
The door was warped and scraped loudly on the tiled floor as she pushed it open. Despite the effort they’d made to scrub and freshen the place, the air inside the low-ceilinged kitchen smelled mossy and stale. The doubt that had stalked her since she’d left the lights and music and dancing edged closer, curling its tendrils around her excitement. On stiff legs she went across to the sink and leaned over to tug the curtain (stitched by her own hand, from a piece of worn, mangled cloth) across the window. As she did, she caught a movement outside.
Relief coursed through her, warm and reviving, like brandy. She’d seen Eliza, taut with eagerness at the edge of the dance floor, and feared that it might be a long time before Jem could safely make his escape, so the scrape of the door made her heart soar and her stomach twist with anticipation. She turned towards it, her smile already spreading as a shadow slipped in.
‘Thank God you’re here.’
‘Oi! Oi —you!’
Jem heard the shout from behind him but kept walking with his head down. He had tried to avoid the places where the crowds were thickest and the lights brightest and skirted around the back of the tents, but the evening was taking on a nightmarish quality—like one of those dreams when you try to run and can’t move. The stable clock had struck nine as he’d left Miss Dunn at the back door. He was late already—he couldn’t spare the time to give someone a light or directions to the latrines.
‘Oi— wait! ’
This time the voice was more insistent. In spite of himself, he looked round and saw a figure lurching towards him. In the dark, with the strings of lights behind casting a bright aura that left the man’s face shadowed, it took a moment to recognise him.
‘I’ve been looking for you,’ Mullins slurred.
June 30th
Kate, I think this is the last chance I’ll get to write. Today we have had kit inspection and this evening we have been visited by the chaplain and the general (both looking very smart and very clean, unlike us). The attack is set for tomorrow morning at half past seven. The general told us that we should be proud to play a part in the decisive battle of our time, one that could bring this war to its end. He assures us that the bombardment has obliterated enemy defences and our advance has every chance of being unchallenged. I hope to God he’s right.
We’ll be moving into position soon, so I don’t have long left. I still need to explain what happened that night, at the wedding dance. I tried to meet you—I was on my way to the gamekeeper’s cottage when I was stopped by a lad who had worked at Coldwell years before, who had been there when Jack was. I’d got his name from the tigers’ uniform in the footmen’s wardrobe and tracked him down to the brewery in Hatherford. He wouldn’t tell me anything at first, but he sought me out that night when he was steaming drunk. He was ready to talk then, and it all came spilling out.
I’d waited so long to find out what happened to Jack. I’d always blamed myself for letting him down, you see. I just wanted the truth, but I didn’t realise that getting it would mean letting you down too.
More than I could have imagined.