Chapter 24
Chapter 24
Stir up, we beseech thee, O Lord, the wills of thy faithful people; that they, plenteously bringing forth the fruit of good works, may of thee be plenteously rewarded; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
The little church on the hill, in use on the last Sunday in November for the first time since Sir Henry’s funeral, was as cold as an icehouse. Reverend Moore’s breath formed a ghostly aura about him which merged with his wispy grey hair, and the frayed cuffs of his cardigan protruded from the sleeves of his surplice. Beside Kate, Mrs Gatley eased herself awkwardly on the kneeler, her thoughts probably on the great quantities of currants, candied peel, sweet almonds, and beef suet she had measured out and left on the kitchen table, the mixing together of which was to be ceremonially undertaken after the service, led by Lady Hyde.
Everyone was to take a turn. (‘ Very nice, I must say, having every Tom, Dick, and Harry traipsing through my kitchen ,’ Mrs Gatley had grumbled.) Lady Hyde had assembled everyone in the marble hall last week to go over the plans for Christmas. She took great pains to make it sound like marvellous fun for everyone, beginning with Stir-up Sunday and ending with the servants’ ball on Boxing Day, and glossing over the enormous amount of extra work in between. She had explained the ritual of stirring the pudding at some length—the spoon was to move in the direction from east to west to represent the journey of the Wise Men to Bethlehem; and a sixpence would be added to the mixture, representing the promise of wealth in the year ahead to whoever found it in their helping on Christmas Day. She had also been most insistent that, while stirring, everyone was to make a wish.
The candle flames bent in currents of cold air, casting flickering shadows on the walls. Through the diamond panes of glass, the sky was losing its light; and beyond the quavering, plaintive tones of Reverend Moore, Kate heard the crows calling as they circled the treetops, ready to roost.
What should she wish for?
As the reverend invited them to join him in the Lord’s Prayer, Kate turned to look along the pew. The maids’ folded hands showed cracked, reddened knuckles; and at the end, the new scullery maid sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve. The first wish that sprang into her mind was that the girl (whose name was Doris) would pull herself together and apply herself to her work, instead of bursting into tears every time she was asked to do anything.
Thy kingdom come; thy will be done; on earth as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread…
Kate’s lips murmured the words, but her mind was on wishes, not prayers. She wished to regain the peace she had once found at Coldwell; the security she had once felt in the quiet house, when the year had passed gently, marked only by the changing seasons and the different demands of each. When her heart had been quiet inside her, like a stopped clock.
And forgive us our trespasses,
as we forgive those who trespass against us.
She would not allow herself the foolish luxury of wishing for that little cottage in the country, with the fruit trees in the garden and the brass bed beneath the eaves to share with Jem. Instead, she wished she could stop longing for him. She wished she could escape the memories that unfurled themselves without warning, taking her unawares and making her breath catch. She wished she could hush the need to know what he’d meant when he said he could explain. She wished she had given him the chance.
And lead us not into temptation,
but deliver us from evil.
All at once she was aware of Henderson’s voice, rising above the bass rumble on the other side of the church where the male servants stood. Her eyes flickered across, to find that he was looking at her.
He smiled and nodded, as if registering some private victory. Hatred flared inside her, and she wished she could be rid of him: the smell of hair oil and his prying, probing eyes. His hints and insinuations.
In that moment, more than anything, she wished him gone.
The kitchen passage was warm in the lamp glow, loud with the voices of the outdoor servants, who pulled off caps and loosened mufflers as they shuffled in a slow-moving line to the kitchen.
Miss Dunn felt stiff with embarrassment as Lady Hyde held out the spoon, encouraging her to go first and ‘show everyone how it’s done. East to west, remember—that’s the spirit! And don’t forget to make a wish!’
In the moment before Miss Dunn shut her eyes, she saw Mrs Furniss’s face. It remained imprinted on the darkness—a pale reproach—and she found herself wishing she’d never remembered where she’d seen Coldwell’s housekeeper before.
It was barmy, in Eliza’s opinion.
All this performance for a fanciful childish notion. But that was how it was, she supposed: if you were a lady, married to a baronet, you could indulge your fanciful, childish notions, and get other people to indulge them too. Lady Hyde stood beside Mrs Gatley, pink-cheeked with her own importance as Mr Goddard stood by to announce each member of staff.
Standing in the doorway, Eliza watched Mrs Furniss take her turn to stir and felt her insides curdle with resentment. The housekeeper’s expression was perfectly composed, as if butter wouldn’t melt. As if she was every inch the respectable senior servant that everyone believed her to be.
What did you wish for, Eliza wondered bitterly, when you had your cake and could eat it too?
A little voice inside her head whispered the answer.
Not to be discovered. And she felt a little beat of satisfaction at the knowledge that she had the power to grant that wish or shatter it.
Jem’s broad back and bent head entered Eliza’s view and she averted her eyes. At least now she knew not to waste her effort on him. Of course, she wished she’d realised earlier and not made such a display of herself, but it was too late for that.
If wishes were horses, beggars would ride , her ma used to say. Eliza had spent the last three weeks wishing that Dr Octavius Pink’s Female Pills had done what they were supposed to; wishing she’d saved her 2/6; wishing she’d never been stupid enough to fall for Walter Cox’s flattery, nor even set foot in London at all.
A ripple went through her belly, as if a shoal of little fishes were swimming there.
A fat lot of good wishing had done her.
What she needed now was a bloody miracle.
On the first day of December, Kate woke to ice on the inside of the window and a thick furring of hoarfrost on the branches outside.
In the days that followed, the cold only deepened and the earth hardened to iron, like in the Christmas carol. The needle of the barometer in the marble hall swung round to the left and stayed there. The world was bleached of all its colours, iced white like the trays of spiced currant cakes Mrs Gatley turned out in preparation for the Christmas guests. The final descent of the drive glistened treacherously, and Mr Pearson’s lad, bringing the fortnightly order with all the festive treats Lady Hyde had requested, refused to risk his horse by bringing the cart down, so the Twigg boys had to unload packages of tea and tapioca, paper-swathed sugar loaves and crates of fragrant oranges, and bring them to the house in barrows.
Gatley came in from the kitchen garden with potatoes and swedes, too heavy for Mrs Gatley to carry. He lingered in the kitchen, blowing steam from a mug of tea and grumbling about Lady Hyde’s request for a Christmas tree. ‘Seems folly to cut a fine old tree for a week or two of decoration. Sir Randolph won’t like it, I’m sure.’
A new keeper had finally been found and had moved into the cottage in the woods. Arthur Platt brought neither wife nor children with him, only a retriever with a rosy golden coat and a far friendlier disposition than its master. Kate had had no involvement in Platt’s recruitment, and aside from the Sunday when they had all had to play their part in the stirring of the Christmas pudding, had barely seen him; but when she crossed the yard to the laundry, she heard the distant crack of gunshots. They ricocheted between the bare trees and echoed over the frozen park.
The hapless Doris was given the unpopular task of plucking the pheasants that duly arrived in the game larder. She sat on a stool in the yard, red-eyed with crying and red-nosed from the cold, tearing soft feathers from limp bodies, until the air was a swirl of white; a forewarning of the snow that already lay on the distant hills. With Sir Randolph back at Coldwell, Frederick Henderson haunted the gun room at the end of the passage beyond the butler’s pantry, rubbing dubbin into Sir Randolph’s shooting brogues, cleaning his Purdey sidelocks, and oiling his Holland black, of course. She shook it out and squinted at it in the dim light, but there was nothing much to see. All that could be said of it was that it was serviceable, which was all it had ever been required to be.
She should seek only to look neat, professional, presentable. Why would she want to appear attractive?
A knock at the door made her heart jolt, providing the unwelcome answer to that unspoken question. Of course, it wasn’t Jem who came in, but Miss Dunn, mumbling an apology and carrying something draped over her arm.
‘I brought you this—I hope you don’t mind.’ She spoke quickly, darting across to the bed and laying a dress out on it. ‘It’s an old one of Lady Hyde’s which I remodelled. I thought it was too pretty to get rid of, but I doubt she’ll fit into it again. It’s not exactly the latest fashion and it might not be to your taste, but…’ She hurried back to the door. ‘Well. It’s there, if you want it.’
In the lamplight, Kate could see the glitter of sequins, and a chiffon sleeve fluttered in the draught. The dress was midnight blue, with a square neckline and a high waist; it was so far removed from the items that made up Lady Hyde’s current wardrobe that Kate could only imagine the amount of remodelling it had undergone. She was a little lost for words.
‘Thank you,’ she managed. ‘How very kind…’
Through the long, flat weeks of early winter, when Lady Hyde had been struggling to get to grips with the huge changes her marriage had brought, Miss Dunn had been kept busy, altering dresses to suit her mistress’s new role (and to fit her expanding figure—which was, as far as Kate could make out, due to the comfort she found in afternoon tea and Mrs Gatley’s puddings rather than anything more significant). The night of the wedding dance, when Miss Dunn had knocked on Kate’s door so late, had never been mentioned, and certainly never repeated. Sometimes Kate wondered what had brought her there, and felt mildly guilty for not being more welcoming.
But only mildly. For years she had gone out of her way to avoid friendships and familiarity, the swapping of stories and sharing of secrets. She had protected her solitude. She had no wish to change that now, especially for Lady Hyde’s rather serious maid.
Miss Dunn shrugged. ‘Not at all. I just think we women should stick together… Especially—’ she faltered, her heavy brows pulling together in a frown. ‘Especially in a house like this.’
The comment took Kate by surprise. Had something happened to Miss Dunn? Had Henderson—? She opened her mouth to ask, but found she didn’t know how to frame the question without revealing her own experience, which was a confidence she couldn’t afford to give away.
Miss Dunn hovered at the door, picking at a flake of paint at its edge. The moment stretched and quivered, and then she glanced up with a swift, unconvincing smile. ‘Well. I should let you get on.’
Kate didn’t argue. ‘Thank you—for the dress.’
‘You’re welcome. It’s the least I can do.’
She seemed to regret the words before she’d even finished speaking them. Flustered, her fingers went to the white ribbon on her dress, and she gave Kate a curt nod, almost trapping her skirts in the door in her haste to close it firmly behind her.