Chapter 32
Chapter 32
Joseph crouched in the darkness under the basement stairs, his knees drawn up against his chest. He had moved the pile of wicker hampers out a little way, so he could hide behind them, but he needn’t have gone to the trouble. No one was looking for him. No one had noticed he was missing. He was invisible. A nothing.
He groped for the bottle at his side and lifted it to his lips, wincing as the spirit scorched his throat. Mr Goddard had stopped him from having cider upstairs like everyone else, but he’d remembered Mrs Gatley’s bottle of brandy, left out after being used to set the Christmas pudding alight. It tasted worse than cough medicine, but it had slowed his racing mind and made his body feel like it wasn’t quite his own, which was (he decided) a good thing.
It hadn’t stopped the sound of the baby crying inside his head though. The wet smack of fist on flesh.
Upstairs the band had finished playing and the ball was over. The merriment had moved downstairs to the servants’ hall, where Mrs Gatley was trying to teach George Twigg the polka and the band were eating leftover sandwiches before making the journey back to wherever they’d come from. Huddled in the cobwebbed dark, Joseph listened to the laughter. Every time Mrs Gatley’s raucous cackle rang out he tensed, though it sounded quite different to the baby, really. Nothing like that urgent, quavering cry.
Earlier he had gone to his bed by the silver cupboard and taken out the old candle box from beneath it, where he kept his sixpences. He didn’t count them before shoving them into his pocket—the sum he had amassed was a source of shame, not pride. He was going to give them back to Mr Henderson. Tonight. He was going to tell him that he didn’t want any part in his special duties no more and he’d rather earn his money the regular way. And he could get someone else to wear the Indian lad’s uniform for Sir Randolph’s gentleman’s parties.
Currents of frozen air gusted along the passageway as the band members went back and forth to their motorcar, loading up their things, passing a few feet from Joseph’s hiding place. Part of him wanted someone to notice him, so he straightened his legs till his feet were sticking out past the hampers, but when he realised that his cheeks were wet and his nose was running, he withdrew them again.
Anger began to uncurl inside him, like an animal waking up and stretching.
Out in the corridor, a bell started to jangle, greeted by a chorus of jeers from the servants’ hall. There was a scraping of chairs, a clatter of feet. ‘Lady Hyde’s room!’ he heard Susan call. ‘Not our business. Where’s Miss Dunn?’
‘Haven’t seen ’er. Nor Mrs Furniss.’
‘Well, I’m not going…’
‘Someone better had…’
Joseph put the bottle to his mouth and tipped his head back, but only a scant drop trickled onto his tongue. His arm suddenly felt incredibly heavy, and he let it fall, so the bottle cracked down onto the tiles and rolled away.
The bell rang again, joining with the clamour of the baby’s cry in his head.
He fumbled in his pockets and pulled out the coins. Some of them slipped through his fingers and rolled away too. He scrambled to pick them up, but as he groped in the dirt, he knew he was wasting his time; it was all for nothing anyway.
He could return the money to Henderson, but it wouldn’t bring Jem back.
‘I’ve spoken to the violinist chap—he’s the driver. He says there’s not much room, but they’ll take you as far as Sheffield and drop you at the station. Find somewhere to sit tight for a few hours, and you can get the milk train to London.’
Kate had followed Miss Dunn in silence through the nursery wing and down the stairs. Now, in the darkness of the stairwell, they spoke in whispers.
‘What reason did you give?’
‘Just what we agreed. A telegram arrived earlier saying that your mother is ill. It must have been delayed already because of the weather and you don’t want to waste any more time getting to her.’
Kate nodded, fighting uncertainty. The plan was all Miss Dunn’s, but she couldn’t find fault with it, nor see any alternative. In so many ways, it was similar to the one she had come up with herself on the night she had left Bristol nearly ten years previously. Seizing the moment, not allowing doubts and what-ifs to throw her off course. Forcing herself out into the unknown.
‘Thank you. For helping me.’
‘How could I not, when this is my fault?’
‘Don’t say that. It’s the fault of men, isn’t it? Their demands and their desires and their need to control. I came here to escape one man, and another will use that to manipulate me. If I try to stand up to him, he’ll ruin me. And he’ll get away with it, won’t he? Because they always do.’
She was talking to herself as much as Miss Dunn, going over the things they had already been through upstairs, reminding herself why it was impossible to stay. How there was no reason to, with Jem gone.
‘But we’re stronger than they think,’ Miss Dunn said softly. ‘They can use all their power to control us, but they won’t break us. We won’t let them.’ She was holding Kate’s chatelaine and it sounded its familiar chime as she slipped it into the little drawstring reticule she carried, then lifted her hand to clasp Kate’s. ‘Ready? You’ve got everything?’
‘I think so.’
Miss Dunn had taken charge of her packing too, and the case she carried (a small one of Lady Hyde’s, more convenient than the box Kate had arrived with all those years ago) contained the bare essentials for a new start: a plain skirt, two blouses, nightclothes, and underthings. While Miss Dunn had folded and packed, Kate had bundled together the writing case on the table along with some headed paper. She would need it to apply for a new position and start from scratch with a new set of half-truths.
Miss Dunn went ahead of her into the cold night. High above the stable block, the moon was like a mother-of-pearl button in a sky full of sequin stars. Its light silvered the cobbles and the chrome trim of the motorcar that waited with its doors open.
‘Here we are,’ said Miss Dunn, in a voice that was bolder and more assertive than usual. One of the men from the band straightened up from loading things into the back seat, and turned to Kate with a smile. ‘I hope you don’t mind being a bit squashed in. We’re used to it, but that doesn’t always stop the complaints.’
‘Not at all. I’m very grateful for your help.’
She climbed into the back seat, with the cello case and a large valise between her and its other occupant, the viola player. Her own case she put on the floor by her feet, bending her legs awkwardly around it and sliding along to make room for the other violinist, who settled in heavily beside her.
‘I’ll say goodbye then,’ Miss Dunn said stiffly. ‘Good luck… with your… mother.’
‘Thank you.’
With a curt nod, Miss Dunn shut the door and stood back, as the cellist turned the starter handle and jumped into the passenger seat.
The car circled the yard. Kate kept her eyes fixed on the figure of Miss Dunn, almost indistinguishable from the shadows, except for the pale oval of her face and the temperance ribbon on her dress.
A moment later they passed under the stable arch, as Kate had done a thousand times before, the motorcar gathering speed as it went up the incline of the drive, far quicker than Johnny Farrow’s wagon and horses had ever done. Kate could feel the house at her back and knew exactly how it would look; its rows of glowing windows, the four muscular pillars at the top of the steps. The temple on the hill, dark against the stars.
But she didn’t turn round.
She didn’t look back.
Jem slept. Cold, hungry, and battered by waves of pain. It was a relief to give himself up to the swell of exhaustion and let it take him; carrying him away for a few hours of respite.
It was still dark when he woke, but the luminous dark of near dawn, not the inky blackness of night. The fire was ashes, but there was enough light inside the tower room to see Davy in a huddle of blankets in the corner, and the face of the boy above the fireplace.
Jem’s eyes stayed fixed on him as he inched gingerly upright, bracing himself against the pain. Beneath his red headdress, the boy’s face was calm and unsmiling. Resigned, almost. He had been taken from his home and family and brought to this cold house in the bleak Derbyshire Peaks by an Englishman who believed the world was his playroom and other people his toys. The painting showed a boy who had learned that his life was simply worth less than the jewel on his turban.
Over a hundred years had passed and nothing had changed.
Davy rolled over and sat up, blinking sleepily, his hair sticking up on one side, his bearded face scrunched into a sleepy scowl. Jem stood, gripping the edge of the panelling and praying not to pass out.
‘It’s time to go, Davy.’ It hurt to talk. ‘Now, before everyone’s awake.’
‘Where?’
‘To the house. To find Ka—Mrs Furniss. And after that we’ll get you home. Your mum will be very glad to see you and hear how brave you’ve been. How you saved my life.’
Davy nodded, shaking off his ragged assortment of blankets and shambling to his feet.
Jem found that once he was on his feet the pain settled to a steady thump, bearable if he didn’t make any sharp movements. He didn’t need Davy’s assistance to go down the stairs this time, but was glad of his presence as he followed him through the oily black of the tunnel. He wanted to ask about Jack… about what had happened to his body after Henderson had left him down here, but he couldn’t let that distract him now.
And there was something inside him that didn’t want to think of Jack like that. As a body, not a boy.
The darkness was choking. The tunnel got narrower as the ground slanted upwards, until they were both bent double, and the pain was like a saw, deep in the flesh of Jem’s shoulder. It made the breath burn in his throat, but just when he wasn’t sure if he could go on any longer, Davy was pushing through a door at the top of some steps.
The dark was softer on the other side, the air cleaner. It held the unmistakable scent of churches. Slumping against the wall, waiting for the pain to loosen its teeth, Jem’s heart lurched as the gloom revealed a rope hanging from the ceiling. It was another second before he realised they were in the bell tower, where for so long Davy had carried out his unofficial duty.
It seemed that the prospect of getting home had made Davy impatient. He opened the low door into the porch and waited for Jem, twitching with pent-up energy. Keeping his arm folded close against his body, Jem followed, gathering strength from the thought that he was minutes away from Kate.
Her image burned in his mind like a beacon as he stole through the fading night behind Davy. He pictured her, as he had left her, in her bed, asleep on her front, one hand curled beneath her chin. He imagined himself kneeling beside the bed, stroking her hair back from her face—ever so gently—and kissing her awake.
I didn’t mean to let you down a second time. I didn’t want to abandon you. I’m here now…
The stable yard was sleeping as they passed through it, the horses silent in their stalls. Jem looked nervously up at the chauffeur’s loft, but no light showed.
Through the arch, the big kitchen window glowed with lamplight. Susan must be up, seeing to the water. In the yard he came up against the first flaw in his plan. He’d thought to wash in the stone trough; to submerge his head in the water and rub the dried blood from his matted hair and swollen face, but the trough was covered with a crust of ice an inch thick. The laundry house window reflected his image back at him; colourless but still horrifying. He looked like the ghost of someone who’d met a violent end.
He supposed he nearly had.
Behind him the back door opened; a slice of yellow reflected in the glassy black. A second later a little screech echoed around the yard as Susan spotted Davy.
‘Oh my lord— Davy Wells ,’ she said in a furious whisper. ‘I thought you were a—a cutthroat or something. What are you doing hanging around in the dark like that? You nearly frightened me to—’
Jem turned, not knowing if Davy would speak and getting ready to step in and explain. She saw him, crossing the yard towards her.
And this time she began to scream properly.
Eliza heard the noise as she came down the back stairs, tying her apron. She hadn’t bothered to put her corset on this morning—since everyone knew about her predicament, or would do soon, she didn’t need to endure the discomfort of concealing it anymore. As the scream spiralled through the sleeping house she stopped, hands stilling behind her back, red hot alarm flushing through her, driving her down the rest of the stairs as quickly as she could in her new clumsiness.
Downstairs was still in disarray from last night. The table outside the scullery was piled high with serving dishes and plates, and the floor was smeared and scattered with crumbs. In the wreckage of the usually ordered basement and the wake of the scream, the silence felt sinister, but as she hurried past the kitchen Eliza heard low voices at the back door.
‘Susan, it’s all right— please —don’t wake everyone—’
She was standing in the doorway, her hands clamped over her mouth. And someone was outside in the yard, obscured by the lingering dark.
‘What the bloody hell’s going on?’ Eliza went forward. ‘ Jem?’
Dear God…
She’d thought what had happened that night before the London trip had been bad, but it was nothing to this. His clothes were filthy and his shirt torn, his face swollen on one side. A gash slashed across his forehead, just at his hairline, and had bled like nobody’s business, the blood in dried rivulets down his cheek and neck, blackening his collar. He had one arm crossed over his chest, and the curled fingers of his hand were blood crusted too.
‘We can’t let him in,’ Susan said in a shrill whisper. ‘He tried to steal—’
‘Oh for God’s sake, Susan—are you mad? It’s Jem . I don’t give a monkey’s what bloody Frederick Henderson said—stop dithering about like a halfwit and get some hot water and a cloth.’
She pushed her briskly back in the direction of the kitchen, then went to Jem, sliding her arm around his waist and drawing him gently forwards. In the passageway he winced at the light.
‘It doesn’t matter about the water,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I just need to see Mrs Furniss…’
‘Oh my life—’
Abigail had appeared, almost colliding with Susan rushing the other way. When she saw Jem, her mouth fell open in horror and she backed away. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Henderson,’ Jem said tersely. ‘I found out something he didn’t want anyone to know. He got Robson to do this, and if he finds me here, he’ll finish the job off. I need to—’
‘He won’t.’ Eliza kept her voice calm. ‘He won’t dare do anything with us here. Isn’t that right, Davy?’ The lad was hovering as close to Jem’s side as he dared, and she guessed that he had made all the difference between Jem quietly bleeding out somewhere and making it back here. ‘Let’s get you inside and cleaned up. Abigail, go and get Mrs Furniss.’
‘No, I’ll go—’
Jem made to push past her, but Eliza grabbed the arm that wasn’t crossed over his chest.
‘No, you won’t,’ she said firmly, lowering her voice so only he could hear. ‘You can’t. For her sake, Jem—think about it. Come on…’ She put his arm over her shoulder. ‘Let’s have a look at the damage and clean you up.’
She could feel the beat of Jem’s heart against her chest as she led him to the servants’ hall, and felt a surge of ferocious protectiveness. She tried to steer him into Mr Goddard’s chair, where Mrs Furniss had fussed over him last time, but he wouldn’t sit. Instead, he paced restlessly, putting his fingers to the cut on his head, his eyes returning every few seconds to the door.
Susan came back, silently leaving a bowl of steaming water on the table, with a clean cloth. Eliza pictured Mrs Furniss dampening the cloth, the tenderness on her face as she’d sponged his skin. (She’d seen it then, but was too na?ve to trust her own eyes.) She managed to stop him pacing and pin him against the wall long enough to clean the worst of the dried blood from his forehead and down his cheek. He flinched as she pressed around his jaw, and let out a jagged cry as she applied the cloth to the curve of his neck. Pulling his bloodstained shirt open, she sucked in a breath.
You didn’t have to be a nurse to know that the hard lump pushing the bruised skin upwards shouldn’t be there. She couldn’t be sure what that bone was called, but she was one hundred per cent certain that whatever its name was it was supposed to be straight.
‘It’s all right…’ she soothed, and she wondered if he could hear the ache of longing in her voice. ‘It’s broken, but you’ll live…’
‘Not if Henderson comes down.’ He spoke through gritted teeth, his eyes swivelling desperately to the door. ‘Look, I just need to see Kate—’
Abigail’s footsteps rang along the corridor. Jem started forward as she appeared in the doorway, shaking her head.
‘If she won’t come down, I understand—’ His voice was raw and desperate. ‘But please —tell her I—’
‘It’s not that.’ Abigail sounded almost afraid. ‘She’s not there.’
Afterwards Eliza remembered it as if it happened with no sound.
Jem moving past her, brushing her hand away as she tried to stop him. The urgency coming off him, like a physical force. She and Abigail following him out into the corridor. They were a few steps behind him as he ran to the housekeeper’s parlour, so she didn’t see him knock, or watch him go in.
They only saw him come out again, stumbling, his face milk-white, his hands held out to stop them going further.
And she wished that she’d let him.
That she hadn’t seen Henderson, slumped in Mrs Furniss’s little velvet armchair, which wasn’t pale blue anymore, but crimson. Like his shirt, and his hand hanging down, and his dripping fingers.
Crimson, like Mrs Furniss’s chatelaine, lying on the floor beside him in a coil of chains.
Like the scissors, with their sticky blades open.