Chapter 11 In which brooms are deployed
In which brooms are deployed
Oddly enough, it is in the realms of courtship and affection that many deploy excessive guile, perhaps out of a desire to guard their hearts. This, of course, can be a bar to genuine affection.
— from Lady Avely’s Guide to Guile and Peril
Judith left Robert still sitting with Miss Onslow, finishing the last of the chudleighs under Trebellow’s benevolent eye.
Did Miss Onslow require a chaperone now that a young man was staying at the castle?
Quite possibly, yes. With any luck, she already had a maid to perform that function.
Judith didn’t have time to worry about such trivial matters, for she had to attend to Mrs Ulrich.
It was with some trepidation that she went down to the cellars to see how the cleaning had progressed.
She lit a candle from the kitchen fires again, nodding to the plain young woman who was cutting up potatoes, and asked to borrow an apron.
The cook nodded, wide-eyed, and Judith unhooked one from behind the door and descended the first set of stairs.
The cellars were better lit today, by the light coming from the door and several lit lanterns, but she could see it was in more disarray than her last visit.
There was no sign of Mrs Ulrich, but Kynver (or was it Kade?) came lurching out of the far archway, holding a large bin of produce, his livery dusty.
At his awkward bow, Judith nodded at him, then sidled past into the room he had exited.
It was large and fairly empty, except for Mrs Ulrich, who was aggressively sweeping in a back corner, her skirts swishing angrily.
Judith winced, aware that she had promised to help before she had been distracted by the accounts and Robert’s arrival.
Hastily, she tied the apron on. There was another broom propped against the wall, so she picked it up and began to sweep.
Mrs Ulrich glanced up once, then ignored her with icy disdain. Scorn wafted through the room, a prickly coldness. Judith did her best to disregard it in turn.
After a while, she wiped the sweat from her brow. “Mrs Ulrich, may I enquire why we are concentrating our efforts in this room?”
The housekeeper looked up, her jaw hardening. “We are preparing a cellar for the vampiri roost—as you requested, ma’am.”
Judith coughed at the dust. “I do appreciate your work here, but I had hoped you would clean out the cellar below.”
“This one would be better, ma’am.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The little vampiri will be dwarfed by the large cellar below, ma’am.”
“Nonsense, they will need space to fly about.” Judith began sweeping again, though in a milder fashion than Mrs Ulrich’s vigorous strokes. “And it has a grandeur suitable for a queen.”
“It echoes, ma’am. In a desolate way.”
“It won’t if we put furniture and rugs in it.” Judith looked over. “Have you managed to chase out the Crimson Lady yet?”
Mrs Ulrich pressed her lips together and stood her broom straight. “The Crimson Lady will not be chased, ma’am. She simply vanishes into the wall.”
Judith could hear this was the truth, and indeed she had seen it for herself. She let her broom rest. “Shall we face her down together then?”
There was a long silence. “If you insist, ma’am.”
“I do.” Judith led the way to the descending stairs, obtaining a lantern on the way. Mrs Ulrich followed behind reluctantly.
As they descended to the lower cellar, the sense of sorrow welled up, and Judith pursed her lips.
Mrs Ulrich had certainly not dismantled her Diplomacy charm.
If anything, it had been strengthened in a bid to frighten her away.
Or perhaps the Cork of Doom had been moved to more prominence.
Sadness washed over them like a soft wave of despair, suffocating.
Behind her, Mrs Ulrich’s silence was pregnant.
Judith stalked to the centre of the hall.
She could see no sign of the cork, but it was difficult to see in the dim expanse.
The vanishing lady did not deign to make her flickering appearance, and Judith did not wait to give her the chance.
She turned, ignoring the urge to weep or run, and spoke calmly.
“Mrs Ulrich, you must undo the Diplomacy in here at once.”
The housekeeper stared, her hand still clenched around the broom, as if she were about to deploy it as a sword. “Excuse me, ma’am?”
Judith clutched at her lantern firmly. “The charm that spreads sorrow and fear down here. It is your doing, is it not?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, ma’am.”
It was a lie. Judith was almost relieved. “I think you do know. And I want no more of it, do you hear? If we are to deal well together, we can have no more subterfuge. And you must obey my orders, for I am mistress of this castle now.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Mrs Ulrich’s lips compressed, but at the same time her shoulders straightened, and she glared back.
Judith swept a hand up to indicate the high ceiling.
“This underground hall is ideal for the French queen, and well you know it. Please turn your mind as to how we can make it more habitable.” She paused.
“You have my permission to take rugs and hangings from other rooms in the castle, if it would help. Whatever furnishings you think best. We can make it quite the palace down here, if we put our minds to it.”
A gleam of reluctant interest crossed the housekeeper’s face. “If you say so, ma’am.”
“And vanquish the Crimson Lady’s melancholy, I beg you, and I will not ask you again. You can keep your ratafia kegs, if you must, but the ghost must go.”
“Indeed, ma’am,” Mrs Ulrich said, with a flash of surprise followed by a glimmer of respect. “I will see to it.”
Judith retreated to order cleaning rags, and when she returned, she was glad to feel that the Cork of Doom had been removed or dismantled. She made no comment, however, and simply set to work.
After another two hours of cleaning, she stumbled out of the cellars with relief and undid her apron.
Mrs Ulrich was ordering Trebellow and one of the footmen (Kynver?
Kade? they were too dusty to tell) to beat some heavy rugs outside before laying them down on the newly swept floor.
She didn’t want to compete with Mrs Ulrich’s directions, and she needed fresh air.
It seemed that the housekeeper had reluctantly accepted her orders. Judith felt more certain now that the Crimson Lady hid nothing more than the woman’s grief. Yet if she did connive at smuggling, then tonight would be the night to watch for any reaction.
In the meanwhile, there was still one suspect that she had not interviewed about the death of Sgt Finlay: the famous Miss Isla, the dairymaid.
Exiting through the scullery door, Judith circled round the keep, brushing down her skirts and sneezing a little in the sunlight.
Retracing the steep path, she trod through the leafy avenues.
When she came to a split in the path, she took the left rather than the one direct to the causeway.
The precipitous stone steps soon flattened out, opening to views of the harbour and green paddocks.
A quaint building in grey stone stood right near the path.
It was hexagonal, with its own pointed turret.
Cows munched on the grass close by, and a pungent smell of butter wafted on the air.
This must be the dairy, and it was time for the buttermilk to be churned, after it had sufficiently fermented.
Judith approached cautiously, trying to keep her footsteps quiet, and peered into a low window. It was dim inside, yet she could see the shape of stalls, a bench, and a row of elongated kegs; the butter churns with their long handles protruding.
A young woman worked one of them, her sturdy arms lifting and plunging steadily. She was dark-haired and full-bosomed, with curves that put even Judith’s to shame, accentuated by the tightly waisted apron. Her face was obscured, but even her figure was enough to draw appreciative attention.
She was not alone. Working another churn was one of the twin footmen.
The cursed boys, they seemed to be everywhere.
Judith could not tell if it was Kade or Kynver, for his coat was off, hanging on one of the stalls, and he also had adopted an apron.
His thin, wiry arms plunged another churning paddle, as he smiled and said something to the maid.
Judith heard a laugh, and the conversation continued, though she could not make out the low words above the sounds of slurping paddles.
She decided to make her presence known. Finding the door, she pushed it open, stepping into the faintly warm atmosphere and the scent of rancid milk.
The two labourers looked across in surprise, but they did not stop their work immediately, so accustomed as they were to maintaining the consistent rhythm. But then the footman’s face showed dismay. He released his paddle and bowed, brushing his hands against his yellow apron.
“Lady Avely. How may I help you?”
Guiltily, the girl also let go of her paddle, dropping into a curtsy. “Ma’am.” She was indeed pretty, a lovely Cornish lass with deep blue eyes, dark brows, and rosebud lips.
“Good afternoon,” said Judith cheerily. “You two look busy. Is this task done every day?”
Miss Isla—for it must be she—said, “Yes, ma’am. We sell the butter on the mainland, and the cream, as well as the milk, of course.” She gave a charming smile. “Have you tried the cream yet? It is most delicious.”
“Indeed, quite superb. And may I enquire as to your name?”
“Miss Isla Trebellow,” was the reply.
Judith raised a brow in surprise. “A relation of the butler?”
The girl dropped another curtsy. ‘His niece, ma’am.”