Chapter Thirteen
Afton and Frederick happened to be walking side by side along Piccadilly when they were forced to step back so that a fleeing maid could pass between them.
Her ears were scarlet and her eyes were full of tears, and what she was fleeing was plainly the head housemaid, who stood further down the corridor, grim-lipped and arms akimbo.
‘What was that all about?’ Afton asked mildly.
‘The housemaids are my concern, Mr Afton. I’ll thank you not to interfere,’ said Rose.
‘Not interfering, just asking,’ Afton said. ‘It seems an unhappy house these days. Lady Rachel, for instance. Drooping like a lily and sighing. What’s wrong with her?’
‘Ask your sweetheart, Miss Hatto,’ Rose snapped. ‘She ought to know.’
Rachel did not have her own maid, and Hatto looked after her as well as Kitty when she was at the Castle.
Afton raised his eyebrows at the descriptor. ‘My who?’
Frederick elucidated, with an air of enjoying the situation. ‘You were seen walking about with her at the fair, Mr Afton. Conclusions were drawn.’
‘Then they’d better be un-drawn,’ Afton said. ‘We’re colleagues. And Miss Hatto doesn’t gossip.’
‘Everyone’s got their limits,’ Rose said darkly.
Afton decided not to pursue that. ‘And then there’s Lady Alice, out riding from morning till night, and looking like a lost soul when she’s at home. You’re maiding her, Rose. You should know what’s upsetting her.’
‘If I did, I wouldn’t tell you,’ Rose said. ‘I might as well ask you why his lordship’s got a face like thunder. But I won’t, because I mind my own business.’
Frederick looked at Afton for his response. He seemed to be enjoying the match.
‘Oh dear,’ Afton sighed, ‘we’re all out of sorts, it seems. It must be the weather.’
Rose snorted at the idea, though it was depressing weather for July, muggy and warm but sunless, the skies uniformly grey and dull. ‘Weather, my foot! If you ask me—’
Afton and Frederick held their breath.
She gave them a triumphant grimace instead of a smile. ‘You can work it out for yourselves.’ And she flounced away.
Afton glanced at Frederick, who was smiling as if at a private joke. ‘What’s funny?’ he asked.
‘It looks like a bad case of everybody being in love with the wrong person,’ said Frederick.
‘What do you mean? If you’re referring to me—’
‘Perish the thought, Mr Afton. I know my place,’ Frederick said.
At that moment, Moss came out from his room, paused in the corridor looking about in a lost way, then turned and went back in.
‘A case in point,’ Frederick said. His hand went to the pocket in which Afton knew he kept his notebook, but dropped again, as if it had been an automatic movement he had checked at the last moment.
Afton’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you up to?’ he said. ‘What is it you write down in that damned notebook of yours?’
‘A man has a right to his private thoughts, Mr Afton. It’s in Magna Carta. Excuse me, I must go and see if Mr Moss wants anything bringing up from the cellar.’
Afton watched him go. Everyone in love with the wrong person?
What had he meant? Afton wasn’t in love – though if he was, why would Miss Hatto be the wrong person?
The young ladies – well, that was possible.
Young ladies did tend to have romantic entanglements, and something odd had been going on with Lady Rachel and Mr Tullamore ever since last Christmas, he had no idea what.
But his lordship? Afton wouldn’t say he had a face like thunder.
It wasn’t bad temper, it was an abstractedness – ever since that telegram arrived.
But it couldn’t have been that – that had been good news: a baby born to her ladyship’s dear friend.
Perhaps his lordship had had bad news by some other means…
He caught himself up. It was a bad habit they got into, speculating about the private lives of the family.
It was because they had no family life of their own.
He thought for a moment of Miss Hatto, imagined what it would be like to have a wife and children and a home.
For those in service, it was not possible, of course.
It was the hand that had been dealt them, and you had to play it as best you could. There was no sense in complaining.
He walked on towards the valets’ room, the thought coming to him that Frederick had meant Rose was in love with the wrong person.
There was an intriguing notion! From what he knew of Rose, she wouldn’t lie down under unrequited love without a fight.
But it was hard to believe she would fall in love in the first place.
And Mr Moss? Now that really was absurd.
Moss had been dreaming, and it had been so vivid that when he woke up, it took him a moment to remember where he was.
In the dream he had been out walking with Ada.
It was a sunny day, and she was wearing a dress of white muslin, and a straw hat covered all over with big white moon-daisies.
She had taken one of the flowers from her hat and put it into his buttonhole, and he had looked down and seen that he was wearing a suit of cream-coloured linen – extraordinary!
He’d never owned such a thing in his life!
And a military tie, like a gentleman. She put the flower in his buttonhole slowly and carefully, as if it were a task she had to concentrate on.
Then she turned away and started running.
They were in a meadow of tall grass and the same moon-daisies.
He ran after her, and he must have been young in the dream, because the running was effortless.
It felt wonderful, running through the meadow, following that delectable figure in her delicate white dress.
He noticed that her feet were bare, and he wanted to warn her in case she stepped on a sharp stone.
But she was drawing further ahead. He tried to call out to her, but he couldn’t make a sound. And she ran further and further away…
And then he woke up.
Back at his desk, he sat and wondered what the dream meant.
It had been so vivid. Even now, he felt as though if he looked down, the daisy would be there in his buttonhole.
In the dream he had seen her face very clearly, and she was older than in real life – a grown woman – but it was definitely Ada.
Did it mean, if he waited for her, she would come to love him?
He stared down at his hands – his old man’s hands – folded on the desk top.
She was so young, so lovely. But he had things to offer.
He had learning, and wisdom. He could teach her so much.
Guide her. And he had savings – he wasn’t empty-handed.
He could offer her security. They could leave service and take on a little shop, perhaps, run it together.
People leaving service with savings sometimes ran pubs, but he wouldn’t want to expose her to that sort of environment.
No, a nice little shop – a linen-draper’s perhaps. Clean and nice. And she—
Abruptly, he put his hands over his face. He loved her so much. But he had moments of clarity like this when he knew she could never love him. He was too old.
But inside, he wasn’t. Inside he was the man in the cream linen suit who ran without effort. He saw again the figure in white muslin, her golden curls loose down her back under the straw hat with the daisies, and he began to drift, back to that sunny place, the meadow…
Angus had plenty of time on the journey to think about what to do next. But his emotions were churning, and he arrived at the door of Ashmore Castle, having walked from the station, still with no idea of what he was going to say.
He was admitted to the hall by the butler, Moss, who greeted him with a lofty reserve as Mr Tullamore, and was not sure if his lordship or her ladyship were at home.
A murmured correction improved his reception considerably.
He was shown into the drawing-room, where presently Kitty came in, took both his hands and kissed his cheek, and said, ‘My dear, Moss said…Sir Angus? Your father?’
‘Yes. It was quite sudden – a stroke.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘I was in time to be with him at the end,’ Angus said. He stopped, unsure how to go on.
Kitty took over. ‘Giles is out about the estate, and won’t be back until dinner. You will stay, won’t you?’
‘Thank you, I’d like to,’ he said, shy in the face of her kindness.
‘It’s been so long since we saw you, I hope you’ll stay a while, at least until Monday. The horses are still up, and the girls can take you out. I suppose you’ve really come to see Rachel.’ She gave a questioning smile. ‘I’m not sure how you left things with her…’
And so he told her everything, lured on to be explicit by her warm sympathy.
‘I had no idea,’ she said, at the end. ‘Poor you. And poor Rachel. I’m afraid my mother-in-law has strong ideas that often leave people uncomfortable.’
‘I’d like to explain everything to Rachel,’ Angus said, ‘and find out if she still loves me enough to marry me. She’ll be twenty-one in two weeks’ time, so she can choose for herself. And now that I have the title and a fortune…’
‘There’s no point in my speculating on her state of mind,’ Kitty said. ‘Why don’t I send for her, and she can put you out of your misery?’
He was about to answer, when the door opened, and Rachel was there, standing in the doorway, looking miserably uncertain.
‘I heard you were here,’ she said, her hands twisting together. ‘Oh, Angus, I’m so sorry!’
‘No, I’m the one who’s sorry!’ He held out his arms to her, and she ran to him – Rachel, who never ran. Kitty smiled to herself, and slipped out of the room.
Were there tears? Yes, there were – penitent tears, which turned, as soon as it was plain that love and forgiveness were already in place on both sides, into tears of joy.
Were there explanations? From two directions, largely incoherent and much interrupted by declarations that they were unnecessary.
Was there kissing? Quite definitely – an incontinent amount.