Chapter Nineteen
St Leonard’s, Ashmore Carr, was a simple Norman church, flint-knapped, red-tiled, with a tiny bell tower with a pointed wooden roof like a witch’s hat.
Inside, it was like an upturned boat, with a wooden ceiling between the ribs that would once have been painted in bright colours.
A rather lovely rounded stone arch between the nave and the chancel probably dated from an earlier Saxon building.
Ashmore Carr was where the canons of Canons Ashmore had had their fishponds, but there had probably been a settlement on the site long before that, using the river for fishing and transport, with a tiny Saxon church to serve its spiritual needs.
Moss had looked all this up in local history books, feeling that he should be as prepared as possible before the wedding, and having nothing else, really, to prepare for.
Ada’s mother and brother Harold had paid a visit to the Castle, invited to tea by Mrs Webster, and had shyly shaken Moss’s hand, peeping up at him as though he were the King meeting the peasantry.
Harold was a big, knuckly man in large boots and an ill-fitting suit, evidently his Sunday best, worn over a thick, home-knitted jumper that made the buttons strain.
His work-worn hands were like planks of wood.
Ada’s mother, Mrs Bell, was tiny, less than five feet, with a worn-out version of Ada’s colouring – golden hair gone grey and blue eyes gone pale like a shirt too often washed.
She looked too slight to have borne seven children, of whom three survived: Harold, the eldest, Ada, the youngest, and an in-between daughter, married and ‘gone abroad’ to live with her husband in Peterborough.
They were plainly overawed by the Castle, bewildered by the size of the servants’ hall, the length of the table, the number of people coming and going, perhaps even the splendour of the tea.
Mrs Terry had done Ada proud with potted-meat sandwiches, freshly made buns and a cake with marzipan on it, to augment the usual bread and jam.
Moss tried to converse with Ada’s kin, but he was hampered by his impressive figure and long-cultivated stateliness, which turned big Harold and tiny Mrs Bell into terrified field-mice. When he tried to be jolly and put them at their ease, he only became more inexplicable to them.
George was brought in to share the occasion, and arrived scrubbed to shining redness and with his hair still wet from the yard pump, but the Bells knew George and the atmosphere eased when he took his place opposite them.
Before long, Harold’s big booming laugh was heard, and Mrs Bell thawed enough actually to eat the slice of cake Mrs Webster had placed gently before her.
When chairs were scraped back and departures were taken, George came confidently to shake Moss’s hand and say he was right grateful to him for all he’d done for Ada. ‘I know she looks up to you, Mr Moss, and rightly so. We couldn’t be more honoured that you’re going to give her away.’
A very nice thing to say, was the general opinion: George Soper knew how to conduct himself all right.
Too much of what the cat cleans her paws with, was Moss’s private verdict.
And now, here he was at the church in his best Sunday suit, which Mrs Webster had had sponged and pressed.
His shirt had been laundered by expert hands and his shoes polished to a mirror gleam by Frederick.
Afton had trimmed his hair for him. Moss had the uncomfortable feeling that Afton knew what was going on in his mind.
There was a sort of painful sympathy in the way he looked at him…
And here was Ada, slipping her hand under his arm.
He could feel her trembling. He put his other hand over hers to reassure her and found it cold as a stone.
The music struck up and he said, ‘Here we go,’ and walked forward, with a tiny tug of resistance from her before her feet unglued from the floor and she came along like a led pony beside a great carthorse.
Between packed pews he processed – fellow servants from the Castle on the bride’s side, unfamiliar faces on the groom’s: Soper’s numerous family and friends from the Carr.
And here they were at the altar rails, and he had to unlatch her tiny cold fingers from his sleeve and hand them to George Soper, groom in both his personae; had to give her to him and step back a pace; and when the parson had asked ‘who giveth?’ his part was over. He was done.
The rest of the wedding passed in a dream, with the world at arm’s length, seen and heard through a veil.
The company retired to the Dog and Gun, Ashmore Carr’s public house.
They had done their best for Ada and George, with greenery and favours on the walls, while family and neighbours had provided a feast and a firkin of beer, after which it was pay for your own.
The Dog and Gun had no large rooms, but no-one seemed to mind being crushed together, and the unseasonably mild weather allowed the overspill to make merry outside.
Moss never got near the happy couple, but he was tall and spotted them from time to time, Ada’s golden head and George’s brown curly one close together.
He was guest of honour and someone was always pushing a glass of beer into his hand.
As it grew hot in the cramped space and he grew thirsty he drank more than he was used to, which only added to the feeling of unreality.
At some point someone started playing a squeeze-box, and the company contrived to dance, winding in and out of the different rooms, bursting outside by one door and back in by another.
Moss found himself dancing with Ada’s diminutive mother.
Squinting down at her, he had the odd feeling that he was looking into the future and seeing Ada as she would be at the wedding of her own daughter.
A long time later, it seemed, the music stopped and he found himself leaning against the outside wall of the pub, shaking his head to clear it. A hard, rough hand was laid on his and Rose was in front of him. ‘Time to go home,’ she said. ‘Come on, Mr Moss, you and me can walk back together.’
‘But they haven’t gone away yet,’ he heard himself complain querulously.
‘Yes, they did. They just walked off to their cottage. Their friends went with ’em to see ’em home. That’s no place for old folk like us. Come on, I’ll hold you up.’
He pushed himself off the wall, and said, with all the dignity he could muster, ‘I am not in need of holding up, thank you.’
Afton appeared on his other side. ‘We ought to be getting back,’ he said. ‘Time’s getting on. I’ve got my gentleman to attend to, and you’ll be wanting to see about the wines for dinner, Mr Moss.’
It was a bit of a walk up the hill, and Moss found himself feeling very tired, and almost wishing his dignity would allow him to take an arm. It was getting dark, and a little foggy. He was glad the other two didn’t seem inclined to talk – he needed all his breath.
When they got back to the house, Afton said, ‘Why don’t you let Frederick see to things this evening, Mr Moss? You look all in.’
Rose said, ‘Mr Afton’s right. Frederick can manage. Take the evening off.’
He tried to freeze them with a look, but his face felt strangely rubbery and out of control.
What he really wanted was to seek the privacy of his room and cry, but he was butler in this house and he had to lead by example.
‘I shall do no such thing. I am going to my room to change my clothing, then I shall return and do my duty. And you should do the same.’
Rose shrugged and walked away. Afton gave him a considering look and said, ‘Would you like me to help you change? Studs and links can be fiddly when you’re tired.’
‘I am not tired, thank you, Mr Afton. Go about your duties, if you please.’
He was aware that some of that sentence sounded a little blurred, but all he needed was a little sit-down, then he’d be fine. He was always fine. He had to be fine. He was the butler of Ashmore Castle.
Mrs Webster glanced through a door and saw Frederick decanting wine. ‘Did Mr Moss tell you to do that?’
He didn’t take his eyes from the neck of the bottle with the candle flame behind it; his hands steady as rocks. ‘I went to his room and he was fast asleep, so I’m doing the service this evening.’
‘That’s not your decision to make.’ Much as she liked Frederick – or, rather, liked his qualities, because he wasn’t a person you could get close to – she thought he sometimes needed taking down a peg.
He got to the end of the bottle, put it down, and turned to her. ‘You could try and wake him up, but I wouldn’t. He’s worn out. That wedding was too much for him.’
‘We shall see,’ she said, and spun on her heel.
‘Have a heart,’ Frederick said, following her. ‘Let the poor old boy sleep.’
She drew a sharp breath at the impertinence. ‘Mr Moss is butler in this house, and you will not refer to him in that manner.’
Moss’s door was closed, and she tapped politely and then opened it. He was sitting at his desk, leaning back in his chair, eyes closed. He was still in his wedding suit, though he had taken off his jacket, collar and tie. ‘Mr Moss,’ she said. ‘Are you awake?’ There was no response.
‘See?’ Frederick murmured behind her.
She backed out and closed the door. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Are you sure you can do everything?’
‘Course I am,’ he said, with a butlerish lift of the head. ‘I’ve done it all before.’
‘All right, then,’ she said.
It was very early when Giles was woken by Afton. He sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes. ‘What time is it?’
‘Just after six. I’m sorry to wake you so early, but we have a situation downstairs,’ Afton said, proffering Giles’s dressing-gown.
‘Then deal with it,’ Giles said, lying down again.
‘I think you ought to come, my lord,’ Afton said immovably. ‘It’s Mr Moss.’
Dr Arbogast came out of the butler’s room to where Giles was waiting. ‘Dead some time,’ he reported. ‘Who found him?’