Chapter 9
The grandeur ended abruptly. The passage beyond was low and narrow, the walls bare stone blackened by soot. Heat and steam filled the air, thick enough to taste. She followed the sound of voices and found herself in the servants’ hall.
A long trestle table stretched the length of the room, shelves heavy with copper pots and drying herbs. Strings of onions hung above the hearth. The stone floor was worn smooth by generations of feet. It looked more like the homes she knew: plain, practical, and alive.
The servants’ hall was empty, but through an open doorway came the clatter of pots and voices. Aoife stepped into the kitchen. The soft, cheerful chatter stopped abruptly.
“I’m sorry,” she blurted. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was—”
Then a familiar voice spoke. “Is there something you need, miss?”
Clara stepped out from the back of the group. Aoife’s relief was immediate.
“I need my things.”
Clara, like the butler, looked at her blankly.
“I had a bag when I arrived. A pestle and mortar, herbs, oils,” Aoife explained.
The cook was the one to speak up “Kit asked me what to do with those, I told him to add them to the household things,” she gestured to an area of the kitchen and Aoife quickly crossed to where she indicated, able to spot a few of her things immediately.
“The clothes are gone though I’m afraid,” the cook said.
“That’s all right,” Aoife said, looking through the shelves. She found a small bottle of oil and reached to pick it up.
A hand reached out and took the bottle before Aoife could. Aoife was surprised to see it was Pansy.
“You can’t take that.” The girl said, her voice so quiet Aoife almost missed it.
“I need it.”
“You have to ask his lordship.”
“Pansy,” the cook chastised, “it’s a bottle of oil. What could she want with it that his lordship might object to?”
“I want to make an ointment for one of the gardeners.” Aoife rushed to explain.
“See,” the cook said, continuing to knead the dough.
The scullery maid hesitated still. “If his lordship took ‘em away, we shouldn’t be giving ‘em back.” Pansy’s voice was soft but sure.
“He didn’t know what it was,” Aoife said. “Do you think he’s ever been in a kitchen? Or an apothecary?”
“I don’t think that’s a good enough reason to break a rule.”
Aoife was stunned to hear the girl who had barely spoken to her that morning asserting herself.
“How about because it would help someone? The gardener has a terrible rash that makes it hard for him to work. It’s only going to get worse as the weather turns colder. Unless I can help him.”
The scullery maid held the bottle a little tighter before finally holding it out for Aoife to take.
“Thank you.”
Aoife took the oil and turned to look for her other items. She found most of them easily. She didn’t have anything to carry them. Clara appeared as if reading her mind and offered her a tea towel to wrap the things in. Aoife took it gratefully.
“You a healer then?” Pansy asked, her voice still so quiet it was hard to hear.
“I am,” Aoife said as she continued to scour the shelves for the items she was missing.
“Mrs Wilton’s having trouble with her knees.”
“My knees are fine,” the cook answered, pounding the dough a little harder than Aoife thought necessary.
“It looks real sore. We’re on our feet all day,” Pansy explained.
“I’d be happy to help.”
Mrs Wilton gave her a long-suffering look before returning to her dough. “Maybe.”
“Any time, truly.”
Mrs Wilton didn’t seem inclined to continue that line of conversation, so Aoife changed the topic. “Do you have any frostweed?”
“Why would I have a weed in the kitchen?”
“It’s good against itching,” Aoife explained.
The cook shook her head. “Look in the courtyard. It grows everywhere around here.”
“Thank you,” Aoife turned to Clara. “Would you show me the way?”
Clara led Aoife out of the kitchens, down a narrow corridor, clean but uninviting.
She opened a heavy wooden door, and they stepped out into a courtyard.
On one side was the compost heap, next to it scraps to be collected by the rag and bone man.
In the centre, a water pump drawing from a deep well, and on the opposite wall, the weed grew, climbing up the red bricks on either side of the archway that led out to the garden. Aoife picked a few.
Now that she’d completed her task, her mind turned to the greater challenge at hand: getting food down to the village, and how to broach the topic with Clara.
Aoife made sure no one was watching or listening before she spoke. “There’s so much food here. I was wondering if we could get some out to the village.”
Clara’s face turned pale. “Lord Halverton wouldn’t like that.”
“Would he even notice?” Aoife asked. “If food meant for the pigs went elsewhere?”
Clara glanced around. “Maybe not. But if he did—”
Aoife recognised the fear in her. “I know,” she said softly. “I… it’s bad out there, Clara. Worse than you think. A few pieces of fruit, a bit of meat, it would mean everything.”
Clara twisted her hands. “I don’t even know how we’d do it. I get half a day every fortnight, that’s all. I could try to take something then, but if I’m caught…” She shook her head. “I can’t lose this job.”
Aoife’s heart sank. “No. Of course not. Forget I asked.”
Clara looked at her, worried.
“It’s all right,” Aoife said. “I’ll think of something.”
Someone coughed, and Aoife whipped her head around to look.
Alton stood in the archway, his one good eye fixed on them. Clara dropped her gaze, colour rising in her cheeks.
“I’ll walk you upstairs, miss,” Alton said evenly.
Aoife straightened. “That’s not necessary. I know the way.”
He inclined his head. “All the same.”
Clara murmured about unfinished work and slipped away. Aoife followed Alton through the narrow servant’s corridor, the air still thick with heat and steam.
They climbed the servants’ stairs in silence until Alton spoke. “You shouldn’t get her into trouble.”
Aoife glanced at him. “I wasn’t trying to.”
“I know what you were trying to do,” he said. “You need to understand the consequences of your actions. Lord Halverton doesn’t forgive betrayal. He’ll hand down the harshest punishment the empire allows.”
“For taking scraps of food meant for the pigs?”
“Stealing is stealing.” Alton clenched his jaw. “you might be willing to risk your own skin. You don’t get to make that choice for anyone else.”
They reached the landing. Aoife slowed, studying him. “You like her,” she said softly.
For the first time, he faltered. “I… what makes you say that?”
“It’s all right,” Aoife said. “There’s no way Lord Halverton’s noticed.”
Alton gave a dry, uneasy laugh. “Still, we must be obvious if you’ve guessed after a day.”
They stopped outside her door. “You should give him a chance. He’s a fair master. You know where you stand. You could be content here.”
She caught the choice of words, content, not happy.
He looked past her, his voice quieter now. “He saved my life after the fire. No other household would have taken me on like this.” He raised his hand to indicate the scarring, the fingers that no longer gripped.
“I can’t do hard labour,” he said simply. “Without him, I’d have no job, no food, no roof over my head. I’d be dead, no doubt about it. I can’t forget that.”
The words sounded like an old defence repeated until he believed it.
He went on. “He’s been hurt before. I think you could help heal that old hurt.”
Aoife absorbed that in silence. A part of her, the naive and hopeful part, wanted to believe it. If he had been different once, maybe he could be again. Maybe she could make him see reason, be a better master to his tenants.
As Alton turned to leave, she said, “How can you admire him and fear him at the same time?”
He stopped. “What do you mean?”
“You’re afraid of what he might do to you, or to Clara. Yet you speak of him as if you owe him everything.”
Alton looked away. “I do fear him,” he admitted. “I’d be a fool not to. If he found out about Clara, she’d be dismissed on the spot. And you know what the world’s like for a woman out there.”
He met her eyes again. “And as for stealing food? A betrayal like that would mean death. He doesn’t suffer disloyalty.”
Aoife’s face drained of colour. “Death?” she whispered.
Alton’s expression softened with pity. “Like I said, you know where you stand with him. Don’t cross him, and you’ll have a good life here.”
He left her standing in the corridor, the echo of his footsteps fading into the hush of the house.
Aoife stayed where she was, cold to the bone.