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He’d had the small space to himself since before Christmas and sharing it again was going to take some getting used to. ‘You can have a decent bed now,’ he remarked, nodding at the iron bedstead in the corner recently vacated by Walter Cox, who was at that moment sitting on the rumble seat at the rear of the carriage as it disappeared up the drive.
Not a moment too bloody soon, as far as Thomas was concerned.
By rights, as the visiting footman, Cox should have had the straw pallet on the floor, but the new lad hadn’t been quick enough to claim the bed. He hadn’t seemed particularly bothered about it neither, which Thomas couldn’t understand—who wouldn’t jump at the chance to put that big mouth in his place? Thomas hadn’t quite worked him out yet, this Jem Arden character.
Jem shook out the shirt and slipped it onto a hanger. ‘The bed’ll be great, but it’s the quiet I’m going to really appreciate.’
‘I know. Cocky sod, isn’t he? Bloody Londoners, they’re all like that. Think they’re summat special.’ Shrugging on the fustian jacket they wore for work below stairs, Thomas stopped suddenly and looked at Jem. ‘Wait—did you say you were from—?’
‘London?’ Jem smiled. ‘No. Worked there for a bit, that’s all.’
‘Well, any road, I’m pleased to see the back of him. And the rest of them—including Sir Henry, though I shouldn’t say it. Cocky Cox can call it boring, but I’m all for an easy life.’
It was Sir Henry Hyde’s habit to stay with his daughter at Whittam Park for a fortnight at this time every year, while the house underwent its annual spring clean. Thomas, assisted by Lord Etchingham’s valet, had eased him into the Etchingham carriage as carefully as a piece of priceless furniture, wadding him with blankets and swaddling him in furs.
Jem began to unbutton his trousers. ‘Still got two weeks of cleaning to look forward to, though.’
‘The clean isn’t so bad.’ Thomas averted his eyes. ‘There’s a lot to get done and Mrs Furniss can get quite fierce if she thinks you’re slacking, but I’ll take a bit of furniture shifting and carpet beating over running up and down with trays and standing in the dining room for hours.’ He picked up the livery jacket he’d dropped on the bed, and the discarded bow tie. ‘Right. I’ll get downstairs and return this lot to the footmen’s wardrobe. If you strip that bed, you can bring the sheet down. Laundrywomen are here today.’
He ducked through the low doorway and his footfalls receded on the bare wooden stairs. Jem folded the blanket on Walter’s bed, then bundled up the sheet and tossed it in the direction of the door, turning over in his mind what Thomas had said about Mrs Furniss. He wondered what she might look like when she was being fierce and found he was quite intrigued to find out.
He found he was quite intrigued by her generally.
It was an unwelcome inconvenience. Even before they had been enclosed together in the small space of the library staircase, he’d been distracted by her, noticing the shape of her mouth with its sharply defined Cupid’s bow, the hollow at the angle of her jaw where her little pearl earring quivered. Standing close enough to inhale her scent (a mixture of roses and nutmeg and vanilla… not dissimilar to the potpourri in the drawing room, but warmer somehow and deeper) had been a painful pleasure, and it had hardened an abstract awareness into something more persistent and difficult to ignore.
But ignoring it was exactly what he intended to do. He hadn’t come this far to be sidetracked by a schoolboy crush. Going over to the straw pallet on which he’d spent the last three nights, he raised the corner and picked up the book he’d hidden beneath it. With his shirtsleeve he swiped the dust off the cover and traced a finger over the gold lettering.
COLDWELL HALL VISITORS’ BOOK
He couldn’t believe how lucky he’d been to get away with it. When Mrs Furniss had come across him looking at it, he’d assumed the game was up and he’d be asked to leave immediately—especially if she also discovered the cigarette in his pocket, pilfered from the box on Hyde’s desk. That’s probably what would have happened if Hyde and Miss Addison hadn’t appeared, putting them both at risk of being caught in the wrong place.
Taking it over to the window he turned to the last written page, where the leaf had been removed. He lifted the book, tilting it so the light fell on the paper. It was thick and expensive and bore the faint imprint of writing.
The windowsill was dusted with grime. He tapped his fingertip in the dirtiest corner, then rubbed it lightly over the paper, so the impression made by the pen stood out against the smear, like words whispered from the past.
GENTLEMEN’S INDIAN HOUSE PARTY. NOVEMBER 14TH–17TH 1902
His heart had begun to thud more heavily as he repeated the method, brushing his finger over what looked like a guest list, printed beneath. Goose bumps rose on his arms as the page gave up its secrets and the second name in the column was revealed.
Frensham.
No title because that would be vulgar, no first name because that would be common, but Jem knew who it was. Tobias Forbes, Viscount Frensham, was Lord Halewood’s eldest son. The man whom Jack had worked for at Ward Abbey in the autumn of 1902.
‘Bull’s-eye,’ he murmured.
For Kate, there was no time to relax after the carriages had made their swaying way up the drive. As soon as the visitors had departed, and their breakfast dishes were washed, their beds stripped, and the sheets carried across to the steaming laundry, she had to turn her attention to the next task, which was the biggest and most labour-intensive of the housekeeper’s year.
The annual spring clean was the time when the windows were thrown open to air stale rooms, carpets were hauled out into the sun to have the dust beaten from them, mirrors and ornaments were cleaned, chimneys swept, floors polished, walls washed down. All the main rooms on the ground floor needed to be worked through, except the library. It alone remained locked, its scandals hidden from the eyes of the servants.
This year, with a wedding suddenly in the offing, it felt like they were doing more than simply shaking off the layers of winter grime. It wasn’t only a change of season that they were preparing for but a change of pace at Coldwell. There had been sherry in the servants’ hall when Mr Goddard announced the news of Mr Hyde’s engagement and proposed a toast to the good health of the happy couple. Mr Hyde would likely be spending a lot more time in Derbyshire when he was married, Frederick Henderson had said, looking pointedly at Kate.
Watching Jem Arden out of the corner of her eye, Kate noticed that he didn’t join the dutiful chorus of good wishes, but downed his sherry in a single mouthful with a grimace that suggested he was sealing some private vow, not drinking a toast.
She didn’t want to notice. She tried not to, but she found that she was oddly conscious of him. In spite of the demands of the spring clean, the extra staff to supervise, and the list in her ledger (covering two pages and stretching on to a third) of tasks to tick off, she was powerless to stop the prickling awareness of his presence, his movements, almost as if those strange, suspended moments they had shared in the library had left her with an unwelcome sixth sense where he was concerned.
Or, she told herself briskly, maybe it was that she wasn’t as easily taken in as Mr Goddard and the others. She had made the mistake of being too trusting before, and taking someone at face value. She wouldn’t do it again. She’d let the visitors’ book incident go unchallenged for her own sake, not because she believed him. And because she’d half expected him to give notice anyway.
But he didn’t.