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‘None, sir,’ Joseph mumbled.
Mr Henderson’s laugh took him by surprise. ‘Very good. Just as I suspected—the soul of discretion.’ The valet’s hand slid into the pocket of his waistcoat. ‘Do you know, Joseph, discretion is a fine quality in a servant, and one Sir Randolph prizes very highly. A boy like you could do very well at Coldwell. Very well indeed. Loyalty is always rewarded…’ He took a step forward and leaned in, so Joseph felt his cigar-sour breath on his cheek. ‘Remember that.’
Joseph recoiled. It was only when the valet’s footsteps were echoing along the passageway that he noticed the glint of a silver sixpence on the edge of the table.
Chapter 9
As the day of the servants’ departure for London approached, it felt to Kate that the outside world itself was slowly edging closer to Coldwell.
Sir Randolph’s programme of modernisation got underway, and an invading army of tradesmen’s motors and carriers’ carts rumbled up the drive. The sound of sawing, hammering, and shouting echoed along corridors and down stairwells, shattering a century of stillness, and making it feel like the clamour of progress had finally found the house, sleeping amongst the sheltering hills.
With the unprecedented thrill of a trip to London in the offing, the girls embarked upon their own programme of improvements, poring over a dog-eared copy of Home Chat magazine for hair-styling advice and rummaging in the attic sewing room for ribbons, feathers, and silk flowers to trim hats and pin to their coats.
But by the eve of their departure, excitement had tripped over into irritability, and tensions were running high. Kate’s nerves were stretched tight by the mess and disruption of Coldwell’s usual steady routine. Part of her longed for the quiet that would settle when the servants’ hall was empty, but another part dreaded it. She couldn’t stop her mind returning to what Lady Etchingham’s maid had said about break-ins and the noise Jem had heard on the night of Sir Henry’s death. Was someone watching the house, waiting for the right moment to come back?
The weather made everything more arduous. As each oppressive night was followed by another sweltering day, June no longer felt like the blue-skied overture to a gentle English summer. The temperature rose, but by mid-morning the sun was a pale smudge in an opaque sky; and the air was heavy, not like air at all. If it was like that at Coldwell, in the hills of the Peak District, what would it be like in London?
‘Awful,’ Susan moaned, as they sat in the servants’ hall after dinner the night before they were due to leave. ‘The kitchen in the London house is half underground, isn’t it? And poky compared to ours. We’ll steam inside our clothes, like puddings.’
Eliza was replacing a loose button on her best blouse. ‘Oh, yes—I remember Walter Cox saying that the kitchen looks out on a brick wall and all you can see is shoes going by on the street above. He said it gets as hot as hell itself.’
‘Ugh—Walter Cox.’ Thomas groaned. ‘I’d forgotten he’ll be there. You know what—you can keep your city goings-on and your fancy coronation parade. Reckon I’d rather stay here, if I’m honest.’
‘You’d rather stay here than have a chance to experience one of the biggest events of the century?’ Henderson scoffed, coming in with a hatbox and a newspaper. He brought with him the smell of smoke, which had hung around him for days, like the devil trailing sulphur. (It made a change from hair oil.)
Immediately after the funeral, he and Sir Randolph had begun clearing out Sir Henry’s suite of rooms, which Sir Randolph intended to take as his own, and a huge bonfire had been kept burning in the overgrown yard by the abandoned joiner’s workshop. The Twigg boys supervised the blaze as Henderson and Sir Randolph fed it with a lifetime’s papers, magazines, letters, and diaries.
There was something quite brutal in their thoroughness, Kate thought. As if Sir Randolph, who took such an interest in his more distant ancestor’s personal papers, wished to obliterate all trace of his father’s.
Henderson opened the newspaper and spread it on the table, then took Sir Randolph’s top hat from the box. ‘The eyes of the world will be on London in the coming days,’ he said, with an air of self-importance. ‘Preparations have been going on for weeks—streets hung with flags and shop windows done out with pictures of the new king and queen. It’s quite the spectacle. Count yourself fortunate to be part of it.’
‘Part of it?’ Jem echoed with amusement. ‘I’m pretty sure Sir Randolph’—studying a catalogue of household linen sent to her by Mrs Bryant, Kate heard the slight sneer in the way he said the name—‘isn’t inviting us as guests. The only thing we’re going to be part of is a lot of fetching and carrying in a different house.’
Henderson had been rubbing the top hat with a velvet pad, stroking the silk to a soft sheen, but his hand stilled as Jem spoke. Two spots of colour appeared on his pitted cheeks above the line of his beard.
‘I should say you’re very lucky to be able to do that, in the house of a gentleman like Sir Randolph. Wouldn’t you, Arden?’
The softness of his voice, and its reasoned tone, were at odds with the undercurrent of threat the question held. The distant thunder that had been rumbling over the hills all day seemed to come a little closer, and hostility sparked like lightning in the heavy air.
Jem, who had given in to Joseph’s hopeful request for a game of chess, retaliated by completely ignoring Henderson, telling Joseph that if he made that move with his castle, he was leaving his king exposed. The long, low room was suddenly very still. Kate watched Henderson’s brows pull together.
‘A word to the wise, Arden…’ Holding up the top hat, he examined it through narrowed eyes. ‘That disrespectful attitude of yours might have been acceptable in a railway inn, but it won’t get you far in a good household like this. The old man might not have noticed, but Sir Randolph expects a bit more. To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure you’re the right fit for the job.’
Kate had been looking at the same page of eiderdowns for ages but couldn’t have described a one of them. Out of the corner of her eye she saw that Eliza’s needle had stopped in mid-air, as she and Abigail exchanged looks. The windows were all open, though there was no breeze on the heavy, smoke-scented air. The evening had darkened, but no one moved to light the lamp.
Jem didn’t raise his eyes from the chessboard.
‘Your turn, Joe.’
It was as if he had forgotten about the valet, or hadn’t heard him. Joseph’s eyes were wide and wary as he looked between the two men. He reminded Kate of Sir Randolph’s spaniel, eager to please but sniffing the air for danger.
Henderson’s face hardened. The forward jut of his jaw was more pronounced than ever. Joseph bit his lip as he surveyed the chessboard, his hand hovering over the pieces. Touching the queen, he looked questioningly at Jem, who sucked in a breath. ‘Remember—she’s the most useful piece in the game,’ he said quietly. ‘And the most powerful. Use her carefully. Don’t expose her to danger. You don’t want to lose her too soon.’
No one else spoke. The silence bristled with tension as Eliza bent her head to resume her stitching. Kate turned the page and stared unseeingly at some ‘bedspreads, finest quality.’ And then, from out in the passageway came a strident jangle that made them all jump.
Jem glanced up at the row of bells.
‘Library,’ he said calmly, glancing at Henderson.