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‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘It does if it means you’re struggling with your work.’
‘I’m not struggling—’
She sighed. She wasn’t going to tell him that she recognised the signs. That she knew, with a weary certainty born of experience, that for every visible bruise a man left with his fist there would be twice as many where they couldn’t be seen.
‘Where else did he hit you?’
‘He didn’t—’
She gave a tut of impatience. ‘Lift your shirt please. Show me your chest.’
She wondered if he too was reminded of his first night at Coldwell, after the incident with the sauceboat, when she’d sent him to wash his ashen face. He hesitated, as he had done then, before reluctantly doing as she asked, looking past her as she let out a long breath and came closer.
‘Oh, Jem…’
A livid bruise blossomed on his side, spreading up over the bars of his ribs and round to his back, dark purple and mauve and blue with a mottled halo of red. Without thinking, she reached out and brushed her fingertips across it.
Instantly he flinched away from her touch.
She snatched her hand back. ‘Sorry. Did I hurt you?’
‘No.’
He moved away, gingerly touching his swollen cheek. Kate’s chest burned inside. She sensed that he wanted her to leave, but she couldn’t. Not without finding out more.
‘He didn’t just punch you, did he?’ In her mind’s eye she saw him, slumped on the floor in the moonlight, and pictured Henderson’s polished shoe thudding into his ribs. She raised a hand to her throat, pulling the high collar of her blouse away from her neck. Jem stooped to collect up the kindling he’d made. This time his face didn’t alter, but his jaw was set and a muscle pulsed above it.
She bent to help, her greater efficiency forcing him to step back and make way. He didn’t protest, though she sensed how much he wanted to. The chains at her waist swung forwards as she stooped.
‘What is it between you two?’ she asked in a low voice.
‘What do you mean?’
She carried the haphazard armful of split wood into the woodshed and dropped it into the old zinc trough where it was kept. ‘You and Mr Henderson,’ she said, brushing splinters and sawdust from her skirt as she emerged again. ‘You clearly don’t like each other.’
‘I’d say you’d have more to worry about if I did like him.’ The corner of his mouth on the undamaged side lifted into a wry smile. ‘I mean, do you?’
‘Like him? That’s not the point. I don’t get into fights with him that disrupt the running of the house. So far he hasn’t smashed up my face and broken any of my ribs.’
It was intended to sound far-fetched and ridiculous, but as she said it, her throat tightened. Swallowing, she went on. ‘I don’t think anyone likes him, but we manage to keep things civil. Is there… some history between you?’
He didn’t answer straightaway but shook his head slowly. ‘Not as far as I know.’
‘As far as you know? What does that mean?’
‘Nothing.’ She sensed something closing off inside him. ‘I’d never come across him before I came here. Why would I? He was out in India for years with Sir Randolph, wasn’t he?’
It was true. Sir Randolph had retired from his post and returned last year, taking up residence in Portman Square. She remembered Jem saying that he’d worked in Mayfair and wondered if their paths could have crossed in London. But why would neither have mentioned it? Why would Jem be lying now?
He bent to pick up the axe. ‘It’s just as you said. He doesn’t like me, that’s all.’
High overhead swallows circled and swooped through infinite layers of blue. The afternoon sun gilded his forearms, bared by his rolled-up sleeves, and found the golden lights in his hair. She looked away.
It was plausible enough. Looks might not have been so important out in India, but—rightly or wrongly—in the grand houses of England they meant better pay, increased opportunity, and greater respect. It was easy to see why Henderson, with his pitted face and short, stocky stature, would hold a grudge against someone like Jem, who had been blessed with more than his fair share of physical advantages. It wasn’t hard to understand how Henderson might seek to assert his superiority in other ways.
‘Yes, well… Try to stay out of his way in future,’ she said crisply, though the minute the words left her lips she regretted them. It wasn’t Jem’s responsibility to appease Frederick Henderson, to avoid triggering his temper, or undermining his sense of self-worth.