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Another thud against the wall. The breathing settled to a steady, sawing rasp. Eliza couldn’t see them, but she had a mental picture of them clasped together. (Surely not?) And then Jem spoke again, in a tone of such desolation it sent a chill through her.
‘I’m sorry, Kate. Jesus, I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t have to do any of this for me. I don’t deserve it, and I don’t have any right to—’
‘Jem, don’t. Please—’
‘I want to explain…’ His voice was raw. ‘All of it, from the beginning. I wish we could go back. I’d do it so differently—I’d tell you everything from the start—’
‘It wouldn’t change anything.’ The words contained an ocean of sorrow. ‘It’s too late—it’s over, and it should never have happened. Now, get yourself to bed without waking the whole house.’
The privy door slammed shut and footsteps retreated across the cobbles. Eliza’s chest heaved out air, and she wrapped her arms around her scoured-out stomach, feeling utterly empty.
When I said I’d tell you everything, I meant about Jack, and my past. Secrets like that are dangerous. They usually come out in the end, often from the mouths of those who don’t wish us well, who use them for their own purposes. But looking back, there’s something else I wish I’d said. Something far more important.
I wish I’d told you that I loved you.
Maybe that wouldn’t have changed anything either, but I’ll never know for sure.
Chapter 24
Stir up, we beseech thee, O Lord, the wills of thy faithful people; that they, plenteously bringing forth the fruit of good works, may of thee be plenteously rewarded; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
The little church on the hill, in use on the last Sunday in November for the first time since Sir Henry’s funeral, was as cold as an icehouse. Reverend Moore’s breath formed a ghostly aura about him which merged with his wispy grey hair, and the frayed cuffs of his cardigan protruded from the sleeves of his surplice. Beside Kate, Mrs Gatley eased herself awkwardly on the kneeler, her thoughts probably on the great quantities of currants, candied peel, sweet almonds, and beef suet she had measured out and left on the kitchen table, the mixing together of which was to be ceremonially undertaken after the service, led by Lady Hyde.
Everyone was to take a turn. (‘Very nice, I must say, having every Tom, Dick, and Harry traipsing through my kitchen,’ Mrs Gatley had grumbled.) Lady Hyde had assembled everyone in the marble hall last week to go over the plans for Christmas. She took great pains to make it sound like marvellous fun for everyone, beginning with Stir-up Sunday and ending with the servants’ ball on Boxing Day, and glossing over the enormous amount of extra work in between. She had explained the ritual of stirring the pudding at some length—the spoon was to move in the direction from east to west to represent the journey of the Wise Men to Bethlehem; and a sixpence would be added to the mixture, representing the promise of wealth in the year ahead to whoever found it in their helping on Christmas Day. She had also been most insistent that, while stirring, everyone was to make a wish.
The candle flames bent in currents of cold air, casting flickering shadows on the walls. Through the diamond panes of glass, the sky was losing its light; and beyond the quavering, plaintive tones of Reverend Moore, Kate heard the crows calling as they circled the treetops, ready to roost.
What should she wish for?
As the reverend invited them to join him in the Lord’s Prayer, Kate turned to look along the pew. The maids’ folded hands showed cracked, reddened knuckles; and at the end, the new scullery maid sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve. The first wish that sprang into her mind was that the girl (whose name was Doris) would pull herself together and apply herself to her work, instead of bursting into tears every time she was asked to do anything.
Thy kingdom come; thy will be done; on earth as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread…
Kate’s lips murmured the words, but her mind was on wishes, not prayers. She wished to regain the peace she had once found at Coldwell; the security she had once felt in the quiet house, when the year had passed gently, marked only by the changing seasons and the different demands of each. When her heart had been quiet inside her, like a stopped clock.
And forgive us our trespasses,
as we forgive those who trespass against us.
She would not allow herself the foolish luxury of wishing for that little cottage in the country, with the fruit trees in the garden and the brass bed beneath the eaves to share with Jem. Instead, she wished she could stop longing for him. She wished she could escape the memories that unfurled themselves without warning, taking her unawares and making her breath catch. She wished she could hush the need to know what he’d meant when he said he could explain. She wished she had given him the chance.
And lead us not into temptation,
but deliver us from evil.
All at once she was aware of Henderson’s voice, rising above the bass rumble on the other side of the church where the male servants stood. Her eyes flickered across, to find that he was looking at her.
He smiled and nodded, as if registering some private victory. Hatred flared inside her, and she wished she could be rid of him: the smell of hair oil and his prying, probing eyes. His hints and insinuations.
In that moment, more than anything, she wished him gone.
The kitchen passage was warm in the lamp glow, loud with the voices of the outdoor servants, who pulled off caps and loosened mufflers as they shuffled in a slow-moving line to the kitchen.
Miss Dunn felt stiff with embarrassment as Lady Hyde held out the spoon, encouraging her to go first and ‘show everyone how it’s done. East to west, remember—that’s the spirit! And don’t forget to make a wish!’
In the moment before Miss Dunn shut her eyes, she saw Mrs Furniss’s face. It remained imprinted on the darkness—a pale reproach—and she found herself wishing she’d never remembered where she’d seen Coldwell’s housekeeper before.