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Thomas shrugged irritably. ‘It’s not that. It’s just you’re the only one who thinks he’s missing. A law unto ’imself, is Davy. Now it’s stopped snowing he can make his way back to the village if he hasn’t already, or come to the kitchen door if he needs owt.’ He blew his nose, shoulders sagging. ‘God, I feel rotten. I ache all over. Never slept a wink last night.’
Jem, who had lain awake listening to his snoring, didn’t argue. He was glad to be swapping places with Joseph tonight and taking his turn in the silver cupboard. He nodded at a lumpy old chaise longue shoved against the wall, its faded upholstery nibbled by mice and spewing stuffing. ‘Sit down for a bit if you like. I’ll find the decorations.’
It didn’t take long, for all the fuss Thomas had made. They carried the wooden crate down to the entrance hall, where the fire had been lit in a futile attempt to warm the frozen air, and Lady Hyde was overseeing the arrangement of trailing ivy and branches of holly on the great marble mantelpiece and the console tables on either side of the door. The stepladders from the garden had been brought in, so the top section of the tree could be reached. While Lady Hyde busied herself unearthing delicate glass baubles from their nest of packing straw (making exclamations of delight over each one), she ordered Thomas up the ladders to hang them on the branches, apparently oblivious to his ostentatious suffering.
‘Dear God,’ Sir Randolph drawled, passing through on his way to the library.
‘I didn’t realise quite how large it was.’ Lady Hyde gave a shaky laugh. ‘But still, it’s here now and rather splendid, don’t you think?’
‘Splendid? It’s damned ridiculous. This is a country house, not some provincial ruddy town hall. What the hell d’you mean by getting Gatley to hack down a fine specimen tree from the park and bring it in here for some vulgar foreign decoration fad?’
Lady Hyde’s smile slipped, like a broken paper chain. Reaching up to pass Thomas a pink glass bauble she withdrew her hand too soon, and it fell to the floor, shattering in a silvery explosion of shards.
‘Oh!’
‘There,’ Sir Randolph said harshly. ‘A bloody fool’s mission to prettify a tree like that.’ He glared at Jem. ‘Well, go on then—fetch a brush! Quick about it!’
Jem went, hatred curdling in his stomach like something spoiled.
He was determined not to hurry. Downstairs it was the quiet hour of the afternoon when the maids were in the stillroom preparing the tea trays and Susan and the new girl had gone upstairs to snatch a few moments’ peace before starting on dinner. In the scullery he found the brush and pan, and—making sure no one was approaching—took out a torn square of paper from his pocket and the pencil stub they kept in the dresser drawer.
This was his only chance. He weighed the words carefully before writing them down, then dropped the paper into the Chinese vase. He was so preoccupied with the task that he didn’t notice Joseph standing in the doorway until he turned to leave.
Jem’s first reaction was one of irritation, but it was quickly replaced by guilt. In all his plans, he’d only considered Kate’s feelings, but his leaving would hit Joseph hard too. Jem ruffled Joseph’s hair (not so easy now he’d grown two inches) and said, as cheerfully as he could, ‘What’s up, Joe? Did you want me?’
Joseph ducked away, scowling.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ he muttered.
Christmas Eve was supposed to have been the start of Lady Hyde’s programme of festivities. If the snow hadn’t spoiled everything, the house would have been glowing with lamplight, fires burning in its guest rooms, the basement busy with visiting servants and everyone already fed up with hearing from Lady Etchingham’s maid how things were done at Whittam Park. There should have been carolers crossing the park at twilight to sing on the front steps as the family and guests gathered in the drawing room. But the crisp snow remained unspoiled, and the frozen landscape was blue and silent in the moonlight.
They pressed ahead half-heartedly, preparing to convey salmon vol-au-vents, lemon sorbet, stuffed roast partridge, and potatoes dauphinois up to the echoing dining room. Gatley had appeared with a bunch of mistletoe earlier, to hang in the servants’ hall ‘for a bit of festivity, like,’ but Susan had shrieked that it was unlucky to bring mistletoe in before New Year’s Eve and Eliza had snapped that it would take more than a bit of greenery to tempt her to kiss any of the Coldwell lads, thank you very much. (Looking at Thomas, with his red nose and streaming eyes, that was understandable.) Mrs Gatley, hurling parsley sprigs in the general direction of the soup, complained that the youth of today were a miserable lot and wouldn’t know fun if it stood in front of them waving a flag.
Peace and goodwill were in very short supply.
Kate would have liked to retreat to the housekeeper’s parlour, but Henderson, having dressed Sir Randolph for dinner, had ensconced himself in there with a bottle of claret, so she hovered listlessly in the kitchen. Jem appeared from the footmen’s wardrobe, dressed in his formal livery, which Lady Hyde had specifically requested (scarlet cuffs and gold braid are simply made for Christmas…). His hair was freshly slicked back and, catching the scent of lime shaving soap, Kate had to grip the edge of the table to steady herself against an avalanche of longing.
‘Excuse me, Mrs Furniss, but here’s the clothes brush you asked for.’
She looked at it, confused. She found it hard to remember things these days, but surely she would recall asking for a—
And then she realised; the code they had devised in the summer. She lifted her gaze to meet his and her heart stuttered as she took the brush from him.
‘Of course. Thank you.’
‘What d’you want a clothes brush for?’ Mrs Gatley demanded, sloshing juices over the crisped partridges in their roasting tin.
It was a good question.
‘Oh—my best coat, for church. I noticed some dried mud on the hem.’
‘I thought church was cancelled tomorrow, on account of Reverend Moore not being able to get through on the trap?’ Mrs Gatley bent to shove the birds into the oven, slamming the door shut with a clang. ‘He’d be daft to try it, with it being so icy. Or am I the last to be told what’s going on, as always?’
‘No. I mean, yes, it has been cancelled…’ Kate said blandly, not looking at Jem. ‘My coat needs cleaning, that’s all.’
Distraction came, mercifully, in the form of a volley of violent sneezes, echoing along the passage, followed by Mr Goddard’s outraged voice.
‘For pity’s sake, Thomas—what’s the matter with you?’