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‘Thank you. For helping me.’
‘How could I not, when this is my fault?’
‘Don’t say that. It’s the fault of men, isn’t it? Their demands and their desires and their need to control. I came here to escape one man, and another will use that to manipulate me. If I try to stand up to him, he’ll ruin me. And he’ll get away with it, won’t he? Because they always do.’
She was talking to herself as much as Miss Dunn, going over the things they had already been through upstairs, reminding herself why it was impossible to stay. How there was no reason to, with Jem gone.
‘But we’re stronger than they think,’ Miss Dunn said softly. ‘They can use all their power to control us, but they won’t break us. We won’t let them.’ She was holding Kate’s chatelaine and it sounded its familiar chime as she slipped it into the little drawstring reticule she carried, then lifted her hand to clasp Kate’s. ‘Ready? You’ve got everything?’
‘I think so.’
Miss Dunn had taken charge of her packing too, and the case she carried (a small one of Lady Hyde’s, more convenient than the box Kate had arrived with all those years ago) contained the bare essentials for a new start: a plain skirt, two blouses, nightclothes, and underthings. While Miss Dunn had folded and packed, Kate had bundled together the writing case on the table along with some headed paper. She would need it to apply for a new position and start from scratch with a new set of half-truths.
Miss Dunn went ahead of her into the cold night. High above the stable block, the moon was like a mother-of-pearl button in a sky full of sequin stars. Its light silvered the cobbles and the chrome trim of the motorcar that waited with its doors open.
‘Here we are,’ said Miss Dunn, in a voice that was bolder and more assertive than usual. One of the men from the band straightened up from loading things into the back seat, and turned to Kate with a smile. ‘I hope you don’t mind being a bit squashed in. We’re used to it, but that doesn’t always stop the complaints.’
‘Not at all. I’m very grateful for your help.’
She climbed into the back seat, with the cello case and a large valise between her and its other occupant, the viola player. Her own case she put on the floor by her feet, bending her legs awkwardly around it and sliding along to make room for the other violinist, who settled in heavily beside her.
‘I’ll say goodbye then,’ Miss Dunn said stiffly. ‘Good luck… with your… mother.’
‘Thank you.’
With a curt nod, Miss Dunn shut the door and stood back, as the cellist turned the starter handle and jumped into the passenger seat.
The car circled the yard. Kate kept her eyes fixed on the figure of Miss Dunn, almost indistinguishable from the shadows, except for the pale oval of her face and the temperance ribbon on her dress.
A moment later they passed under the stable arch, as Kate had done a thousand times before, the motorcar gathering speed as it went up the incline of the drive, far quicker than Johnny Farrow’s wagon and horses had ever done. Kate could feel the house at her back and knew exactly how it would look; its rows of glowing windows, the four muscular pillars at the top of the steps. The temple on the hill, dark against the stars.
But she didn’t turn round.
She didn’t look back.
Jem slept. Cold, hungry, and battered by waves of pain. It was a relief to give himself up to the swell of exhaustion and let it take him; carrying him away for a few hours of respite.
It was still dark when he woke, but the luminous dark of near dawn, not the inky blackness of night. The fire was ashes, but there was enough light inside the tower room to see Davy in a huddle of blankets in the corner, and the face of the boy above the fireplace.
Jem’s eyes stayed fixed on him as he inched gingerly upright, bracing himself against the pain. Beneath his red headdress, the boy’s face was calm and unsmiling. Resigned, almost. He had been taken from his home and family and brought to this cold house in the bleak Derbyshire Peaks by an Englishman who believed the world was his playroom and other people his toys. The painting showed a boy who had learned that his life was simply worth less than the jewel on his turban.
Over a hundred years had passed and nothing had changed.
Davy rolled over and sat up, blinking sleepily, his hair sticking up on one side, his bearded face scrunched into a sleepy scowl. Jem stood, gripping the edge of the panelling and praying not to pass out.
‘It’s time to go, Davy.’ It hurt to talk. ‘Now, before everyone’s awake.’
‘Where?’
‘To the house. To find Ka—Mrs Furniss. And after that we’ll get you home. Your mum will be very glad to see you and hear how brave you’ve been. How you saved my life.’
Davy nodded, shaking off his ragged assortment of blankets and shambling to his feet.
Jem found that once he was on his feet the pain settled to a steady thump, bearable if he didn’t make any sharp movements. He didn’t need Davy’s assistance to go down the stairs this time, but was glad of his presence as he followed him through the oily black of the tunnel. He wanted to ask about Jack… about what had happened to his body after Henderson had left him down here, but he couldn’t let that distract him now.
And there was something inside him that didn’t want to think of Jack like that. As a body, not a boy.
The darkness was choking. The tunnel got narrower as the ground slanted upwards, until they were both bent double, and the pain was like a saw, deep in the flesh of Jem’s shoulder. It made the breath burn in his throat, but just when he wasn’t sure if he could go on any longer, Davy was pushing through a door at the top of some steps.