Page 10 of The Secrets of Ashmore Castle

Giles had no wish to feel sympathy – he wanted to cling to his irritation – but in an unwelcome flash he saw that the old man was afraid, and realised that his father’s death had put Crooks out of a position. At his age, what was he to do? There was also the possibility that Crooks had felt affection for his master, and was mourning him. And while he emphatically did not want the man who had folded his father’s under-drawers to unfold his, he had never been the sort of boy who tortured small animals. Damn it, why can’t they leave me alone? But he saw Crooks’s lower lip tremble, and his chalky hands, locked together in front of him, writhe a little.

‘I really don’t need looking after,’ he said, exasperated, but in a kinder tone than he might otherwise have used. ‘I am accustomed to dressing myself.’

‘Of course, my lord, but now you are the earl, there may be things – expectations – my experience – at your service …’ Crooks swallowed, and added, ‘I cannot help noticing, my lord, that you have no mourning clothes.’

‘There hasn’t been time—’ Giles began impatiently.

‘Of course, my lord. If I might suggest, a mourning band for this evening?’ Crooks produced one from his pocket, like a magician. ‘And for the funeral tomorrow—’

‘Tomorrow?’ He’d assumed he would have at least a day’s grace. Why so soon?

‘Her ladyship did not want to wait any longer than necessary,’ Crooks said apologetically. ‘But, if you’ll forgive me, it would not set quite the right tone if you were not in mourning. I took the liberty of investigating your lordship’s old room, and there is a pair of black trousers in the wardrobe that would be suitable. If you will allow me, I can alter his late lordship’s mourning frock to fit you, just as a temporary measure – it would only mean taking in the seams at the sides. You are much of a height, though his lordship carried more weight. Then, one of his black cravats. And if your lordship does not have a silk hat—’

‘I don’t.’

‘—I can put a clean band inside one of his late lordship’s, and attach the crape. It can all be done by tomorrow morning.’

So the trap, the gentlest yet, closed velvet jaws on him. ‘Thank you, Crooks,’ he said, and felt obliged to add, ‘That’s very thoughtful of you.’

A rush of blood to the valet’s face was probably as much relief as pleasure. But he beamed. ‘I am glad to be of service, my lord. Might I lay out a change for you, my lord, while you wash? I have unpacked your bags in the dressing-room. And would your lordship care for me to shave you?’

‘My lordship wouldn’t,’ Giles growled. ‘I can shave my own damned chin, thank you.’

‘Indeed, of course, quite so, my lord,’ Crooks murmured, and scuttled away into the dressing-room, taking the rest of the permission for granted.

Giles watched him go with despair. Not only having the earldom thrust upon him, but inheriting his father’s manservant as well! It was too much! He felt a little like weeping. But Crooks had done him a service over the mourning clothes, saving him from maternal unpleasantness tomorrow. He supposed he could put up with him for a little while. He’d find some way of scraping him off at some point. Wearily he began to shrug off his jacket. He felt a thousand years old.

CHAPTER THREE

It rained on the day of the funeral. Canons Ashmore stood sodden under a sky almost low enough to touch. Trees dripped; roofs and cobbles glistened; gutters and downpipes gurgled steadily. In the row of carriages outside St Peter’s that went all the way up Church Lane, the horses stood with heads drooping and ears out sideways, their breath making little clouds about their muzzles, where raindrops caught and trembled on their whiskers.

Inside the church, there was the dank smell of wet wool and the mouldy smell of chrysanthemums; sniffs and the occasional hollow cough were the counterpoint to the familiar words of the funeral service. The neighbourhood had turned out to see off the earl. Giles was aware he was being scrutinised: he felt the eyes on the back of his neck. What sort of a landlord would he prove? Was there anything to be made out of him?

At the graveside, all was black umbrellas, an astonishing number, like a sudden growth of mushrooms brought on by the rain. The inside of the grave was grey and slippery, indecent, like a wound, an exposure of something never meant to be seen. Giles felt faintly nauseous – though perhaps that might have been hunger. He had been unable to eat at breakfast. He’d had little appetite since he’d left Thebes.

The rector nodded to him, and he stepped forward and threw a lump of clay down, hearing it thump hollowly on the coffin, and tried for decency’s sake to think about his father and feel grief for him. But nothing came. He couldn’t remember a single moment when his father had spoken to him naturally or with unalloyed affection. Perhaps an earl had always to be acting a role. It was a depressing thought. When they had driven through the gates this morning, the gatekeeper had come out carrying his little son, presumably having been engaged in doing something for him when the carriage passed. The child had his arm around the gatekeeper’s neck, his cheek resting comfortably against his father’s, as though this were an accustomed perch. It was what people did, in the real world. They touched, they smiled, they spoke unguardedly, from the heart. It was impossible for Giles to imagine his own father holding him like that.

He stepped back from the graveside. There was a smear of clay on the fingers of one glove, and he wiped it absently with the other, spoiling both. I have nothing for you, Father, he thought. But then, you never had anything for me.

His mother’s face was carved in stone; but Aunt Caroline was holding her elbow, as though she might need support. Giles noted that his little sisters were crying: Alice with a tremble of the lip and a tear or two, but Rachel was weeping as though broken-hearted. He was surprised, but then remembered that Rachel had always been too tender-hearted. She could not bear a mouse in a trap or a butterfly beating against a window. Even a sad song or story could reduce her to tears: The Constant Tin Soldier or The Fir Tree. When they were all young together, Richard, he recalled, had enjoyed teasing her by quoting certain lines from The Little Match Girl: ‘… frozen to death on the last evening of the old year. Stiff and stark sat the child there with her matches …’ Sometimes simply drawing a box of matches from his pocket with a significant look would be enough to set her off. Giles did not suppose she had ever had more of a relationship with their father than he’d had, but for Rachel, the mere idea of his being dead had tears beslobbering her face.

Well, he thought, it’s good that someone cries for him. No-one should go unwept to their grave. The fifth earl of Stainton had Rachel – and the sky. It had to be enough.

When he arrived back at the Castle after the interment, and entered the great hall, the first thing he noticed was that there were two dogs – lurchers, a grey and a brindle – lying by the fire. They got up as people began to come in, and Giles heard his mother make a sound of annoyance. But the dogs skirted round her and came to Giles, heads low, tails swinging uncertainly.

‘Moss, what are they doing in here?’ Lady Stainton said sharply.

‘They must have slipped in, my lady,’ Moss said. ‘I had no orders about excluding them.’

Alice, coming up behind Giles, said, ‘They’re Papa’s, Giles – Tiger and Isaac. How they must miss him!’ She squatted to caress their rough heads. ‘You don’t understand, do you, poor boys?’ Tiger turned his muzzle to her, but Isaac was pressing against Giles’s legs, shivering.

And Giles, somewhat to his own surprise, heard himself saying, ‘Let them stay.’

Even more surprising was that his voice came out commandingly. He saw his mother’s mouth open to contradict him, then close again as a slightly puzzled look came over her face. After a moment, she said, ‘As you please,’ and turned away. Alice, still crouching, threw him an adoring look, and then they all had to move to admit the rest of the party. The dogs went with him, as though attached by invisible leashes. So he had gained two new friends – or three, counting Alice.

*

Dory reached the bottom of the back stairs to find the passage blocked by a knot of whispering maids. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked.