Page 24 of The Secrets of Ashmore Castle

‘Mm, not really. Not very much.’ She thought again. ‘I like to draw. I copy out of Bewick’s Birds sometimes, and I draw Rachel. She likes to sew. She embroidered handkerchiefs for everyone last Christmas.’ Giles was struck by the emptiness of their lives, and felt a vague determination to do something for them as he listened to her. She made a downward moue. ‘Last Christmas was different,’ she mourned. ‘You weren’t home but Richard was and it snowed on Christmas Day. Have you heard from Richard? Is he coming home?’

‘He’s a soldier, and there’s a war going on,’ Giles said. ‘He can’t just drop everything and leave because he wants to.’

‘But does he want to?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘That old war seems to have been going on for ever. Everyone was so excited about Ladysmith and Blom – Blum—’

‘Bloemfontein.’

‘We thought the war was over. But that was years ago, and it’s still going on.’

‘It has entered a new phase,’ Giles said. He looked at her, to judge how far she was seeking information, and decided not to try to explain the finer points of guerrilla warfare to her. She really just wanted information about her brother. Richard, the lively one, had always been the favourite. He, Giles, being grave, studious and, moreover, never in favour with their father, had not had the temperament to make fun for his little sisters and win their affection. ‘I expect he’ll have leave soon, and then you’ll see him.’

Alice had been studying him while he studied her. She said, with an abrupt change of subject, ‘You’re really worried, aren’t you? Is it about the estate?’

He hesitated. What to tell her? ‘Things are in a bit of a muddle,’ he admitted.

‘Are we poor?’

He smiled. ‘Not poor.’

‘Will we have to leave the Castle?’

‘It won’t come to that. Should you mind, then?’

‘It’s home,’ she said simply.

‘You’ll have to leave one day. When you get married.’

‘I shall never get married,’ she said firmly. ‘I should hate it.’

‘Wouldn’t you like to have babies?’ he asked, amused.

‘Absolutely not. We’ve always had to coo over Linda’s when she comes visiting and, honestly, Giles, they were just awful when they were tiny, like horrid little baby mice, all naked and wrinkled. And they’re not much better now – always crying and making a fuss. I’d far rather have horses and dogs. Rachel wants to get married – it’s all she talks about – but I heard some of the maids say neither of us will be able to get married if there’s no money left. Did—’ She looked up at him earnestly. ‘Was Papa very bad?’

‘It’s not like that. Things are complicated. I can’t explain it to you so you’d understand.’

‘I bet I would. I’m good at understanding things,’ she assured him.

He shook his head. ‘Just don’t talk to anyone about Papa being bad, or there not being any money. It’s not the done thing. And it would make my job much more difficult.’

‘I won’t, then. I won’t say anything to anyone except you. But, Giles, if there’s anything I can do to help you … Rachel said you were cross and strict, but I don’t think you are, not really. And I’m good at listening.’

‘I bet you are,’ he said, smiling. ‘But don’t worry about things. They’ll work out. Shall we canter along here? It doesn’t look too muddy.’

Alice’s mind was easily distracted. ‘I’ll race you,’ she said, with an impish grin, and Pharaoh took off, leaving Giles to catch her up, and Josh to tut in disapproval.

Giles’s grandmother Victoire lived in a tall, narrow house in Bruton Street, with a staff of lady’s maid, butler, cook and two housemaids, an establishment that might have been termed modest, except that her cook Durand was Escoffier-trained, and her butler Chaplin was such an archetype of butlerhood that her neighbour, the Earl of Strathmore, had several times tried to poach him.

At the age of seventy, she still had an active social life and rarely went to bed before midnight, so Giles curbed his impatience and did not present himself at her door until almost noon. As a favoured caller, he was admitted, and shown to her small sitting-room adjoining her bedroom on the second floor, where he found her drinking linden tea, into which she dipped the macaroons her chef was famous for, and reviewing the morning’s crop of invitations and letters.

At his entrance she put all aside and rose to her feet with graceful ease (if it cost her any effort she would never let it show) to step forward and embrace him.

‘Grandmère,’ he said, kissing her scented cheek. ‘You look blooming.’

‘You look tired,’ she said. She patted his cheek. ‘Fagged to death, chéri. One is not surprised. Sit. Chaplin will bring coffee. You will not care for my slops.’

‘You are the best advertisement for them,’ he said. ‘No-one would believe you were a day over forty.’

‘You cannot conceive how much work goes on in the morning, to bring me to look even this good. If Simone ever leaves me, she can get a post as curator of a museum, restoring ancient, cracked vases.’