Page 30 of The Secrets of Ashmore Castle

‘Sir?’ said Giles coldly. Now what? he thought.

Sebastian leaned forward and placed both hands on his knees to emphasise his words. His blue eyes bored into Giles’s. ‘Get a new cook,’ he said. ‘A man has to be comfortable at his own table, and you’re not a good doer anyway. I’ve seen you losing ground since you got here. Overrule your mother and get a new cook – before you bring a bride home. Don’t want to poison the poor girl before she’s had a chance to whelp.’

Crooks was fond of music, and liked to remain after Sunday service to listen to the voluntary, while the other servants from the Castle hurried from the church as soon as possible. When the organ fell silent, he walked out, hat and prayer book in one hand, gloves and stick in the other, into a mild grey February day. The ancient paving stones inside the porch were worn and uneven, and as he juggled with his burdens while trying to put his gloves on, he started to drop his cane, grabbed for it, struck his foot against the raised edge of a flag, and fell forward. For a breathless moment he saw himself crashing face-first into the ground in humiliation, pain and blood, but a large hand grasped his upper arm, while his other outflung hand caught hold of a sleeve under which a forearm was firm and strong as rock.

Startled, he looked up into the face of a Greek god. Below a thick crest of red-gold hair were golden eyebrows and eyes of cerulean blue, a straight nose, sculpted lips and a firm chin. It was a brown face, but light brown and smooth, with a blush of youth over the cheekbones.

‘Wh-wh— Thank you! Thank you!’ Crooks stammered.

‘Are you all right, sir?’ the young Apollo asked, in a soft country accent.

‘I think so. Thank you so much. You saved me from a very nasty fall.’

‘Glad I could help, sir.’

The large, hard hand released Crooks’s upper arm, and reluctantly he let go of the stranger’s forearm. ‘May I know to whom I am indebted?’ he said. And seeing the stranger did not quite understand the question, rephrased it: ‘May I know your name?’

‘Axe Brandom, sir. Assistant blacksmith, along the forge at the end of the high street.’

‘Brandom?’ said Crooks. ‘Any relation to—?’

‘My little brother Josh, sir? He’s a groom up at the Castle.’

‘That’s where I live,’ Crooks began.

The young man smiled, a thing of particular beauty, and said shyly, ‘I know who you are, sir – his lordship’s valet. I seen you many a time, in church and in the carriage. And one time you come looking for his lordship in the stable-yard when I was there. His late lordship, I mean. I go up the Castle now and then to see to the horses.’

Crooks had never paid particular attention – the stables were not his natural milieu – but when he thought about it he was aware that, like many great houses, the Castle had its own forge at the end of the stable-yard, though not its own blacksmith. A smith, he supposed, could easily be summoned when there was work to do, but there was not sufficient work to justify employing one full-time.

Crooks stooped to pick up his hat, gloves and stick, which had all gone flying when he thought he was falling. At the same time, Brandom stooped to pick up his prayer book for him, and caressed it briefly with one gentle finger as he handed it over. ‘It’s a beautiful thing, sir,’ he said.

It was indeed a lovely thing, leather-bound and beautifully tooled, with a filigree brass binding to the spine. Crooks loved it. ‘It belonged to my father and grandfather before me,’ he said.

‘It must be a wonderful thing,’ said Brandom, ‘to be book-learned. I learned to read and write at school, but I’m no scholard. It must be grand to …’ He hesitated, as if unsure how to express it.

‘To read for pleasure?’ Crooks suggested. ‘Yes, it is the finest thing in the world. It opens up such vistas, like being able to travel the whole world without rising from your chair. The thoughts and visions of all mankind are laid before you, at your fingertips.’

Brandom gazed down at him, seeming transported by the words. Two stragglers came out of the church door behind him and said, ‘Excuse me,’ as they edged past on either side, breaking the spell.

Crooks recollected himself, his duties, and the hour, juggled again briefly with his belongings as he donned his hat, and said, ‘Well, I must be off. Thank you again for your prompt assistance. I am very much in your debt.’

‘Oh, no, sir,’ Brandom said. ‘There’s no debt.’

Crooks met the wide blue eyes for an instant, then dragged away his gaze. ‘Good day to you.’

‘Sir,’ said Brandom.

Crooks went past him and hurried down the path, aware of eyes fixed on his retreating back. But when he glanced back, Brandom was gone, presumably having passed round the corner of the church to leave by the west gate.

Kitty was aware that her stepmother had taken a house in Berkeley Street, and lived from day to day in dread of being summoned to take up residence there – which would mean that the frightening Season had begun. But, at first, nothing changed. Lady Bayfield went up alone, and Kitty continued her dull, peaceful routines in Hampstead. She gathered that the house had to be put in order and suitable servants engaged; and then there would be a process of leaving cards and paying morning calls so that when the Season began, the hostesses would know Kitty existed and would send her invitations.

Kitty’s presence would not be required until it was time to assemble her clothes. ‘When fittings begin,’ Lady Bayfield told her, in a rare burst of communication, ‘I shall bring you up to Berkeley Street, and you shall accompany me on calls.’

Kitty looked so frightened at the prospect that Lady Bayfield almost snapped at her, but desisted, knowing it would only make things worse. The child seemed to be growing more, not less nervous. In truth, she was starting to worry not about whether Catherine would ‘take’, but about whether she would cope at all. The whole Season could be an expensive disaster. Her mind returned to the suggestion of Miss Thornton, but she looked at it with disfavour. The girl who had been suggested – would she bring Catherine any credit? And yet something must be done. Restlessly, she tossed the idea about in her mind, and finally decided that she should at least inspect the girl’s aunt, and see what sort of a person she was. She acquired the address from Miss Thornton and sent a note, summoning her to Berkeley Street.

Mrs Schofield came, but while she must have wondered why she was there, she would not give her hostess the satisfaction of asking, which seemed to Lady Bayfield to demonstrate too sturdy an independence of mind for a female not of the ton. Mrs Schofield had nothing of fashion about her, though her clothes were of good quality – indeed her fur was very good and her pearls looked excellent. Her accent was quite pure, and she spoke with sense, but Lady Bayfield would have preferred some air of deference, some evidence that she understood the social distance between them. Her manners were proper, but not ingratiating. It gave rise to the spectre of a niece who would be too confident, too sure of herself, perhaps even – horrible thought! – pert. Catherine needed a confident companion, but not one who would have an opinion on every subject and be unafraid of airing it. There was nothing gentlemen liked less than being challenged.

Mrs Schofield departed and Lady Bayfield was just concluding that she need go no further in the matter, when another visitor was announced. She was as pleased as surprised: Caroline Manningtree was an extremely elegant, wealthy woman who moved in the best circles, but they were no more than acquainted. Lady Bayfield could not help wondering what she wanted. She did not have a daughter she was bringing out: the Manningtrees were known to have been childless. Could she perhaps be sponsoring a niece or other relative?