Page 80 of The Secrets of Ashmore Castle

‘My God,’ he breathed, and finally grasped the seriousness of the situation. He paled, and felt sweaty and breathless.

Grandmère was up instantly, and held a small bottle to his nose. ‘Sniff,’ she said. ‘More. A big sniff.’

The smell exploded like a grenade in his head, but the faintness went away. She gave him another drink of water, and her expression was now concerned. He remembered from his army days how a man who took a blow on the head could seem all right, but then drop dead quite suddenly days later. That she was afraid for him pleased him, and calmed him down. ‘I’m all right,’ he said shakily.

She laid a cool hand over his forehead, then sat down again, and he realised, guiltily, that for once she was looking her age. ‘You must not frighten me, méchant petit.’ He felt better, because she’d used French – serious tellings-off were always in English. ‘It would break my heart to lose you. One is not supposed to have favourites, but I cannot be fond of Giles as I am of you, though he is a good boy and you are the mauvais fils.’

‘Giles,’ he said. ‘Oh, Lord. Will I be all right for the wedding?’

‘Of course not. Perhaps to sit at the back – we shall see – but not to be the supporter. He must find someone else. But do not think about that now. I have something to say to you. The young woman you sent to play the piano in my house, you were right. She is éclatante – gifted beyond the usual. I have sent a note to you to say that she shall practise chez moi whenever she likes. But I suppose you did not receive the note. What is this her name is?’

‘Miss Sands,’ he said, and groaned. ‘Oh, Lord, I was supposed to go to supper with them on Sunday! What will they think of me? Not to turn up, not even a message! They’ll think I’ve forgotten them.’ Or, worse, he thought, they’d think him proud, believing himself too good for them. He couldn’t bear the idea that Mrs Sands should be hurt.

‘I will send them a note,’ Grandmère said, ‘explaining all.’

‘Thank you,’ he said profoundly. ‘Tell them I’m sorry. Tell them I’ll come and see them as soon as I’m able. When do you think that will be? Can I get up today? I don’t have to stay here, do I?’

How much this Miss Sands means to him, Grandmère thought. I believe he is in love and does not know it. ‘You must stay in bed until the doctor has seen you. Then, if he says you can be moved, we will arrange to take you back to Berkeley Square. We must not impose on the Thatchers any longer than necessary.’

‘The Thatchers?’ he said vaguely.

‘The kind family who took you in.’

‘Oh, yes. I must thank them. Can you send the note to Mrs Sands right away, today? I don’t want them thinking badly of me.’

James, passing the door of the housekeeper’s room, paused as Crooks hurried out past him muttering, then leaned in the doorway to ask, ‘What’s up with old Crooky? Nearly in tears, wasn’t he?’

Mrs Webster’s lips were pressed together. She wasn’t afraid of James – she wasn’t afraid of anyone – but she was wary. She was a woman who liked to control everything in her immediate environment, and James always gave the impression that he danced to a different piper. He had a ready tongue, so it was hard to get the better of him, but he was good at his job and Upstairs valued him.

‘Must be something serious,’ he went on. ‘I can see it’s upset you.’

Mrs Webster turned away, picked up a sheaf of bills from her desk.

James watched her insistently, like a cat at a mouse-hole. ‘Go on, you can tell me. Someone touched some of his things? I bet that was it. I know how he dotes on his brushes and stuff. Move ’em an inch and you could drive him out of his mind. What there is of it.’

She had to take him up on that. ‘Mr Crooks is a senior servant. You show him some respect.’

‘Respect? He’s a soggy mess. Go on, what is it this time? Maybe I can help.’

She relented a fraction. ‘His lordship’s lapis cufflinks have gone missing.’

‘Stolen? Old Crooky wouldn’t steal ’em!’

‘Don’t say that word! Of course not stolen – mislaid somewhere, but naturally he’s very upset.’

‘I’ll tell you what, he’s starting to fall apart,’ James said thoughtfully. ‘His lordship won’t put up with it for long. I’ll have a look for ’em – I’m good at finding things.’

‘All right,’ said Mrs Webster, reluctantly. ‘But keep your mouth shut. I won’t have trouble in my house.’

She was privately worried. Jewellery going missing was always a matter of concern, and something that ultimately you couldn’t keep from Upstairs. Secretly, she thought Crooks was a tiresome old woman, but she was positive he was honest. An accusation of theft would just about kill him, but failure to resolve the matter would sow suspicion among all of them.

She was deeply grateful, therefore, when James returned half an hour later and dropped the links into her hand. ‘Where did you find them?’

‘On the floor in the laundry, beside the shirt basket. He must have had ’em in his hand when he brought the shirt down, and dropped ’em.’ He gave her a straight stare. ‘Like I said, he’s falling apart. Ask me, it’s worry about this honeymoon trip. He doesn’t want to go, but he doesn’t want to ask his lordship to let him off.’ He shrugged. ‘Natural enough. He’d be scared to lose his job if he did.’

Mrs Webster didn’t comment. ‘I’ll see he gets these back,’ she said, and only added, ‘Thank you,’ because she felt forced to. The whole thing was a minefield.

Richard had been eager to be moved, but when he discovered how painful it was, he understood why they were taking him to Berkeley Square and not all the way to Ashmore. He had not known how much broken bones hurt. The move, which had to be done slowly, took most of the day, and knocked him back severely. He was in such agony that Aunt Caroline’s doctor, Dangerfield, prescribed morphine, and he lay comatose for several days, drifting in and out of unpleasant dreams, waking to cloudy thoughts, sweat, debilitation, and always the return of pain.