Louise Allen Historical Collection (15 page)

All she could do for the moment was to carry out her new duties as best she could and make his home comfortable for him. The keys swung heavy from her belt as she walked up the line of maids, trying to fix names in her head, but all she could manage was to hope the face and the position were clear. Three scullery maids, two kitchen maids, two laundry maids, the laundress, the four downstairs maids, the four upstairs maids and Mrs Harris, the cook. Then over to the men. Boot boy, page, three underfootmen, three footmen, Perrott and Heneage. And all the outdoor staff still to come.

She and Mrs Harris, Heneage and Perrott comprised the upper servants and she could not hope to manage this large house without their willing co-operation. Meg smiled at the cook and received a guarded smile in return.

‘Where is my estate manager?’ she heard Ross ask the butler who murmured a response. ‘At the Home Farm? Then send someone out for him; I want to speak with him as soon as possible. That will be all. Carry on Heneage, Mrs Halgate.’

Carry on, Sergeant-Major
, Meg thought with a twitch of her lips. Time to exert some authority. ‘I shall need a maid.’ She studied the array of eight young women.

‘I was Mrs Fogarty’s maid, Mrs Halgate.’ The girl was thin, anxious, with a sharp nose and pale, darting eyes. ‘I did my best, ma’am.’

‘I am sure you did.’ Meg dredged into her memory and came up with a name. ‘And I am sure you deserve a change from those duties, Annie.’ The girl smiled, obviously relieved. Mrs Fogarty could not have been an easy mistress.

‘Now, Damaris. I am sure you would do admirably.’ The quiet redhead who had been trying to fade into invisibility behind a plump neighbour jumped. ‘Will you show me to my rooms, Damaris? And the rest of you, carry on as usual. Come to me if you are uncertain about anything.’
Please don’t!

Her one shabby bag was standing outside the door when the maid led her downstairs. ‘All the rest got lost in France,’ Meg explained, glossing over battles and baggage trains. ‘I must go shopping as soon as possible.’

It felt strange stepping into another woman’s rooms, especially one that she so disliked. The housekeeper had a good-sized parlour, easily capable of entertaining the other upper servants in, and a smaller bedroom, both with windows overlooking a paved yard with a herb garden at its centre. It was all very comfortable, somewhat dark and almost entirely lacking in personality. Meg supposed Mrs Fogarty had removed every item that gave the space any individuality.

‘We can unpack later,’ she decided. ‘First, I want you to show me round before dinner. I need to learn my way about this house.’

In the event they got no further than a tour of below-stairs, ending up in the kitchen where Mrs Harris produced tea and a running stream of onesided conversation while presiding over preparations for dinner.

‘The spitting image of his father, God rest his soul,’ Cook pronounced.

‘That isn’t likely to be
God’s
concern, the old so-and-so will have headed in the other direction.’ The gardener grinned at his own parting shot as he left a trug full of vegetables on the kitchen table.

‘And how did he come to employ you, Mrs Halgate?’ Cook asked. ‘He’s not been back in England any time to advertise, that’s for certain sure.’

‘Mr Empson’s agency. He came in to find a housekeeper and heard me explaining my Portuguese experience. After his long service in the Peninsula I suppose he thought I might suit.’ Best not to explain that it was temporary as well, she decided.

‘Portugal! Now there’s a thing,’ Cook marvelled. ‘Was it very different to here?’

‘You could not possibly imagine,’ Meg said with some feeling.

One of the underfootmen appeared: George, Peter or John—she had still not fixed all their names in her mind. ‘His lordship’s compliments, Mrs Halgate, and he says that he understands from the agency that you read aloud very well.’

‘Er…yes?’

‘And would you join him in the library after dinner and read to him.’

‘Please tell his lordship that I would be glad to.’

Meg waited until the footman had removed himself. She felt instinctively that it was important to get the female staff on her side, and to prevent the slightest suspicion of any impropriety. ‘My goodness! I told Mr Empson about reading aloud in case he could find me a place with an invalid, I never dreamed his lordship would require me to read to him. I do not like to refuse, although it seems a trifle unconventional.’

‘You keep the library door open, Mrs Halgate,’ said Cook with a knowing look. ‘You won’t come to any harm with the door open.’

‘That is very sound advice, Mrs Harris,’ Meg agreed fervently. It would protect her as much from herself as from Ross, she rather feared.

With no guests and no lady of the house the maidservants, and Meg, had a relatively easy time of it after dinner. There was his lordship’s bed for one of the upstairs maids to turn down, curtains to be drawn, hot water to be taken up later, but that was all. Meg apologised to Mrs Harris and Heneage that she could not entertain them to tea in her parlour and went up to the library.

The heavy oak door was shut. Meg stood regarding the panels, one hand raised to knock.
Think like a servant. That’s what you are now. An upper servant. His servant from the moment you took those keys. No more confidences, no more intimacies. He is your master now.
She shivered, despite the warmth of the spring evening air, and knocked.

‘Come!’

‘Good evening, my lord.’ Meg bobbed a curtsy and came into the library, leaving the door wide open behind her. It was a dark, oppressive room with bookshelves that ran from floor to ceiling, lined with leather-bound volumes. A big globe stood in the window bay and deep leather chairs with small tables at their side were set about the space. The pictures all seemed to be etchings of classical sites and the thick carpet smothered the sound of her footsteps.

Despite the temperature of the air and the richness of the materials it felt emotionally cool. The whole house did, she realised. Or all the rooms she had seen so far above stairs. Cool, clean, orderly, sterile.

‘Good evening.’ Ross laid down the book in his hand and frowned at her. ‘Close the door and come and sit down, Meg.’ She shook her head at him as one of the footmen went past in the hall. ‘Mrs Halgate, then.’

‘I think it best if I leave the door, my lord.’ Meg sat down in the chair opposite his. ‘You asked me to read aloud, I believe.’

‘Yes.’ The frown deepened at her defiance, but he passed her a familiar book. ‘
Gulliver’s Travels.
I have reached chapter two,’ he added with a pointed look at the open door, ‘if you will continue from there.’

Meg took it, avoiding touching his hand as she did so. ‘Certainly. But before I do, there are some things I must ask.’ She tried to frame all the questions that were tumbling through her head in a way that was concise and would not irritate him with detail.

‘I need to know whether you want everything left exactly as it is or whether I may move things around, make changes. I need to know if there are any changes you wish to have made—any redecoration, for example. I am not certain what I can achieve in a few weeks, but I will do my best.’

‘A few weeks?’ He regarded her quizzically and she stared back, defiant. ‘No. Nothing.’ He looked around, apparently indifferent to his environment. ‘Do what you like, spend what you like.’

‘You told me to economise,’ she pointed out, her heart sinking at the apathy that had come back into his tone. He did not care. Or perhaps he cared too much and was erecting barriers against memory and familiarity in this house that had once been such an unhappy home.

‘I was being sarcastic. Check with me before you actually demolish and rebuild anything, otherwise I really have no interest.’

‘Very well.’ Somehow she must make him take an interest, make him care, or one day there would be nothing of the man left, just a cold, dead shell, quite safe from pain and pleasure alike. Meg opened the book and found her place. ‘Chapter two,’ she began.

I
t was eleven o’clock before Meg retired to bed. She had read two chapters to Ross, then removed herself, conscious of his heavy-lidded gaze on her as she went through the door. Neither of them had forgotten that kiss, it seemed, nor his promise to wait until she came to him as his mistress. Those memories seemed to be in the room with them like a third person. She could not delude herself he had not meant the words.

Mrs Harris was in the kitchen, pouring tea for Perrott and for Heneage who was comfortable at the table in a loose frock coat over his striped waistcoat and knee breeches. Meg accepted a cup gratefully. The warm, fragrant kitchen shared with the two middle-aged people at their ease and the amiable young valet felt like coming out of an emotional storm into tranquillity.

Damaris had changed the bed linen and brought her hot water and she had asked for her morning tea at six. But despite the luxury of a bedroom that did not rock under her feet and that had room to move about and the promise of a bed that was all hers to rest in, Meg found that she was not sleepy. Tired, most certainly, but her mind was running in circles like a dog in a spit-wheel.

She put the bunch of keys on the dresser, opened the window a little and sat by it with a notebook and a candle. Perhaps making lists would help her stop thinking about Ross as a man and not as her employer.

Clothes. Urgent! Falmouth shops
, she wrote at the top. Or perhaps Penryn, which had seemed to have shops suitable for ladies rather than the needs of sailors. She must ask Ross for an advance on her salary if she was to wear something other than a sun-faded cotton gown. She would also ask him for the direction of his solicitor who would probably be the best person to ask about an enquiry agent.
Solicitor
, she added. Then she must hurry back to the house and explore from top to bottom and get to know the staff and the routine.
House.
Then there was the question of housekeeping.
Mon
—

Outside something moved across the courtyard entrance where it opened out into the gardens. She had the impression of a big man, moving in the moonlight without lantern or candle. Ross?

Meg sat for a moment after he vanished, wondering why she felt so uneasy. Why should he not walk around at night? They were his grounds, after all. She had not explored yet, but she realised they were virtually on the coast and that this side of the house must look out towards the sea.

She could not settle to her orderly list-making again. Meg got up, threw her shawl around her shoulders, took the key for the back door off her ring and went out into the darkened passage. At least being on the ground floor meant it did not take her long to get outside. She locked the door behind herself and ran across the courtyard, her skirts brushing the herbs in the central bed and sending a cloud of fragrance into the still air.

She found herself at the side of the house on a sweep of terrace that gave directly on to a sloping lawn. And, yes, now she was in the open, there was the sound of the sea and a breeze bringing the smell of it. In the distance the lights of a fishing village twinkled.

The tall figure in its fawn-coloured greatcoat was still in sight, limping. Yes, it was Ross. Was he all right? The pain and guilt in his voice when he had told her about his brother came back to her. Should he be alone? As she watched, he crouched down and vanished, all but his head, and she realised there was a ha-ha separating lawn and fields, an invisible wall to keep the cattle in their place.

Meg picked up her skirts and ran, her light shoes making no sound on the scythed grass, the moonlight showing her the dark line that marked the drop. It was easy enough to scramble down, provided she had no care for her old gown or the nettles at the bottom of the wall. Sucking her stinging hand, Meg walked on more cautiously now. The grass was rougher and the evidence that the cattle had been there was difficult to make out until one almost trod in it.

Ahead was the edge of a wood, a rarity on this windswept peninsula. In the moonlight the trees looked strange and gaunt, shaped by the wind and twisted by winter gales. Ross entered it and disappeared into the darkness. When Meg reached the place she found a narrow path descending quite steeply into a gully. Telling herself that English woodlands held none of the terrors of Spanish ones—wolves, bears and French snipers—Meg hurried on, wondering how far ahead Ross was. He made no noise at all, despite his size and his wounded leg, whereas she was all too aware of twigs snapping under her feet.