She brushed the floor with her hand, hoping to find some clue: a plaited piece of dried lavender, perhaps, or a brooch; but there was nothing. She stood up and went over to the main door. It opened inwards, and, with difficulty, she managed to pull it towards her.
The daylight hurt her eyes. The sun had come out and, after the darkness of the tunnel and the mausoleum, it seemed dazzling. She blinked several times, then, loath to return to the dank tunnel, she blew out her candle, closed the door, and set off across the moor.
It was a beautiful day. The weather was unseasonably warm, and there was a strength in the sunshine that reminded her spring was just around the corner. The sky above her was blue, and the breeze blew a few wispy white clouds across it. The grass beneath her feet was soft and springy.
On such a beautiful day the moor looked peaceful, not a brooding enemy, but a friend. Far off, the castle basked in the sunshine, its stone appearing mellow in the light. Even the crenellations seemed less threatening, reminding her of the jimping on the edges of Mrs Beal’s pastry instead of broken teeth.
It seemed impossible to think that any evil had befallen her aunt. But if not, where could she be? Could she have gone away for a holiday? Or could she, perhaps, have been lured away from the castle with an offer of a higher salary? But then why would she lie to Lord Torkrow about it?
The more Helena thought about it, the less her aunt’s disappearance made sense. But it had happened, and perhaps, at the ball, she would have a chance to find out something more.
As she approached the castle, she wondered if the maids would have taken advantage of her absence, but there was a flurry of activity when she went into the castle, and she was pleased to see that everyone was working.
‘We’re going to be short of chairs,’ said Manners, one of the footmen, coming up to her.
Manners had been at the castle the last time a costume ball had been held, and he had been a great help with the preparations.
‘What did you do last year?’ asked Helena.
‘Brung some down from the attic.’
‘Then that is what we will do this year,’ said Helena.
‘Yes, missus.’
‘Is there anything else we need from the attic?’
‘There’s a trestle table up there. It needs its leg fixing, but then it’ll be good as new.’
‘See to it, Manners, if you please.’
‘Yes, missus.’
‘I will leave you to organise it.’
He nodded, and went away, calling for two of the other men to help him. She left them to their task, and, seeing Effie going into the housekeeper’s room to mend the fire, she went down to the kitchen again. Mrs Beal had not returned from the dairy, and, going into the pantry, she put the candle back in its place and closed the door into the tunnel. She laid the medieval costume on top of the tea chest, then collected some sheets from the laundry. Concealing the costume in the pile of linen, she made her way up to her chamber.
She was about to put the costume in her wardrobe when she remembered that Miss Parkins had been through her things once before. She did not want to take the chance of the maid finding her costume if she should happen to forget to lock her door again. She thought for a few minutes, and then she went into one of the disused bedchambers at the end of the corridor. She took the precaution of placing a chair in front of the door and then she relaxed.
She looked about her. The room was almost bare. There was a dusty cheval glass and a wardrobe. There was also a bed, but it had no sheets on it and the mattress was tattered. The grate was empty, and from the look of it there had not been a fire there for a long time. The mantelpiece was chipped and the wallpaper was hanging from the walls.
As she had already apportioned the rooms for Lord Torkrow’s overnight guests, she knew it would not be needed on the night of the ball, which was fortunate, as it was not a room anyone would wish to use. It would be perfect for her purposes.
She went over to the wardrobe and examined it. Outside, it was dusty, but inside, the shelves were clean. There was an old straw hat and a fan inside, and on the bottom shelf there was a blanket, but nothing else. She was about to put her costume inside when she was overcome with a strong urge to try it on. Quickly, she stripped off her woollen gown and petticoats, shivering in the cold air as she was left standing in her chemise and drawers.
She picked up the medieval dress and dropped it over her head. The velvet slipped over her skin, and she felt a sensuous pleasure at the feel of the fabric as it slid over her arms, down over her chest and then fell in folds around her legs and feet. She had never worn a dress like this before, and she ran her hands over it, revelling in the feel of the velvet. The pile was deep, and she stroked it both ways, enjoying the contrast between the rough and the smooth sensations. It was so different from the thick woollen gowns she usually wore, and the feel of it against her skin was luxurious.
She turned round to pick up the wig, and stood transfixed as she saw herself in the cheval glass. Gone was her dumpy figure, padded out by layers of petticoats and a thick woollen gown. In its place was a willowiness she had not suspected. The simple lines of the dress followed the contours of her body. The rich red accentuated her smooth cream skin, and gave more colour to her lips.
She put on the wig, and she could hardly believe that the person in the mirror was her. The dark wig made her eyes seem deeper set, and the style changed the shape of her face from a heart to an oval. She put on the tall, pointed hat and the transformation was complete. No one who did not know her well would suspect who she was, and with a mask the disguise would be impenetrable.
She felt things were coming to a head. She would ask as many questions as she could at the ball, and she had a sense that some of them might be answered. At last, she would learn some clue to her aunt’s whereabouts and strange disappearance.
She was loath to remove the costume, with its rich colours and its sensuous feel, but she did not want to be away from the other servants for too long, for she did not want anyone asking awkward questions about where she had been, so she changed quickly, then hid the costume under the blanket at the bottom of the wardrobe. She dressed quickly in her own clothes then removed the chair from in front of the door. She listened, making sure no one was coming along the landing, then she went out, and was soon downstairs.
‘Did you find everything you needed?’ she asked Manners, as she saw him standing by a line of chairs.
‘Yes, it was all there,’ he said. ‘I’ve had a look at the table, and I can mend the leg. I’ll have it done by tomorrow.’
‘Good.’
She went into the ballroom. The dust sheets had gone and the floor had been swept. The bobeches for the chandelier had been washed, and two of the maids were putting them back in place, so that they would catch the hot wax that fell from the candles. Chairs had been arranged down either side of the room, and the mirrors had been polished.
‘This is looking very well,’ she said to the maids. ‘You’ve worked hard.’
It seemed that the preparations for the ball might be finished on time, after all.
Simon, Lord Torkrow returned to the castle, weary from his journey, and weary, too, from the waste of his time. As he rode into the courtyard, he thought of his unsuccessful interview with Mr Brunson, whose description of Mrs Reynolds had been so vague as to be worthless. A very pleasant widow, of medium build . . . medium height . . . brown hair . . . possibly twenty-five or thirty-five years of age . . .
He was reluctant to dismount as his horse came to a halt. He had been glad to be away from the castle, for he had been thinking more and more about his housekeeper; which was foolish, when he did not know who she was, and disastrous, when he recalled the pain of love. It was not an emotion to be welcomed; it was one to be fought.
A groom came out to meet him and he could delay no longer. He dismounted and went inside. He saw Mrs Reynolds as he crossed the hall, and although he was loath to speak to her he knew he must, fo
r there were some details he needed to arrange for the ball.
‘Mrs Reynolds, a word, if you please.’
She joined him in the library, standing before him with hands folded, perfectly poised. Was she who she claimed to be? He could not believe any evil of her. And yet he could not be sure. She asked too many questions, and wanted to know too much.
‘I want to speak to you about the final arrangements for the ball,’ he said.
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Tell me, will everything be ready on time?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Good.’ He had no desire to hold a ball, but now that he was doing so, he expected everything to go well. The castle had a long tradition to uphold, for the balls in his parents’ time were spoken of far and wide, and he was determined that this year’s ball should not be an exception.
‘Here is the final list of overnight guests.’
He handed it to her, and she looked at it
‘The Harcourts will be arriving early. They have a long way to come, and as Mrs Harcourt does not travel well, she prefers to arrive well in advance. I have made a note of those people who should have rooms together and those who should not under any circumstances be in the same wing. It is unfortunately necessary for me to invite my family, many of whom dislike each other, but I do not intend to compound the problem by housing them too close to each other.’
‘I will make sure they are accommodated as you desire.’
‘Is there anything else you need to help you?’ he asked.
‘No, thank you.’ She hesitated, then said: ‘There is just one thing, my lord.’
‘Well?’ he asked.
‘Mrs Beal tells me that the staff used to be able to hold their own costume ball on the evening after the castle ball. If you are agreeable, I would like to revive the custom.’
He was thoughtful, as he recalled the custom.
‘It will be a way of thanking the servants for their hard work, and it will also be a way of motivating them,’ said Helena.
‘I remember . . . yes, very well, Mrs Reynolds, as long as they do not begin their celebrations until after my last guest has been attended to. See to it.’
‘Thank you, my lord.’
He dismissed her.
As she left the room, he wondered again who she was, if she was really Mrs Reynolds, and why she had come to the castle.
Helena returned to the sitting-room and found the maids were lifting the rugs.
‘Don’t know why we ’ave to lift the rugs,’ said Sally.
‘The colours will be much brighter when you have beaten them,’ said Helena.
‘It’s a powerful lot of work,’ grumbled Martha.
‘Yes, it is, but once it is done the room will look much more cared for.’
‘All right for some folks who ’as balls to go to,’ muttered Sally, under her breath. ‘It’s others who ’ave to do all the work.’
‘But when all the work is done, and the ball is over, then we will have our own ball,’ said Helena.
The girls looked up eagerly.
‘His lordship has given me permission to revive the servants’ costume ball. Once you have finished your work, you may go down to the pantry and choose a costume from the tea chest. But the rugs must be beaten first, and beaten well.’
‘Yes, missus, it will be,’ said the girls.
They set to work with renewed vigour. They took the rugs outside and hit them with all their might, sending clouds of dust spiralling into the early spring sunshine.
Chapter Ten
It was fortunate the previous weeks had been fine, thought Helena, as she oversaw the last minute preparations for the ball. It had allowed the maids to beat the carpets and tapestries, wash the curtains, and air the rooms. She had been so busy that her worries about her aunt had been pushed to the back of her mind, to resurface in quiet moments. If she did not learn anything at the ball – she did not allow herself to think of it. She would learn something at the ball.
She turned her attention back to her work. There would be few flowers to decorate the castle, but there were plenty of other things to brighten the April gloom. Huge fires were lit in every room, and the reds and oranges of the flames cast a rosy glow over the walls and furniture. The tapestries, newly beaten, were colourful, and she had brought more paintings down from the attic. Some had needed their frames mending and some had needed restringing, but all now adorned the walls. There were portraits, hunting scenes and beautiful views of the castle, painted in the summer, which brought the promise of blue skies and sunshine to the rooms.
She went down into the kitchen to see how Mrs Beal was getting along. Mrs Beal was directing the women and girls who had been hired to help her, and the kitchen was a mass of loaves, cakes and other tempting food. Joints of meat were roasting over the spit, and pies and pasties were being filled with sweet and savoury fillings. The room was warm, and full of all the varied scents of cooking. The smell of meat mixed with the smell of herbs and spices to create a heady brew.
Helena went into the pantry, where the cool marble surfaces displayed a collection of cheese, butter, milk, eggs and cream.
Satisfied that Mrs Beal had everything well in hand, she paused only to offer a few words of encouragement and then went to the housekeeper’s room. She was about to go in when she saw Lord Torkrow crossing the hall. He was looking about him, taking an interest in everything.
‘You have done well,’ he said to her. ‘I have never seen the castle looking better.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Now, to business. I will greet my guests as they arrive, and you will escort them to their rooms.’
‘Very good, my lord.’
‘I will be glad when this evening is over,’ he said, looking around once more, and speaking as though he had forgotten she was there. ‘If the company were more congenial and the chatter not so inconsequential, then perhaps . . . . But there is not one single person I wish to see and I have a horror of playing the charming host to people I despise.’
Helena’s feelings were written across her face.
‘You think I will not play the charming host?’ he asked. ‘Perhaps you are right. My charm has long since deserted me.’
He continued on his way. As Helena went into the housekeeper’s room, she found herself wondering what he would say if he knew there was going to be an unexpected guest at the ball, and that she would be the lady in medieval costume.
The first guests, Mr and Mrs Harcourt, arrived at midday. Lord Torkrow greeted them with civility if not warmth, and Helena conducted them to their room. They did not seem a happy couple, despite their evident wealth. Mr Harcourt was a man approaching forty years of age, with features that had once been handsome but were now growing slack with dissipation. His breath smelled of brandy, though the hour was early, and there was a restless look in his eye. His clothes were impeccably cut, but the collar and cuffs showed signs of fraying, indicating that he had seen better times. He wore no jewellery save a signet ring on one finger, and paid no attention to his wife, although without her he would not have been invited, for it was his wife who was a cousin of Lord Torkrow.
Mrs Harcourt herself had an ill-humoured look. She, too, was dressed in expensive clothes that had seen better days. She set about abusing her maid, an elderly, tired-looking woman, before declaring she had a headache and commanding Helena to send her an infusion of camomile at once.
‘Of course,’ said Helena.
As she left the room, Mr Harcourt cast a speculative glance in her direction.
‘Don’t send any of the girls up to Mr and Mrs Harcourt’s room,’ she warned Mrs Beal, as she entered the kitchen and set about making the tea.
‘I wouldn’t think of it,’ said Mrs Beal with a snort. ‘We’ve had Mr Harcourt here before. Mrs Carlisle had her work cut out for her, keeping him away from the maids.’
Helena pitied her aunt, knowing it could not have been easy. Her aunt would have been polite but stro
ng and Mr Harcourt . . . . her thoughts stopped. What would Mr Harcourt have done if her aunt had crossed him?
‘When was Mr Harcourt last here?’ she asked.
‘Not for a long time, at least not to stay. He visits the castle from time to time on county business, but his lordship won’t have him here overnight if it can be helped.’
Helena dropped a handful of camomile flowers in the pot and poured the water on to them.
‘And when did he last come on business?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. I don’t see him come and go. I’m down in my kitchen, and glad of it. Dawkins shows him in and out.’
Helena resolved to speak to Dawkins about it when she had a chance. If Mr Harcourt had been at the castle on the day of her aunt’s disappearance, perhaps he had had something to do with it.
‘Are there any more guests I need to be wary of?’ asked Helena, as she set a cup and saucer on a tray.
‘Stay away from Lady Jassry. She’s a tongue as sharp as my kitchen knife, and Mrs Yorke will likely accuse you of stealing her jewels if you go in her room. But the others are mostly well behaved.’
Helena gave the tray to the oldest village woman, a stoutly-made matron of ample girth, and told her to carry it upstairs.
She was kept busy throughout the afternoon as carriages rolled up at the door, spilling out their guests. They were elegant and well dressed, and were accompanied by valets and maids, who hastened to do everything to ensure the comfort of their masters and mistresses, whilst managing to banter between themselves.
Helena was kept busy showing guests to their rooms and making sure that the servants knew where they were to eat and sleep. Many had been to the castle before, but for some it was their first time, and twice Helena came across tearful maids who were lost in the castle’s corridors.
Mrs Beal was like three women, seeing to the roasting and boiling of meats, overseeing the preparation of mountains of vegetables, putting the finishing touches to the pies and puddings that had already been made, and were in the pantry, ready for their grand entrance at the end of dinner. She chivvied the maids who were making the tea and checked each tray before it left the kitchen, making sure there was a good selection of cakes and biscuits to go to each room.