‘You must have been a great help to the previous housekeeper,’ she said.
The woman said nothing. There was something unsettling about her, beyond her appearance, and as Helena looked at her she began to realise that the woman’s face had no expression. When the woman spoke, she did not smile, or frown, or look surprised. She seemed, as she had seemed at first sight, like a waxwork dummy. ‘It must have been difficult for you when she left. She left very quickly,’ said Helena, persevering.
‘She did.’
‘Her sister was ill, I understand? It must have been inconvenient for his lordship to have her leave so suddenly. Was her sister very ill? Could she not have given him some warning?’
‘Servants these days care for no one but themselves,’ said Miss Parkins in a toneless voice
Helena felt a retort spring to her lips, but she was prevented from uttering it by a flicker of interest in Miss Parkins’s eyes. She sensed a strong and malevolent personality at work behind the maid’s immobile face, and realised she could not afford to make any mistakes, so she stifled her retort, and said: ‘It was very good of you to light a fire for me, it’s cheerful to see the flames. It was very cold on the moor and the castle is not much warmer.’
‘The scullery maid will do it for you in future,’ said Miss Parkins.
‘Then you do not usually . . . ?‘ asked Helena, trailing off as she saw a gleam of sour amusement in Miss Parkins’s eye.
‘Light fires for the housekeeper? No, I do not.’
‘It was good of you to do it on this occasion.’ As Miss Parkins showed no signs of leaving, Helena said, in a friendly manner: ‘If you do not mind, I am very tired. I have had a long journey, and if I am to be capable of fulfilling my duties tomorrow, I must get some rest.’
‘As you wish,’ said Miss Parkins.
But although she had accepted her dismissal, Helena was under no illusions. It was Miss Parkins who held the power, Miss Parkins who had agreed to leave, and not Helena who had dismissed her.
As Miss Parkins left the room, she left a chill in the air and Helena crossed to the door, on an impulse pulling a chair against it.
She went over to the fire and held her hands out to feel the heat. Aunt Hester had never mentioned Miss Parkins, and yet she must have known her.
Helena stared into the fire, as though she would be able to see her aunt in the flames. Aunt Hester, she thought, why did you leave? Where did you go? Why did you not write to tell me you were leaving? And why did you lie to Lord Torkrow, telling him you needed to tend your sick sister, when I am your only relative?
Simon, Lord Torkrow, stood by the window in the library, looking out over the courtyard. It was too dark to see anything but the silhouette of the outer wall in the distance, with a patch of grey where the archway cut through it, and beyond, the deep dark of the moor.
He turned round as the door opened and Miss Parkins entered the room. She had not knocked or waited for permission to enter. She stood before him in a respectful attitude, but her face was devoid of all emotion. Her dark eyes looked out from her white face, their large pupils seeming to swallow the light, but as she looked at him, he wondered what was going on behind her eyes. Her black hair was pulled back into a bun, and he thought, with a passing fascination, that in all the years he had known her, he had never seen her hair loose. He did not know how old she was. Forty . . . fifty, perhaps . . . maybe older, maybe younger. She had a quality of stillness about her that made her seem scarcely alive. That had not always been the case. There had been a time when she had been vital.
‘There is a woman here,’ she said.
‘Yes, I know. She is the new housekeeper.’
‘Is she?’
‘What do you mean?’ he asked sharply.
‘She is very young for such a position.’
‘It is not easy to get servants these days, particularly in such a remote corner.’
‘She is not wearing a wedding band,’ said Miss Parkins.
‘It is possible she calls herself Mrs for reasons of employment, or that she has had to sell her wedding ring,’ he said.
Inwardly, however, he berated himself, for he had not noticed her lack of a ring, and had been too ready to accept her as the person she claimed to be.
‘Perhaps.’
‘I will call in at the registry office the next time I am in York,’ he said. ‘Someone there will have met Elizabeth Reynolds and I can find out what she looks like, and see if her description matches this young woman.’
‘Have you questioned her about her previous employment?’
‘Yes.’
‘A pity. If you had been on your guard, you might have laid a trap for her.’
‘What’s done is done, but we must be careful. Watch her, Parkins. See where she goes, and what she does. Make yourself her shadow. Find out if she knows how to keep house. Because if she is not who she claims to be, then we must be prepared.’
‘And if she discovers what has happened here?’
‘She must be stopped.’
She looked at him unwaveringly.
‘Very good, my lord.’
There was an almost imperceptible note of scorn in her voice when she said My lord, and it did not escape him.
You don’t think I should be the earl, he thought. You think the title should belong to another.
‘Very well, Parkins. You are dismissed.’
She did not blink. She did not speak. But when he addressed her as the servant she was, he could feel the venom coming from her.
She unfolded her hands and moved to the door, going through it in a gliding action, and leaving the room on noiseless feet.
He knew what she felt about him. He knew that she blamed him, that she had always blamed him.
Perhaps she was right.
Helena unpacked her few belongings, hanging her two woollen gowns in the wardrobe and putting her chemise and petticoat in the top drawer, together with her handkerchiefs and her woollen stockings. Her shoes she put next to the bed. Then she took the hot brick from its place by the fire and put it between the sheets.
It was not the first night she had been expecting. She had been hoping for a warm welcome from her aunt, and after their reunion she had been intending to tell her aunt of Mr Gradwell’s proposal, and to hear her aunt’s advice.
Should she be practical and marry him? she asked herself, as she unpinned her fair hair and let it cascade down her back. Or, once she had found her aunt, should she continue in her quest for a new position, and refuse Mr Gradwell’s hand?
Caroline had been in no doubt. “Marry him, Helena,” she had said. “He’s a kind man, a gentleman. He’ll take care of you. You’ll have servants of your own, instead of having to be a servant. You’ll never have to sleep in an attic again.”
But Helena was still uncertain. She wanted a home of her own, yes, and it would be good to be no longer at someone else’s beck and call, but she was not sure she could face a future with Mr Gradwell. He had kissed her once, and although the experience had not been unpleasant, she had hoped for something more. She had hoped for the sensations Lord Byron had spoken of in his poetry, and she recalled the lines of her favourite poem:
Where heart, and soul, and sense, in concert move . . .
Each kiss a heart-quake . . .
Each kiss a heart-quake, she thought with longing. There had been no quaking of her heart when Mr Gradwell kissed her. But was Byron’s poetry a true vision of love? Or was it simply a romantic dream?
What would it really be like, to be married? she wondered, as she brushed her hair; to live with a man every day, to share a home with him, and to be with him every day of her life?
Aunt Hester knew. Aunt Hester had been married to Uncle Edward and could tell her what to expect, as well as helping her to decide whether or not she could be happy in a marriage to Mr Gradwell. But Aunt Hester had disappeared.
She undressed in front of the fire, stepping out of her gown and stripping off her under
wear before lifting her nightgown over her head. As she did so, she caught sight of her hand and she froze. She was not wearing a wedding ring. She should have thought of it sooner, but it was too late to do anything about it now. Besides, Lord Torkrow seemed to have accepted her. He knew as well as she did that many women had become destitute after losing their husbands at Waterloo, and had been forced to sell their jewellery in order to stay alive.
She climbed into bed. The hot brick had warmed the sheets and she pushed it further down the bed, resting her toes on it and basking in its heat. She blew out her candle then, worn out from her day, she fell asleep.
It seemed hardly any time before she awoke to the sound of scratching on her door. At first she did not know where she was. The bed felt strange and the red hangings confused her, but then it came back to her and she remembered that she was in the castle. Fumbling on the table next to her bed she found the tinderbox and lit her candle then, throwing a wrapper round her shoulders, she removed the chair she had set in front of the door before calling, ‘Come in.’
The door opened and Effie stood there. She wore a shapeless dress, over which was a large, grubby apron. In one hand she carried a jug of water from which steam was rising, and in the other she carried a bucket of coal.
‘Good morning,’ said Helena.
The girl made a nervous noise that could have been: ‘Morning,’ and then hurried across the room lumpishly, without grace. As Helena watched her, she thought of her aunt’s letters, and as she recalled that Aunt Hester had taken a motherly interest in the girl, she hoped she might learn something from her.
Effie went over to the washstand and deposited the jug of water there clumsily, spilling the water.
‘Oh, missis, I’m sorry, missis, I’m sorry,’ said Effie, mopping up the water nervously with her apron.
‘That’s all right. You did not mean to do it,’ said Helena.
‘No, missi.’
The girl left the water half mopped and crossed to the grate, putting the bucket of coal down with a clatter that made Helena start, and then knelt down in front of the fire. Her skirt rode up to reveal a few inches of leg, and Helena saw that she had holes in her woollen stockings, which had been badly darned.
Effie picked up the poker, setting the other fire irons jangling, and began to rake the coals, which had turned to ash as the fire had burnt down overnight. The poker made a scraping noise across the iron grate, and there was a soft, shifting sound as the ash fell through into the box beneath.
‘It’s an early start for you,’ said Helena, trying to put the girl at ease.
Effie dropped the poker with a clatter.
‘Sorry, missis, I didn’t mean to do it, I didn’t mean to,’ she said, grabbing at the poker.
‘It’s all right,’ said Helena, wondering how many more times she was going to have to soothe the girl. You knew my aunt, she longed to say, but instead she went on: ‘It must be confusing for you to have a new housekeeper in the castle. Perhaps you did not expect to find me still in bed. I am usually awake early, but I had a tiring day yesterday. Mrs Carlisle, my predecessor, was an early riser, I suppose?’ she enquired casually.
‘Yes, missis. Always up early she was. “There’s no use lying abed when there’s work to be done,” she used to say.’
‘Quite right, too. There is plenty to do in the castle. You must be busy all day long.’
‘Yes, missis. There’s fires to be lit and there’s that many steps, it’s ’ard work.’
‘Mrs Carlisle must have been sorry to leave the castle. She took a pride in her job, I believe.’
‘Very particular, Mrs Carlisle was. The flowers ’ad to be fresh in summer. Very particular about ’er flowers, was Mrs Carlisle. I mustn’t move anything on ’er desk, and I mustn’t go through the drawers.’
‘Did you used to go through the drawers?’ Helena asked in surprise.
Effie dropped the poker.
‘I were only looking for some string,’ she said, but she seemed nervous, and Helena wondered if she was speaking the truth. ‘My stockings were falling down. Mrs Carlisle said I needed garters, she showed me ’ow to make ’em.’
‘Of course,’ said Helena. ‘Did you find anything interesting when you were looking for the string?’ she asked nonchalantly.
‘Very particular about her pens, she was. Mended ’em ’erself. Didn’t want no one touching her pens,’ said Effie obliquely, picking up the poker and hanging it back on its stand, then she took a piece of newspaper from the top of the bucket of coals and crumpled it vigorously before laying it in the grate.
Helena’s eyes were drawn to the girl’s hands. They were large and strong, and as they picked up another piece of newspaper and crushed it, Helena found herself wondering what else the girl’s hands could crush.
Changing the subject, she said: ‘It must have been a shock to you when Mrs Carlisle left so suddenly.’
‘I didn’t know she was going,’ said Effie. ‘She said nothing to me, just went. One day she was here and the next day she wasn’t.’
‘Do you know why she had to leave?’ Helena asked.
Effie sat back on her heels and rolled up a sheet of newspaper, winding it round her hand and knotting it before laying it on top of the crumpled paper.
‘Do you?’ asked Helena patiently.
Effie glanced over her shoulder and seemed reluctant to speak.
‘I believe her sister was ill?’ Helena prompted her.
‘That’s what he said.’
Helena had the feeling she was concealing something.
‘And did you believe him?’
‘It’s not my place, missis, if master says it, then it must be true.’
‘Ah, yes. Do you like him? The master?’
‘I reckon.’
But the girl’s open manner had disappeared, and once she had finished lighting the fire she wiped her hands on her black-streaked apron, then picking up the bucket she left the room.
Helena was left with much to think about. As she removed her nightgown and washed in the hot water, she thought that Effie had not told her everything she knew. But, if she stayed at the castle an extra day, there would be another morning, and another conversation whilst Effie lit the fire.
She dressed quickly, glad of her thick woollen gown and woollen stockings. She brushed her hair and fastened it into a neat chignon, then, picking up her candle, she went down to the kitchen, following the route she had used on the previous day. As she went through the door into the servants’ quarters, she once again had the unnerving feeling that she was being followed, but when she turned round there was no one there.
She quickened her step and was relieved to gain the sanctuary of the kitchen, where she found Mrs Beal baking bread. The smell of it filled the room and made Helena realise how hungry she was.
‘Effie, set the kettle over the fire,’ Mrs Beal said. Then, to Helena, she said: ‘You’ll have some rolls? They’re freshly baked.’
Helena looked at in the newly-baked rolls that were set on the dresser, laid out on a clean cloth. With their golden tops, they looked appetising.
‘Yes, please.’
Mrs Beal set jars of home made jam and honey on a table in the corner of the kitchen, and put out cups, saucers and plates. She added a mound of freshly churned butter to the table and a jar of frothing milk. Soon a bowl of sugar and a pot of tea joined the rest.
‘I’m ready for a bit of something myself,’ said Mrs Beal.
‘I see you have finished the fires,’ said Helena to Effie, hoping to reassure the girl, so that the next time they met, she would be agreeable to talking.
Mrs Beal answered for her.
‘Yes, she does the fires in the mornings, but his lordship doesn’t want anyone in the library except the housekeeper and Miss Parkins, so she left a bucket of coal outside, as she always does. His lordship’s told you you’re to keep the library clean yourself?’
‘Yes, he has. Miss Parkins does not see to it, then??
??
‘Miss Parkins doesn’t see to a lot, from what I can see.’
‘I am not quite sure what Miss Parkins’s position is in the castle,’ said Helena, gently probing, as Mrs Beal poured out the tea.
‘That makes two of us,’ said Mrs Beal. ‘I wouldn’t have much to do with her, if I were you. She comes down here from time to time, but I won’t have anyone interfering in my kitchen. She looks at you sometimes . . . well, I’ve said enough.’
As Helena ate her rolls and drank her tea, the conversation turned to the idleness of dairy maids and the impossibility of running the kitchen adequately without any kitchen maids.
‘In the old days, there were seven people working in the kitchen: Mrs Barnstaple, the cook; me as her assistant; three kitchen maids and two scullery maids. Mind, we had a castle full of people to feed. His lordship and Master Richard. . . ’ She tailed away, then finished: ‘ . . . we’ll not see those days back again.’
Helena tried to encourage her to say more, being sure there had been something important left unsaid, but Mrs Beal would not be drawn.
‘Thank you for breakfast,’ said Helena, when she had finished her meal. ‘And now, I had better see to his lordship’s fire.’
Taking up her candle, she left the kitchen, and then the servants’ quarters, behind her, and emerged into the hall. A faint grey light could be seen coming through the windows. Outside, the sun was rising and it would soon be daylight.
She found the bucket of coal outside the library. Picking it up, she went in, but she was taken aback to see Lord Torkrow sitting behind the desk, looking at some papers. She had not expected him to rise so early, and she wished she had knocked.
He looked up as she stood there in the doorway. As she felt his eyes run over her, she was conscious of a sudden unease, and again she wondered if he had been fooled by her deception, or if he knew that she was not who she claimed to be. She told herself there was no way he could know. Even so, she felt anxious, for there was something about the way he was looking at her . . .
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I thought the room was empty.’