In the event Mr Winthrop took a worryingly – not to say unflatteringly – long time to decide that a dowerless and orphaned Anne was as desirable a bride as he had found her such a short while earlier. Whilst poor Anne drooped and wept and huddled within her rooms in the changed house that had for all her lifetime been her home, the old man hemmed and hawed and prevaricated until it came to an exasperated Kitty that she would like nothing so much as to bang his head upon his own mounting block. Was it not true that a bare three months before his heart had apparently been set upon the girl? Yet now, given a chance to rescue her from a situation that daily became more intolerable he hesitated and hedged, talking of a decent time to consider and to mourn, of changed circumstances and unforeseen difficulties. Kitty found herself wondering, perhaps uncharitably, if he were not hunting swiftly about the district to discover if there were not some other girl on offer whose father had not so inconsiderately died and left her penniless.
‘He will not take me,’ Anne wept, disconsolate, ‘he will not! And then – what shall I do?’
‘Nonsense. Of course he will. And – even if not – Mr Winthrop isn’t the only man in the world.’ Kitty threw back the curtains that Anne would have her leave draped, cave-like across the windows. ‘Why must you tie your hopes to his coat-tails? Why, just a few weeks since – oh, Anne, Anne, please – don’t cry again. You have to stop. You really must—’
But, at first, she could not. And small wonder, Kitty sometimes thought, for all her bracing words, seeing the changes that had come so shockingly unheralded into her life and her circumstances.
Sir Percival Bowyer did not like Westwood Grange, and he made no effort whatsoever to disguise the fact. He did not like the rambling, old-fashioned house, its situation or the responsibilities that it brought. However, for reasons that were never made entirely clear but which were endlessly discussed in the servants’ hall, always to his detriment, he and his appalling little dog were clearly determined upon making their home there – any hole, as Cook liked darkly to point out, being welcome to a hunted fox.
The quiet life of a Suffolk country gentleman was not, however, in the least to Sir Percival’s tastes, and he went out of his way to ensure that he need not live it. Unable, under the same quirk of law that had caused him to inherit, to sell the place, he set determinedly about filling it with as many of his London cronies as he could entice for any length of time away from the drinking dens and gaming tables of town. To begin with he was fairly successful in this – a success that had its roots first in his guests’ curiosity, secondly and perhaps more importantly in their eager willingness to live in some style for nothing, and thirdly in the weather. August and September were dry, warm months, mellow and beautiful, and the roads, if dusty, were easily passable. Week after week the house was full, riotous till long after midnight and dead till noon.
The estate, for this time at least, more or less ran itself, the year’s planning and care already lavished and bearing fruit, the harvest good. As to next year – men of cottage and farm shook their heads. Time would tell but they had no great hopes. Sir Percival in his management veered characteristically from despotic decree to undisguised and short-tempered disinterest. He wanted his rents and his profits; he knew nothing and cared less about the efforts that needed to be made to secure them.
Day after day, week upon week, there seemed to Kitty to be a constant and dizzying coming and going in the courtyard that had once rung so rarely with any undue excitement: arrivals and departures of strange guests, with their valets and servants (who always managed, she noticed, to make themselves scarce if there were extra household tasks to attend to); strange horses in the stables. The servants grumbled, Sir Percy, uncaring, issued more invitations and Anne continued to wilt like a cut flower. Within a week the cellars were emptied and the call sent out for more – a call that was readily answered by those who had already marked out the new owner of the Grange as a likely customer for their night-run goods. Remembering Matt’s beating, Kitty found herself reflecting bitterly more than once upon the gentry’s interpretation of honesty as spirits and tobacco were welcomed to the cellars of the Grange, as well as bolts of silk for the ladies, a surprising number of whom braved the journey to the wilds of Suffolk to join the exiled Sir Percival and aid him in his efforts to spend his unexpected inheritance.
‘The goings-on in this house,’ Cook said one day, heavily, ‘are no less than a scandal. With Sir George an’ those poor lads barely cold in their graves—’
‘Mrs Roberts.’ Imogen Alexander’s voice from the doorway was sharp and acid with sarcasm. ‘When you are ready – some of Sir Percival’s guests are in the breakfast room. Waiting – dare I say it? – for their breakfast.’
‘Breakfast, is it?’ Cook, one of the few in the house in no way in awe of the governess who, insidiously and in the absence of a mistress’s hand, had taken over the role of housekeeper, swung ponderously upon her. ‘Breakfast? At twelve noon? And where? Where is this – breakfast room?’ She invested the last two words with a world of scorn.
Ruby giggled.
Miss Alexander quelled the girl with a glance. ‘The breakfast room, Mrs Roberts, as you well know, is—’
‘At the top of the stairs where the parlour used to be. An’ where the parlour still is, as far as I’m concerned. Seems to me that did Sir Percy say so some of us’d be callin’ cats dogs—’
Tight-lipped, Imogen Alexander left. Muttered words that sounded remarkably like ‘stuck-up madam’ followed her none too quietly to the door.
‘I doan’ know ’oo that woman do think she is—’ Cook attacked her risen bread dough with fierce hands.
Kitty, come to the kitchen for a dish of soup to tempt Anne’s failed appetite, tossed the straight, heavy hair from her eyes and swung the weighty saucepan onto the stove. ‘She hopes, I think, that if – when – Miss Anne leaves Sir Percy will keep her on as housekeeper.’
Cook lifted her head. ‘An’ is there word of that?’
Kitty shook her head.
Cook sighed. ‘Poor lamb. Who’d ha’ thought – Oh, Ruby! Fir pity’s sake, child! What ha’ you done now?’
Poor Ruby, always clumsy but worse if hurried, had dropped on the flagstoned floor the great silver dish into which Beth, Cook’s assistant, had been about to deposit the breakfast kidneys she had been frying. At Cook’s angry tone Ruby flinched, picking up the dish with shaking hands.
Cook’s own hands, flour-white, were lifted in despair. ‘If you can’t hold the blessed thing empty what in heaven’s name will you do with it full? Where’s Thomas?’
Ruby, a frail, nervous girl, always easily cowed, blinked back tears. ‘’E’s bin called away. Summat for Sir Percival. An’ them others – them visitors – they’re nowhere to be found. There’s on’y me. An’ Beth.’
‘Well, I in’t servin’.’ Beth, a large, phlegmatic young woman with a round face and wispy fair hair, turned back with unshakable determination to the stove. ‘I got enough ter do ’ere, an tha’ss a fact.’
Kitty smiled reassuringly at the trembling Ruby. ‘I’ll help. The soup isn’t ready yet. Perhaps when it is Beth would run some upstairs to Miss Anne. Here – let me help with that dish.’
The parlour – now designated the breakfast room, furnished as such and the scene most days of a leisurely meal that might commence at any time between eleven and noon when the first yawning guests appeared and that could after a particularly energetic night go on to two or three in the afternoon – was almost empty. Kitty and the relentlessly nervous Ruby transferred vast dishes of bacon, kidneys, sausages and cold meats from the trolley to the side-tables beneath the window. Enormous baskets of bread and rolls and a great slab of fresh-churned butter joined them. Beyond the ancient, rippled glass of the window the day had turned grey and windy; heavy clouds billowed above the distant, white-capped water and seabirds hovered, beating against a gusting wind that was the early harbinger of winter. Ruby dropped a knife with a great clatter, sucked her bottom lip in a terror she seemed totally incapable of controlling.
‘Let me.’ Gently Kitty took the enormous silver teapot from the girl’s shaking hands. ‘You put the napkins on the table.’
Two young men, one dark as the other was fair and both of whom might from their dress and mannerisms have stepped from the self-same bandbox as Sir Percival himself, stood by the fireplace conversing loudly, ignoring the two girls as they would ignore the presence of any servant. A third – a long-legged, languidly handsome young man with soft, floppy hair and a dissolute face – slouched alone in an armchair. In contrast to his companions’, his eyes, their expression unreadable, flickered once or twice from Kitty to Ruby, then remained on the nervous girl, speculative and unpleasant.
‘—just a bit of a setback, that’s all. The damned Yankees can’t possibly win. The South’s is a gentlemen’s army. They cannot be beaten. They’ve got the officers, d’you see? And the officers have the devotion of their men. It can only be a matter of time. There’s no question of that.’
‘Well – Pa says we need the cotton. And jolly little of it’s getting through—’
‘It will, it will. Mark my words. The North can’t win. Damned rabble of Republicans and freed slaves. Don’t stand a chance.’
‘I just hope you’re right.’ The fair young man was gloomy. ‘I only know that at the moment we’re losing money hand over fist, and Pa’s talking about cutting my allowance—’
‘God forbid,’ said the languid young man from his armchair, his eyes still on Ruby. ‘What happens to my profits at the card table if your Pa cuts your allowance?’
‘You certainly cleaned me out again last night.’ The words were rueful, but not particularly resentful, rather a comment upon an unfortunate and recurring act of God, like rainstorms or colds in the head.
Kitty set the tea things upon a small table.
The dark young man stirred, pushed himself away from the mantelshelf where he had been leaning and regarded the food with growing interest. ‘What do you think, Archie? About the war in America?’
The young man who sprawled in the armchair shrugged. He was still watching Ruby, quite openly. The girl was awkwardly and untidily attempting to fold a pile of napkins and set them upon the table. Aware of his unblinking regard the poor girl was almost paralyzed with nerves. The young man smiled unpleasantly. ‘The best thing that could happen so far as I see it,’ he said lazily, ‘is for the whole damned bunch of them to wipe each other out. What are they after all? Damned bunch of rebel colonials got too big for their boots – eh, my pet?’ With a movement that was remarkably quick he reached for Ruby, his fingers closed about her narrow wrist and he pulled her to him.
She stood by his chair, trembling and silent, poppy colour in her small, childishly pretty face.
‘Well?’
‘I’m – I’m sure I don’t know, Sir.’ The words were barely audible.
He laughed. ‘Oi’m sure Oi doan’ know, sor,’ he mimicked.
The room had fallen silent. Very carefully and very quietly Kitty laid the plate she held on the table.
‘Why don’t you know, girl? Come to that – what don’t you know? Or – what do you know?’
‘Lay off, Archie. You’re still drunk.’ The dark man grinned, a little uncomfortably.
Archie considered that for a moment. ‘Very probably true,’ he conceded at last, reasonably, ‘but then, for Christ’s sake what else is there to be in this most tedious of worlds?’ His smile did not reach his jaded eyes. His hand was still locked about Ruby’s thin wrist. Half-heartedly, and with a panic-stricken look at Kitty, the girl chose that moment to try to break away from him. The young man’s long fingers tightened, and the girl let out a small cry of pain. He looked up at her with a small, fierce smile. ‘So, come then, my pretty. What do you know? Eh?’
Ruby stood as if struck utterly dumb.
‘Great God.’ Archie’s voice was suddenly ferocious with disgust. ‘What a bloody place, eh? Even the bloody servant girls won’t bloody fight back. It’s the bloody end of the bloody world, that’s what. No wonder poor bloody Percy’s bloody pissed all the time.’
‘Easy now, Archie—’
Kitty stepped forward. ‘May I offer you tea, Sir? Or chocolate, perhaps? Or there’s ale in the pitcher, if you’d prefer, nice and cold?’ Her voice was steady and cool; she kept her eyes levelly upon his, not bothering to veil the contempt in her own. ‘Cook recommends the kidneys. Though I think you may find the bacon more to your taste.’ She paused for a moment, then found herself adding with cool, utterly insulting emphasis, ‘We’ve kept pigs for many years at the Grange—’ But none as contemptible as you. The words, unspoken, hung in the air, ringing in the ears like a bell.
For a long moment the young man neither spoke nor moved. Then, very suddenly, he let go of Ruby’s wrist so unexpectedly that in her fright she almost fell. She took several small, stumbling steps backwards, then stood, lost and indecisive, clasping her bruised wrist in her other hand, trembling visibly.
‘Sir?’ Kitty asked, softly.
‘Get the hell out of here,’ the young man said, tonelessly. ‘We’ll serve ourselves.’
‘Yes, Sir.’ She signalled to Ruby with an almost imperceptible movement of her head, then turned to follow the girl from the room. As she did so Sir Percival, a yapping Barnabas at his heels, a chattering, overdressed young woman on each arm, entered the room.
‘Wait, girl.’
Kitty froze. At the harsh words all conversation died. The focus of all eyes, despite herself she felt colour rise in her cheeks. Composedly she turned. ‘Yes, Sir?’
‘Your name.’
‘Daniels, Sir. Katherine Daniels.’ She spoke very clearly.
He held her eyes for a long moment.
‘What’s this?’ Frowning, Sir Percival stepped forward. ‘Is something wrong? Archie?’
Archie half-smiled, the threat in his eyes only for Kitty. ‘Nothing, Percy old fellow. Nothing, that is’ – his voice was very quiet – ‘that I can’t handle myself.’
Kitty, with iron will, controlled her shaking knees and left the room with creditable composure.
Angry though she was, she could not pretend that the undisguised animosity her own rashness had prompted from her master’s guest had not frightened her a little. For two days she stayed out of the main house as much as she could, spending her time in the old nursery quarters on the top floor of the east wing, where Anne had now taken up more or less permanent residence. On the third day she visited her brother in his room above the stable. His back was healed – he had apparently recovered all his spirits with his health and was the same easy-laughing, feckless lad she had always known. Yet sometimes, when she saw his dark eyes fixed upon Sir Percival Bowyer’s pale, delicate face, she suspected that the scars that her brother would always bear upon his back were not the only ones he carried. Sir Percival, on the other hand, seemed to have forgotten the whole incident – or perhaps it was that he was so assured of having established his mastery over the boy, and over the whole household, that he saw no need to reinforce it. He used the lad, much as Sir George had, to run errands and to help in the house, and even – so confident was he of a lesson learned – to wait upon those of his friends who had not brought with them their own servant.
‘Quite a gentleman’s gentleman I’m becoming.’ Matt’s voice was mocking, his smile subversive. ‘See what a good boy I can be when I try?’
Kitty sighed. She mistrusted her brother in this mood.
He grinned at her. ‘Well, cheer up. There’s no call to look as if you’d lost tuppence and found a ha’penny.’
‘It isn’t what I might find that bothers me,’ she retorted, grimly.
He lifted a shoulder, smiled his blithe, derisive smile. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, moi owd gel. Why – Mr Archibald Alliston gave me a shilling before he left – a whole silver shilling—’ She could not tell at whom or at what his mockery was directed. ‘Why should I thieve if I can get it for nothing?’
‘Why indeed?’ The name was slow in registering in Kitty’s mind. She looked up, sharply. ‘Archibald Alliston? Is that the young man they call Archie? – Tall, with fair hair that falls over his face?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘He’s gone?’
‘Yesterday. Said he couldn’t stand the place a moment longer, not even for the easy pickings at the tables. He’s a fly one, that one.’ There was a glint of admiration in the boy’s eyes.
Kitty was herself surprised at how strong was the lift of relief she experienced at the news. She had not, remembering the look in Archibald Alliston’s eyes, expected to be let off so easily. She stood up. The October wind swirled around the stable eaves, plucked the leaves from the overhanging trees, rippled the puddles left by two long days of rain. She stretched. ‘The sky’s clearing. Come for a walk with me, down by the sea – I’ve been cooped up for days—’
Two days later, at last, Mr Winthrop made up his mind. Out of the goodness of his heart and in memory of her dear dead Papa, he would take Anne, dowry or no dowry. The decision taken, he felt that it should be implemented as soon as might be considered decent and he suggested that a very quiet New Year’s wedding would be appropriate.
Anne, upon hearing the news, burst into inevitable tears.
‘Come, now, Anne my dear,’ Miss Alexander said, lightly unfeeling, patting her hand. ‘I know what very happy news this is for you. But do, my dear, try to contain your emotion—’
Anne’s sobs redoubled.
Kitty, with nice restraint, held her tongue.
As if the prospect of Christmas and a wedding – however quiet – were not enough to set the house upon its heels Sir Percival, venomously bored by the closing in of an early winter, decided upon a birthday party; his own, and that at the beginning of December.
‘But – surely – no one will come?’ Anne, surprisingly, had recovered her spirits somewhat. With a natural optimism that was, after the shock of the loss of her family, at last reasserting itself, she had come philosophically to believe that life as Mrs Winthrop might not be so terrible after all. She would be financially secure, virtually her own mistress, and it had been agreed that her beloved Kitty might accompany her to her new home. They would be free at last of the detested Miss Alexander, and – as Anne herself pointed out, an echo of the old, mischievous laughter in her voice – the ancient Mr Winthrop could not last forever. Now she sat before her mirror, whilst Kitty brushed the loosened fair hair that clouded her shoulders. Outside a banshee wind howled bitterly, and the distant sea crashed. ‘I mean – none of his London friends have been near nor by for weeks. They won’t come at this time of the year, surely?’
Kitty shrugged. ‘Who knows? All I know is that he – and that horrible dog of his – have been in the foulest of tempers lately. If having this blessed party cures that I’d be willing to put up with the whole of London coming!’
Anne giggled, then sobered. ‘Oh, Kitty – I can’t wait for us to get away from this place. Mr Winthrop isn’t so bad. He’s kind, I’m sure. He’ll be nice to us. And we’ll have a place of our own again—’
Kitty half-smiled at the other girl’s reflection in the candlelit mirror, but said nothing. She knew Anne to be totally oblivious to the irritation that her easy use of the plural pronouns ‘we’ and ‘us’ could cause. The thought that Kitty might have separate needs and aspirations of her own rarely if ever occurred to her. Kitty continued with long, smooth strokes of the brush.
Of course it did not. Why should it?
Surprisingly – or perhaps not, considering the elaborate and luxurious provision that Sir Percival promised for his guests’ comfort and delectation — many of his London cronies, perhaps diverted by the novel thought of a winter’s weekend in the country, did accept his invitation.
Once again the Grange came to frantic life. There was linen to be found, rooms to be cleaned, beds to be aired and made up. There were stores to be laid in, food to be cooked, ale to be brewed. More Free Trade tubs rolled down the steps of the cellar. The farms and stables of the estate were raided for feed and space for the horses. Kitty found herself, like the rest of the household, run off her feet, ordered hither and yon by Miss Alexander, by Cook, by Anne herself. As the first guests began to arrive she joined the army of servants scurrying up and down stairs, along corridors, into almost forgotten parts of the old house, carrying coal, water, warming pans, bed-linen.
‘It isn’t fair!’ Anne protested. ‘You aren’t a servant!’
‘Of course I am. And I don’t mind.’
Anne did not even pause for breath: ‘—And anyway, I need you here to do my hair.’
Kitty suppressed a smile. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be back later.’
Hurrying along an ill-lit passage in the east wing of the house, she almost cannoned into her brother. ‘Matt! You startled me!’ And then, sharply, ‘What are you doing here?’
If he noticed the tone he gave no sign. ‘The same as you. What a to-do, eh?’ He grinned his wide, warm smile. In the last couple of months he had grown, was now, she realized suddenly, almost as tall as she was. ‘Can’t stop. See you at supper—’
Dinner was served to a dozen that night, and more guests were to arrive the next day, the day before the party itself. Whilst Anne and her cousin dined by candlelight in the Great Hall, Kitty was kept busy all evening helping a girl who had been brought in from the village to prepare more bedrooms. The long corridors of the east wing were dimly lit, and the candles set at intervals in sconces upon the walls guttered and danced in the chill draughts that crept through doors and windows and scurried like imps of winter through the darkness. Some blew out altogether. The bedrooms were lit by oil lamps which, long unused, flickered and smoked, sending elongated shadows dancing about the walls and bedcurtains.
‘I doan’ like this.’ Rosie, the village girl, shook her head dolefully. ‘I doan’ like it one bit. Creepy, i’n’t it? Fancy sleepin’ ’ere!’
Kitty laughed a little, shook her head. ‘You get used to it. Here – take the other side of the sheet. We’ll make the bed quicker together. Did you bring the kindling for the fire?’
The girl shook a phlegmatic head. ‘No one said nuthin’ about no kindlin’.’
‘Oh – well, all right – I’ll make the bed alone. You pop downstairs for the wood—’
‘What? All the way down there on me own? Not likely! I’m not goin’ down them dark owd stairs on me own!’
‘For goodness’ sake!’ Exasperated, Kitty regarded her, hands upon hips. She was tired now, and anxious to be done. Her back ached and her feet were sore. ‘All right. You do the bed. I’ll fetch the kindling.’
She sped down the dark passage. Halfway along, a door stood open. A shadow flickered in the splash of light. She had collided with the figure who emerged from the room as she passed before she could stop herself. Long-fingered hands caught and steadied her. ‘I’m sorry, Sir!’ she gasped. ‘It was my fault. I—’ She stopped.
‘Well, well, well.’ The words were drawled. She looked into eyes that showed recollection and a spark of dislike, and her heart sank. ‘Daniels,’ he said.
‘Y-yes, Sir.’ She had not expected to see him, had not heard his name mentioned, though she had found herself warily listening for it.
‘What – Daniels?’ Archie Alliston asked, softly, ‘I have forgotten.’
Her mouth was dry. Something about the man, an unreasoning and capricious malice, terrified her. ‘Katherine, Sir.’ She tried to keep her voice steady, despised herself for its trembling.
‘And how old are you, Katherine Daniels?’ His voice was still deceptively gentle.
‘Seventeen, Sir.’
‘Seventeen.’ He appeared to consider. ‘Old enough,’ he suggested softly, ‘to have learned manners towards your betters?’
‘Yes, Sir.’ She did not look at him.
He shook his head sorrowfully. ‘But, no, Sir,’ he said. ‘No, Sir indeed.’ He stepped back from the doorway. ‘Well, Katherine Daniels, I have a job for you.’
‘I’m – I’m already—’
‘Yes?’ His voice was cold.
Numbly she preceded him through the door. A small, battered trunk lay open upon the bed. Clothes were strewn untidily about the room, upon the bed, upon the chairs, upon the floor. ‘Clear this up,’ he said, pleasantly.
She hesitated, anger stirring, then seeing the expectation in his eyes, knowing with what pleasure he would report her insubordination to his host, she let prudence still rebellion. ‘Yes, Sir.’
He seated himself in an armchair near the fire, watched her with an unblinking stare that unnerved her as it had Ruby. But she did not – would not – let it disconcert her as Ruby had. Swiftly and neatly she picked up the clothes, folded them and stowed them in drawers and in the old-fashioned clothes press. When she had finished she stood before him, hands folded. The nagging ache in her back had developed into a stabbing pain. ‘May I go now, Sir?’
He got up, walked to the bed, reached into the trunk and took out a small box, which he upended. A shower of small items – a watch and chain, cufflinks, tie pins, collar studs – fell onto the counterpane. ‘You haven’t finished.’
She bit her tongue. Voices sounded beyond the door, then died. Tiredly she collected the things from the bed and put them in their appointed places on the dressing table. Then she stood silent, waiting. She was exhausted. She wanted nothing but to get away from this disturbing, undisguisedly vindictive young man. For God’s sake what, after all, had she done that merited such malice – that could be the root of the cruel dislike she saw quite openly upon his face when he looked at her?
‘Sullen,’ he said, thoughtfully, eyeing her. ‘Not all that much to look at either.’ Insultingly his gaze travelled from the dusty hem of her skirt to her angry eyes. ‘Pity.’
‘May I go now, Sir?’ Despite her every effort her voice was threaded with fury.
He yawned affectedly. ‘Go by all means. Go to the devil for all I care.’
She turned thankfully from him.
‘But first,’ said the young man to whom any show of independence in a woman offered personal insult, ‘an apology.’
She stopped.
‘I fear I left last time before you could make one. I’m sure you’re ready to rectify that omission now?’
Her head went up. In the silence the fire crackled fiercely.
‘Daniels!’
She did not speak.
‘An apology.’
Her anger was ice-cold. She turned, eyed him levelly, knowing what she did, unable to prevent herself. ‘An apology, Mr Alliston?’
‘Yes.’
‘No.’ She saw the shock in his eyes, the unstable colour that rose in his fair skin. She stepped forward, her diction everything that Anne had ever taught her. ‘I am no chambermaid, Mr Alliston, whatever you may think, to be bullied and persecuted by you. I am Miss Anne Bowyer’s companion and personal maid.’ She saw a flicker of disbelief in his eyes, pressed on, the flame of fury crackling in her voice. ‘And I doubt that she would find it amusing that I should be treated so by one of her own cousin’s guests.’ Stop it! a voice was shrieking in her head. Why antagonize him further? ‘You talk of my learning manners towards my betters? May I suggest, Sir, that you could do with a few lessons yourself?’ She stopped then, knowing she had gone too far.
‘Get out,’ he said at last, his voice steel-hard.
She closed the door behind her very, very quietly.
He made her life a misery. No matter how she tried to keep out of his way he was there, picking and carping, goading her from behind cold eyes. She dismissed any thought of going to Anne; it would be a needless worry to the girl, and anyway there would be nothing she could do about it. She did not even consider going to Sir Percival. There was nothing for it but to hold her temper and her nerve, not to allow Alliston his obvious design of her retaliation and consequent disgrace. She set herself to take his slights and veiled insults with a composure that, had she but realized it, simply goaded him to further extremes. He had found a pastime to ease the tedium between one gaming table and the next: he would not easily relinquish it. She comforted herself with the thought that he could not be here for long – after the party he must surely tire of the futile game and leave?
The day of the party dawned unexpectedly clear and bright. The winter sun, low in the sky, dazzled the eye, and the wind cut in from the sea like a knife. The household was awake and about its business long before daybreak. By midday Kitty felt as if she had already done two full days’ labour. Later in the afternoon she and Anne were dragooned by Miss Alexander into helping with the decorations of the Great Hall. Huge swags of greenery had been brought in from the woods, colourful paper flags were heaped haphazardly upon the floor. At the far end of the hall, beneath the gallery, estate carpenters were at work erecting a sham tower, complete with turrets.
‘What on earth is that?’
Anne was agog with excitement. ‘It seems that Cousin Percival saw a mock medieval tournament last summer. At the Cremorne Gardens. Tonight is to be—’
‘—a mock mock tournament?’ Kitty suggested with raised brows.
Anne, in exasperation that was not altogether feigned, slapped her arm lightly. ‘Oh, don’t be so tiresome! I think it might all be quite fun.’
Kitty did not allow herself to dwell upon the indecorum of such celebrations in a house whose last master was barely six months dead. If Anne chose to drown her grief in gaiety, no matter how tasteless, why question it? ‘It should certainly be interesting.’ She bent to pick up an armful of greenery. ‘What are we supposed to do with this?’
‘Some of it’s to hang from the gallery. The rest is to be put in the window embrasures, so – to make it look like a woodland bower, you see?’
Kitty eyed the tall embrasure doubtfully. ‘The gallery I don’t mind. But I don’t see why either of us should risk breaking our necks for Precious Percy.’
Anne giggled a little at the open use of their private nickname for her cousin. ‘Why don’t we get Matt to help? I saw him a little while ago—’
Kitty glanced round. Her brother was nowhere to be seen. ‘Good idea. I’ll get him.’
‘Off you go then.’ Arms laden with greenstuff, Anne started to ascend the stairs of the gallery. ‘I’ll start up here.’
Kitty hurried across the courtyard to the stables. The air was brilliant with cold, the lowering sun stark and red as blood in the bare branches of the trees. She stopped for a moment, watched as a flight of sea birds carved its way through the lucent winter sky. She started up the wooden steps that led up the outside wall of the stable building to her brother’s little room. Ahead of her a robin sat upon the handrail, head cocked, watching her interestedly. She stopped, smiling. Took one more careful step. The robin hopped companionably ahead of her. Not wanting to startle it she moved quietly up another couple of steps. It perched upon the rail outside the door and twittered at her. Still smiling she slowly climbed the rest of the stairs. It did not move. It was still sitting there on the rail when she quietly opened the door.
Her brother’s startled recoil as he flung round to face her screamed guilt with no word spoken. She stared at him. He had been standing at an open drawer of a battered washstand that stood beneath the skylight window. Guilt invested every line of his face and his body as he stood there, his hands clenched upon something that glinted in the sun-reddened light that fell through the window above him.
‘What have you got there?’ A lifetime’s experience of her brother and his flawed talent embittered her voice.
He stepped back from her, put his hand behind his back.
She walked to him, hand outstretched. ‘Show me.’
He stood like a statue. His lean, slant-eyed face, so much like her own, and usually constantly on the brink of a smile, carried an expression of defiance that almost stopped her heart with dread. Not again. Surely not?
‘Show me,’ she said again.
‘It’s nothing to do with you.’
‘And I suspect,’ she said, tiredly, ‘that it has – or should have – equally little to do with you. Show me.’
The authority of years told. Very slowly he brought his hand from behind his back. Something warm and smooth and heavy dropped into her extended palm. She looked, aghast, cold with shock.
The watch ticked quietly, the soft gold of its case glowed in the light of the sunset. She had seen it before. She lifted her head.
He looked away from the blaze of her eyes. ‘He’ll never know I took it! He’s drunk as seven lords already, and likely to stay so for days! He’ll just think he’s lost it—’
The crack of her hand upon his cheek was like the shot of a pistol. He stared at her, the imprint of the blow glowing like fire against the whitening face.
‘What else?’ she asked, quietly, and then, as he neither moved nor spoke, ‘What else, I say?’ she screamed.
Sullenly he stepped back. She looked into the drawer. Cufflinks. A tie pin. Pearl studs. ‘Great God,’ she said, bitterly. ‘You fool. You stupid – selfish – thieving – fool!’
His set mouth did not move, and yet he flinched, as if she had struck him again.
‘Why him?’ she asked. ‘Why – of all of them – him?’
‘I’ve been – looking after him—’ he muttered. ‘He has no servant of his own. Kit—’ He looked at her, suddenly pleading, his face appallingly vulnerable, appallingly young. ‘I swear he don’t know he’s got half this stuff! He wins it at the tables. An’ – he leaves it about all over the place! I couldn’t help myself. I swear it!’
She felt, all at once, as if every vestige of strength had left her. She sat down, very hard, upon the straw mattress of the slatted bed. The watch still ticked in her hand. ‘We have to put them back. Now. Before he discovers they’re missing.’
‘No!’
‘Yes!’
They stared at one another. Matt’s eyes slid from hers.
Feverishly Kitty started to gather the trinkets from the washstand. ‘You go over to the house: Anne wants your help in the hall. Tell her – tell her I’ve gone to see Cook about something.’ She pulled her kerchief from about her neck, tumbled the things into it and tied a firm knot.
‘No,’ he said, quieter this time.
She glared at him.
‘If—’ he swallowed, ‘—if anyone’s to take them back, it should be me.’
She surveyed him for a long, cold moment. Then, ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it should. But I can’t trust you, can I? If you got your thieving hands on these things again God only knows what you’d do.’ She picked up the kerchief. ‘Now – hurry.’
She walked up the small staircase that led to the east wing bedrooms openly, kerchief swinging in her hand. Who, after all, would think to question her? There was no danger.
Stoically she ignored the frantic fluttering of her heart.
Outside Archie Alliston’s room she paused, listening. All was quiet. Firmly she put a hand to the knob. There was no danger. She had every reason to be here. The fire to be laid. The bed to be turned down. There was no danger.
She pushed the door. It swung open.
The room was empty.
The pounding of her heart eased. She ran to the bed, pushing the door closed behind her as she went, hearing the latch click as it caught. She dropped the kerchief on the bed, fumbled with the knot. Chinking musically, watch and jewellery tumbled onto the counterpane, as they had before. Now; where had she put these things for him when she had unpacked the other day?
‘Well. What – have – we – here?’
He was leaning against the door, bottle in hand. Her brain registered numbly that he must have been standing there, by the latticed window, when she entered the room. The opening door had concealed him from her.
She stood like a statue, mouth open, guilt personified.
He walked with drunken care to the bed, stood looking down at the glinting gold and pearl. ‘A thief?’ he asked at last, thoughtfully and interestedly, and tilted the bottle to his lips.
‘No!’
He raised sardonic brows. The smell of brandy hung about him like a cloud.
‘That is – I found the things. Found them! I was bringing them back!’ Her scattered senses began to collect themselves. He had seen her – must have seen her – enter the room carrying these things. Whatever he might think, or guess, he could not possibly believe or prove that she had stolen them?
‘Found them,’ he repeated, and let the malicious amusement sound in his voice. ‘Indeed?’ The bottle tipped again.
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’ The word was like a crack of a whip.
Silence.
‘A pretty tale,’ he said, his voice quiet again.
‘Please – you saw me come in! You saw that I was carrying these things – bringing them back – you must have done! You can’t pretend to believe I stole them—’ She was on the verge of pleading.
‘I?’ he asked, gently. ‘I saw?’
She stared at him in disbelief and fear. ‘You know you did,’ she whispered.
He said nothing.
She watched him, her heart in her throat. ‘But – you will say otherwise?’ she said, her tone half-questioning, wholly incredulous.
He lifted the bottle and drank again, deeply.
‘But – why? Why would you do such a thing?’
Footsteps were hurrying down the corridor towards them. He walked, leisurely, to the door.
‘Why?’ she asked again, urgently, as if this one question were the most important in the world.
He opened the door. ‘Girl!’
Rosie, hurrying past, stopped in alarm. ‘Sir?’
‘Fetch Sir Percival here. At once.’
Rosie threw a swift, inquisitive glance towards the white-faced Kitty. ‘Yes, Sir. At once, Sir.’
He closed the door very quietly. Kitty stood as if turned to stone, watching him. ‘You can’t do this.’
‘Oh, but I can.’ He paused, smiled. ‘I am.’ He put the almost empty bottle on the dressing table, turned to face her, his handsome head limned bright against the bloodshot evening sky. ‘You ask me why?’ He paused. ‘Had a man insulted me in front of my friends as you did, I might have thrashed him for it. I might have killed him. I – might – even have laughed. But – eventually – I would have forgiven him.’
‘But for God’s sake what did I say that was so—?’
‘It was enough!’ The words cracked across hers, stopping her protest. ‘To be insulted, publicly, by a slip of a girl? Oh, no. That, my dear, is utterly unforgivable.’ He shook his head. ‘Utterly. You spoke to me of lessons. Here is one you would do well to remember. You may take a man’s heart if you can. You may squander his fortune and make three kinds of a fool of him. But you injure his pride at your peril.’
‘Pride?’ She spat the word, fatal temper rising, ‘Pride? And what is pride without honour, Mr Alliston?’ She stopped, fighting her fury, cursing her tongue that was in its own way as destructively unruly as her brother’s thieving fingers. ‘You know I did not steal these things—’ she began more quietly.
He lifted a hand. ‘Do I? And yet – there you stand, my poor possessions wrapped in your kerchief. What am I supposed to believe?’
‘I told you,’ she said, stubbornly, ‘I found them.’
He looked at her steadily. ‘And I asked – where?’ And, in that instant, as clearly as if he had told her, she saw that he had known. Had known of Matt’s weakness. Had known the boy would not be able to resist the temptation of easy pickings. He had hoped to trap her brother to spite her. And, beyond all his hopes it was she who had walked, blindly, into his trap. Her only escape would be to betray her brother. And that she could not do.
Silence hung between them. He waited. She stood stone-faced, saw drunken anger grow in him at her defiance, knew that she was damaging no one but herself with her bravado and was utterly unable to do anything about it.
Footsteps approached, rapidly.
‘You speak of pride, Mr Alliston?’ she asked, bitterly and softly. ‘You don’t know the meaning of the word.’
He lied, as she had known he would – as she knew he might not have done, had she held her temper and her tongue. He had come into the room, he said, and found Kitty taking things from the dressing table and hiding them in her kerchief.
Kitty stood like a statue, saying nothing, looking at no one. What was the point? She was numb with shock.
Sir Percival was outraged. ‘So. It runs in the family, does it? What have you to say for yourself?’
She looked, for the first time, directly into Archibald Alliston’s eyes and said nothing.
‘Dumb insolence won’t help you, girl.’ Sir Percival turned away. ‘Take her to the cellars,’ he said to the burly manservant who stood behind him. ‘I can’t spare anyone to take her to Southwold and the magistrates today. The slut shall not spoil my birthday.’ He swung back upon Kitty. ‘You learned no lesson, apparently, from what happened to your brother. You’ll regret that, believe me. I doubt you’ll like the way the magistrates will deal with you.’
Somewhere, distantly, Kitty heard Anne’s voice, lifted in distress. Amongst the group of servants who had gathered by the door, attracted by Sir Percival’s raised voice and Rosie’s quickly-spread news, Matt stood, silent.
So they marched her to the cellars, her arm in the painful grip of the fearsome Collins, in her ears the buzz of voices as the onlookers, scandalized, delighted, whispered of bad blood and long-nursed suspicions.
The last sound she heard before the heavy door was locked and bolted upon her was the sound of Anne’s voice – protesting, tearful. The last sight was of Matt’s still, white face.
She had no light and no protection from the biting cold apart from her everyday woollen dress, which served her ill against the dank and biting chill of her prison. The darkness about her whispered with terrifying life, shifting, scuttling, peering in curiosity and growing boldness at this unexpected intruder. At first, sunk in almost mindless oppression, she hardly noticed her physical discomfort: but before long, despite herself, the miserable cold roused her and she found herself to be shivering uncontrollably.
People had died of cold, so she’d heard. Well, so be it. Perhaps it would be for the best. Anything – even death, at this miserable moment – seemed preferable to the ordeal that she knew awaited her tomorrow.
Something near her moved, squealed as she kicked out at it. Nausea stirred. She had always hated rats.
With eyes that had grown accustomed to the darkness she looked around. Stout kegs and barrels, the night-run goods upon which Sir Percival and his cronies dined so well each night, surrounded her. Afraid of the rats and the tangle of her long skirts she pulled herself to her feet, then scrambled up onto one of the barrels, tucking her feet beneath her, wrapping her skirt tightly about her legs and ankles. Though not comfortable, at least it gave some security. She sat in a stupor of cold and misery. Her brain seemed to have ceased to function altogether.
She sat so for an age. Above her, faintly, she heard the sound of music. It roused her a little. She moved her cramped limbs, rubbed her hands, wincing at the pain. How could it be – how could it? – that she, Kitty Daniels, should be huddled here, bereft, deserted, accused and with no reasonable defence, whilst above her strangers danced and celebrated as if there were no such thing as care in the world?
She wrapped her arms about her cold body. For the first time she felt the rise of tears.
‘But I tell you – I insist—’ the raised voice came from beyond the door – ‘you know who I am. You cannot – shall not – deny me access to my own cellars.’
‘I’m sorry, Miss, but you’re wasting your breath. The master’s instructions were—’
‘I don’t give a pin for his instructions!’ Anne was doing her best, but even muffled as her voice was Kitty could hear that her attempted forcefulness was a pitiful failure. Timid tears sounded all at once in her voice. ‘I – I insist that y-you l-let me speak to Kitty.’
Kitty clambered from the keg, and barking knees and elbow painfully in her haste, scrambled up the steps to the door. ‘Anne?’
There was a moment’s silence. ‘Kitty! Oh, Kitty!’ There was movement beyond the door, a banging upon the wood, and then a sharp, outraged exclamation. ‘Let me go! How dare you!’
‘Master’s orders, Miss. No one – absolutely no one – to see or speak to the girl till morning. Now – you can run along like a good girl, or I can call someone down here to carry you. Which is it to be?’ The man’s voice was grim and brooked no argument.
‘Kitty! Kitty – they won’t let me see you! But – Kitty – I know you didn’t – all right! – I’m going—’ Anne’s voice faded to silence.
Kitty stood for a long, lonely moment, leaning against the door, her forehead pressed hard against the ancient wood. It was a nightmare. It must be. None of this could possibly be truly happening—
At last she pushed herself away from the door, made her way back to the barrel, settling herself once more. Her head ached with terror and defeat. What would they do to her? What?
She huddled into herself, resting her forehead upon her drawn-up knees. The cold, perhaps mercifully, was dulling her senses, quelling her power to think, deadening even her fear a little. She closed her eyes, and for the first time since the confrontation with her brother that afternoon she allowed the tears to slide, cold and desolate, down her cheeks. It was a long, long time before they stopped.
The sound that roused her brought her heart to her mouth and, cold as she was, the sweat of fear to her forehead. She lifted her head, listening, ears straining. The party in the house above her was now in full swing – thumping feet, the sound of music, raised voices, laughter. Then through it all she heard it again – a harsh, grating noise, very close. The sound of breathing. Someone – something – moving in the darkness.
She felt a scream gather in her throat, and the rise of hysteria blocked her breath. She opened her mouth. Then – a glimmer of light, her whispered name.
‘Kitty? Kit – where the devil are you?’
‘Matt? Oh – Matt!’ Trembling violently she threw her arms about the figure of her brother that had moved to her side, sobbing incoherently.
‘Hey, steady now. Steady, moi owd gal. The guard will hear—’
With an enormous effort she calmed herself. They spoke on a breath, barely audibly.
‘How did you get in?’
She sensed his grin in the darkness. ‘The same way you’re goin’ to get out, owd gal. Sir Percy ain’t the only one to like a bit o’ the old duty free grog. There’s more ways than one in an’ out of here. Take my hand. Tha’ss right. Now – come on—’
Heart beating like a blacksmith’s hammer she followed him through the darkness and along a vaulted tunnel to another, smaller cellar.
‘There.’
A faint rectangle of light, glimmering with frosty winter stars, hung in the darkness above her head.
‘Climb up here. Hurry now. We got to be well away from here by first light.’
Away. Strangely, the thought jolted her. ‘Away where?’
‘Jesus Christ!’ For the first time her brother’s young voice was not quite steady. ‘Trust you to stand there askin’ stupid questions at a time like this! Hurry up! No – wait – best if I go first. Then I can haul you up—’ She saw a shadow swing from the barrel to the opening and wriggle through. ‘Right. Now you. Give us your hand. Tha’ss right. Heave!’
She swung for a moment in mid-air. Then, with a convulsive twist she was through, blessedly free, gulping air.
‘Come on.’ Matt took her hand and they fled, past the house and onto the footpath that led by the shelter of the wind-blighted hedge to the sea. As they passed the windows of the Great Hall Kitty glanced in. Two men in shirtsleeves, each carrying another pick-a-back, were galloping the length of the room towards each other, to roars of drunken applause from the onlookers. The two ‘riders’ each brandished a sword, taken from the racks of such things that had decked the walls of the hall for nearly 300 years. As Kitty watched, with blood-curdling yells they clashed, and one pair was sent reeling to the ground to more howls of approbation from the inebriated audience.
‘Come on!’ Matt dragged her behind him. Her feet tangling in her long skirts, she stumbled, then righted herself. Some way along the path, a safe distance from the house, her brother stopped abruptly.
‘What are you doing?’ Her voice was all but lost in the wash of the nearby sea.
‘Wait here.’ His voice, too, was indistinct. She peered at him through the darkness, confused. ‘Look after this.’ He had been carrying a bundle which he now thrust at her. ‘Cook sent it. It’s food and a change of clothes.’
‘God bless her! But Matt – what?’
He was moving from her, melting into the darkness. ‘Wait. Stay here. I won’t be long.’ He said something else then, something that in the crash of the water she did not quite hear. But moments after he had gone the sense of the words came to her, small cold sounds like pebbles in her head: ‘A score to settle.’
‘Matt!’ she hissed into the wind-whipped darkness.
No reply.
She huddled there for perhaps twenty minutes, each of them the space of a small lifetime. She stood up, stamping her feet and swinging her arms to keep the cold at bay. It was a wonderful night, clear and cold and windy. To the landward side the huge bulk of the house reared, silhouetted black and solid against the sky, windows lit, the sound of celebration muted by distance, by sea and by the rising wind. The waters of the North Sea shimmered, chill silver beneath a hunter’s moon, wave tops whipped to creamy foam. She stood for a moment looking northwards to where, two or three miles away, drowned Dunwich lay.
If ever she had been going to hear the bells of that drowned city, surely she would hear them tonight—?
When Matt came out of the darkness like a shadow she jumped violently, her heart in her mouth. ‘Where have you been?’
His teeth glinted like an animal’s in the moonlight. ‘Looking to our future,’ he said. ‘And repaying a debt.’ She heard, very distinctly, the clink of coins.
‘Oh, Matt!’
‘Come on. We’ll follow the beach south. We’d be best off avoiding the roads for a bit.’
She hurried after him, the wind plastering her skirt against her legs. ‘Where are we going?’
‘London, of course. Where else?’ The coins clinked cheerfully again. Matt’s voice was threaded with a wild excitement. ‘If we can get as far as Colchester then I reckon they’ll ha’ lost our trail. We can catch a train from there.’
‘Providing we can get that far.’
‘Oh, we’ll get there.’ He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Give or take a couple o’ more minutes an’ they’re goin’ to ’ave better things to think on than us.’
‘What do you mean?’ Kitty was having trouble keeping up with him. ‘Matt – slow down! What do you mean?’ For the third time she tripped over the heavy, sea-wet hem of her skirt. ‘Oh, drat the thing! I can’t walk like this! Wait—’ She kilted her full skirt up, tucked it about her waist, leaving her long woollen-stockinged legs free. ‘That’s better. I – Matt! – what’s that?’ She had turned and was looking back at the house. ‘Oh, my God,’ she said.
The distant bulk that was Westwood Grange was lit now by more than the strung lanthorns and candles of the celebration. The upper windows of the west wing of the house – the windows of the rooms that Sir Percival had taken for his own – were lit by a lurid glow, a bloody light that, as they watched, flickered and flared and turned the silver moon pale by comparison.
She stared, aghast. ‘Matthew,’ she said at last, her voice lost in the sound of the wild sea-wind, ‘what have you done?’
Beside her, her brother laughed.