WHILE ARABELLA WROTE OUT A NUMBER OF cards advertising Uncaster Hall as the ideal place for anyone seeking short term lodgings, Edie looked on admiringly.

“Cor! You do write lovely, Ma’am,” she said. “Look at all them loops! Ever so smart, those are. That’ll bring in the classy kind for sure. Keep the other sort away, too. Won’t be able to make head nor tail of it.”

Arabella inspected her handiwork; she found herself wondering if, perhaps, it did look a little too flowery.

Edie, however, was unstinting in her enthusiasm. “Lovely, they are. Really lovely! Give them to me and I’ll run down to the high street right now this minute. There’ll be people queuing up by this evening – just you wait and see!”

“I’ll be happy if we have just one family,” Arabella said. “Then I can get used to having lodgers gradually. I’m not sure quite how I’ll feel about having strangers in my house…”

“You’ll soon get used to it,” Edie said cheerfully. “Trouble is, Ma’am, you ain’t never had to share a bed with six little sisters. ’Spect you always had your own bed.”

“I did once share with a cousin.” Arabella sighed. “She kicked a lot.”

“Terrible having a kicker.” Edie was sympathetic. “Our Mattie, she was shocking. We used to put her at the end of the bed so we could push her out when she got too bad. But here’s me rabbiting on when I should be down the town!”

Two minutes later she was hurrying out of the Hall, down the weed-infested drive, and into the long high street that boasted the majority of Uncaster’s shops. She knew most of the shopkeepers well, and decided to visit those who were most likely to place a card in their window.

The Post Office was an obvious choice, but Edie hesitated outside; the Post Officer was a gruff old man who could be difficult. Come along, Edie, she told herself. Don’t be such a scaredy cat! Mr Tramways can’t eat you! She took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

Mr Tramways was busy with a customer as Edie came in; a tall thin man was leaning over the counter, tapping his fingers in an irritable way. “The newspapers! Surely they should be here by now. The papers from York!”

“And I’m telling you they’re not here yet, Mr Sleevery!” Mr Tramways’s beard was bristling with indignation. “There’s nothing come through but the Uncaster Free Press.”

“Then give me one of those!” The man snatched up a copy and hurried out, almost knocking Edie over as he strode past her.

“That ain’t no kind of gent!” she said indignantly. “Did you see that, Mr Tramways? Nearly pushed me into the wall!”

“Rude is what he is! Rude!” Mr Tramways was trembling with anger. “Comes in every day, and never a civil word! And me a representative of Her Majesty’s Postal Service! Thinks he rules the world, just because he owns half the high street and twists poor folk out of their hard-earned pennies. Always wheeling and dealing, he is – and does he ever pay a fair price? Never. Buys cheap, sells dear. And if you don’t pay your rent on time … why, it’s straight to the workhouse, and your house sold over your head. There’s not many here as would have a good word to say for that one, however rich he may be.”

Edie placed one of Arabella’s elegantly written cards in front of the old man. “Would you be ever so kind, Mr Tramways, and pin this up somewhere? My Lady … she’s going to take in lodgers. Nice ones, of course.”

Mr Tramways read the card with interest. “Lodgers, is it? I did hear there was trouble up at the Hall. That Honourable Henry … I’d like to know what was honourable about him. What was he doing, fooling about on the top of a tower? Deserved what he got, by all accounts. And there’s been a lot of folk talking about unpaid bills. Still, if Mrs Poskett is trying to pay them off, I’ll not stand in her way. I’ll put the card up Edie, and if anyone asks for lodgings I’ll point them in the right direction.”

Edie beamed her appreciation. “Thank you!” she said. “That’ll be a real help! Everyone comes here sooner or later.”

“And some more welcome than others.” Mr Tramways frowned again, remembering his previous customer. “Now, was there anything else you were wanting? Because I’ve got accounts to see to.”

Edie bobbed a grateful curtsey and left the Post Office to see if she could persuade Miss Twillfit in the milliners’ shop to take a card. There were often notices in the window advertising second hand bonnets and capes – “Hardly Worn and at a Favourable Price!” – and Edie was hopeful.

Arriving at the little shop, she found Miss Twillfit lurking behind a shabbily dressed girl of about her own age, who was gazing wistfully at the ribbons. The milliner was obviously expecting her to snatch up a handful and run at any moment, and when she saw Edie her expression hardly altered. Edie, in her dirty dress and apron, was as suspect a customer as the girl in the patched and faded blue satin dress.

“Yes?” she said sharply. “Is it a message from Mrs Poskett? You can tell her I’m not supplying as much as a neckerchief before my bill is paid! Months, I’ve been waiting… Months!”

Edie placed one of Arabella’s cards on top of the ribbons; Miss Twillfit immediately snatched it up. “Don’t go dirtying my stock, girl!” Curiosity made her glance at the card, and her eyebrows rose. “What’s this? Lodgings? At Uncaster Hall? And what, pray, does the Honourable Henry have to say about that?”

“But, Miss Twillfit – hadn’t you heard?” Edie was surprised. In Uncaster, news usually travelled from shop to shop with the speed of water flowing down a hill. “There was an accident, and Mr P – he’s dead! Been dead a while now.”

“Dead? Oh dear, oh dear. I can’t say that I liked the man – much too hoity-toity in his ways – but dead? That’s sad news.” Miss Twillfit looked at the card again. “Especially for his poor, unfortunate wife. All right… I’ll make an exception and take a card.”

“Thank you, Miss,” Edie smiled at the milliner – and then, on an impulse, turned to the girl standing beside the ribbon counter. “Here! I ain’t seen you in Uncaster before: take a card! You never know when you might be needing a place to sleep at night … as the gravedigger said to the undertaker.”

Rosie jumped. She had been dreaming of a new bonnet with scarlet ribbons, and had not paid much attention to the conversation. “Thanks,” she said, “but me and the others, we’ll be staying at The Golden Lion.” She gave the ribbons a last wistful look. “I ought to be getting back there. They’ll be wondering where I am.”

“Take the card anyway,” Edie told her. “You might meet someone who’d like it. Oh … theatricals preferred!” And with a cheery smile at Rosie she trotted off to try her luck with the baker.

While Edie was out delivering her cards, Arabella was attempting to persuade her children to leave their rooms. The door was firmly locked so she was forced to call through the keyhole, at first with little result. All she could hear were squawks and cluckings, but at last Affogato came to the other side of the door. “What do you want?”

“Affy, my darling … do come out and talk to me,” his mother pleaded. “I’m sure we can find a way to make you and Hypatia happy.”

“We told you, Mother!” Affogato was unbending. “We want servants and horses and everything we had before!”

“But that’s just not possible,” Arabella told him. “Surely you can understand that? We’ve no money … no money at all.”

“And whose fault is that?” her son asked sourly. “It’s certainly not ours.”

Arabella began to defend herself, but Affogato ignored her and went on, “We’ve been talking, me and Hypatia. We were looking out of the window and we saw those horrible bailiff people riding up the drive, and we heard them talking about how everything’s got to be sold … so we’ve made a decision. We’re going to go and live with Aunt Jocasta. She’s got loads and loads of money, and she’ll look after us PROPERLY!”

Her mother sat down on the floor in front of the keyhole. The Honourable Jocasta was the Honourable Henry’s considerably older sister and a formidable old woman. She was indeed extremely rich, but had never shown any interest whatsoever in her nephew and niece. Obsessed with good breeding and the family name, she had refused to speak to Henry after his marriage to Arabella; indeed, she had sworn never to darken the door of Uncaster Hall again, even though it was where she had been born and brought up.

Cotton! she had exclaimed, her voice dripping with scorn. Cotton! A TRADE connection! Henry Poskett … you have brought shame and degradation to an old and distinguished family. From henceforth you are as dead to me. Do you hear me? DEAD! And she had swept away in a flurry of velvet and satin, her aristocratic nose in the air.

Arabella, staring at the keyhole, found herself wondering if perhaps Affogato might be right. Maybe he and Hypatia would be happier with their aunt? She would be only too delighted to hear they had left their mother … and, if Arabella was completely honest with herself, it was highly unlikely that the children would be of any assistance in her plan to take in lodgers.

“Affy darling,” she said. “If you’d like to visit Aunt Jocasta, I’m sure I could write and ask her. Just come out, and we’ll discuss it—”

There was a shifting of furniture, a mighty crash and a rattling of keys. A furious chicken screeched past Arabella’s head, and Affogato and Hypatia appeared in the doorway, dressed in their outdoor clothes and each carrying a bulging bag.

“There’s nothing to discuss, Mother,” Hypatia said. “We’re going. And we’re going now this minute. We’re taking that scraggy old horse, seeing as that’s all you’ve left us with, and we’ll tell Aunt Jocasta just how unutterably mean and horrible you are.”

“That’s right.” Affogato nodded. “And you’ve only yourself to blame, Mother. If you’d been more careful with money, we wouldn’t have to go! It’s all your fault, you know.” And without a backward glance they sailed down the stairs, leaving their mother speechless on the landing. A moment later Hypatia called up from the hallway, and for a brief second Arabella thought they had changed their minds – but it was only to inform her that a cupboard had fallen on one of the chickens, and it might be best to remove it before it spoilt the carpet.

“We’ll send for the rest of our clothes as soon as we get there!” Hypatia added, then the front door slammed shut and Arabella sank her head in her hands.

When Edie came home an hour later, one of the chickens was roosting on top of the bust of the Honourable Henry’s grandfather, and the others were wandering aimlessly round the hallway. She hooshed them out before going upstairs to see how they had escaped.

“Oh, Ma’am,” she said when she saw Arabella. “Whatever’s happened?”

Arabella looked up. “They’ve gone, Edie. Gone to their aunt’s house … and I can’t blame them. Everything they’re used to has vanished and I really don’t see how I’m ever going to get it back again.”

Edie, who had formed her own opinion of Hypatia and Affogato, sat down beside her employer. “It’ll be all right, Ma’am. It’s always blackest before dawn, my Gran used to say … and I’ve put lots of your cards out in the town. Mr Tramways, he was ever so nice about it! Said as he’d send people here for sure.”

Arabella sighed. Edie’s never-failing cheerfulness was, without a doubt, a blessing … but just at the moment, everything seemed unremittingly dark. She roused herself a little to tell Edie about the unfortunate chicken in Hypatia’s bedroom, and was astonished to see the little kitchen maid’s face light up.

“Goodness me, Ma’am! Every cloud has a silver lining! We’ll have roast chicken tonight, and that’ll make you feel ever so much better. There’s potatoes in the garden and cabbage too … it’ll be a feast fit for a queen!” And with a beaming smile, Edie hurried to move the cupboard and collect that night’s dinner.