Page 16 of Linenfold (The Alice Chronicles #4)
R ose is not used to holding back from the promptings of her natural wit.
Of an open, impulsive nature, she says the first thing that comes into her head, reacts from the heart to jokes, misfortune, sunshine, curses, requests for help.
The boys, Allan and Joe, have learned quickly that they can faze her with the most monstrous assurances as long as they keep a straight face.
They send her off on wild goose chases, collapsing with laughter when she returns innocently puzzled or momentarily crushed by the realisation that she has been taken for a fool.
Angry she may be, and well able to give that “bust in the chops” she unguardedly blurted to Alice.
Conversely, she is incapable of foxing anyone for any length of time, over-inclined to laugh when she should be expressionless.
The boys are fond of her, recognise a kindly spirit, and a surprising discretion when circumstances demand it. Rose is accepted as one of them.
Not that she has been anywhere near either of the boys this morning.
Rose has taken to heart Alice’s ban on speaking of the guests’ talk to anyone.
As a result, Rose is more curious than ever about these visitors, sorry that they will be leaving as soon as the hired coach arrives.
She enjoyed the bustle and excitement yesterday, the extra effort she has been put to.
Even cleaning shoes after their arrival was part of it.
His Lordship’s buckles she is particularly proud of.
The silver is ornately worked and if she is honest, not something she would want the job of polishing every day.
Once is quite enough. The plain ivory buckles of the secretary she gave a perfunctory wipe.
But Philip Sewell’s boots are a different matter.
Last night she dried them and brushed off the mud, worked in some mutton fat from the pan reserved for rushlights, and buffed and buffed to achieve a creditable shine.
She gave much attention to them, polishing for several minutes until she could see her face in the finish.
Now the footwear needs to be returned for their owners to don once more.
It is Mollie’s task to take them up when she goes to tend the fires, leaving them by their owners’ beds ready for when they wake.
Soon, they will enter their hired coach and depart for ever.
The thought is agony to Rose. She would have liked to see Philip’s pleasure as he catches sight of his gleaming boots.
She would have liked also to see what Philip looks like when he first wakes, whether he is heavy-eyed, drowsy, hair rumpled, or instantly awake, sitting up and demanding water for washing.
Whether he wears the shirt he had on under his doublet or has a special shirt for sleeping in.
She has heard that lords and kings wear a different shirt at night.
Is it much gathered, full-sleeved, or simply cut, straight and severe?
Might there be a view of bared arm or throat, even a glimpse of his chest through a loosely tied neck?
She will be none the wiser unless she does something about it.
The germ of an idea has taken root, which is why she has risen as early as Mollie this morning and followed her down to the kitchen.
While Mollie goes out to the barn to collect faggots for the bread oven and brands for the kitchen fire, Rose proceeds to clean Philip Sewell’s boots afresh. She is all sympathy when Mollie returns with a second load of firewood.
‘Such a chore for you Mollie, as if you’re not busy enough with Maureen forever wanting this and wanting that.’
Mollie’s shrug says, That’s the way it is .
‘You were so late to bed last night, with all the extra work. I heard you come up long after I was abed.’
Mollie smiles, which Rose interprets as saying, I don’t mind really .
‘Well today I shall help you, Mollie, you deserve it,’ Rose stoutly declares.
‘I shall light the fires upstairs for you. Yes, I’d like to help,’ as Mollie shakes her head.
‘Mollie, you deal with the fire here and I’ll do upstairs.
I’ll take the shoes while I’m about it.’ And as Mollie looks her doubt at the advisability of this offer, Rose adds, ‘I won’t say a thing to the mistress.
I’ll be back before she’s up.’ Quickly, Rose picks up the basket of dried kindling sticks, adds the tinderbox and the footwear on top, and makes her way out of the kitchen and up the little spiral back stairs that lead to the chambers.
Mollie gazes after her, her lip caught in her teeth, until she hears footsteps from the women-servants’ stairs.
‘Sam is having the time of his life at Freemans,’ Alice tells Maureen as they come together into the kitchen.
‘But I must collect him today once our guests have left.’ Not that Maureen shows any particular interest. Unless it concerns herself, Maureen is rarely interested in what others say.
She stumps over to the hearth where the cooking pot hangs ready on its chain, brands blazing, water steaming in another pot by the fire.
‘This wood’s wet,’ she tells Alice, nudging the pile of brands with her toe. ‘Mollie! Go and find some dry.’ She regards Mollie’s departing figure. ‘That girl, she never thinks.’
‘Wait, Mollie.’ Alice leans awkwardly to pick up a brand, feels it. ‘A bit wet, I grant you, probably at the bottom of the pile. These others are all right. And those on the fire are not smoking. Where’s Rose?’
‘I’ve got breakfast to cook. I can’t do it with wet wood,’ Maureen insists.
‘Just leave that one to the side,’ Alice tells her. ‘By the time you’ve used the others, I expect it will have dried out from the heat of the fire.’
‘She shouldn’t have picked it in that state, careless wench.’
Alice beckons to Mollie. ‘Do you come and help me shape the loaves, Mollie, and you’ll have to light the oven for me. Baby will barely let me bend this morning.’
They are dividing and shaping the dough ready for second proving and Alice is leaning against the kitchen table, rubbing her back, when the door from the kitchen passage is pushed open and Rose comes in.
She has a high colour that complements her dark hair and eyes.
When she blushes, it is not that easy to distinguish from the usual tone of her skin.
She could hardly be more different from Maureen’s pasty pallor.
Except that as she stands there in the doorway, she is something paler than usual, her eyes dark, troubled.
‘What is it, Rose?’
‘I’m not sure, mistress.’
‘Tell me. What’s happened?’
‘He’s not there.’
‘Who?’
‘He’s gone. Spirited away.’
‘Rose, take a deep breath. Who’s not where?’
‘His Lordship. He’s not in his chamber.’
Alice relaxes. ‘He’s probably gone in to see Master Sewell, or he’s closeted with his secretary.’
‘No. I looked. They’re both asleep.’
‘What were you doing upstairs anyway?’
The question is blown away by Rose’s next words. ‘His clothes are still on the coffer.’
New questions sprout up, each crowding out the last. Most of them can be answered by checking the chamber.
‘Come with me, Rose.’ Together they climb the spiral back stairs and cross the passage.
The main chamber is cool, there is only the smell of ash from the hearth where last night’s fire lies in a powdery grey heap, piled logs waiting to one side, the kindling in its basket, the tinder box on the top.
Lord Hardcastle’s shoes lie next to the hearth, along with Philip’s boots and Master Cranley’s shoes.
In the early morning gloom, it is clear that His Lordship is not in here, either in bed or anywhere else. The pillow shows the mark of a head, the sheet and coverlet have been thrown back.
‘Well, he can’t have gone out,’ Alice says, ‘unless he’s wearing different clothes today.’ On the coffer, as Rose said, lie the doublet, breeches and stockings His Lordship was wearing yesterday.
Back downstairs there is no trace of her missing guest. The hall door is still barred and bolted, and Mollie nods her confirmation to Alice that the kitchen door was barred when she came downstairs.
Alice returns to the chamber floor and knocks on Philip’s door.
Almost immediately it opens. ‘Good morning, Mistress Jerrard,’ Philip greets her brightly.
He is nearly dressed and is shrugging into his doublet.
‘I thought I heard something. I was coming to see.’
‘We’re not sure where your uncle is,’ she tells him. ‘He’s not in his chamber. Did he say he would be going out?’
‘I’m surprised he’s even awake at this hour,’ he says. ‘Let me find my boots and I’ll come and help you look.’
‘I saw your boots in his chamber,’ she tells him. ‘Rose was cleaning them yesterday.’
He pads behind her into the main chamber. ‘He hasn’t even dressed,’ he says, indicating the clothes on the coffer as he pushes his legs into his boots.
‘Might he have donned different garments, ready for your journey home?’
Philip shakes his head. ‘We all agreed we would not bring up much spare clothing. We were only staying the night.’ He looks around, goes to the bed, turns back the coverlet. ‘Where’s his long-gown? He had it on last night instead of the doublet. He prefers it in the evenings.’
‘You’re right,’ Alice realises. ‘Master Sewell, I think we must make a search for His Lordship.’