Page 34 of The Fortunes of Ashmore Castle

The house party broke up in a flurry of thanks, farewells, promises to meet again, heaped luggage, waiting carriages, horses stamping in the chill late-April breeze under a sky of bowling clouds and fitful, watery sunshine.

Mary Arthur said, laughingly, ‘Don’t forget to let us know when you’re starting your dig.’

And Talbot said, ‘We promise to come for that!’

Walking back into the house, Kitty could feel Giles’s attention slithering away from her. She said, ‘Are you really going to have a dig at the motte?’

‘Oh, that’s just a joke,’ he said absently, heading for the stairs.

She hurried to keep up with him. ‘It sounded serious. You discussed it for hours at dinner.’

‘It would be fun,’ he admitted.

‘There might be a lost treasure down there.’

‘That only happens in stories. But it would be an excuse to invite my friends again.’

‘Do you need an excuse?’

‘They’re busy people,’ he said. He was busy too, but not at things he wanted to be doing.

They had reached the first floor, and he was turning away towards the library. ‘Giles!’ she said desperately, and he stopped.

‘Did you want something?’

She summoned up her courage. She hadn’t quite dared to mention it over the winter, with all the family problems that had besieged him, but she felt if she didn’t say something now she never would. ‘If you’re going to have your dig, I want to have mine.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘My garden. You know I consulted Mr Blomfield last autumn. And he sent Mr Fenchurch to talk about what I wanted.’

‘I remember. I thought nothing came of it.’

‘They sent the preliminary plans in November, just before we went to Germany.’

‘You didn’t tell me.’

‘I didn’t want to bother you at such a busy time. But I do want my garden. I want to leave something behind me at Ashmore.’

He looked amused. ‘Are you going somewhere?’

‘Don’t joke, Giles. I want this. I want my garden!’

He recoiled a little at the vehemence. ‘I didn’t know it was so important to you.’

She thought, You don’t need me any more, now that you have two sons, and you certainly don’t want me any more. I must have something of my own, something that will stand to my name. But she just said, ‘It is.’

‘All right, then,’ he said, turning away again.

It sounded like a mere acknowledgement that she had spoken and she clenched her fists in frustration. It was like trying to pin down fog. ‘Do you mean I can have it? I can go ahead with it?’

‘I can’t talk about it now, Kitty,’ he said impatiently. ‘You can show me the plans some time.’ And he was gone.

Show me the plans some time . As if she could ever get his attention for long enough!

And if he did look at them he’d say, I’ll have to think about it .

And when she reminded him it would be Not now, Kitty, I’m busy .

. . But she had to start somewhere. She went straight to the Peacock Room, sat down at her desk, drew out a sheet of letter-paper, and started writing: Dear Mr Fenchurch, I write with regard to the plans you sent me in November . . .

It was difficult to find Dory at Ashmore Castle without asking where she was, and Sebastian couldn’t – it simply wasn’t done.

He hovered about the corridors and stairs, hoping.

Word would have gone around among the servants that he was back – Crooks would have talked about him, if for no other reason than the long, healing cut across his ribs.

He had certainly stared, and had asked whether it required any unguent or dressings, probably wanting to hear the story.

But if Sebastian had hoped that curiosity or simple gladness at his return would prompt Dory to seek him out, he was disappointed.

He returned to his piano and chose the C minor étude, the Revolutionary, as best expressing his frustration.

His left hand, unused to doing so much work, grumbled, and his wound ached with some of the right-hand reach, but it worked.

He did not see her, but he was aware of a shadow passing the door, and knew instinctively that she was standing just out of sight, listening.

He jumped up and got to the door before she could disappear. ‘Come in,’ he demanded. He reached for her arm and missed as she drew it back. ‘Something has happened.’ he said. ‘I must talk to you.’

His urgency must have communicated itself to her, because she stepped into the room, looking nervous. She had someone’s chemise folded over her arm. When he tried to close the door, however, she baulked, and would have retreated.

‘Come over by the window, then,’ he said impatiently, ‘where we can’t be seen by anyone passing the door.’ As she still hesitated, he snatched the chemise from her and threw it on to a chair, and said, ‘It’s important.’

She walked over to the window, and stood, hands folded before her. And now he couldn’t think how to begin. In the end she said, ‘I can’t be long. I’ll be missed.’

‘ I miss you,’ he said.

And she turned her head away wearily and said, ‘If that’s all it is—’

‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s about your husband.’

Her eyes jerked back to him, and she stared in instant dread. ‘Jack?’

‘I found him,’ he said.

Astonishment – and fear. ‘What? Why would you do that? How?’

He took the last question. ‘I employed an enquiry agent to look for him. He traced him to Brighton. He’d opened a second-hand clothes shop.’

‘Is that where you’ve been? You saw him?’

‘Yes. But, Dory—’

‘Oh, God! Why did you do that? He’ll follow you back here. He’ll find me! I have to get out of here!’ She was actually turning away towards the door. He could almost hear her feverish plans, to pack up the little she owned and get out of the house, to run and hide herself again.

He caught her arm to stop her, and she struggled, crying softly, ‘Let me go!’

‘Listen to me! Dory, be still, listen! You’re safe. He can’t hurt you any more.’

‘You don’t know, you don’t know him – he’ll never let me go!’

He gave the arm a little shake to get her attention. ‘He’s dead. That’s what I had to tell you. He’s dead.’ She stared, uncomprehending. ‘Jack Hubert is dead. He can’t hurt you ever again. You’re free.’

She was not sure yet. ‘He’s dead? How do you know? Is that what they told you? But he’s cunning, he’ll play dead, change his name, move somewhere else. You can’t know for sure.’

‘I do know.’ Sebastian took a breath. ‘I saw him die.’

She looked aghast. ‘ What do you say? ’ Her voice was breathless.

‘It was a wretched street, a mean little shop. He was drunk in the middle of the morning. He didn’t know who I was. He attacked me, tried to kill me.’

‘Mr Crooks said . . . A knife wound?’

‘He tried to stab me with a knife. I defended myself, hit him with my cane. He fell over, and hit his head.’ Her eyes widened. ‘On a lamppost.’

‘Oh, no, no, no!’

‘He didn’t get up.’ He thought she might still be in doubt, and went on, ‘The police came. There was an inquest. Dory, he’s dead.’

‘You killed him,’ she said, in a terrible whisper.

‘No! It was an accident. He was drunk. He stumbled and fell.’

He didn’t think she heard him. Terror made her incapable of hearing.

‘Oh, God, what have you done?’ she moaned. ‘Why couldn’t you leave well alone? Now I’ll have to go away again.’

‘Didn’t I tell you you’re safe now? We can be together. It’s all right – everything’s all right. We can be married.’

But her eyes were wide, and she backed away from him. ‘Marry? How can you think it? What sort of a woman do you think I am? No, don’t touch me! I have to go. Oh, God, what did you do? What did you do?’

He called after her, not caring if anyone heard. ‘It was an accident! I was defending myself! I didn’t kill him. It was an accident! ’

But she didn’t stop.

Rose looked down the table at servants’ dinner and said, ‘Where’s Dory?’

Mrs Webster said, ‘It isn’t her afternoon off. Has anyone seen her?’

Mildred spoke up. ‘She’s gorn.’

‘Gone? What do you mean?’

‘Went out a bit since. Kathleen in the kitchen told me. She had a bag with her.’

‘Has she spoken to any of you?’ Mrs Webster asked, looking down the line of faces. There were bemused expressions and shaken heads.

Then Eddie, the youngest house boy, said, ‘She was a-talking to Mr Sebastian in the Small Drorin’-room.’

‘When?’ Mrs Webster demanded.

‘Before.’

Afton looked up from his broth and said warningly, ‘Don’t make things up.’

‘I ain’t, sir. I went past the door and I heard of ’em talkin’ in there. I was c’lectin’ used candles from the bedrooms, like William tole me, and when I went past I heard of ’em, and I peeped in and she was a-talking to Mr Sebastian over by the winder.’

‘What were they saying?’ Daisy asked, inevitably.

‘None of your business,’ Rose snapped.

‘I never heered anyway,’ Eddie said. ‘Only she looked upset.’

‘There’ll be no more discussion of this subject,’ Afton decreed firmly. But his eyes met Mrs Webster’s with a question and a doubt. To go out – with a bag – before dinner – on what was not her day off – smacked of trouble.

After dinner, Mrs Webster told Rose to go and check in Dory’s room. She climbed to the top of the house, and reported back quietly to the housekeeper that the room was empty of Dory’s few things. It looked as though she had left for good – without a word, without notice, without a reference.

Mrs Webster’s lips tightened in vexation. It was not only the inconvenience of losing Dory’s services, but the example it set to the other maids. People did not just quit their work on the instant, without due process.

‘She was owed wages,’ she said to Rose.

‘P’r’aps she’ll come back for them,’ Rose said. She thought of the time she had found Dory in the small drawing-room listening to Mr Sebastian playing the piano. ‘I wonder—’ she began.

‘Don’t,’ said Mrs Webster sharply, divining her thought. Their eyes met. ‘Nothing good can come of that.’

Crooks, the old gossip, told Sebastian when he went up to dress him for dinner. Sebastian managed to control his features until Crooks bumbled out of the room. Then he sat down abruptly and put his face into his hands.