Page 40 of The Fortunes of Ashmore Castle

‘And the family?’

‘Her ladyship and Lady Rachel have gone to London for the Season. His lordship’s busy about the estate. Mr Sebastian’s at his own house. Mr Richard comes and goes.’

‘His lordship didn’t accompany her ladyship to London?’ Moss said disapprovingly. It wasn’t right for ladies to travel unaccompanied.

‘I think it was said he might join them later,’ Rose said, missing his point. ‘They had a bit of a row, so I expect they’re happy away from each other for a bit.’

Moss was torn between his disapproval of gossip and his desire to know everything about the Castle. When he was butler, he managed both by berating the other servants for gossiping, but only after he’d heard everything.

‘I’m sure they did not conduct an altercation in front of the servants,’ he said at last, forbiddingly.

Rose understood him pretty well after all those years.

‘It was about her garden. She wants to have the hillside behind the house cut away and moved to the front to make two flat places, but it’d be very expensive, and his lordship said they couldn’t afford it.

She was upset because it was her money in the first place.

Words were had, Mr Moss, and some people couldn’t help hearing. ’

‘A wife’s money belongs to her husband,’ Moss said. ‘Surely her ladyship understands that.’

‘Knowing it and liking it is two different things,’ Rose said.

She walked back the long way, by Hundon’s, though she knew Michael Woodrow was not there.

She had gone past the gate when she heard Martha calling.

Looking back, she saw the tall, gaunt woman hurrying down from the kitchen with something in her hand.

She went back to meet her at the gate, and thought at first there was something wrong with her face.

She almost said, ‘Have you got the toothache?’ when she realised just in time that Martha was smiling, or at least trying to.

‘I saw you go past earlier,’ Martha said. ‘I thought you’d come back this way, so I made you this.’

She handed over the cloth-wrapped thing she was holding.

Rose lifted the edge: it was a small cake, still warm.

‘That’s very kind,’ she said awkwardly. She didn’t really want to accept presents from this woman.

She didn’t want to like her. But for Michael’s sake she took it and smiled back – almost as unnatural a smile as Martha’s, but more practised.

‘I was baking anyway,’ Martha said. ‘You liked my scones. Michael says I’m a good baker.’

‘You are that,’ Rose said stiffly. ‘I’ll have it with my tea.’

‘Best eat it while it’s still warm,’ Martha said, and abruptly turned away, trudging back to the kitchen.

Rose walked on with the parcel in her hand.

It smelt very strongly of cinnamon, and she wasn’t over-fond of cinnamon.

After some time she heard a whimper behind her, and turned to see a dog crawl out of the bushes, its nose working hard.

It was skinny and had a large sore on its shoulder – obviously a stray.

She gestured at it and said, ‘Go on, get away!’ and walked on.

When she was nearing the back yard she looked back and saw it was still following her at a short distance, obviously attracted by the smell of the cake.

It cowered when she turned, pressing itself to the ground, ears back, but it didn’t run.

Probably starving, she thought. Then she looked at the cake in her hand, and a hard smile came over her lips.

A suitable end for Martha’s famous baking!

‘Here,’ she said, unwrapping the cake. The dog looked at her hopefully.

She broke it in half and threw one piece to the dog’s feet, and it wolfed it down.

She threw the other half, shook the crumbs out of the cloth and stowed it in her pocket.

That’ll teach her to call me names , she thought.

The dog continued to follow her hopefully, and she ignored it.

It would get the message sooner or later.

She was at the yard gate when she heard an odd noise from behind her, a strange, muted howl.

She looked back, and saw the dog arch its back and vomit violently.

‘Don’t like cinnamon either, eh?’ she said, and laughed inwardly that the great master cook’s effort had been rejected even by a starving stray.

The dog retched again, and then stuck its head up, howled again, and fell flat on its side, its front paws pedalling.

‘Here,’ she said to herself, ‘that’s not right. ’

One of the stable boys passing the gate came out, stared, and said, ‘What’s wrong of it? It’s having a fit.’

Now the dog was convulsing violently, head drawn back, a little foam oozing from its clenched jaws.

Its paws reached and reached again; its back was so arched its head was almost touching its tail.

‘Oh, good God,’ Rose said. ‘Can’t you do something?

’ The boy looked at her, scared, and she snapped, ‘Get a spade or something, put it out of its misery!’

He looked as though he’d sooner dig a hole in the ground and climb in it. But it was too late anyway. The dog gave one last convulsive spasm and was still. The boy crept nearer, goggling but afraid. ‘It’s dead,’ he said in a kind of fascination.

‘Get that shovel anyway,’ Rose ordered him. ‘Can’t leave it there.’

‘Poor thing,’ the boy said. ‘What was wrong of it, any road?’

‘How should I know?’ she said. ‘Don’t just stand there!’

And then the thought came over her. The cake. That could have been her lying there. Her lips felt cold. ‘Oh, my good God,’ she muttered. ‘What now?’

Two fine-bred horses paced side by side along the tan in Hyde Park, one black, one bright chestnut. Their lady riders were neatly attired and followed at a respectful distance by their grooms. They were so engrossed in conversation they did not notice the glances they attracted from passers-by.

‘Aunt Caroline says she’s besieged,’ Kitty was saying. ‘Every acquaintance she’s ever made – some of them she hasn’t seen for years. She says she’s thinking of taking the knocker off the door.’

‘And all to talk about Sir Thomas Burton!’ Nina marvelled.

‘They know about him and Grandmère, so they think Aunt Caroline will know the details. She hates it.’

Nina didn’t read the newspapers and was not yet so ‘up’ in society that she heard all the gossip, so she had only a vague idea about the story. ‘It doesn’t really affect your family, does it? It’s not as if Sir Thomas is a relative.’

‘No, but there’s his connection with Grandmère and her patronage of the girl, and now it’s got about that Richard was hoping to marry her – which is simply not true – but he’s worried that at any moment the newspapers will discover that Mrs Sands lives in lodgings paid for by the estate.

Giles sent him a livid letter because it was he who first got involved with them. ’

‘Well, I see that it’s a scandal for a man to divorce his wife to marry a younger woman, but none of you are responsible, so why should the scandal touch you?’

Kitty sighed. ‘I don’t know, but somehow it does. And nobody likes to be talked about.’ She decided to change the subject. ‘Isn’t it a lovely day? And isn’t it nice to ride together?’

‘It was a wonderful idea of yours to have our horses sent up. I wonder you didn’t think of it before.’

‘It isn’t worth it when one’s only up for a few days or a week. It’s so expensive. But as we’re staying for the whole Season . . .’

‘Mr Cowling was fascinated by the process,’ said Nina. ‘He wanted to know every detail of how it would be arranged. He does love to know how things work.’

‘Is he going to be staying in Town much?’

‘Yes. Now Mr Tullamore has set up the London office, Mr Cowling can have Decius back, and he has Truman Smith as well, so he ought to be able to relax more.’ She glanced sideways at Kitty. ‘Is Giles coming up later? He didn’t mind your coming alone?’

‘Staying with Aunt Caroline is the opposite of being alone,’ Kitty said.

Nina noticed she hadn’t answered the question.

She wondered if something was wrong, but Kitty was a very private person.

She supposed if she wanted to talk about it she would.

‘Aunt Caroline says it’s going to be a very good Season,’ Kitty went on, ‘and I’m so looking forward to it.

I seem to have done nothing but have babies for years.

We must make sure we see everything there is to see. ’

‘That’s a large ambition.’ Nina laughed.

‘I shall have to chaperone Rachel for some of the time – I can’t expect Aunt Caroline to do it all – but I don’t mind. I had to bring her with me – it’s so dull for her at Ashmore without Alice, and it’s hard for her seeing Angus only once a month.’

‘Don’t you have to stop her seeing him?’ Nina asked.

‘No, only stop them being alone together. At least, that’s how I interpret it. I think my mother-in-law is too tired to be strict. It must be hard to be having another baby at her age.’

‘Have you heard anything from her?’

‘From Linda. She writes mostly about herself – she seems to have managed to get invited to some parties – but she says her mother is in reasonable health. The baby’s due in August.’

Nina didn’t comment. Kitty glanced at her and saw her inward-looking expression.

Nearly three years of marriage and no sign of a baby.

Kitty adored her own two sons, and felt compassion for her friend.

Every woman needed something to love. ‘I was so sorry to hear about your little dog,’ she said tentatively.

Nina didn’t answer. ‘Will you get another?’

‘No,’ said Nina. Not even to Kitty did she want to talk about Trump.

And it had not been about her dog she had been thinking.

Mentioning the dowager’s pregnancy had made her remember the way, every time she met Mr Cowling after an absence, he looked at her with an intent, questioning expression and she knew – though he never mentioned it – that he was wondering if she had settled on someone to father a baby for him.

It was like a maddening itch that she could not reach.

She wanted love, she wanted physical love, she wanted a child, and half the time she thought it would be the best thing for both of them if she did have an affair.

The other half of the time she was horrified by the whole idea.

And she knew that if she did come to him to tell him she was with child, he would be delighted and at the same time heartbroken because he loved her.

And he would never stop wondering who the father was.

Her aunt would say, I warned you not to marry an older man you didn’t love .

Nina shook away the thoughts, and looked around her at the lovely parkland, intensely green with new grass, the trees decked in soft young leaves, the lovely horse beneath her.

If she had not married Mr Cowling she would have been a teacher in a small school in Yorkshire, living in lodgings, with a restricted life that did not include horses, dogs, Seasons in London, and she would have been unmarried and just as childless. She had so much to be grateful for.

Kitty was looking at her curiously. ‘Shall we canter?’ she said.