Page 41 of The Mistress of Ashmore Castle (Ashmore Castle #3)

Hook – formerly James, now Mister Hook – was coming along Piccadilly, saw her dash out of the kitchen and away, and was about to shout at her, but then changed his mind.

It would be good to have something over Mrs Webster, who was responsible for the maids’ behaviour.

She had made clear her dislike of his promotion.

She had even let him see incredulity, which was insulting, as though it was hard to believe that he could be a butler!

They were all going to have to pay attention to him now.

That old fool Moss was never coming back – and if he did, Hook would see him off in short time!

This was his kingdom now, and no-one was going to take it away from him.

‘Home again,’ said Alice, eagerly, as the carriage pulled up in front of the great door.

In the way that would have scandalised her mother, she did not wait for the groom but opened the door on her side and jumped down, looking round with pleasure and breathing deeply of the fresh country air.

From this terrace there was a wonderful view down the hill, across Canons Ashmore and along the Ash valley in all its early summer verdure.

Then the doors to the house were opened, there was a grey-brown flash of movement, and she was almost knocked down by the dogs, discovering her again with ever-renewable delight.

Kitty, of course, waited for the steps and allowed herself to be helped down.

She looked up at the house and felt glad to be home, too.

She pushed to the back of her mind the small shadow that Giles was staying on in London for a few more days.

London contained Giulia Lombardi. He had not said anything about her since the ball, but Kitty had no confidence that he would not see her again.

She was so beautiful and fascinating, and all the romantic novels spoke about the hot-blooded passion of the Italian race.

Could a normal man resist the temptation if it was placed in his way?

Well, the romantic novels were pretty clear about that.

She shook away the thought. Mrs Webster and Hook had come out onto the steps to receive her, and the ceremony gave her a little thrill.

Giles would have had all the servants lined up for him, but she was satisfied with her share.

For perhaps the first time, she really felt like the Countess of Stainton.

This place was hers now – and she belonged to it, too.

Mrs Webster got in first. ‘Welcome home, my lady,’ she said. And she smiled.

Hook did not smile. He was on his dignity.

Kitty had got used to Moss, and had liked the soothing continuity he represented.

Hook, now in butler’s tailcoat and everyday black waistcoat and tie, looked strange: too thin, his figure not imposing enough, his skeletal face too avid, his eyes too insistent.

There was nothing soothing about him. He looked as though he might suddenly do anything, whereas a butler like Moss looked as though he just was .

‘Welcome home, my lady,’ Hook said, a beat behind the housekeeper, but with an emphasis that said his welcome was the important one.

‘Thank you,’ Kitty said, treading carefully up the steps.

‘Have you heard anything more about Mr Moss, my lady?’ Mrs Webster asked.

‘I believe he is a little better,’ Kitty said. ‘His lordship is arranging for him to be moved from the infirmary to the cottage hospital in Canons Ashmore at the end of the month.’

‘That’s nice, my lady. It will speed his recovery, being close to home, where his friends can visit him.’

Hook glared at her behind Kitty’s back. He knew perfectly well she was getting at him, pointing out to him that he was only temporary butler. We’ll see about that, you old cat , his narrowed eyes said.

‘I’m sure Mr Moss is very grateful to his lordship,’ Mrs Webster concluded.

The brake drew up, bringing the luggage along with Nanny, Jessie and the baby. Alice caught Kitty up, still with the dogs glued to her side, with foolish half-leaps and muzzles pointed adoringly at her face, and they walked in together.

In the hall, there were two tall vases of flowers, one on the table by the door and one at the foot of the stairs. Frilly pale pink paeonies, slender irises, and delphiniums the intense blue of summer skies.

‘Oh, the flowers, how lovely!’ Kitty exclaimed, shedding her coat into the arms of Miss Hatto, her maid, who walked in behind her.

Mrs Webster answered. ‘Peason cut them specially this morning, my lady. As soon as he heard you were coming home.’ The dowager Lady Stainton would never have deigned to notice the flowers, she thought, and though icy indifference was the more proper manner for a countess, she had always inspired obedience rather than affection.

Peason, the head gardener, had selected and cut each stem with love.

Miss Hatto took Alice’s things as well, and she and Kitty walked up the stairs together. ‘What’s the first thing you’re going to do?’ Alice asked.

‘Nursery, then gardens. What’s yours?’

‘Stables,’ said Alice, and sighed contentedly. ‘As soon as I’ve changed. I feel as if I haven’t ridden for months. And I don’t care if Josh thinks it isn’t ladylike to move out of a walk, I’m going to gallop Pharaoh for miles and miles and miles. He’ll just have to keep up with me!’

Kitty laughed. ‘I’ll see you at luncheon, then.’

Nina walked into her drawing-room. Trump had thrust past her, but halted at the sight of the male silhouette against the window and gave a little growl.

Then he recognised Giles, and hurried over to greet him.

Nina had already had his card brought to her, but she would have known him anyway by his silhouette.

She would know him anywhere, if it was only his back seen through a crowd, or a glimpse of his profile on a passing train.

But her voice did not waver as she said, for the benefit of the servant holding the door for her, ‘How do you do, Lord Stainton? I hope they told you Mr Cowling is not at home.’

He bowed. ‘They did, Mrs Cowling, but I could not go away without paying my compliments to you.’

The door closed, and they were alone together.

‘I did actually come to see him,’ Giles said, ‘but it seemed absurd not to see you, just because . . .’

He didn’t finish the sentence, but she knew how it ended. She stared at him hungrily, to feast on him while she could. She couldn’t think of anything to say.

He spoke. ‘How are you?’ he asked gently. ‘You look well. You look . . .’ he waved a hand to signify her tout ensemble ‘. . . like a lady of fashion.’ She was in a dress of fawn silk with maroon piping on the bodice and three bands of maroon satin ribbon around the skirt hem.

‘It’s hard to feel like a lady of fashion, but I’m beginning to get more used to it,’ she said.

Mr Cowling liked her to look smart, and particularly liked her to spend a lot of money on clothes.

He took an interest in everything she wore.

Clemmie had told her she was lucky, that from her experience most married men never knew one outfit from another, and that her father, for instance, might have noticed if she or her mother had entered the room naked, but not otherwise.

‘It seems strange—’ she began, and stopped, unsure if it was wise to go on.

‘Yes?’ he encouraged.

‘It seems strange that we have been staying on opposite sides of the same square for weeks, without ever seeing each other.’

No, it had not been wise.

‘It’s like a sort of madness,’ he said, in a low voice. ‘Like those dreams where irrational things happen.’ Then words seemed to burst out of him. ‘If you only knew how much I need to see you – just to see you!’

‘I know,’ she said.

‘It eases something in me just to be in the same room with you,’ he went on. ‘To look at you, to know you exist, to breathe the same air. I can’t—’

He walked away from her to the window and stood there, staring out. Beyond him, she could see the trees of the square moving in a sharp breeze. His hands were down by his sides, clenching and unclenching. ‘I didn’t mean to say anything when you came in. Forgive me.’

‘You can talk to me,’ she said. ‘You can tell me anything. I will understand.’

‘God, I know that!’ he said, between his teeth.

She went over to the window, sat down on the window seat, so that he would sit down beside her.

He took her hand, then folded the other over it too, looking at her as she had looked at him, as though to memorise her.

His nearness was like the warmth of the sun; to be with him was life.

She looked at their linked hands and wondered how it was possible to go on without that.

‘Tell me,’ she said.

It was a few moments before he answered, as though he was pursuing a thread of thought to its end.

Then he said, ‘I feel all the time like an impostor. People think they’re looking at the Earl of Stainton.

I wear his clothes, I answer to his name, but I’m not him.

’ He shook his head, trying to find words.

‘Everything seems unreal. I hear myself talking, I watch my hands pick things up, I watch my feet walking, as if they don’t belong to me.

The whole world is like a photograph, without colour, without depth – an image in shades of grey.

Except you.’ He looked down at her hand, and rubbed his thumb back and forth across the back of it.

‘This hand is real.’ He looked up. ‘You are the only piece of colour. And I’m not allowed to look at you or touch you. ’

She had nothing to say. It all hurt too much.

‘I blame my father,’ he went on. ‘If he’d only lived another ten years, as one was entitled to expect .

. . But the whole thing came down on me without warning, like a mountain, burying me, the estate, the debts, the family.

Suddenly I was responsible for everything and everyone.

Oh, I always knew that sooner or later I would have to take over.

If only I’d had time – if I’d come to it in maturity, when I was ready .

. . Another ten years of being an ordinary person with no-one expecting anything of me .

. . I could have married during that time, married the right person.

I could have chosen for myself, for the right reasons, instead of—’

‘You mustn’t talk to me about Kitty,’ she interrupted him gently.

‘I know,’ he said, with a dreary look. ‘The last thing I would want to do is to hurt Kitty. Do me the justice to believe I know how damnable the situation is, for all of us, but especially for her.’

Nina followed her own thought. ‘She’s jealous of Giulia. She thinks—’

‘She doesn’t understand, you see. In academic circles, men and women can be friends, but it doesn’t happen in Society. You understand – you were brought up in that way. That’s why I can talk to you. Oh, God, I have missed talking to you. Being with you now, I feel—’

‘Do you think I don’t feel it too? But we can’t – we mustn’t—’

‘I know. It’s impossible. But, Nina, can’t we at least be friends?

Just that? Must we shut ourselves off entirely from each other?

Would it be so wrong just to be friends and sometimes be in the same room, and talk?

I think, if I had that, just to know I would see you sometimes, I think I could be what I’m supposed to be. I think I could do my duty.’

She shook her head – not a negative, but at the contemplation of what Fate had done to them. ‘It isn’t fair,’ she said, very low.

‘I know.’

‘I miss you, all the time. Like a dull ache.’

‘Would it be so wrong, to be friends? God will read our hearts, He’ll know we mean no harm. Come to the Castle this summer. I swear I won’t make it difficult for you.’

Trump, sitting at their feet, sighed and lay down, resting his chin on her instep.

She thought suddenly of the evening before.

Her gown had come back from Madame Hortense – sea-green twilled silk, a glorious thing of line and elegance and simplicity.

Mr Cowling had worried that it was too plain: shouldn’t it have more frills, more bows, some beading, some lace, crystal spars perhaps?

She had protested she loved it as it was, but only Clemmie’s assurance that everyone would recognise the superior quality of the cut and fit had carried him.

And he’d said, ‘At least your emeralds will go with it.’ She had an emerald and diamond necklace and earrings, gifts from him.

‘I’ll buy you an emerald bracelet tomorrow, to make the set.

’ That night, he had come to her bed. She had braced herself for one of his onslaughts, but he had only folded her in his arms and fallen asleep.

When she was sure he was sleeping, she had gently wriggled free, and lain staring at the ceiling for a long time before she too dropped off. When she woke, he had gone.

She wanted to tell Giles that he had nothing to fear from Mr Cowling, that they did not – do that thing together.

But that would have been a betrayal. Above all, Kitty and Mr Cowling must not be hurt.

None of this was their fault. She was silent while she assembled her words, and he thought she was going to refuse, and urged her further.

‘Come and stay. Kitty would like that. She’ll be rather isolated this summer. I won’t be a nuisance. I’ll be out most of the day in any case, but in the evening you’ll be there and I can look at you and talk to you. Let us just be friends. We’re owed that.’

Trump sighed again and shifted his heavy head, and Nina thought the sigh could have been hers.

Would it be so wrong to be friends? Looking into his dear face, she suddenly felt it was silly and pointless to keep saying they couldn’t be, when they were.

They could never be more than that, but at least life was sustainable if they had that.

She felt she could be happy if she had that.