Page 5 of The Mistress of Ashmore Castle (Ashmore Castle #3)

Just out of Antrobus’s line of sight, Giulia had a teasing smile, obviously accustomed to their host’s power of organisation.

Giles smiled back, and surrendered to it.

He felt, actually, very hungry, and not terribly dirty.

Soon he was sitting down to good coffee, in the German rather than the Turkish style, and soft bread, and honey, and eggs, and fruit, and yoghourt, which he’d encountered before on his travels and rather enjoyed.

The breakfast-room had long lace curtains at the open French windows, which filtered the sunlight pleasantly, and allowed in gentle airs from the shady garden beyond.

The servants were soft-footed and attentive, the Antrobuses easy company, and Giulia was lovely and familiar.

Giles found himself relaxing; and, despite the prospect of a consular dinner and ball that evening, was glad he had come.

His room was of a piece with the rest of the house – large, high-ceilinged, lavishly appointed, and with more mirrors than an English gentleman would consider quite done . It was pleasantly cool, with French windows open onto a balcony, and a slowly turning ceiling fan.

It was also furnished with a small, thin, tough-looking individual in valet’s clothes, who gave him a bow that was counterbalanced by a cheerful grin.

‘Afton, isn’t it?’ Giles said, dredging up the name from memory.

‘That’s right, my lord. I’m to take care of you. I’ve unpacked your bag and I’ll get your evening dress brushed and pressed ready for later.’

‘I’m afraid you’ll have found a lot of sand in everything.’

‘You don’t need to apologise, my lord. It’s my business to worry about sand so’s you don’t have to.’

‘A refreshing attitude. My previous valet refused to come to Egypt because he said he couldn’t attend me properly in a tent.’

Afton looked stern. ‘That’s not the ticket at all! A gentleman’s gentleman follows his gentleman wherever his gentleman goes, no questions asked, and does his job notwithstanding conditions. If you’ll excuse me, my lord, it sounds as if your man was getting a mite above himself.’

Giles was amused. ‘I think you’re right.’

‘It happens now and then,’ Afton said wisely, ‘that a fellow gets to think he’s bigger than his position. I hope you sacked him good and hard, my lord.’

‘I sacked him all right,’ Giles said, ‘but perhaps not as hard as I should have.’

Afton gave him a quick appraisal, and said, ‘Now I dare say you’d like a good, long bath, my lord, after that journey, and I’ve sent for plenty of hot water, which’ll be up in a jiffy, but I’ve got enough here to shave you first, my lord, and by the time that’s done—’

‘I always shave myself,’ Giles interrupted.

Afton was not at all put out. ‘I quite understand, my lord, but if you’ll forgive me, it’s a mistake. I can do a better job than ever you can, my lord, on account of being able to see into all the tricky places. If you’ll just let me show you, my lord, you’ll see the difference right away.’

‘I don’t like to be shaved,’ Giles said stubbornly.

‘I’ve known many a gentleman a bit nervous – or,’ he added, as Giles frowned, ‘maybe squeamish is the word. But, bless you, I’m as good with a razor as anyone you’ll find on this earth.

I had my own barber’s shop and all the top gentlemen came to me.

Never so much as a graze did one of ’em suffer.

Admiral Lord Jellyby – do you know him, my lord? ’

‘My father did,’ Giles said.

‘Course he did! Well, my lord, the admiral used to say to me, “Afton,” he’d say, “I’d trust you to shave me on board ship in a force-nine gale during a broadside battle.” Just let me show you, my lord. The water’s nice and hot, and I’ve warm towels here too.’

‘Just this once, then,’ Giles said, worn down by the little man’s energy.

He found himself ushered into a chair. Afton placed towels with the deft movements of a magician and guided his head back onto a pillow.

‘There now, my lord. If you just give in to it, you’ll find it very relaxing. Some of my gentlemen used to go to sleep.’

‘Don’t expect me to,’ Giles said defiantly.

Afton chuckled. ‘That’s right, my lord. Don’t give up the bridge till you see the whites of the Etruscans’ eyes.’

‘You’re an educated man,’ Giles commented in surprise.

‘Oh, you get a lot of time for reading when you’re waiting up for your gentleman, my lord.’

‘And that’s a London accent, if I don’t mistake,’ Giles said, as the soap was applied. ‘What brought you here?’

‘Born in Whitechapel, my lord, started as a barber, went into service, got itchy feet, ended up in New York. Did a lot of jobs, learned a lot of things, got my own barber’s shop in Manhattan, like I said.

Mr Antrobus was one of my customers there.

One day he says to me, “Afton,” he says, “do you think you could valet?” “Done it before, sir,” I says.

“Then come and valet for me,” he says. It’s been a good life, Mr Antrobus is a good master, and he likes to travel so I’ve got about quite a bit.

But I get a queer sort of longing now and then for old England.

Seeing the world is good sport, but I wouldn’t like to think I’d never go home again.

However much you run, there’s a kind of tug. ’

‘Yes,’ said Giles, struck with the thought. Never see England again? No, he wouldn’t care for that.

‘Just relax the jaw now, my lord. That’s right.’

Afton’s hands were strong but gentle, and there was something sensually pleasant about having his face turned this way and that as the razor glided like silk across his skin.

To his own complete surprise, he did find himself drifting off, and when Afton wrapped a soft, warm towel round his face he could definitely have fallen asleep.

Too soon, it seemed, the towel was removed, a little astringent cologne was applied, and Afton whipped off the protective coverings with a movement that was pure barber’s shop showmanship, and not a bit gentleman’s gentleman. ‘All done, my lord.’

Giles heaved himself up and went to the looking-glass, inspected his face and ran a hand over it. He met Afton’s expectant eyes in the reflection. He couldn’t be churlish with the man. ‘Yes, you have done a good job,’ he said. ‘And a better one than I could have,’ he admitted generously.

Afton looked pleased. ‘Nice of you to say so, my lord. Now, I’ve heard the water arrive next door, so your bath is ready, and I’ll lay out some clean clothes for you for after.’

Giles turned and made a stand. ‘I dress myself, Afton.’

Afton’s smile was as innocent as a child’s. ‘Course you do, my lord.’

Giles went into the bathroom, smiling to himself and shaking his head.

Horatius at the bridge, indeed!

Richard was in London on Christmas Eve, and after an interview with Vogel, the family banker, he turned from duty to pleasure and went to visit Molly Sands.

The landlady, Mrs Gateshill, showed him upstairs in person, with the politeness of one who hopes the festive season will encourage a nice tip from a gentleman whose visits were, to say the least, a bit suspicious, given he was a young single man and Mrs Sands was— Well, what, indeed?

Not wanting to foment trouble for Molly, Richard found two half-crowns he couldn’t afford, and he was more sorry to see them leave his hand than she seemed happy to have them land in hers.

Perhaps she’d been hoping for a sovereign.

He wished her a merry Christmas, and she bobbed dutifully but gave him a look as she departed that said as clearly as words, ‘Won’t get very merry on five bob, will I? ’

‘Chloe not here?’ Richard asked, as he stepped into the small living-room – the only room, apart from the bedchamber beyond.

‘She’s at the Academy, practising,’ said Molly, coming forward to shake his hand. He bent to kiss her, but she turned her face and gave him only her cheek.

‘I’m sorry to miss her,’ he said. ‘I’ve brought a Christmas present for each of you, and since I can’t see you on Christmas Day, I thought we could do as the Germans do and have them today.’

‘I haven’t anything for you,’ Molly said.

‘You’ve given me a reason to live. I couldn’t expect anything more.’

She was distressed. ‘Oh, my dear – don’t! It’s too much.’

‘By contrast my presents are very small beer, but I’d like to have given Chloe hers in person.’

‘I’m sure it will give her just as much pleasure tomorrow,’ Molly said.

‘But it won’t give me as much. Present-giving is the ultimate selfishness, you know.’

‘How can you be so foolish!’

‘I’m quite serious. The giver has all the enjoyment of choosing, spending and anticipating, then seeing the recipient’s delight – or a facsimile thereof. He feels noble, generous, a better person. All the recipient gets is the obligation to be grateful. It’s a very one-sided transaction.’

‘So you agree with the Bible: it is more blessed to give than to receive?’

‘Yes, but receiving ought to get far more credit than it does. There’s a skill to receiving gracefully and allowing the giver to bask in his own glory.’

Now she was laughing. ‘It’s not fair. Whenever I want to be stern with you, you make me laugh. Will you have some tea? The kettle’s almost boiled.’ She pushed it, on its trivet, back over the fire.

‘While we wait, open your present,’ he said.

It was neatly wrapped in brown paper and tied with string; inside, a small box, lined with jeweller’s cotton, on which nestled a cameo brooch.

He watched her face anxiously. She didn’t speak.

‘The image is Proserpina, bringing the spring – the flowers falling from her fingers and coming up where she treads.’

‘It’s beautiful,’ she said softly. ‘The carving is exquisite.’

‘You are Proserpina to me,’ he said. ‘When I go away from you, the world plunges into winter.’

She looked up. ‘It must have cost you a great deal.’