Page 85 of The Mistress of Ashmore Castle (Ashmore Castle #3)

The rain had stopped by the time the service was over, and Moss stepped out into a world of drips and sparkles and a little spiteful wind, the sort that gets down inside your collar and shakes raindrops from trees just as you pass under.

He was not strictly needed to carry the umbrella over Miss Eddowes on the short walk home, but he waited anyway.

There was something dignified and nicely old-fashioned about a lady being accompanied by a male servant when she walked abroad.

It had been the custom of his youth. No young lady would have been allowed to go and look at the shops without a footman following; and though he was a butler, not a footman, he was beginning not to mind these gradations of service in the way he had.

It was pleasantly relaxing to be in a small household like Miss Eddowes’s.

As long as things were done properly – and he made sure they were – it didn’t matter so much who did them.

They all served the one mistress, after all.

His old self would have been surprised to hear that thought from his new self, but so much had happened to him this year.

He had lost so much, and was now in the way of being grateful for what he had retained.

The recent rain had stripped the last of the autumn leaves from the trees, and the bold colours were gone now, leaving a grey world and a distinctly wintry aspect.

He wondered what was usually done about Christmas in the Eddowes household.

He hoped there would be some entertaining.

He thought of Christmas at the Castle, and how he had always made the punch for Christmas Eve from his own recipe.

He’d be glad to make it again for his new mistress.

Everyone had said his punch was the best they’d tasted.

He remembered the occasion, during the old lord’s time, when the Earl of Strathmore had been pleased to say . . .

He was jerked out of his thoughts by the sight of the Castle servants streaming out of the south door, having come down from the gallery where they always sat – and more particularly by the sight of Ada, arm in arm with one of the other maids.

Mildred, wasn’t that her name? He felt a painful tightness around his heart as he looked at that dear little face, pale and pointed, and the few strands of transparently pale hair he could see under a brown velour hat.

His Ada, his love, on whom he had longed to pour out the treasures of a lifetime of learning and doing.

He was staring, he knew, but he couldn’t stop himself.

She saw him now, and stopped, and the other maid glanced up, then detached herself from Ada’s arm and stepped aside. The other servants streamed past with curious glances, and Ada stood looking up at him, as fragile and tremulous as a fawn.

‘How – how are you, Mr Moss?’ she asked at last.

Love surged through his heart like a tidal bore. Her sweet interest in him was balm to his spirits. ‘I am very well, thank you, Ada. And how are you? How are things up at the Castle?’

‘All right, thanks,’ she mumbled shyly. She wished he’d move aside and let her go, but he seemed to expect her to say something, so she said, ‘We got a new butler now.’

‘So I heard. Mr Afton. I hope you’re all helping him to settle in.’ She blushed and looked down, lost for a reply. ‘You all like him, I hope?’

‘He’s nice,’ she mumbled. She scraped her brain for something to say. ‘He sings, sometimes, when he’s working. He’s got a nice voice.’

‘Sings?’ Moss said doubtfully. That wasn’t the behaviour of a butler. At Christmas, leading the carols in the hall, perhaps, or at church, but in the house , while working ? ‘Well, I expect he has his own way of doing things.,’ he concluded, not to undermine Afton’s authority.

‘He’s not like you, Mr Moss,’ Ada agreed, and he chose to interpret this as regret.

‘Things change, I’m afraid, life brings changes, and we have to change with them.

’ There was a famous Latin phrase Omnia mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis , and he toyed with quoting it, but wasn’t sure he had the wording exactly right.

He’d look it up when he got home. Miss Eddowes had a book of quotations and sayings in the drawing-room bookcase.

Instead he said, in a softened tone, ‘I hope you didn’t take any harm from our outing in the summer, which had such an unfortunate ending. ’

‘Oh, no, Mr Moss,’ she said. Then, ‘I was a bit scared . . .’

‘I’m sure you conducted yourself properly, just as you ought,’ he said. ‘I’ve always thought you a very well-behaved girl, Ada. I’ve been thinking lately that I might come up to the Castle one day, perhaps take a cup of tea with you all, see how you’re getting on. Do you think I’d be welcome?’

‘Oh, yes – I’m sure . . .’ she mumbled. She shifted from foot to foot, longing for escape.

He lowered his voice. ‘Would you be glad to see me, Ada?’ he asked. She stared desperately at her shoes, her cheeks rosy. Moss gazed, longing to press her to his heart. Her little head like a flower, the milk-white stem of her neck, the entrancing smell of soap and starch . . .

And then a large, loutish fellow came up behind her, had the temerity to slide his arm through hers, and leaned in to whisper something in her ear, with the hint of placing a kiss upon it.

Outraged, Moss cleared his throat harshly, and the boy jerked up his head, pulled his arm away and snatched off his hat with a look of consternation.

‘Oh, Mr Moss!’ Moss stared unrecognisingly.

‘It’s George, Mr Moss. Third groom up the Castle. ’

‘Is it, indeed?’ Moss said discouragingly.

But Ada had taken courage from her swain. She relinked their arms, drawing him closer. ‘Me and George are walking out, Mr Moss. Regular,’ she said proudly.

‘George and I,’ he corrected automatically, causing Ada to stare with incomprehension. ‘You should say, “George and I”, not “me and George”.’

‘Yes, Mr Moss,’ Ada said, grateful to discover it was only a matter of grammar and not some appalling misunderstanding.

And Moss, speared through the heart, turned away, saying, ‘I must look for my mistress.’ He didn’t want to think about that horse-smelling rustic walking out with Ada, holding her hand, perhaps kissing her with his rubbery lips.

And Ada letting him! Even encouraging it .

. . Any particle of the dream he had been harbouring withered and dropped from the branch. He felt old and tired.

‘Shall I tell Mrs Webster you’ll be coming up the Castle?’ Ada asked, emboldened by his turned back.

‘We’ll see,’ Moss said. ‘We’ll see.’

But he would not be going up there, he knew.

It was the fairy castle up in the clouds from which he had been banished by an evil spell.

His life was down here now, at the bottom of the hill.

The word hubris drifted through his mind, and he resolved to look it up when he got home. Home, to Miss Eddowes’s.

Richard’s excuse was that he wanted to see how the milk collection was going, and discover whether there were any snags to smooth out. But, really, he just wanted to ride along for the fun of it.

He picked one of the motor-wagons at random, and discovered that the driver, Jobson – a young, eager man with a bright-eyed passion for machinery – called it a ‘ lorry ’.

Richard had known lorries hitherto as those flat, four-wheeled hand wagons used in railway stations to move luggage about, but it seemed as good a name as any.

‘How is it going?’ Richard asked him, as they rattled along the road beside the river.

‘Pretty well, sir,’ said Jobson. ‘Daisy’s a good old girl, haven’t had any trouble with her so far.’

‘Daisy?’

‘The lorry, sir. Named her after my dad’s old carthorse that I used to ride back from the field when I was a nipper.’

‘Ah. Good name. She’s not an old girl, though – practically brand new.’

‘I know, sir. Just a figure of speech. The road’s not so good, though, further up the valley. Slows me down, going round the pot-holes – don’t want to ruin her springs.’

‘I’ll look into that. It was all supposed to have been done.’

‘It’s the cold weather, sir. Frost gets into any little crack, widens it. Next thing you know, it’s worn into a hole. Got to keep on top of roads all the time, sir.’

‘I’ll take that into account,’ said Richard. ‘You seem to be getting up a good speed here, though.’ Jobson seemed to be pelting along. Richard was not yet entirely at ease with motor-transport. His first experience had not ended well for him.

‘Road’s good this end,’ said Jobson. His large hands gripped the wheel firmly, trembling with the vibration of the engine, and he stared ahead keenly like a sailor on the look-out for whales or tidal waves. ‘I like to push along, get a bit ahead of time, case we meet a flock of sheep somewhere.’

At the first stop, Richard saw the estate carpenter, Gale, at work on the milk platform. He looked up. ‘Morning, Mr Richard!’

‘What’s the trouble?’

‘Some damn fool in one of they motor-cars took the bend too fast in the dusk yestreen, and slammed into it. Cracked one of the supports. Saw Mr Whitcroft in the Dog and Gun last night and he mentioned it, so I thought I’d come down and get it done first thing, ’fore it got any worse.’

Even while he was speaking, Jobson had jumped down and grasped the first of the churns, which was sitting on the side of the road.

‘Ought to move this here platform back a bit,’ Gale said. ‘Just a foot, so’s it doesn’t stick out. Want a hand, son?’

As soon as the churns were in place, Jobson leaped for his seat again, nimble as a charioteer, and with a cheerful shout of thanks to Gale, they were off.