Page 19 of The Secrets of Ashmore Castle (Ashmore Castle #1)

In the past when Lady Stainton had gone to Germany, the earl had held hunting and shooting parties, and Linda had always offered to be his hostess, moving in for the whole period, leaving her husband and children at home in Dorset to enjoy practising economy.

But with the earl dead and the house in mourning, there were no parties, and no invitation for Lady Cordwell.

‘It’s like a mortuary, this place,’ Rose complained.

‘It’s a chance to catch up on the cleaning,’ Mrs Webster countered.

One of the housemaids, May, had left – ‘Gone to a better place,’ Moss had remarked, which made it sound as though she had died – and Mrs Webster had been wondering if she should hire a replacement without direct permission from her ladyship.

In the end, she didn’t quite dare. At least with no-one Upstairs but the new earl, Mr Sebastian and the two young ladies, there wasn’t so much to do, and with relish she set out a programme of deep cleaning that she had been longing to get her teeth into.

Dory had often heard the piano being played somewhere in the house, without paying it much attention.

But one day, when she was carrying a silk counterpane she had been mending back to the Jade Room, she heard it much louder and, roused to curiosity, followed the sound.

It came from the small drawing-room (small in this case being a relative word – it was smaller than the state drawing-room).

She paused in the open doorway and looked in, to see Mr Sebastian at the piano.

A ripple of music held her entranced for a few moments, until his fingers stumbled, the music stopped and, afraid she had disturbed him, she tried to back away out of sight.

But he looked up at her calmly, as though he had known she was there, and said, ‘Out of practice. Trouble at my age, the old fingers get stiff if you don’t keep it up.

’ He reached for the cigar resting in the ashtray on top of the piano and said, ‘Come in, don’t be scared.

’ She took a few steps forward. ‘Dratted thing’s gone out,’ he muttered, putting the end in his mouth and patting his pockets for matches.

She saw a silver match-case on a small table and carried it over to him.

‘Thank you,’ he said, and she stood, obedient to his previous summons, while he struck a match, and got his cigar going again.

He was looking at her, examining her carefully, not the way Upstairs folk usually looked at you, but as if he could actually see her. ‘Fond of music, are you?’ he asked.

She liked his voice – it seemed rich and plummy, as though mellowed by years of expensive cigars and fine wines. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I haven’t heard much, not that kind of music. But I think I could like it.’

‘Well done,’ he said. ‘Scarlatti.’

‘Sir?’

‘That’s the name of the composer. Scarlatti. Wrote lots for the piano, all very good for keeping the fingers moving.’ He began to play again, but obviously from memory, as he continued to look at her. There seemed no danger here – she began to relax. ‘What music have you heard?’ he asked.

‘Oh, not your sort, sir, not good music. People playing in public houses. And in the street. Squeeze boxes and barrel organs. Jiggy tunes for dancing. And music-hall songs.’

He nodded, sucking on his cigar, and the music under his hands changed to ‘A Bird in a Gilded Cage’.

Dory smiled, and began to sing the words under her breath.

It had been the most popular song of 1900.

He joined in the last line, managing somehow to sing through a cigar, and finished with several decorative runs and arpeggios.

She pretended to clap, but without making a sound.

‘All music is good, if it brings people pleasure,’ he said, putting the cigar in the ashtray again. ‘Nothing wrong with a jolly tune. What have you got there?’ He nodded towards the counterpane folded over her arm.

The abrupt change of subject didn’t trouble her. Upstairs folk were like that. ‘Bedspread, sir. I’ve been mending it.’

‘Show me.’

It was a command, so she obeyed it. He stood up, and helped her partly unfold the material on the piano top.

Close to, he was taller than she had expected, and though he was untidy, with unruly, bushy hair and ash sprinkled down his front (her hand wanted badly to brush him down) and a spot of some kind of food on his cuff, he smelt very nice, of clean linen and soap.

She showed him where she had mended a tear in the old silk, and restitched the embroidered peacock whose body had been separated from his tail by the injury.

‘That’s very fine work,’ he said. ‘You are an artist.’

‘Oh, no, sir,’ she demurred automatically.

‘What’s your name?’ he demanded.

‘Dory, sir.’

‘Well, Dory, as one artist to another, I advise you to accept a compliment when it’s offered. As long as it’s just, and not empty flattery. Your stitchery is wonderfully fine. This peacock says you are an artist – and so do I.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ she said. When he smiled, you could see he must have been handsome when he was young. ‘I liked your playing, too.’

‘Then stay and listen,’ he said, sitting down at the piano again.

‘Oh, no, sir, I must get on. Mrs Webster—’

‘I understand. Off you go. But you’re welcome to come and listen to me any time.’ His smile became a boyish grin. ‘I love an audience.’

Since his mother had gone away, Giles had been having a tray in the library instead of going down to dinner, so that he could keep working, and since the girls took their meals in the schoolroom unless summoned to dinner, Uncle Sebastian had been fed at the small table in the morning-room.

It suited Mrs Webster not to have formal dinner to arrange, meaning she could divert the servants’ energies elsewhere.

She was as surprised to get orders from Mr Sebastian as Giles, Rachel and Alice were to receive hand-written invitations to dinner in the dining-room, with ‘Dress: formal’ at the bottom.

Sebastian was waiting to receive them, his hair sleeked back for once, his coat brushed, his face wreathed in genial smiles.

‘Interesting,’ Giles said, as his hand was formally shaken. ‘To be invited to dine in my own house.’

‘I despaired of getting you to a civilised table any other way,’ said Sebastian. ‘Sherry?’

Rachel and Alice arrived a little late, flustered, but excited. ‘Is it a game?’ Alice asked.

‘Just dinner,’ said Sebastian.

‘It’s so late ,’ Alice gloated.

‘We weren’t sure what to wear,’ Rachel apologised. ‘We don’t have dinner gowns.’

‘Daisy said our velvets would be all right,’ said Alice. ‘They’re our best.’

But Rachel was anxious. ‘Only Alice’s is brown, not black.’

‘ Mesdemoiselles , you look charmingly,’ said Sebastian, and bowed over their hands in turn. ‘May I offer you a glass of orgeat?’

‘What’s that?’ Alice cried.

‘You’ll love it,’ Sebastian promised.

Giles looked at his little sisters in their frocks and hair ribbons, saw their eyes shine with pleasure, and felt guilty.

Eating on a tray suited him, and he preferred solitude, but he realised uncomfortably that their entire lives consisted of solitude, and the chance to put on the best frock and eat at a different table was a welcome break in the monotony.

He turned to Sebastian. ‘I am properly rebuked,’ he said. ‘I have been thoughtless.’

Sebastian smiled kindly. ‘No-one is rebuking anyone. We all need a little company from time to time – even you! And I haven’t entertained in years. High time I did.’

It was a successful evening. Sebastian was charming, drawing the girls out so that they chattered and laughed. Dinner was slightly better than usual, thanks to Sebastian’s having given very detailed instructions – and was certainly better than the nursery fare the girls usually faced.

And after dinner, in the drawing-room (he decreed no dividing), Sebastian organised some games, and concluded by going to the piano and playing some sweet, sentimental tunes that the girls could sing to.

At last he rose, clapped his hands, and said, ‘Off to bed with you now, chickies!’

Alice gave him a grave look. ‘We’re not chickies. Rachel will be seventeen next year.’

He bowed. ‘You are right to remind me. Then, good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.’

When they had gone, Sebastian fetched the cigar case and proffered it to Giles. He refused. ‘I’ll have one of my own cigarettes.’

‘You don’t care for these?’ Sebastian asked, taking a long draw.

‘I haven’t developed the habit,’ Giles said.

‘You should do. A great deal of important talk goes on after the women leave. And fellows don’t warm to fellows who don’t share their customs.’

‘I don’t—’ Giles began, and stopped. He supposed that getting on with other ‘fellows’ of his uncle’s sort would assume an importance in his life it had never had before. He knew how to get on with academics; he had avoided the world of the landed gentry.

Sebastian examined him for a moment, then said, ‘Master of the house now, eh, Giles? Strange world for you, I suspect.’

Giles was startled. It was as if he had read his thought. ‘It – will take getting used to,’ he said.

‘For me, too,’ Sebastian said, smiling. ‘Having to remember to call you Stainton.’

‘My mother doesn’t remember. As often as not she calls me Ayton.’

‘Yes. Well, difficult business for her. Women don’t like to be widowed, you know.

Interferes with their plans.’ Giles couldn’t think of a useful response to this statement, and kept silent.

‘Bound to wonder what’ll happen to her when you marry.

House can’t have two mistresses, eh? You’ll be marrying soon, I imagine? ’

‘I’ve taken some first steps,’ he said reluctantly. ‘Consulted my grandmother and aunt.’ Sebastian nodded. ‘I hadn’t thought there was any particular hurry,’ Giles went on, ‘but there are considerations … Some urgency to the matter has arisen.’

Sebastian was watching him closely. ‘Have you ever wondered why I’m not married?’