Page 68 of The Secrets of Ashmore Castle (Ashmore Castle #1)

Now he was offended. ‘I’ll tell,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell them you’re planning to run out.’

‘If you do, you’ll find a scorpion in your bed,’ she said.

It was a good thing, James thought, as he returned moodily to rubbing a boot toe, that he had alternatives.

It didn’t look as though he was getting anywhere with Marie.

But there was the plump Italian kitchen maid, Ignazia, he had been working on, and who had gone so far as to let him kiss her out behind the kitchen among the herb-pots – though he had to be careful as she was Catholic and he suspected Jacopo was her father.

In all, he was rather looking forward to getting home, now. He had irons in the fire there, too. He wondered if Dory was missing him.

At the Castle, with the family away, it was the chance to get the chimneys swept, a job that caused so much disruption it could not be fitted in around normal service.

But it had to be done once a year. All along the Ash valley the story was still told of how a chimney fire had set Priestwood Hall alight twenty years before, and the entire Tudor house had burned to the ground, with the loss of two housemaids and old Lady Dunsmore, who had been overcome in their beds before the alarm could be raised.

Since servants slept under the roof, with the longest way to go to safety, it was a cautionary tale useful in suppressing grumbles about the extra work.

Mrs Webster much preferred this sort of extraordinary effort to the day-to-day grind of routine.

She threw herself into it, like a general planning a campaign.

Mr Moss, Mr Crooks and Miss Taylor had gone to Scotland with the family, but everyone else had to help – even the grooms were brought in, after sternly supervised hand-washing and boot-wiping, to shift furniture and carry things.

As the horses had been turned out for their holiday, they had no excuse.

In each room, the carpets had to be rolled up, the furniture moved to the sides and covered with Holland, every ornament taken down and separately wrapped.

Small pictures and looking-glasses were removed for cleaning while those too large to move had also to be wrapped.

Then the cloths were laid all over the floor, and the sweeps could be allowed in.

When the job was done, the soot had to be carried away and everything had to be dusted and restored to its place.

The sweeps, of course, were black from head to toe, but everyone in the house became grimy, despite wearing housemaids’ coarse aprons and covering their hair with mob caps.

Mrs Webster was a great one for cleanliness, and mass bathing was arranged every evening before supper.

The men washed in the yard in cold water, with a great deal of splashing and horseplay and ripe language; the maids had the privilege of warm water, and went in by twos to a tub set up in one of the pantries, and helped wash each other’s hair and scrub each other’s backs.

In normal times, dinner was taken at noon, but at chimney-sweeping time, the midday meal became a nuncheon of bread and cheese, and the proper meal took place at supper time, when the work was over for the day.

Mrs Oxlea, like Mrs Webster, was at her best, stimulated by the challenge, shaken out of her usual melancholy.

With the butler absent, protocol was abandoned and everyone ate together, indoor staff and outdoor, senior and junior.

There were cauldrons of soup, vast joints, mountains of baked potatoes, lakes of rice pudding, treacle tarts and apple pies the size of tea-tables, and plenty of laughter and badinage.

The kitchen chimney was always the last to be done, as the fires had to be put out and the ranges would be out of use for two days.

At the end of kitchen-chimney day, the outdoor men built a bonfire, cooked meat over the flames and roasted potatoes in the embers; trestles were taken out and everyone ate out of doors.

The feast was washed down with a ration of beer.

It was a happy evening, and a reward for all the extra work – as nice, they always said, as the old harvest festivals.

Boredom was the servant’s greatest enemy, and though the work was hard, everyone enjoyed the change.

Dory threw herself into it with energy, and if James had known how little she missed him, he would have been taken aback.

The only time she actually thought of him at all was when she went into a prepared room to check that it was ready for the sweep and discovered the housemaid Mabel on a Holland-covered sofa with one of the grooms. His bare bottom was bouncing up and down so vigorously that Tiger, who had followed her in, pricked his ears and started ambling across to see what it was, bobbing away all white and gleaming.

Probably thought it was some kind of animal, Dory thought, catching his collar just in time.

When his lordship was away, their young ladyships looked after the dogs, but since they had gone to Scotland the dogs had become a problem that no-one particularly wanted to solve.

They haunted the place looking miserable, until Mrs Webster tripped over them one day and banished them to the stables.

But they were even more miserable there, and Giddins had said one day that they were pining themselves to death, and did she want to tell his lordship when he came back that they’d let his dogs die.

They had all been at dinner at the time, around the long table in the servants’ dining-room, girls one side and men the other, William at the foot and Mrs Webster at the head, so they had all heard.

Dory had privately thought his lordship would not be much troubled, since the dogs had adopted him rather than vice versa, and he had gone away to London without a glance behind.

But when Mrs Webster had thrown open the question to the table, Dory had spoken up into the silence – she didn’t really know why – and said she would have them with her in the sewing-room, and take them out for walks morning and evening.

The housekeeper was just glad to have someone else bother about the wretched animals.

Dory found no difficulty with them. They were not barkers, and once they’d had their morning run, they were content to doze on the floor beside her while she worked, or to pad along at her heels as she went from place to place about her business.

If she thought about anyone during the frenzy and toil of chimney-sweeping, it was certainly not James. Just before the family went to Scotland, she had gone along to Mr Sebastian’s room with a basket of napkins to darn.

‘Come in, come in!’ he had cried when he saw her. ‘I see you’ve brought some work. Good. Sit over there. I thought we’d have some Brahms today.’

He began to play, and she sewed automatically, fingers busy on their own, mind flowing with the music, like a loosed punt carried down a stream.

The sunshine slanted in through the window, picking out the gently moving clouds of cigar smoke.

Mr Sebastian held it in the corner of his mouth so that the smoke wouldn’t get into his eyes, but his eyes were closed more often than not.

Dory looked up at him sometimes, and wondered about him.

His hair was a wild grey mop, like frosty vegetation sprouting from a rock; his features were carved in the granite; but he was still good to look at.

She liked looking at him when he was not aware of it, for there was something in his face that went with his musical ability – a fine-ness and a goodness beyond the mere casual kindness of one person for another.

If she had not been kept so busy, she would have missed those occasions much more.

On Kitchen Chimney Day, after dinner outside at the trestle tables, one of the stable boys brought out a mouth-organ and old Frewing, the hall porter, fetched his precious fiddle.

Between them they made enough noise for dancing country jigs.

The dogs, who had been lying quietly under the table, came wriggling out in astonishment, and romped about among the dancers, thinking it was a game.

The bonfire, falling in, threw golden fountains of sparks into the dark air, maids whirled with lads, clapping to the music and laughing, and Dory, setting to partner with the coachman Joe, had Brahms’s Hungarian dances in her head, as Mr Sebastian had played them to her, instead of the shrill wailing of fiddle and mouth-organ.

The invitation was for Miss Sands to play for the dowager Lady Stainton and guests at her house in Bruton Street. The choice of music was left up to her, and a fee was mentioned that shocked Mrs Sands.

‘You are behind this,’ she said to Richard, showing him the letter. ‘I know it is your kindness at work.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I promise I know nothing about it. Except that I’ve been invited, too.

I had a card from Grandmère to a musical evening, with “you will come” written across the bottom in her own hand, and underlined twice.

When Grandmère does that, you have to obey.

I didn’t know why she was so keen on my company, especially when I haven’t a musical bone in my body. ’

‘That’s not true, and you know it. You may have thought you didn’t care for music, but you’ve discovered otherwise, haven’t you?’

He grinned. ‘Some music, and only in certain company. But you are making me a better person, there’s no denying.’

Mrs Sands was off on another track. ‘She’ll have to have an evening dress to play in. That will deplete the fee. But it can’t be helped. If there are influential people there, it may lead to other engagements. Do you know who else is invited?’

‘Not a clue. For all I know, it could be just me,’ he joked.

She was too tense to appreciate it. ‘There wouldn’t be a card if it were just you,’ she said. ‘Chloe’s so nervous. I wish I could be there with her, just to give her courage.’