Page 37 of A Single Thread of Moonlight

Then, I pulled on a pair of slippers and a warm red dressing gown, and opened the door, inch by inch. I had asked Matilda to leave me a brass candleholder and I held the candle up to the gap I was creating, holding my breath as it penetrated the darkness.

I wasn’t sure how many people were staying in this part of the house, but the hallway was empty. The third stair down creaked, I remembered, and I stepped over it now.

I didn’t have to worry about getting lost. I knew exactly where I was going.

I padded down the stairs, then headed down a long corridor until I had almost reached the dining hall. I paused here, my heart beating faster, the light from my candle sending shadows leaping across the walls.

In the dark, I knew my home better.

It was an overwhelming feeling. There was a scent so familiar to me, one of silver polish and beeswax, and something floral. One that transported me to a different time as efficiently as any horse and carriage moved from place to place.

The rooms seemed full of ghosts, and I was one of them. Images of my father dancing with me standing on his feet; my mother laughing as I breathlessly recounted some adventure I’d had in the village; a game I had played, knocking down pins by rolling a ball along the long corridor – these things flickered around me like the haunting, soundless new films that the Lumière brothers made.

I stood for a moment, frozen. Nausea rose up in my throat, and my hands grew clammy. My breathing was shallow, and I tried to steady it, to make my body silent.

I closed my eyes, took deep breaths. Eventually, I regained control. I turned to the service staircase and began to descend into the basement floor. I winced at each squeak that came from under my feet, stilling and listening carefully for any sign of detection.

When I reached the bottom of the stairs I turned left.

There it was. The faintest glow emanating from beneath the kitchen door, just as I had anticipated.

I turned the door handle and walked through.

A man sat at the table, his eyes lifting to meet mine. There was a woman with him who had leaped to her feet at my entrance. They were both wrapped in shadow, their pale faces illuminated by a single candle.

“Hello, Mr Tookes,” I said.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“Oh, my!” the woman gasped, gripping the back of her chair as if to steady herself. “I didn’t believe it. I can’t believe it. When Tookes told me, I said he must be wrong – but it is you. It is you, Lady Iris, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Mrs Chambers,” I said, giving my old housekeeper a cautious smile. “It’s me.”

The three of us stood frozen like a painting. They were much as I remembered them from seven years ago – perhaps a few more lines and grey hairs, but that was all. Mr Tookes was tall and angular, and he wore his dignity like it was a part of his uniform. Mrs Chambers was small and spare, with dark hair peppered with silver, ruthlessly scraped back into a bun, and kind eyes. She was from the west country and her soft accent concealed a brisk, no-nonsense approach to the world. Between the two of them, they ruled over the household as efficiently as any battleship.

I wanted nothing more than to throw myself into Mrs Chambers’ arms. This was a woman who had patched up my scraped knees, given me extra pieces of cake and winked and told me not to tell my parents, a woman who had held me as I cried over first my mother’s death, and then my father’s. I wanted to unburden myself to her, pour out my woes as I had once done.

Instead, I held myself stiffly, my back straight. I wasn’t Iris Scott-Holland any more. I was Iris Grey. Or Serena Fox, depending on who you asked.

Mr Tookes was on his feet as well. “Please. Won’t you sit?”

I slid into the chair across from them. I had tried to prepare myself for such a moment, but now that it was here, I didn’t really know what to do or how to feel.

“Can I get you anything?” Mrs Chambers asked awkwardly. “The kettle’s on the stove…” She gestured towards it.

“A cup of tea, if it’s no trouble,” I managed.

She bustled about, fixing the tea, as Tookes and I sat in silence, and then she placed the cup in front of me.

A little milk and half a cube of sugar. Exactly as I liked it. Something about that made my eyes fill, and I swallowed hard.

Silence fell again, and tension stretched between us, like threads pulled so taut they were about to snap.

“We thought you were dead!” Mrs Chambers burst out, quick tears filling her own eyes. Her voice was shaking. “Where have you been?”

“In London,” I said.

“London!” Mrs Chambers exclaimed. I might as well have said the moon. “All this time?”