Page 32 of The Fortunes of Ashmore Castle

‘Because she hates talk about health matters,’ Uncle Sebastian said.

Richard shook his head. ‘One feels sorry for the poor man – he’s obviously devoted to her. Do you think you ought to have a word with him?’

Uncle Sebastian looked alarmed. ‘Come between a husband and wife? In any case, what could I tell him? I don’t know what’s wrong with her.’

As Mabel straightened up from putting her basket back in the cupboard in the housemaids’ closet, the awareness of a looming presence behind her made her whip round defensively and squeak.

‘Genau wie eine Feldmaus!’ the valet said, smiling.

Mabel caught the ‘mouse’ in the answer and decided it wasn’t threatening; besides, when a male creature smiled, she always smiled back. ‘Oh, you startled me, Mr Usingen,’ she said, giving him the title by which he was known below stairs.

‘Nein, nein.’ He jabbed himself vigorously in the chest with a forefinger and said, ‘Adolf. Mein Name ist Adolf.’

Even Mabel could not mistake that. ‘Oh, Adolf? That’s nice,’ she said.

‘Und wie heißt du?’

A pointing finger and questioning eyebrows meant she understood the question. ‘I’m Mabel. Ma-bel,’ she repeated, with slow clarity, as to the feeble-minded.

He said something else in German, still smiling, and putting out a hand to rub her upper arm appreciatively. Mabel filled her uniform plumply, and while not strictly pretty she had a round, healthy, pink face and shiny eyes, and men quite often smiled at her and found it hard to resist a stroke or a pinch. She knew where she was with this approach. Adolf was not bad-looking. Besides, he was a valet, and she had a very keen sense of hierarchy.

‘It must be lonely for you, not speaking any English,’ she said. A doubt struck her. ‘You don’t speak any English, do you?’

‘Du bist ein lustiges Mädchen,’ he said. ‘Willst du auf meinem Schoß sitzen?’

She smiled incomprehendingly, but he stepped closer and slid an arm round her waist, and she knew what that meant. ‘Oh, you are a naughty man!’

‘Und du bist ein schmutziges Mädchen!’

She giggled. ‘You think I’m pretty?’ she hazarded, from previous experience. That’s what they usually said.

He smiled and nodded. ‘Schmutzig.’

She tried it. ‘Shush . . . Shmush . . .’

‘Schmut-zig,’ he said with slow clarity and a smile that, had she been concentrating, she’d have noticed was a little menacing. His hand crept from her arm to her shoulder, with a drift of fingers towards her bosom.

‘Shmoo-sig,’ she copied carefully. And then the choreography fell into usual patterns.

‘It’s a growth,’ Rose told Mrs Webster in the privacy of her room. ‘Something of a dropsical nature. Lady Linda said she thought it might be liver.’

‘But what are her symptoms? I thought liver made you yellow.’

‘Well, it might not be liver. She has vomiting and light fevers, and swelling in the ab— What’s it called?’

‘Abdomen?’

‘That’s it. And tiredness and loss of appetite.’

‘Sounds more like heart failure,’ said Mrs Webster. ‘I had an aunt went that way. Dropsy and extreme tiredness. Did Lady Linda mention what the doctor said about it?’

Rose gave her a look. ‘She’s not seen a doctor. You know what she’s like.’

‘So she doesn’t know . . . ?’

‘How long she’s got left? No.’

‘It seems unfair on the poor prince,’ Mrs Webster said, after a moment. ‘He ought to have the chance to say goodbye.’