Page 75 of The Fortunes of Ashmore Castle

‘And the family?’

‘Her ladyship and Lady Rachel have gone to London for the Season. His lordship’s busy about the estate. Mr Sebastian’s at his own house. Mr Richard comes and goes.’

‘His lordship didn’t accompany her ladyship to London?’ Moss said disapprovingly. It wasn’t right for ladies to travel unaccompanied.

‘I think it was said he might join them later,’ Rose said, missing his point. ‘They had a bit of a row, so I expect they’re happy away from each other for a bit.’

Moss was torn between his disapproval of gossip and his desire to know everything about the Castle. When he was butler, he managed both by berating the other servants for gossiping, but only after he’d heard everything.

‘I’m sure they did not conduct an altercation in front of the servants,’ he said at last, forbiddingly.

Rose understood him pretty well after all those years. ‘It was about her garden. She wants to have the hillside behind the house cut away and moved to the front to make two flat places, but it’d be very expensive, and his lordship said they couldn’t afford it. She was upset because it was her money in the first place. Words were had, Mr Moss, and some people couldn’t help hearing.’

‘A wife’s money belongs to her husband,’ Moss said. ‘Surely her ladyship understands that.’

‘Knowing it and liking it is two different things,’ Rose said.

She walked back the long way, by Hundon’s, though she knew Michael Woodrow was not there. She had gone past the gate when she heard Martha calling. Looking back, she saw the tall, gaunt woman hurrying down from the kitchen with something in her hand. She went back to meet her at the gate, and thought at first there was something wrong with her face. She almost said, ‘Have you got the toothache?’ when she realised just in time that Martha was smiling, or at least trying to.

‘I saw you go past earlier,’ Martha said. ‘I thought you’d come back this way, so I made you this.’

She handed over the cloth-wrapped thing she was holding. Rose lifted the edge: it was a small cake, still warm. ‘That’s very kind,’ she said awkwardly. She didn’t really want to accept presents from this woman. She didn’t want to like her. But for Michael’s sake she took it and smiled back – almost as unnatural a smile as Martha’s, but more practised.

‘I was baking anyway,’ Martha said. ‘You liked my scones. Michael says I’m a good baker.’

‘You are that,’ Rose said stiffly. ‘I’ll have it with my tea.’

‘Best eat it while it’s still warm,’ Martha said, and abruptly turned away, trudging back to the kitchen.

Rose walked on with the parcel in her hand. It smelt very strongly of cinnamon, and she wasn’t over-fond of cinnamon. After some time she heard a whimper behind her, and turned to see a dog crawl out of the bushes, its nose working hard. It was skinny and had a large sore on its shoulder – obviously a stray. She gestured at it and said, ‘Go on, get away!’ and walked on. When she was nearing the back yard she looked back and saw it was still following her at a short distance, obviously attracted by the smell of the cake. It cowered when she turned, pressing itself to the ground, ears back, but it didn’t run. Probably starving, she thought. Then she looked at the cake in her hand, and a hard smile came over her lips. A suitable end for Martha’s famous baking! ‘Here,’ she said, unwrapping the cake. The dog looked at her hopefully. She broke it in half and threw one piece to the dog’s feet, and it wolfed it down. She threw the other half, shook the crumbs out of the cloth and stowed it in her pocket. That’ll teach her to call me names, she thought.

The dog continued to follow her hopefully, and she ignored it. It would get the message sooner or later. She was at the yard gate when she heard an odd noise from behind her, a strange, muted howl. She looked back, and saw the dog arch its back and vomit violently. ‘Don’t like cinnamon either, eh?’ she said, and laughed inwardly that the great master cook’s effort had been rejected even by a starving stray. The dog retched again, and then stuck its head up, howled again, and fell flat on its side, its front paws pedalling. ‘Here,’ she said to herself, ‘that’s not right.’

One of the stable boys passing the gate came out, stared, and said, ‘What’s wrong of it? It’s having a fit.’

Now the dog was convulsing violently, head drawn back, a little foam oozing from its clenched jaws. Its paws reached and reached again; its back was so arched its head was almost touching its tail. ‘Oh, good God,’ Rose said. ‘Can’t you do something?’ The boy looked at her, scared, and she snapped, ‘Get a spade or something, put it out of its misery!’

He looked as though he’d sooner dig a hole in the ground and climb in it. But it was too late anyway. The dog gave one last convulsive spasm and was still. The boy crept nearer, goggling but afraid. ‘It’s dead,’ he said in a kind of fascination.

‘Get that shovel anyway,’ Rose ordered him. ‘Can’t leave it there.’

‘Poor thing,’ the boy said. ‘What was wrong of it, any road?’

‘How should I know?’ she said. ‘Don’t just stand there!’

And then the thought came over her. The cake. That could have been her lying there. Her lips felt cold. ‘Oh, my good God,’ she muttered. ‘What now?’

Two fine-bred horses paced side by side along the tan in Hyde Park, one black, one bright chestnut. Their lady riders were neatly attired and followed at a respectful distance by their grooms. They were so engrossed in conversation they did not notice the glances they attracted from passers-by.

‘Aunt Caroline says she’s besieged,’ Kitty was saying. ‘Every acquaintance she’s ever made – some of them she hasn’t seen for years. She says she’s thinking of taking the knocker off the door.’

‘And all to talk about Sir Thomas Burton!’ Nina marvelled.

‘They know about him and Grandmère, so they think Aunt Caroline will know the details. She hates it.’

Nina didn’t read the newspapers and was not yet so ‘up’ in society that she heard all the gossip, so she had only a vague idea about the story. ‘It doesn’t really affect your family, does it? It’s not as if Sir Thomas is a relative.’

‘No, but there’s his connection with Grandmère and her patronage of the girl, and now it’s got about that Richard was hoping to marry her – which is simply not true – but he’s worried that at any moment the newspapers will discover that Mrs Sands lives in lodgings paid for by the estate. Giles sent him a livid letter because it was he who first got involved with them.’