Page 106 of The Affairs of Ashmore Castle

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

‘I must say,’ said Mrs May, at her most refined, ‘that it’s a treat to have you back here again so soon, Mr Crooks. Company of any sort’s always welcome, but superior company – well!’ She turned to Dory to explain. ‘Most times when the Master comes, he only stays a couple of days, and he doesn’t bring anyone with him.’

‘How does he manage without a manservant?’ Dory asked.

‘Oh, he shaves and dresses himself all right. He’s very handy. I just pop up at the last moment and do his studs for him. He could probably even manage them, if he had to. Very nimble hands, the master has, with all that piano-playing. And he doesn’t dress up much when he’s here, and no entertaining. Just a tweed suit, or flannels.’

‘Mr Sebastian is sadly uninterested in sartorial matters,’ Crooks said. ‘It is a disappointment to me, my gentleman’s appearance being, if I might put it so, the canvas upon which I practise my art.’

‘That’s a lovely turn of phrase!’ Mrs May said. ‘I don’t know how you think of all those words, Mr Crooks. It’s a treat to listen to you. And it’s a shame you feel your talents are wasted. The master is a lovely person, but he’s not one for fine feathers, it must be said.’

They were taking their midday dinner round the kitchen table: Mrs May, Mr Crooks, Dory, the house-parlourmaid Olive, and Joe, who did all manner of things, indoors and outdoors. He was too multifunctional to be called gardener and too rustic to be called footman. He tended the garden, carried coal, cleaned silver, filled lamps, pumped up the water, even peeled vegetables when Mrs May was pressed for time, and dealt with such matters as a dead pigeon in the cistern or a wasps’ nest under the eaves. He was a large, shy, fair young man, and rarely spoke, though he looked up when Mrs May made the remark about words, and almost seemed about to.

Crooks met his eyes and smiled encouragingly, making Joe blush. ‘Well, at least I know that when I’m not here, Mr Sebastian’s boots are in good hands. You do them very well, Joe.’

‘I can’t get ’em as glossy as what you do, Mr Crooks,’ he apologised.

‘It is an art,’ Crooks admitted. ‘But there are some tricks to it that I could teach you, if you liked.’

‘There, Joe,’ Mrs May encouraged. ‘You could learn up Mr Crooks’s secrets and become a valet yourself one day. Make something of yourself.’

‘I don’t know,’ Joe mumbled. ‘I’m not one for learnin’. I never was no scholard.’

‘That’s true,’ said Mrs May cheerfully, collecting in the plates. ‘Went to the village school, didn’t you, Joe? But it never had much effect on him. Take the plates, Olive, and fetch the custard, and I’ll turn out the duff. Currant duff, Mr Crooks, and there’s a bit of hot jam to go with it.’

‘Delightful,’ Crooks said politely. There was a lovely Indian Summer going on outside, but Mrs May paid no heed to the weather when she cooked. The range meant it was always hot in the kitchen, so the seasons largely passed her by.

Wisteria House was a square, handsome, red-brick Georgian house, with a pleasant garden that ran down to the river. It was small after the Castle, only six bedrooms, but ample for a bachelor, especially one who was largely absent. During the regatta, the house was filled with guests, old friends staying for the week, and others coming in by the day to watch the river races from the garden. But apart from that, Sebastian didn’t entertain much.

‘Mrs May seems to keep it all in good order,’ Dory said when, on the day after their arrival, Sebastian walked with her round the house to identify what needed doing. ‘All this wood must take a lot of polishing.’ As well as the furniture there was panelling, broad oak floors and a fine staircase.

‘But perhaps . . . do you think it rather gloomy?’ Sebastian asked. ‘Would a lady like it, do you suppose?’

A lady? she thought. Was there something in the gossip after all? ‘I wouldn’t call it gloomy,’ she said judiciously. ‘Masculine, perhaps. But, of course, I couldn’t say what any particular lady’s taste would be.’

He deflected the implied question. ‘Never mind, what do you think?’

‘I think you had better show me what wants mending, sir,’ she said firmly.

There were some tapestry chairs with frayed seats, curtains that needed new linings, some worn patches in venerable Persian carpets, an embroidered silk counterpane in a lamentable way. Enough to keep her busy for a couple of weeks, she thought happily. It was nice to get away from below-stairs bickering and factions.

‘Come and look at this room,’ he said, when they came back downstairs. ‘I’ve never furnished it, not having need of it, but I’m conscious that there isn’t a lady’s sitting-room in the house. Do you think this would make a nice one?’

It was a square room on the corner of the house, not large, but with a bay window onto the garden. It wasn’t panelled, being evidently a later addition to the house, but the wallpaper, brownish to begin with, was further dulled by ancient smoke.

‘Supposing it to be redecorated and suitably furnished,’ Sebastian went on, ‘what do you think?’

‘It’s a pretty shape, and looks onto the garden, and you can see it gets the sun. I think any lady would love to have it for a sitting-room,’ Dory said.

‘Then I’ll do it,’ said Sebastian. ‘I’m glad I asked your opinion. When it’s done, you shall come back and tell me if I’ve got it right.’

Dory enjoyed her break from routine, the change of scene, new people to talk to, and the work was interesting, but she couldn’t help feeling melancholy at the thought of his marrying and leaving the Castle. And she was anxious for him, too, because he was so nice and she wanted him to be happy; and to be happy he would have to marry someone who understood and valued him. She hoped very much that he had not fallen prey to some young thing who was only marrying him for his money, who perhaps regarded him merely as a necessary nuisance to be put up with on the way to prosperous widowhood.

‘What’s the matter with William?’ Rose asked, more of herself than anyone else.

But Speen answered anyway. ‘Daft William? Going dafter than ever. It’s a medical fact – them as are a bit mental get worse as time goes on. He’ll be running about naked with straws in his hair before you know it.’

Rose gave him a severe look. ‘You’ve got a nasty tongue on you, Mr Speen. You mind you don’t choke on your own spittle.’