Page 148 of The Affairs of Ashmore Castle

In reality, the brick floors were laid straight onto earth so they were damp, the wattle-and-daub walls were too thin to keep out the cold. The ancient green glass of the windows let in too little light, and the thatch needed renewing, and harboured rats. The rents were too low for old Warner to afford to do repairs, and they were too badly in need of repair to command a higher rent. So cottages and tenants rotted gently together.

Mrs Mattock opened the door to number five, and surveyed the bundled-up figure on the doorstep. A jaundiced eye took in the swollen belly and the carpet bag in one hand.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said.

‘Hello, Ma,’ said Tabby. ‘I’ve come home.’

‘Lost your job?’

‘Corbie don’t want me this shape,’ Tabby said. ‘Damn the old blood-sucker! Afraid I’ll drop the kid in the public and scare the customers.’

‘What happened to your feller, then? The soft one you had at the fair. You said you could wind him round your thumb.’

‘I’m working on him,’ said Tabby. ‘Takes time.’

‘You ain’t got time.’

Tabby agreed, but she didn’t want to talk about it now. The chill was striking upwards through the inadequate soles of her boots. ‘Let us in, then. I’m starving cold.’

Mrs Mattock considered. ‘There’s that do-good woman in the village, Miss Eddowes. She does with females in trouble.’

‘I won’t need to go to her. I can handle William.’

‘So’s you know, you can’t have that baby here.’

‘It won’t come to that. Let us in, for gawd’s sake. Can’t stand out here all night.’

Mrs Mattock stood back. ‘Come on, then,’ she said resignedly. ‘Don’t know why you get yourself mixed up with these fellers. No good never come to no woman from no man. Making babies and smacking you around, that’s all they’re good for.’

Tabby went into the familiar sour, dark house, with the familiar sour, dark litany rising and falling behind her as Mrs Mattock went about filling the kettle and pushing it over the fire. She wondered if her mother had ever been young and in love. Or even young and happy. She couldn’t imagine it, somehow.

Balcombe House was in the centre of Market Harborough, on one of the roads that led out of the market square, a handsome, symmetrical Georgian house, flint-knapped, with a red brick trim. There were steps up to the front door straight from the pavement, and a railing that defended the narrow pit that gave light to the basement windows. The door was answered by a very elderly butler, who took their cards gravely, and begged them to come in, saying that her ladyship was at home and would be pleased to receive Lady Wharfedale and Mrs Cowling.

Bobby had told Nina that she had met the new arrival in Market Harborough, found her charming, and was anxious for Nina to meet her too. ‘She’s a single lady, so it’s especially important to make her welcome to the town. And I know you’ll like her.’

The hall was dark with well-polished wood – floorboards, panelling and staircase – but they were shown into a parlour that had been painted a light colour and sported modern furniture. There were few ornaments, and only a couple of paintings, which from Nina’s cursory glance looked daringly modern. They were not afforded long to inspect them, because the lady of the house came in almost immediately, and greeted Bobby warmly.

‘Lady Wharfedale, how kind of you to call!’

‘Lady Clementine, may I present my very dear friend Mrs Joseph Cowling, of Wriothesby House? Nina, Lady Clementine Leacock.’

Nina shook hands with a very tall, thin lady in her thirties, with soft fair hair, a pale face and large pale blue eyes, which together gave her a rather failing look, as though she had suffered all her life from ill-health. But her handshake was firm, and her expression keen.

‘Mrs Cowling, delighted to meet you. Wriothesby House? Isn’t that the beautiful Queen Anne house just on the edge of the town? I so admired it when I went past. Please, sit down, and may I offer you some refreshments?’ She nodded to the butler, who needed no more instruction, but shuffled away.

This sort of first meeting was usually attended by rather desultory, awkward conversation; but Bobby didn’t seem to know what it was to be shy, and she talked so naturally about local affairs, the weather and other easy topics that Lady Clementine, who seemed at first rather reserved, quickly relaxed, and the visit went on to double the conventional fifteen minutes.

She returned the courtesy to Nina the following day, where the friendship was further cemented by Trump, who broke any remaining ice by trying to get onto Lady Clementine’s lap, and not being rebuffed.

‘He’s a fine fellow,’ she said. ‘I always had dogs when I was a child in India.’

‘You lived in India?’ Nina asked.

‘Until I was eleven. I was born out there. My father was on the governor general’s staff.’

In no time, they were telling each other their life histories. Lady Clementine’s father was the Earl Leacock, with a lifetime in the diplomatic service. Though they had not been in India at the same time, their lives and experiences had been so similar that soon they were chatting like old friends, exchanging fond memories and recounting anecdotes. Fifteen minutes turned into an hour this time, and by the end of it, it was ‘Please won’t you call me Clemmie?’ and ‘May I call you Nina? I feel as if I’ve always known you.’

The difference in their ages did not seem obtrusive. Clemmie was in some ways young for her age, while Nina, because of her education, was older. Clemmie had been educated along old-fashioned lines, later improving it by reading, but Nina’s education had been deeper and wider.