Page 73 of The Affairs of Ashmore Castle

‘I agree. I was sorry to see this damage left so long.’

‘Must be twenty-odd year, m’lady, near enough.’

‘Do you know how it was caused, then?’

‘I do, m’lady. It was his lordship and Mr Richard, playing at pirates. They were fighting with cutlasses, and Mr Richard was driving his lordship backwards up the stairs. He took a swish at him and missed, and chopped a bit out of the handrail, like what you saw. O’ course, they were just lads, never meaning no harm. They’d be about eight or nine year old, m’lady, and proper little tearaways, like you’d never believe nowadays, now they’re grown men.’

Kitty’s look betrayed her astonishment. ‘But were they allowed to play with real weapons when they were just children?’

‘Not as you might say allowed, m’lady, but there used to be a whole collection of old swords and pikes and suchlike on the walls of the hall, hung up like a sort of decoration, and they’d took them down for their play without asking. Got a thrashing each for it when his old lordship found out. Course, they’re all gone now, m’lady, the swords and such, as you’ll know.’

‘Taken away because they were dangerous?’ Kitty hazarded.

‘Sold,’ Gales said shortly. ‘I believe a museum took ’em.’ He gave Kitty a look both significant and conspiratorial. So many things in the house had been sold. He ran his hand lovingly over the handrail and said, ‘It’s good to see the old house being looked after again. ’Twas my great-grandfather first carved that termination, m’lady, did you know?’

‘No, I didn’t,’ she said politely.

‘Gales’ve been carpenters here for generations, m’lady. This termination, see, it’s what’s called a ram’s horn – see the way it curls over, m’lady, just like a ram’s horn?’

‘Yes, I see.’

‘But this one’s a little bit different, you see, because right in the middle of the centre curl – see here, m’lady?’ A thick finger indicated and she bent to look. ‘See, it’s a clock, with the hands set at five minutes to midnight.’

Kitty looked. Gale was positively purring with pleasure at being the one to enlighten her. ‘The family motto, m’lady – you can see it on the coat of arms over the fireplace in the hall. Tempus omnia edax. It means “time consumes all” – as I know I don’t need to tell you, m’lady,’ he added politely. ‘So my great-grandfather, he carved a clock, see, right at the heart of the house, so to say. A great craftsman, my great gran’fer. You can see his work all over the place. A lot of the poppyheads on the pews in St Peter’s were done by him. I’m just glad that pirate battle all them years ago didn’t damage this termination, m’lady, because that would’ve been a much bigger job to replace.’

Kitty walked on up the stairs, thinking that it was a curiously depressing motto: Time consumes all. Almost an excuse for inertia; in that case, one might say, what was the point of trying? She wished she could talk to Giles about it. She tucked it away in the back of her mind as something to bring out when they were next together. At school, they had been taught to prepare suitable topics to stimulate conversation should it flag. It was the hostess’s duty to make sure talk flowed. She could have asked Uncle Sebastian, of course – he’d be bound to know – but Giles was so often absent in thought, even when present in body, that it was good to have a question ready to ask, to bring him back

By the time he reached the farm, Giles was aware that the heat was taking on a different character. The hazy blue sky had developed a steeliness; to the south-west, sullen clouds lined the horizon. It had been a long hot spell: the hay harvest had been good and most of it was in. But all hot weather ends in rain. A storm was coming, and High Ashmore had been the last to cut. It all needed to be got in before the rain came, because wet hay was worthless.

The farmyard was a hive of activity. Haysel was a time for coming together, for community effort. Everyone helped everyone else, and with their own harvests secure, every local farmer, with his men, had come up to High Ashmore to bring in the final one. That done, it would be time for celebration. Giles had been meaning just to look in and see how things were going, but having seen those clouds, and smelling the threat in the air, he was seized by the desire to help. Everyone had to pitch in, so why not the master?

Without asking – and no one had yet spotted him – he swung down from the saddle and led Vipsania towards the stables, to see if there was an empty stall he could leave her in. The first thing he saw was a round dun pony-rump that looked familiar; and as Vipsania knuckered a greeting and the pony turned its head and replied, he saw it was indeed Biscuit. He led the mare into the next stall, slipped out the bit and loosened the girth, tied her up, and went outside. A cart was just coming in, laden with hay, heading for the barn, and driving the big skewbald between the shafts was Alice.

She flung him one look of consternation, then assumed an airy insouciance and said, ‘Out of the way, Giles! No time to waste. Rain’s coming.’

He stepped forward and caught the horse’s cheekpiece, stopping it. ‘What are you doing here?’ he said grimly.

‘Helping,’ she said blandly. ‘It’s haysel – everybody has to help.’

‘Not young ladies. Not Lady Alice Tallant from Ashmore Castle.’

She made an exasperated movement with her head. ‘Oh, really, Giles, why ever not? If I drive a wagon, it frees one of the men for pitchforking. I can help – and why shouldn’t I?’ She looked at him suspiciously. ‘Why are you here, anyway?’

He gave in. ‘To help,’ he said, with a shrug and an embarrassed smirk. ‘All right, you can carry on. But never, never tell your mother about this.’

She laughed, clicked to the horse and drove on.

He was not surprised to see his woodsman, the former blacksmith Axe Brandom, among the pitchforkers. Stripped to the waist, his fine, smithy-toned muscles gleaming, he was forking the hay up from the row into a waiting cart with a strength and rhythm that was beautiful to watch. Giles knew he could not achieve such balletic grace, or keep up such strenuous effort for any length of time. His place was up on a cart, spreading the received hay.

Axe spotted him, stopped, and straightened. ‘M’lord,’ he greeted him, with a nod. He had a piece of rag tied round one wrist, and used it now to wipe the sweat from his brow before it could get into his eyes.

‘They got you here as well,’ Giles remarked pleasantly.

Axe glanced towards the horizon. ‘Storm coming, m’lord. Every man that can has come to help. Mr Webley put out the word yestreen.’

‘Quite right,’ said Giles. ‘I’ve come to give a hand myself.’ Over on the next row, he saw young Hugh Marbeck from Topheath forking as though his life depended on it. He’ll wear himself out, the silly ass, Giles thought. Even he knew there was a rhythm to this sort of work.

Axe followed the direction of his gaze and said, ‘Got a lot on his mind, that young man.’ He wiped his brow again and turned back to Giles. ‘I hear Lord Shacklock’s got a baling machine, over to Ashridge Park.’