Page 106 of The Mistress of Ashmore Castle

A very small maid clutching a dishrag gave him a startled face, white with three dark circles – two eyes and a mouth – and said, ‘Oo-er!’

The cook looked up from something she was stirring on the stove. ‘Can I help you – sir?’ She added the last in acknowledgement of Afton’s neat and gentlemanly appearance.

‘My name’s Afton,’ he said. ‘Valet to Lord Stainton up at the Castle. I was rather hoping to have a word with Mr Moss. Just a friendly word, see how he’s getting on. Everyone at the Castle misses him.’

‘I believe you,’ said the cook, eager to please now she knew how eminent her visitor was. ‘Mrs Grape’s my name. And we couldn’t think more highly of Mr Moss, not if it was ever so.’

‘He’s a fine man, Mrs Grape. And the great expert in his calling.’

‘Ooh, there’s nothing he don’t know,’ Mrs Grape said eagerly. ‘Any subject you like to name, Mr Moss knows all there is to know about it – don’t he, Betty?’

‘Yes, Mrs Grape.’

‘Dinner’s never dull here, I can promise you, with all the things he tells us. You should hear him talk about India, and elephants, and I don’t know what else. All the long words and foreign names and everything, he’s got ’em off pat. Hasn’t he, Betty?’

‘Yes, Mrs Grape.’

‘Well, don’t just stand there staring, child. Run and tell Mr Moss there’s a gennleman to see him, a Mr . . .’

‘Afton.’

‘That’s right. Hop to it! I think he’s doing the dining-room.’

A little more of Afton’s charm, and the servants’ hall – their combined sitting- and dining-room – was made available for a private chat, while the other servants stayed in the kitchen.

‘How are you settling in, Mr Moss?’ Afton only knew the legend of Moss, but that was enough for it to seem strange to see him with a black apron over his shirt sleeves and waistcoat, sign that he was doing ‘dirty work’.

‘Very well, thank you,’ Moss said, though his tone didn’t match the words. ‘It takes a bit of getting used to. My mistress is very kind and a true lady. But it isn’t like the Castle,’ he concluded bleakly.

But he perked up after a moment and wanted to know all that was going on up at the Castle, pathetically eager for detail. He had heard, of course, about the new arrival, and offered his congratulations. ‘But as to a name, Mr Afton – I’ve heard conflicting stories.’

‘Alexander,’ Afton supplied.

‘I did hear that, but didn’t give it full credence,’ Moss said sadly. ‘Not a family name at all.’

‘Well, second son, you know . . .’

‘Not even really a Christian name – not an Apostle or one of the Blessed Saints.’

‘There are saints with weird and wonderful names, you know, Mr Moss. Like Boniface and Adalbert.’

‘Not English saints,’ Moss corrected him firmly. ‘And her ladyship, the mistress, how is she? I heard she was poorly.’

‘Coming along, Mr Moss. She was very much weakened by the birth, but I believe she is not in danger, and should make a full recovery.’

Afton patiently answered his questions about the rest of the family, and then Moss came obligingly to where Afton wanted him. ‘And below stairs – how are things going along?’

‘Not as smoothly as when you were in command, Mr Moss. Somehow we haven’t recovered our rhythm. We muddle along all right—’

‘Muddle!’ Moss was shocked.

‘But there’s no-one with your eye for detail.’

Tears came to Moss’s eyes. ‘I knew how it would be. I never would have left, if I’d had the choice. And to be putting someone like Hook in charge! A tyro, Mr Afton. The merest tyro. Thinks he knows everything, but it takes years and years to learn how to run a great house.’

‘We were lucky to have you, Mr Moss. And we’re lucky that you’re not far away, so that we can come and pick your brains when we need to – at least, I hope we can. For instance,’ he went on quickly, ‘there’s a little discrepancy we have with the plate-room book. The new inventory that was made up recently. I was wondering – his lordship was wondering – whether you would be so good as to have a look, just glance through and see if you can spot anything that’s missing from it.’

Moss looked uncertain. ‘Oh, I don’t know, really . . . My duties here – I ought not to take time out. My loyalties to my new mistress . . .’