Page 134 of The Mistress of Ashmore Castle

‘I’m sure you conducted yourself properly, just as you ought,’ he said. ‘I’ve always thought you a very well-behaved girl, Ada. I’ve been thinking lately that I might come up to the Castle one day, perhaps take a cup of tea with you all, see how you’re getting on. Do you think I’d be welcome?’

‘Oh, yes – I’m sure . . .’ she mumbled. She shifted from foot to foot, longing for escape.

He lowered his voice. ‘Would you be glad to see me, Ada?’ he asked. She stared desperately at her shoes, her cheeks rosy. Moss gazed, longing to press her to his heart. Her little head like a flower, the milk-white stem of her neck, the entrancing smell of soap and starch . . .

And then a large, loutish fellow came up behind her, had the temerity to slide his arm through hers, and leaned in to whisper something in her ear, with the hint of placing a kiss upon it. Outraged, Moss cleared his throat harshly, and the boy jerked up his head, pulled his arm away and snatched off his hat with a look of consternation. ‘Oh, Mr Moss!’ Moss stared unrecognisingly. ‘It’s George, Mr Moss. Third groom up the Castle.’

‘Is it, indeed?’ Moss said discouragingly.

But Ada had taken courage from her swain. She relinked their arms, drawing him closer. ‘Me and George are walking out, Mr Moss. Regular,’ she said proudly.

‘George and I,’ he corrected automatically, causing Ada to stare with incomprehension. ‘You should say, “George and I”, not “me and George”.’

‘Yes, Mr Moss,’ Ada said, grateful to discover it was only a matter of grammar and not some appalling misunderstanding.

And Moss, speared through the heart, turned away, saying, ‘I must look for my mistress.’ He didn’t want to think about that horse-smelling rustic walking out with Ada, holding her hand, perhaps kissing her with his rubbery lips. And Ada letting him! Even encouraging it . . . Any particle of the dream he had been harbouring withered and dropped from the branch. He felt old and tired.

‘Shall I tell Mrs Webster you’ll be coming up the Castle?’ Ada asked, emboldened by his turned back.

‘We’ll see,’ Moss said. ‘We’ll see.’

But he would not be going up there, he knew. It was the fairy castle up in the clouds from which he had been banished by an evil spell. His life was down here now, at the bottom of the hill. The word hubris drifted through his mind, and he resolved to look it up when he got home. Home, to Miss Eddowes’s.

Richard’s excuse was that he wanted to see how the milk collection was going, and discover whether there were any snags to smooth out. But, really, he just wanted to ride along for the fun of it.

He picked one of the motor-wagons at random, and discovered that the driver, Jobson – a young, eager man with a bright-eyed passion for machinery – called it a ‘lorry’. Richard had known lorries hitherto as those flat, four-wheeled hand wagons used in railway stations to move luggage about, but it seemed as good a name as any.

‘How is it going?’ Richard asked him, as they rattled along the road beside the river.

‘Pretty well, sir,’ said Jobson. ‘Daisy’s a good old girl, haven’t had any trouble with her so far.’

‘Daisy?’

‘The lorry, sir. Named her after my dad’s old carthorse that I used to ride back from the field when I was a nipper.’

‘Ah. Good name. She’s not an old girl, though – practically brand new.’

‘I know, sir. Just a figure of speech. The road’s not so good, though, further up the valley. Slows me down, going round the pot-holes – don’t want to ruin her springs.’

‘I’ll look into that. It was all supposed to have been done.’

‘It’s the cold weather, sir. Frost gets into any little crack, widens it. Next thing you know, it’s worn into a hole. Got to keep on top of roads all the time, sir.’

‘I’ll take that into account,’ said Richard. ‘You seem to be getting up a good speed here, though.’ Jobson seemed to be pelting along. Richard was not yet entirely at ease with motor-transport. His first experience had not ended well for him.

‘Road’s good this end,’ said Jobson. His large hands gripped the wheel firmly, trembling with the vibration of the engine, and he stared ahead keenly like a sailor on the look-out for whales or tidal waves. ‘I like to push along, get a bit ahead of time, case we meet a flock of sheep somewhere.’

At the first stop, Richard saw the estate carpenter, Gale, at work on the milk platform. He looked up. ‘Morning, Mr Richard!’

‘What’s the trouble?’

‘Some damn fool in one of they motor-cars took the bend too fast in the dusk yestreen, and slammed into it. Cracked one of the supports. Saw Mr Whitcroft in the Dog and Gun last night and he mentioned it, so I thought I’d come down and get it done first thing, ’fore it got any worse.’

Even while he was speaking, Jobson had jumped down and grasped the first of the churns, which was sitting on the side of the road.

‘Ought to move this here platform back a bit,’ Gale said. ‘Just a foot, so’s it doesn’t stick out. Want a hand, son?’

As soon as the churns were in place, Jobson leaped for his seat again, nimble as a charioteer, and with a cheerful shout of thanks to Gale, they were off.