Page 59 of The Mistress of Ashmore Castle

‘I’ll think about it,’ he said shortly.

‘Thank you, my lord! But to keep things working smooth, it’d avoid any inconvenience for you, my lord, if you were just to appoint me now. You don’t want to be having to think about domestic matters, my lord. Let me take all that off your mind, my lord. Make me butler.’

Those were valid points, but Giles wasn’t going to be badgered by a servant, least of all one he didn’t like. It probably would be James in the end, but he wasn’t going to satisfy him now. ‘The door, James,’ he said.

James lowered his eyes, opened the door obsequiously, closed it behind him.

Inwardly, he rejoiced. He felt sure the job was his. If me lord wasn’t going to give it to him, he’d have said so. James was under no illusion that Lord Stainton liked him, but everybody knew how disruptive it was to bring in an outside butler. People held on to their butlers, and one who was out of work was likely to be out of work for a reason. He dismissed the idea that Moss might get better and come back – he was an old man, and with compromised health would never be up to it again. Even if they appointed James on a temporary basis, he would make the job so much his own they would never get him out. His ambition was within his reach at last.

As soon as he had time off, he would go round the wine merchants and let them know how the land lay. One of a butler’s perks was the commission traders would pay to get the business, and the wine merchant’s was the biggest and best. It was a wonderful bit of luck that he was in London just at this moment. And the new Lord Stainton knew nothing about wine – not like the old lord – so he would have power worth paying for.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

‘I must say, Mr Crooks, that it’s a great pleasure having you back here,’ said Mrs May. She was making pastry in the kitchen of Sebastian’s little house in Henley. Through the open window from the garden came gentle warm air and the cheerful sound of birds getting on with the pressing business of life.

Crooks, seated to one side of the kitchen by the small table, on which newspaper was decently spread, was cleaning the master’s boots.

Before he could answer, Olive came in from the garden with a trug of potatoes, which she dumped in the sink. ‘Joe sent ’em up,’ she announced. ‘First new ’uns.’

‘They’ll go lovely with that bit of lamb for the master’s dinner,’ said Mrs May. ‘I hope everything’s all right with him, Mr Crooks. We were all quite believing that he was going to bring us home a mistress, after all that refurbishment last year. Have you heard any more about it?’

‘Nothing at all, Mrs May,’ Crooks said, his eyes on the boots.

Mrs May drew breath to speak, then changed her mind. She turned her head towards Olive. ‘Be a dear and go down the cellar, and look over the apples for me. Bring me up half a dozen sound ones. I think I’ll make this into an apple pie.’

‘I was just going to wash the potatoes,’ Olive said.

‘You can do ’em after. Get the apples first, so I know.’

‘I thought you were going to make a mincemeat tart,’ Olive objected.

‘We might as well use up the apples as let ’em go bad. If there’s not enough, it’ll have to be apple and mincemeat, won’t it, but that’s nice too. Don’t stand there arguing – go on, do.’

When Olive had departed, Mrs May turned back to Crooks. ‘There, she’s out of the way. I don’t blame you for being discreet with Olive in the room, because there’s no doubt that girl does talk. But you can trust me, Mr Crooks – I’m deep as a well. What happened about the marriage plans? I was sure as sure he was doing up the place to bring home a wife.’

‘It was never expressed to me in those terms, Mrs May,’ Crooks said. ‘Nothing was ever said in my presence about a wife.’

‘But you thought it too, I know you did.’

‘It was the obvious conclusion to draw,’ he admitted.

‘Why else would he have done out the garden parlour that’s never been used in all my time here? And done it so nice and light and – feminine, I would call it. I suppose they must have quarrelled. What a shame! And him such a sweet-tempered man. I’ve been here twenty years and never had a sharp word from him. Do you know who the lady was, Mr Crooks?’

‘No, I do not. As to a quarrel, well, he did seem despondent just after Christmas. He stopped playing the piano for a time, and that wasn’t at all like him.’

‘Ooh dear! That sounds serious. He does love his piano. Is he broken-hearted, d’you think?’ Mrs May asked, greedy for sensation.

Crooks frowned. ‘A gentleman of mature years and regular temper is never overset by life’s vicissitudes.’

‘No. I dare say he’s not,’ Mrs May said blankly, not sure what ‘vicissitudes’ were.

‘But I feel as though things are taking a turn for the better now,’ Crooks went on. ‘While I can’t say he has returned to his former level of cheerfulness, he has an air of purpose about him.’

‘So you think they’ve made it up?’

‘I can only say that I don’t think he is really unhappy.’

‘Oh,’ said Mrs May, disappointed. While she naturally wished the master no ill, she’d have liked him to be sunk in broken-hearted grief – or exuberant with joy. An air of purpose, whatever that was when it was at home, offered you nothing to get your teeth into. ‘So I wonder why he’s come down here? It’s not his usual time.’