Page 90 of The Mistress of Ashmore Castle

‘Well, they do seem to have a lot of things one naturally wants,’ said Rose.

Martha came out of the house carrying a kitchen chair in one hand and a mug in the other. She put the chair down next to her brother’s, thrust the mug at Rose without ever looking at her, and went back inside.

‘Tea,’ said Woodrow. ‘Won’t you sit a minute and talk to me?’

Rose sat. ‘Your sister doesn’t talk much, does she?’ she said, a little awkwardly, afraid she had offended in some way.

‘No, she never has.’

‘Oh?’ said Rose. She sipped her tea.

After a moment, he went on. ‘She’s a lot older than me – my half-sister. She was ten when I was born. Her mother – my father’s first wife – died in an accident. Something happened to Martha at the same time, and she went a bit . . . strange. My dad never would tell, and Martha never talked about it, ever. Got upset if it was brought up. So I don’t know to this day what happened. But she’s all right, really, just not sociable. He’s gone now, too, my dad; and my mum, so there’s just the two of us.’

‘It’s good that she’s got you to care for her.’

‘I look after her, and she looks after me. She’s a good housekeeper – none better. She just doesn’t warm much to strangers. So don’t take it funny if she doesn’t speak to you. It doesn’t mean anything.’

Rose didn’t know what to say to all this; though she felt a thrill of warmth that he would tell her so much so soon. Well, perhaps he was just a talker. Time would tell. In the end, she said, ‘How are you liking the bull? Mr Richard raves about it.’

Woodrow’s face lit. ‘He’s a great feller. Would you like to have a look at him? He’s in the bull-box just now.’

He obviously meant it as a treat, so she said yes, set aside her mug (it was no hardship, as Martha hadn’t put any sugar in it and she liked her tea sweet) and followed him across the yard.

‘He’s usually out with the cows,’ Woodrow explained. ‘It helps keep a bull good-tempered, so I’ve always believed, if he runs with his wives – more natural-like. But he’s waiting in for a visitor, a cow from The Bottoms that’s bulling just now. Here he is – handsome fellow, isn’t he?’

The bull was looking over the high door of the box, between the splayed bars that stopped him getting his horns out. He snorted loudly as the two humans approached, and Rose saw the wet nose poked up and snuffling eagerly. Woodrow spoke crooningly to him and reached in a hand to scratch his poll. ‘You can’t see him properly from there,’ he said to Rose, and courteously pulled across a box for her to stand on. She got up cautiously. ‘Go on, you can stroke him if you want. He likes that.’

The bull was an enormous, hot presence, something that was more emphatically itself than seemed quite polite. Its roan coat gleamed in the half-dark; a glint of light caught on the brass ring through its nose. But she didn’t see that it could hurt her from behind the bars, so she put a hand in cautiously and scratched between the horns as she had seen Woodrow do. The bull stood quite still, moved its head a little closer to her fingers, and made a soft grunting noise. ‘What’s his name?’ she asked.

‘Roderick,’ he said. ‘Roddy for short. There, he likes you. I knew he would. He’s got taste, has this old feller.’

Rose blushed a little at the compliment. Then the bull snorted explosively and she whipped her hand away in alarm.

‘Don’t be scared,’ Woodrow said, smiling. ‘He sneezes when he’s happy.’

Rose inspected the ropy mucus on her fingers and wished he had a different way of expressing it. Then he stuck his head up and gave a prolonged bellow.

‘That must be The Bottoms’ cow coming – he smells her,’ Woodrow said, looking round.

‘I’d better be off,’ Rose said, not wanting to get in the way of such earthy activities.

‘But it was nice of you to call,’ Woodrow said, seeming disappointed. ‘You will come again, won’t you?’

‘Well, I don’t know,’ Rose began. The bull bellowed, and an answering noise came from the cow just entering the yard, followed by a small scruffy boy urging her along with a stick.

‘Please do,’ Woodrow urged. ‘We’d love to see you.’ He was smiling as if he really meant it. No man had ever shown her that sort of attention. She had been a plain and awkward girl, and since she had early got out of the habit of looking in the mirror, she assumed she had grown up into a plain and awkward woman, and had developed a spiky exterior, like a sea-urchin, for defence. He was smiling at her, and she didn’t want to be ungracious, but didn’t quite know how not to be.

‘I don’t know,’ she said gruffly, from her shyness. ‘We’ll have to see.’

The boy was grinning cheekily at her from the far end of the cow as though reading more into the situation than she could bear, and she scowled at him and snapped, ‘Now then, Sid Parks, who are you looking at? You mind your manners! I’ve got to go,’ she concluded to Woodrow.

But far from understanding that she had to depart as casually as if she had found herself there by accident, he insisted on walking her to the yard entrance and seeing her off with full formality.

Rose walked away briskly, head up so that the breeze could cool her cheeks. Would she call again? One part of her thought she’d like to, and not for the silent sister’s sake, either; but another part dreaded making a fool of herself. Or – even worse – someone else making a fool of her.

The whole household was involved in searching for Moss’s stamp collection, and theories and suspicions flew around like disturbed bats. Once, Mrs Webster would have spoken to Moss about any awkward situation that arose, but she wouldn’t confide in Hook. Crooks had gone for a short visit to Henley with Mr Sebastian, and the only other senior servant on hand was Afton. She didn’t know him very well, but something about him invited confidence, and finding herself alone with him in the servants’ hall late one evening, she obeyed the tacit invitation of his glance and walked over to sit beside him. He was at the long table, reading.

‘Interesting book, Mr Afton?’ she asked, to open the channels.