Page 118 of Rivals at Ashmore Castle

‘Yes, indeed. I’ve made enquiries of several publishers, and it seems that Hardacre and Cass are considering putting out a new edition of Hans Andersen’s fairy tales next year, in time for the Christmas market. Pilbright is your man there – the director who specialises in children’s books. Samuel Pilbright. I’ve met him at my club, and he’s a good man, very go-ahead, and with an excellent mind. He liked your sister’s drawings very much, and would be interested in commissioning her for the new book.’

‘Oh, that’s excellent news!’ Richard exclaimed.

‘Steady, the Buffs! I said “interested”. Doesn’t mean it’s a sure thing. But between you and me, if she can come up with some good material, I think they’re likely to take a chance on her, for financial reasons. Pilbright told me – not to be repeated, if you’d be so kind – that they wanted Rackham to begin with, but his fees are too high now. To give a new, unknown artist a start would reflect well on them and save them money.’

Richard laughed. ‘I don’t suppose the new, unknown artist will care what the motives are. What would she have to do?’

‘Pilbright said they will probably want several colour plates – a frontispiece, probably used for the cover as well, and perhaps three or four others, plus some black-and-whites. So if your sister can produce some water-colours and sketches like these she did for Gulliver, on suitable subjects – fairies and witches and animals and so on…Arrange an interview with Pilbright, let her present a portfolio, and we’ll see what comes of it. I’d wait until after Christmas to make an appointment – they’ll be pretty busy at present. That should give her time to work something up.’

‘I’m most immensely grateful to you, sir,’ Richard said.

‘Not at all, not at all. Glad to encourage the young entry. These have so much talent.’ He gestured to the Gulliver drawings. ‘More than I’ve seen in years.’

It was no wonder, he thought, that Ivor Wentworth had taken a shine to her. He couldn’t blame himself for cutting off the relationship, since he knew more about Wentworth and his probable intentions than Alice Tallant possibly could, but he still wanted to make it up to her. Pilbright might not decide to go with her, but at least it was a chance. And her work might speak for itself.

In St Peter’s Church, the Castle servants always sat in the gallery, from which one could see down into the nave, and in particular that part of the nave where the estate workers and tenants had their pews.

Rose always checked that Michael Woodrow was there, without admitting it to herself. He always was – until the Sunday came when he wasn’t, and she felt a tug of…Was it anxiety? Or just curiosity? A man might have many reasons for not attending service, but when he was so regular, she wanted at least to know why.

She pushed her way out ahead of the slow-shuffling crowd to clatter down the wooden stairs and catch the Hundon’s cowman, Higgins, before he could disappear. Higgins looked alarmed as Rose caught his arm, and she realised she was wearing one of her most fearsome scowls. She smoothed it away and said, ‘I see Mr Woodrow wasn’t there this morning. Is he all right?’

‘I don’t rightly know, miss,’ Higgins said. ‘I reckon he might’ve took ill. He look pr’t poorly yesterday when he come out to give me my orders. I ent seen him since. Reckon he’s indoors with a cold or some-such.’

‘Why didn’t you knock and see if he was all right?’

Higgins looked as though he might cry. ‘Not my business, miss. Is he poorly, then?’

‘You just said he was, you idiot! You said he looked poorly.’

Higgins struggled to articulate his vague thoughts. ‘His eyes and nose was all red and he was, like, sniffing, miss.’ He tried to pull away from Rose’s iron fingers. He was scared of her, scared especially of questions, which required such unusual brain activity from him. Cows were so much easier. You always knew where you were with a cow. ‘I best get on, miss. My wife’s expecting me. Sorry an’ everything.’

Rose let him go. The brake was waiting to take the servants back to the Castle. She told Frederick – Barnes, as he was now known, now he was butler – that she would walk up and that she might not be in to dinner.

He frowned. ‘You can’t take time off without permission. Where are you going?’

‘Private business,’ she said. ‘I’m only missing dinner and I can if I want. No law says I have to eat it.’ She swung away in case he argued further, walking quickly, mingling with the dispersing crowd.

The Hundon’s yard was quiet. The weather still being mild, the cows were out until Higgins fetched them in for afternoon milking. Fly and Jess were lying across the door stone, enjoying a little slice of pale winter sunshine, and got up politely to greet her, swinging their tails, bright amber eyes on her face. ‘Good dogs. Lie down, then,’ she said. She knocked at the door, got no answer, turned the knob and went in. If he was sick, she thought, someone must look after him, and that fool Molly Gale who did for him would probably not have thought of setting up food for him. If he was in bed, she’d call up the stairs…

But he was sitting at the kitchen table, his arms resting on it, looking utterly dejected. His eyes and nose were red, she saw at once, because he’d been crying. He looked at her blearily and said, ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Higgins said you were ill.’ She crossed the room and sat down opposite him before he could either ask her in or tell her to get out. ‘What’s happened?’

She thought for a moment he might deny, but his lips trembled, and after a moment it burst out of him: ‘It’s my sister. She’s dead!’

‘How did you hear?’ she asked.

‘A letter came yesterday from the asylum,’ he said. ‘It was pneumonia. She was ill for four days and I never knew. If they’d told me I could have been there.’

Rose was not good at sympathy. She always reached for the practical. ‘You couldn’t have helped her.’

‘But she shouldn’t have died alone.’

‘You said last time you saw her she didn’t know who you were.’

He stared miserably, as if he hadn’t heard her last words. ‘She was my only kin!’ he cried. He put his head down on his arms and sobbed, and it gave her an uncomfortable pang in her stomach. Men shouldn’t cry, it hurt too much – them and you. She got up and went round the table, sat in the chair next to him, put a tentative arm across his shoulders.

‘Maybe it’s for the best,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t much of a life for her.’