‘What’s down there?’ she asks.
‘All sorts of places, wine cellars and storage rooms,’ he calls over his shoulder as he strides ahead. ‘The undercroft runs right under the whole building. It is like a rabbit warren. They say a boy was sent down here once on an errand and didn’t come back for a whole week. He’d been wandering in circles, round and round. They only found him because a gardener saw his little fingers reaching out through a grill round on the northern side.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘You have a very suspicious nature, Miss Griffiths. Here we are.’ They ascend a short, stone staircase. Ned struggles with the keys until he opens the door and a welcome rush of cold air sweeps in towards them.
‘How lovely,’ she says, stepping out onto the flagstones. The winter sun has broken free of the Black Mountains in the distance and is beginning to burn away the mist rising up from the lake.
‘Looks as if it will be a fine day,’ he says. ‘What a pity you have got to spend it locked away in a sickroom.’
‘It is only for a few weeks.’
‘Maybe less if all goes well.’
‘Surely you mean if all goes badly?’
‘I suppose I do.’ Ned tucks his thumbs into the pockets of his waistcoat and stands full square, looking out on the view. ‘So, has the good doctor expressed an opinion as to when you will be freed from your duties?’
‘I don’t think he can tell yet.’
‘It would not be good if you were locked away up there for too long.’
‘For me or the viscount?’
‘For all of us,’ he turns towards her, that cheeky eyebrow of his rising up, ‘but never mind. Have you had enough fresh air? I should be getting you back or Mr Antrobus will have my guts for garters.’
With a gallant sweep of his arm, Ned invites her to return to the undercroft. She pauses longingly for a moment. How she would love to run out into that crisp morning instead of returning to the gloom of the sealed chamber. The cows will be milked by now and lumbering out across the fields, their hooves cracking the ice on the puddles. She wishes she were walking behind them, her switch in her hands, the cold morning air like pepper in her nostrils.
Ned clears his throat behind her and with a sigh she turns. As she passes him, he smiles at her with such warmth she feels emboldened and says, ‘I told Dr Argyll that you had offered to help.’
‘Did you now? And what did the good doctor say?’
‘He said he could not risk you getting the disease. I told him you believed you were protected but he says,’ and here she drops her voice and leans in towards him, ‘he did not believe for a moment that something of that nature made any difference.’
Ned frowns. ‘He told you?’ She gives him a look to imply that he had. She knows it is sly but her curiosity has got the better of her. ‘I suppose you want to see?’ he challenges her.
She starts back. Does she? He has said it is of a personal nature. In sudden panic she knows she should call a halt on her trick but Ned is too canny for her. He laughs softly and says, ‘Ah, Miss Griffiths, you have one of those faces that cannot hide a thought. Here’s a thing. If you’re going to dupe a fellow into giving up a secret, you’re going to have to learn to control your expression. I can read you like the clouds. Come on then, inside. I’ll show you.’
‘You must not,’ she says, her alarm overwhelming her curiosity.
‘Don’t worry. It may be personal but it’s not improper.’
Chapter 8
Ned locks the door and, as he descends the steps, he grasps Elen by the hand and guides her into the shadows near the entrance to the undercroft. As he begins to undo the buttons of his waistcoat, she draws away from him.
‘What are you doing?’ she says.
‘I thought you wanted me to reveal my secret.’ She gives him a guilty smile. He begins to pull his undershirt up, twisting his body slightly to release the fabric before hooking his thumb over the waistband of his breeches, pushing it down.
She feels the heat of embarrassment warming her neck as his well-muscled abdomen appears. Her eyes flick away and then down. Her curiosity overcomes her modesty and she moves towards him, bending slightly to get a better view. A line of dark hairs mark the middle of his torso, swirling and thickening at his waist, but the skin beneath is as smooth as the palm of her hand.
‘Oh, my word,’ she says, ‘you don’t have a navel.’
‘Indeed I do not. It is almost as if I was never born of woman.’ She gasps and moves back a step. ‘But don’t worry, I’m no demon. It was an accident of my birth.’
‘How could that ever happen?’ she says, her eyes wide, staring at the smooth skin of his stomach, still as a cat.
‘The night I was born,’ he says, letting go of the waistband and running his palm across his skin, ‘the family were camped out by Upper Radnor woods for the autumn coppicing and there were no women folk to help. My father was deep in the woods working, and I came fast.’
She tries to think of the woods in autumn and a woman in a makeshift camp crying out in labour, but the image of his hand running across his stomach, pushing a ridge of silken skin ahead of his fingers, has distracted her. She shakes her head to realign her thoughts.
‘And your poor mother had none to help her?’ she says, leaning back on the wall, turning her palms towards the stone to cool them.
‘She was not alone. My brothers were there and helped as best they could. The eldest ran up into the forest to try to find Tad but when I shot out into this world, Dewi was on his own with Mam. She was exhausted and told him to cut the cord but he was only ten years old and woodcutter’s tools are not precise. When he cut me free, he cut me close, much too close.’
Elen winces. She imagines the knife crunching through the cord, rooted deeply in the centre of the tiny stomach. ‘Why did you not bleed to death?’
‘I almost did, but the story is that when Tad saw what had happened, he swaddled me around the belly as tight as can be, almost squeezing out the few precious breaths of life I had managed to snatch. Then he slung me across his back and rode down to Dr Argyll and begged him to save my life.’
‘Which clearly he did.’
‘In a way. In fact, the doctor seemed to think Tad had stumbled upon an excellent treatment. Apart from adjusting the swaddling to allow me to breathe and feed, he left it undisturbed. By the time the dressings dried and fell away, the two sides of the wound had closed with such accuracy it was as if I had never been attached to Mam. You can feel where it should have been though, just to prove that I am not a fiend.’
Ned reaches out and, taking Elen’s hand, he draws it towards the spot. Again she hesitates. Again she submits. Her fingers feel his warm skin slip over the muscles underneath and there, right in the centre of the whorl of hair, she finds a lump, no larger than a pea. His muscles tremble under her touch and she hears him draw in his breath.
‘My fingers are too cold,’ she says.
‘No, not too cold,’ and he looks at her with such intensity, she feels a ripple beneath her diaphragm. Then he smiles and begins to push the fabric of his undershirt back into his breeches. ‘And that,’ he says, buttoning up his waistcoat and straightening it with a tug, ‘is why I can never be licked by the pox.’ She leans back, feeling a little winded.
‘I don’t understand why that protects you,’ she says.
‘Why, surely you’ve heard of draping the bed with scarlet curtains to keep scarlet fever away or eating yellow spice to banish the jaundice?’
‘Some of those I know.’
‘Well, the pox before it scabs has a dent in the middle.’
‘I have seen the very thing you refer to. It looks just like a navel.’
‘It does. So it stands to reason that as I do not have one, I cannot get the pox.’ She follows his reasoning but is not convinced.
‘If the doctor agreed with you,’ she says, ‘surely you would be tending the viscount instead of myself.’
&nbs
p; ‘Pah! The doctor thinks himself an individualist but even he does not know everything. Both my brothers had the fever and I never caught it once.’ An agreeable smile spreads across Ned’s face and, pushing himself away from the wall he whispers in her ear, ‘Now you know my secret, what will you give me in return?’ Before she has a chance to answer, he tenses, listening.
‘What is it?’ she says.
‘I can hear a carriage approaching.’ Sure enough a crunch of gravel is followed by the shouts of a driver. ‘Quick,’ Ned says, ‘we must not be caught here.’ He clasps her by the hand, pulling her through a door on the opposite side of the corridor and into a large vestibule, the walls lined with hunting prints and maps. Along one wall is a row of hooks hung with oilskins and outdoor capes, pairs of muddied riding boots standing beneath.
Ned doesn’t completely close the door. He presses his eye to the gap to see who has arrived and Elen bobs beneath his arm until the undercroft comes into view. There is a muffle of voices, the sound of the outside door opening and boots descending, then the undercroft fills with capes as three gentlemen, with powdered wigs beneath their hats, stride ahead of the servants who struggle behind with trunks, grunting under their weight.
As the footsteps and voices recede a draught, heavy with the taint of rosewater mixed with tobacco, slinks through the crack in the door. Ned closes it, steps away from Elen. His eyes slide sideways, distracted.
‘Who were they?’ she says.
‘I have no idea.’ The spell of intimacy is broken and she wishes it were not so.
‘Were they family?’ she says.
‘No.’
Elen wants to regain their earlier companionship, but Ned has turned half away from her, listening at the door. He is more interested in where the guests have gone than he is with her. She moves into his line of vision and watches his face, trying to gauge his mood, understand this disconnection.
After a minute or so she says, ‘They cannot be guests of the earl if they have been brought in down here, can they?’
Ned shrugs. ‘Who knows? I am just a servant. We had better get you back or the doctor is going to be sending out a search party.’ He opens the door again and peers out. She catches the distant murmur of conversation. ‘We’ll have to find another way upstairs,’ he says, setting off towards a set of steps that disappear around a corner.
‘What is this place?’ she says, quickening her pace to keep up with him.
‘Mordiford comes in this way if he is been out hunting,’ he says over his shoulder as he hurries on. ‘It leads up to his study. The earl takes a rum view of him coming in and out of the servants’ door. Still, it keeps him out of my way most of the time.’
‘You don’t like him very much, do you?’
‘He’s a hard master to like.’
‘What’s wrong with him?’
Ned turns to her and she sees a flash of exasperation in his face but then he smiles and says, ‘Oh, not very much, apart from his wealth and entitlement. I find it rankles somewhat. But there’ll be plenty wrong with me if I don’t get you back upstairs. Come along, we must hurry.’
Chapter 9
Elen has no desire to get back to the monotony and unpleasantness of the sickroom. She watches Ned’s back as he navigates his way through the private apartments, longing for him to turn and take her hand. She feels such an emptiness inside her, such a sadness that their intimate conversation has come to an abrupt end. She wants to bask in his gaze again, feel the thrill of his attention.
She completely loses her sense of direction and is astonished when Ned pushes open the green baize door onto the minstrels’ gallery. Now she can hear the doctor’s voice echoing around the hall.
‘He is shouting with a deal of spleen,’ Ned says. ‘You’d better shift your bob.’ And he is gone.
‘Miss Griffiths!’ the doctor says, hurrying towards her, impatience in his voice. ‘There you are at last.’ He is wearing his outdoor cloak. ‘I have been waiting this half hour for your return. Where on earth have you been?’
She tries to think of an explanation that will not increase his irritation, but he doesn’t wait for her to speak. ‘I have been forced to leave the patient,’ he says crossly. ‘He has fallen into a fitful slumber. You must make haste. He could wake at any minute. I have to go or I will never complete my visits in time to return this evening.’
‘Do you have any instructions for me, sir?’
‘I have no time any more, you will have to use your wits and manage on your own. This is very tiresome indeed.’ He exhales an impatient breath. ‘What of the bath? Did you remember to enquire about the bath?’
‘Mr Antrobus says it would not be possible.’
‘Not be possible? Oh, for pity’s sake. Do I have to do everything myself?’ He purses his lips, looking at her with a stern expression as if she is to blame for this also. ‘I will be back but it will be exceedingly late in the day.’ He sweeps past her, disappearing through the door at the end of the gallery.
Elen glares at the door through which he has departed. She has been here for less than twenty-four hours and in that time, despite striving to carry out her duties with as good a will as possible, she has been criticised, reprimanded and shut away, forced to help a sullen ingrate with a series of humiliating and unpleasant services. And what thanks has she had for it? None. The doctor constantly goads her about her squeamishness. The servants ignore her, apart from Ned, and even he has cooled for no apparent reason. Her mother warned her that bettering oneself was never popular. Perhaps they all mean to bring her a branch lower and the doctor contrives to do it by pushing her towards a point where he imagines her spirit will be broken. Well, it will not. She will prove him wrong.
As she climbs the stairs, she resolves to show the doctor that she is made of very stern stuff indeed. If he wants her to nurse Viscount Mordiford, then nurse him she shall. She will bathe his sores and purge his bowels if necessary and she will sweeten the unpleasantness by daydreaming about Ned Harley. But why that sudden cooling towards her? Could it be that he was anxious about being caught with her? Mr Antrobus was a gruff man. Perhaps the arrival of those gentlemen would have sent the servants looking for Ned. That must be the reason for his sudden change. The next time she sees him things will be back to normal.
The emptied earth closet bucket is on the landing at the top of the spiral stairs. The smell momentarily makes her frown but then shakes her head back as if to clear it, puts a studied smile on her face to greet her patient, and lets herself into the chamber. She stops. Her patient is nowhere to be seen.
Irritation grips her and she drops the bucket with a clatter, stumping across to the bed. Although it is patently empty, she flings the covers back. The palliasse is still warm. She goes around to the opposite side of the bed, wondering if the idiot has rolled in his sleep and landed on the floor. All she finds are bare floorboards.
Feeling rather foolish, she drops to her hands and knees and peers beneath the bed. It is barely high enough for a man to conceal himself beneath and besides, it might feel as if she’s nursing a truculent five-year-old but surely he is too sick to divert himself by hiding from her.
She sits back on her heels and looks around. Her anger is subsiding and now she’s worried. Is it possible that he’s left the sickroom and is, at this very moment, stumbling around the corridors of the hall, spreading the plague as he goes? She breathes out a raggedy sigh. There is only one person who’ll get the blame if that’s the case.
She goes to push herself up from the floor and feels a stab of pain in her hand. She has struck her palm on a splinter, driving it into the flesh. She brings her hand up to her mouth and sucks the wound, trying to quell the sting. She struggles to her feet to inspect the damage by the light of a nearby candle. The splinter has gone deep. She can see the dark shadow in the muscle at the base of her thumb and try as she might, she cannot grasp the tip with her teeth, the skin has quite closed across it.
Her concentration is int
errupted by the distant sound of a chair falling. Snapping her head round to listen, other sounds come to her from behind the screen and, quite forgetting the pain in her hand, she hurries into the vestibule.
The thick wall covering shivers in the draught, but the light that drew her in before, now glows powerfully from beneath the hanging. The door into the other room is open.
She dives behind the tapestry, working her way along until she reaches the door that, sure enough, stands ajar. She enters a long, low room jumbled high with furniture, some of the larger pieces shrouded with dustsheets, sprinkled with dirt and bat droppings. Smaller items tilt and lean, stacked at odd angles, and splattered with the white smears left by roosting birds. Straw from ancient nesting material lies across the floor. The furniture forms a hectic corridor that leads through to a large casement window at the far end of the room.
There, silhouetted against the light, is Viscount Mordiford, crouching on the floorboards, surrounded by a collection of junk, as if he has been turning the cupboards out. There are clay pipes and abandoned squares of linen, a spilled pile of books and a handful of quills, pewter jars and dishes. He has his back to her and is leaning over something, studying it intently. She can hear his harsh breathing. Every now and then he emits a low and desperate groan.
With great trepidation Elen approaches him. As she nears, he glances back at her, hunching to conceal whatever it is that he holds. In the raw light streaming in through the windows, his face looks shockingly altered. The red marks of the night before are raised and plentiful, his forehead and cheeks distorted as if a thousand tiny pebbles have been pressed beneath his skin. Despite his wild stare, she feels a wave of pity sweep over her, extinguishing her anger.
‘Oh, you poor man,’ she says, approaching him.
‘Do not pity me,’ he growls. As he turns away, a light flashes from the object he holds in his hand. It is a looking glass.
The Summer Fields Page 5