The industry gives her a moment to compose herself. By the time she has the bed ready, Mordiford has exhausted himself, and sits staring sullenly at the fire. She takes him back to the bed and settles him down on a bank of pillows.
The doctor draws the bed curtain halfway across to screen him from the light and takes Elen by the elbow.
‘I am sure he will sleep,’ he says. ‘He has sloshed enough small beer to render Hercules insensible.’
‘He seems a deal livelier. Is the danger passing now, sir?’
‘It is hard to tell. His earlier acrimony shows a certain improvement, but we are not out of the woods yet. He may well relapse. The next twenty-four hours will be crucial.’
The doctor leaves, promising to return at dusk. Elen finishes tidying the sickroom. On the other side of the room, Mordiford is quiet behind the bed hangings and soon she hears his breathing deepen as he falls asleep. She gathers up the equipment of the night and takes is through to the storeroom beyond.
She allows herself some time at the window, looking out over the estate. It seems months since she came to the hall, leaving her old life behind. She wonders how the dairy fares. How often in the past she thought her work there a drudge, now it seems a certain kind of freedom.
With a nostalgic longing she thinks of the comfort of resting her head on the flank of a cow as she milks her, and yearns to be able to ramble across the meadows with the herd again in the fresh air. She misses her evenings reading by the fire, Tad slumbering in his chair. She even wonders why she resented sharing a bed with her sisters when the soft smell of their sleeping bodies, lying undisturbed until dawn, would be a luxury.
A shout comes from the sickroom. He is awake. With a sigh, Elen makes her way back and retrieves a fresh flagon of beer. It is bound to be beer he’s squawking for.
‘I don’t feel very well,’ he says as she approaches, although he looks quite bright and alert.
‘I know, my lord.’ He glugs down another measure of beer then lies back, cradling the cup in his hand. ‘Has my father sent word from London?’
‘He is here, sir.’
‘Where?’ and he struggles to push himself higher on the pillows, looking around the room.
‘No, not up here. But he arrived back at Duntisbourne yesterday.’
‘Why was I not told?’
‘Dr Argyll did tell you, but you were in a very crushed state indeed. I’m not sure you knew where you were.’
‘I think I dreamed…’ His voice trails off and he stares into the middle distance. Then he rouses himself and says, ‘Does he know how ill I am?’
‘You are better today.’
‘It does not feel like it.’ Mordiford looks at her and says, ‘Is he exceedingly irritated that I am not well?’
She knows she should contradict him, but in all honesty, he is correct. Instead she says, ‘He told us that Lady Arabella and her mother are deeply concerned about you.’
‘Did he, now? Well, I cannot let them see me in this condition.’ He flashes his blue eyes at her. ‘Can I?’
‘I would not recommend it, sir.’
He thumps the cup onto the table beside the bed. A drop of liquid leaps out, splashing the sampler covering it. Elen comes forward to rectify the spill. As she does, she is aware that his eyes are still on her.
‘You are like a cat,’ he says.
She stands, the spoiled sampler in her hand. ‘In what way, sir?’
‘In the way you pad around when you think I sleep. In the way you make yourself look comfortable, however unyielding a perch you sit on.’
He has discovered a truth about her. Her mam encouraged her to move as gracefully as possible. It is now second nature, yet he is the only person to remark on it. She feels a warmth towards him, but he swiftly pops her conceit. ‘The most feline aspect of you,’ he continues, ‘is tricking me into thinking you are sweet and mild, then lashing out and scratching me.’
She shakes her head, smiling at her own stupidity for being duped. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about, sir.’
‘And yet you have done it, just a moment ago. You mean to soothe me by suggesting that the woman I am to marry worries day and night that I suffer. You let that warm glow begin to kindle in my breast, but when I express insecurity that her love for me may be compromised by my appearance, you lash out with a vicious claw and strike me down.’
‘I am sorry you feel that way, sir.’
‘Ha! But you are not sorry – you are merely sorry for the way I feel, which you imply is my fault. You have not apologised for insulting me at all.’
She sighs. He really is a most irritating man, but she is gratified that his spirits are on the rise.
‘However many word games we play,’ she says, ‘I will not be encouraged to flatter you with half-truths.’
‘Oh no. I have little fear of that.’
In the vestibule, she pours some water from the pitcher into the bowl in the washstand and squeezes the sampler in it to dilute the beer before it stains.
‘And where did my father receive you?’ Mordiford calls out.
‘In the private apartments,’ she replies, tilting her head over her shoulder as she works so that he can still hear her.
‘Which room?’ he says.
‘The smoking room.’
‘Is that so? And what did you make of that?’ he says.
‘It is an elegant room.’
‘Elegant? Pah!’
She continues to squeeze and scrub at the stain. She knows he will not let the matter lie – like father, like son, he means to embarrass her.
‘And what did you think of the decor?’ he says eventually.
‘Fine indeed.’
‘Oh, come now, you know exactly to what I refer,’ he counters in reply.
She wrings the sampler out and straightens it along the brass rail at the side of the washstand to dry. Wiping her hands on her apron, she comes out of the vestibule and says, ‘I assume you want to goad me into an opinion of the tapestry.’
‘Of course I do, although it would amuse me more if my father’s attempt to discomfort you had gone unnoticed.’
‘It did not.’
‘Well, what did you make of it?’
‘It is an impressive piece,’ she says.
‘You thought so? Do you know what it depicts?’
‘I imagine it is a scene from mythology.’
‘It is. Do you know the story?’
‘I am not sure that I do, but I have a notion that you have determined to tell me.’
‘In that, you are correct,’ he says. ‘The god Zeus was in love with Leda, the Queen of Sparta. Because she was married to someone else, Zeus came to seduce her in the form of a swan. She bore twin children from the union but she had the foresight to lay with her husband on the same night and bear a further two other children.’ He frowns and says, ‘I cannot remember the names of all the children. One was Helen. Castor and Pollux come into it somewhere.’
‘Gemini,’ she says, recognising the names.
Viscount Mordiford stares at her, but it is difficult to tell if he is surprised or affronted.
‘Yes,’ he says, with a look of suspicion as if she has tricked him in some way. ‘I was going to suggest you go down to the library and find a book of myths, but it seems you know the story.’
‘I had forgot it.’
‘Or chose to forget it. I’ll wager your ignorance of high art encouraged you to think the theme somewhat – how shall I put it? Salacious?’
‘I’m sure that should I ever have the opportunity to travel to the Continent and see the art that hangs in the great houses of Italy and France, I would find images every bit as unsubtle.’
‘Ha! I must agree with you there. My father’s tastes can be…’ He pauses, narrowing his eyes. A shadow passes across his face, which she cannot read. ‘My father’s taste could be described as singular.’ And as he speaks the word, he raises an eyebrow and falls silent for a moment. Then he says, ‘In
fact, I am surprised that my father chose the smoking room in which to receive you. It is a place where gentlemen retire after dinner to converse without interruption from the ladies.’ He continues to be thoughtful, adding quietly, ‘I wonder…’
‘Wonder what, sir?’
‘Nothing at all. Now I am tired, so if you would be good enough to cease your prattling, I need to rest.’
Chapter 20
Joan comes slouching up the spiral staircase later that afternoon, carrying one of Elen’s stuff dresses, along with the message that Elen’s father has arrived to see her.
‘My father?’ Elen says. ‘I thought my sister had been sent for to run the errand.’
Joan shrugs and pushes the dress towards her without a word. Elen slips into the vestibule to change, taking off her apron and mobcap. A skein of hair drops over one shoulder and she fights to pin it back in place, piling it up under her outdoor bonnet before picking up her cloak.
When she comes back out Joan has sunk into the shadows in her usual place. Mordiford calls to her, ‘Miss Griffiths? Are you leaving me?’
She goes to him and says, ‘For an hour, no more. Joan is here.’
Mordiford gives a grunt of resignation.
‘You are feeling better, sir?’
He pushes his fists into the mattress, moving himself higher on the pillows. ‘I am, as a matter of fact, but deuced bored. I was wondering… we spoke of the library earlier. Would you be good enough, on your way back, to hurry along there and find me something to read?’
‘With pleasure, sir. What would you like to read?’
‘Nothing too taxing.’ He gives her a look she cannot unravel and says, ‘Choose something for me.’
‘I don’t know your tastes, sir.’
‘Nor I yours, but I mean to find out.’ With that he closes his eyes and lifts a weary hand of dismissal.
When she reaches the undercroft, she sees the large frame of her father silhouetted against the low afternoon light slanting in through the small window in the tradesman’s door. He stands half-turned from her, twisting his cap in his hands. He has not heard her approach and he seems more bowed than she remembered.
‘Tad?’ she says.
He turns. His face is full of worry. He comes forward, hugs her, holds her at arms’ length to look at her, hugs her again and then withdraws a large handkerchief from his pocket and blows his nose loudly.
‘Good grief,’ Ned says, coming round the corner with a bunch of keys. ‘You’ll have the hounds baying for blood with a blast on the old horn like that.’ Ned winks at Elen. ‘It is a raw afternoon out there. Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to have a chatter in front of the fire in the steward’s pantry?’
‘Thank you, Ned,’ she says. ‘But I miss fresh air almost as much as I miss my father, and I would welcome the opportunity to spend an extra hour outdoors.’
‘Very well,’ Ned says, making his way up the steps to the door and standing to one side. Just before her father steps out, Ned catches him by the hand and shakes it firmly, saying, ‘I will be busy with my duties later, but may I take this opportunity to say what a great pleasure it has been to meet you, sir. I understand now why your daughter is such an exceptional person.’
Knowing Tad to be a plain speaking man, Elen watches his expression to gauge his reaction, but he slaps the valet on the shoulder and beams with pleasure.
‘Why, thank you, Ned,’ he says. ‘It has been a great pleasure to meet you, too.’
Once the path drops down out of sight of the lower windows of the hall, Tad grasps her hand and threads it through the crook of his elbow. There it rests as they walk around the frosted edges of the lake.
‘I thought to see Libby this afternoon,’ Elen says.
‘Libby was sent for, but I came myself. You cannot imagine how worried I have been.’
‘I have been well cared for.’
‘Yes, oh yes, I can see you have. You look tired – but bonny nonetheless,’ Tad says before clearing his throat and drawing himself taller. ‘And the viscount?’
‘He seemed improved this afternoon.’
‘That is a relief. Indeed, it is.’ He pats her hand where it lies on his arm. ‘He is quite out of danger now?’
‘He is not.’
She feels Tad’s arm stiffen, his footsteps slow. ‘But he will recover?’
‘Dr Argyll cannot be certain at present.’
He turns to face her, taking both her hands in his, crushing her fingers in his fists. ‘You know, he must live.’
‘And I sincerely hope he will, but you of all people know how fickle such an expectation can be.’
‘I have been so worried,’ he says. ‘These past weeks have filled my head with bees. I have no other trade but dairying. I am too old to start again. I think of us turned out of the farm, forced for a life on the road.’
‘It is a worry at the front of my mind every day too,’ Elen says.
Her father takes a deep breath and says comfortingly, ‘I am greatly soothed now to see that you have at least one friend here to look out for you.’
‘You mean Ned?’
‘I do. He made a particular point of making me feel most welcome and, as he is clearly a great admirer of my daughter, I warmed to the young fellow immediately.’
‘He has been most kind to me,’ she says.
‘And he is a fine-looking fellow.’ Elen cannot control her smile any longer and, as it breaks across her face, she pulls Tad closer. ‘I suppose he is bound to be connected with an equally pleasant girl,’ Tad says. ‘Someone who works at the hall perhaps?’
‘Not that I have heard.’
‘I see.’ He gives her an inquisitive look.
‘Oh, Tad, stop it now.’
They stroll on a little further before her father adds with sly insistence, ‘Valet to the Earl of Duntisbourne would be a fine match indeed for a dairymaid. Oh, the stories I’ll tell Libby when I get back home. She will be mad with jealousy and furious that she didn’t bring your dress herself and steal a look at your swain.’
‘Now, stop your teasing. I’ll not have it. Swain indeed.’ She shoves him gently with her shoulder and he laughs.
They saunter on in companionable silence. The clock in the hall belfry tolls three o’clock and the dimming light enhances the beauty of the winter landscape. Beyond the walls of the estate, blue smoke from the chimneys in the village climbs vertically into the still air. When they reach the crest of the hill, the lights along the lower windows of the hall are clearly visible, shining out in the gloaming.
‘It’s quite a place to spend a few weeks,’ Tad says.
‘It is a bleak place. Not a house to be comfortable in.’
‘Not like Maes yr Haf.’
Elen smiles. Maes yr Haf was Mam’s dream, a farmhouse on the west of the estate, large enough to be grand, compact enough to be homely. The timber-framed building and barns form a courtyard in a vale with arable fields sweeping down into the valley. Maes yr Haf was aptly named, Mam said, because the farm basked in its own summer field.
‘Do you ever feel sad,’ Elen says, ‘that Mam never got her dream? That we never did quite well enough to get the tenancy at Maes yr Haf.’
‘No,’ Tad says with a chuckle. ‘Your mam was a wise woman. She said dreams were free as long as you never fretted about not getting them. We were happy with the dairy. Who knows? If we’d been asked to take on Maes yr Haf, it may have been too much.’
They are nearing the end of their walk. When they reach the archway into the courtyard she stops and says, ‘The doctor is a clever man, Tad. Yesterday I did think the viscount might die.’ Even in the half-light she sees Tad start. She hurries on, ‘…and as I nursed him through the night, of course my worries ran the same course as yours.’
‘Not without foundation.’
‘Oh, I know. Had you come yesterday, I would have said the viscount was dying. Today I believe he will live.’
‘And you must be safe, my darling girl.’ He
comes forward to kiss her but stops and says, ‘Oh, I quite forgot. Libby asked me to give this to you.’ He pulls a rough little pamphlet out of his pocket. ‘It is a silly thing, folk tales she says. She thought it might amuse you.’
‘Thank her for me, will you? And give them all my special love.’
* * *
As Elen walks back through the gloaming, she hears the sound of carriage wheels in the distance. Two, perhaps three vehicles are making their way along the edge of the lake, their torches muted in the failing light. They are on the road always used for visitors because it ensures that their first glimpse of the hall is of the impressive northern facade.
They are some distance away, but all the same, not wanting to be seen out in the courtyard when they arrive, Elen quickens her step. She taps on the door of the tradesman’s entrance. Through the small window in the door, she spots Ned making his way along the corridor to let her in. In anticipation of the warmth within, she begins to take off her gloves. As she pulls the left one free, she becomes aware of a dull throbbing at the base of her thumb.
‘Thank you, Ned,’ she says, descending the steps. ‘I saw carriages in the distance, coming this way. They will be here in less than ten minutes.’
‘They’ve been expected for the past three hours,’ he says, locking the door behind her. He looks very fine in his livery. ‘Have you had an enjoyable afternoon?’
‘I have, thank you.’
‘What is it on your hand that you study so intently?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve hurt it somehow.’ Ned holds up his lantern and together they inspect the heel of her palm. ‘Now I recall,’ she says. ‘I drove a splinter in here a few days’ past. I had quite forgot it.’
‘That does look sore. Come, we must resolve it for you.’
‘It’s a nothing. You have guests arriving, you’ll be needed soon.’
‘Nonsense. There’s plenty of time and that hand looks as angry as a hot coal. We need to see it in a better light.’
Elen follows him, all the while protesting. The undercroft is a hive of activity, servants she has never seen before hurrying up and down with armfuls of linen, scuttles full of firewood, crates of clanking bottles and trays of crystal glasses and decanters. Weaving his way through the mayhem, Ned escorts her up to the steward’s pantry.
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