Cinders & Sapphires (At Somerton)

by Rasheed, Leila

  She wandered into the apple orchard and picked a windfall from the ground. Nibbling on it, she went on toward the kitchen garden. It was closed off from her by a gate, but as she approached she saw someone hurry past inside. She stopped, startled. It looked like Michael. And he was holding a bunch of roses clearly culled from one of the gardens.

  Georgiana went forward, full of curiosity. What was Michael doing here? The kitchen garden wasn’t precisely forbidden to them, but it was part of the servants’ territory, and it was certainly not encouraged for them to enter it. She sensed that both the gardeners and Mrs. Cliffe would have something to say if they found Michael there. She tried the gate, but it was locked.

  “What are you doing?” came a voice from behind her.

  She jumped and turned round, her heart beating fast. She saw Philip, his sleeves rolled up and his Eton suit grubby at the knees.

  “Philip!” She relaxed. “You scared me.”

  “You’re not meant to go in there. I got a telling off from my brother about it.” He made a face. “As if he never broke any rules. I hate William.”

  Georgiana sighed. She agreed, but she didn’t think it would do much good to say so. “Well…it’s true that he hasn’t got a very good temper.”

  “He’s a bully. I saw him pinch Priya’s arm when he thought no one was looking. And he cuffed me across the head when I told him to stop.”

  “That’s horrible.” Georgiana was shocked.

  “He is horrible. Anyway, I’m going to go wherever I want. I shan’t let him stop me.” He scowled. “But what are you doing here? If you’re looking for apples, I’ve had all the best ones already.”

  “I was just wondering what Michael was doing in the kitchen garden.” Georgiana blushed, but Philip didn’t notice.

  “Michael? Is he here too?”

  “Yes. I—I wanted to give him a surprise, so I was following him.”

  “That sounds like fun,” Philip said, perking up. “Look, if you creep under the hedge you can get through.” He got down on his hands and knees and wriggled under the hedge. “Come on!”

  “Oh…” Georgiana thought of her dress and then dismissed it. How dirty could a dress get anyway? And it was far too tempting to find out what Michael was up to. She got down on her hands and knees and wriggled after Philip through the hedge.

  Priya walked along the servants’ passage, holding the needle and thread she had gone downstairs for. She had an odd feeling she was being followed. She glanced behind her, but there was no one there.

  It was Sunday afternoon, and with much of the family in London, the house felt very quiet. She would never get to like it, she thought. It was too cold and too big and too…too English. She longed for something, some smell or color or sound that would be like home. But there was nothing. Even the post hadn’t brought a letter from her mother, and she was worried. Her father was ill, they had written in the last letter—nothing serious, but she knew they were trying to keep her from worrying.

  She glanced to the side again and thought that she saw a shadow move outside the window. Surely it had just been a branch blowing in the wind.

  She heard voices from the kitchen as she approached. Hushed whispers, as if the speakers were being careful not to be overheard.

  Priya hesitated. The voices were Martha, the scullery maid, and Tobias, the stable boy. She drew near to the kitchen door and looked in. The two were by the fire, a steaming copper kettle was on the range, and they were huddling over something.

  Feeling suddenly suspicious, Priya tiptoed forward.

  “Not like that, you fool. You’ll soak it.” Tobias leaned over Martha.

  “Well, you do it if you’re such an expert!”

  She was close now enough to see over their shoulders. Martha held a letter. Tobias was holding the copper underneath it, and the flap of the envelope was crinkling up.

  “It looks like a man’s hand, don’t it?” Martha said gleefully.

  “I’d say so. Not as innocent as she looks! I reckon Miss Ward will pay a good deal to know about her fancy man.”

  “Out on her ear without a reference. I like it.” Martha grinned.

  Priya realized what was going on, in a split second of shock.

  “That’s not yours!” she exclaimed.

  Tobias spun around. Martha jumped and sent the pan of water flying. The fire hissed and steamed.

  Priya snatched the letter out of Martha’s hand. At a glance she could see it was addressed to Rose.

  “Give that back, or I’ll—” Tobias shouted.

  “Don’t you dare threaten me. Or I’ll let Mr. Cooper know what you’ve done.”

  Tobias turned pale and glanced at Martha.

  “I’m going to take this to Mrs. Cliffe, and you’ll be lucky if I don’t tell her everything.” Priya turned and swept off toward the door, the letter clutched tightly in her hands.

  She found Mrs. Cliffe in her parlor.

  “This came for Rose, if you please.” She bobbed a curtsy and held out the letter.

  Mrs. Cliffe gave the letter a curious glance. Her expression serious, she put it away.

  “Thank you, Priya.”

  Priya hesitated, wondering if she should mention what she had seen and heard. But it had been so little, and so perplexing. Why should Miss Ward care if Rose had a fancy man? And the last thing Priya wanted was to make enemies of the Somerton servants. She decided to say nothing.

  “Ah, Mrs. Cliffe—and Priya.”

  Priya whirled round. Her heart beat fast. It was William. He was standing at the door, an unpleasant smile on his face as he looked at her. Priya dropped her eyes at once, feeling sick. William frightened her. He acted jolly, but his manner could change to cruelty in a second. She just did not feel safe around him. It was something in the way he looked at her—there was something very cold and greedy in his eyes.

  “Can I help you, sir?” Mrs. Cliffe moved to block his view of Priya. Priya was grateful. She guessed that Mrs. Cliffe did not like William either.

  “I simply came down to give some directions to Cooper about the wine for this evening. I’m expecting a few friends to play bridge. But since Priya is here, perhaps she can help me find Cooper. I wouldn’t want to bother you.”

  “It’s no bother at all, sir, and Priya must be getting back to the nursery.” Mrs. Cliffe turned a meaningful gaze on her, and Priya, grateful for the rescue, blurted out, “Yes, Mrs. Cliffe.”

  She fled to the door. William stood back, but not quite enough, so she had to squeeze past him to get out. She shuddered at his hot breath on her neck and half walked, half ran down the corridor. She was trembling and her heart was beating fast. On impulse she went out the side door. She needed fresh air, and she couldn’t stand the feeling that he was watching her.

  She glanced behind her as she walked through the kitchen garden, just to check that William was not following her. She turned round and almost bumped into Michael Templeton. She started.

  “Oh! Sir—I’m sorry—”

  “No, it was my fault.” He sounded confused and flustered. “I just—”

  He had a bunch of roses in his hand. Priya hardly glanced at them in her haste to put distance between herself and William.

  “Excuse me, sir.” She quickly curtsied and hurried on.

  She didn’t feel truly calm until she was back in the nursery. Only then did she spare a moment to puzzle over the roses in Michael Templeton’s hand, and the way he had been gazing at her.

  Michael swore and thumped the roses against his leg angrily. Petals flew. He’d been following her for ages, trying to get up the courage to speak to her, and the roses had seemed like a good idea at the time. But then he had bumped into her, like an idiot, and of course she had been startled, and there had been no chance to give her the flowers. She was so beautiful. So naturally graceful and elegant—

  “Michael!”

  He looked up. Georgiana was standing before him, beaming, twigs in her hair, smudges on her face, and
a large grass stain down her dress.

  “Georgiana! You’re up.” He looked her up and down. “But what have you been doing? You look as if you’ve been dragged through a hedge backward.”

  Her smile faltered, and she glanced down at the grass-stained dress as if she had only just seen it.

  “Oh dear. Does it look that bad?”

  “Pretty bad. Good job Mother’s not here; she’d give you a scolding.”

  “I just wondered what you were doing here?”

  “Here?” Michael looked around. “Oh, just…exploring.” He remembered the roses he was still holding. Well, since he’d missed his chance to give them to Priya. “Want some roses?” he said glumly, thrusting them at her.

  “Oh!” Her smile lit up, and he was pleased despite himself. Good old Georgie. She might be a bit of a scatterbrain but she was full of pluck and good humor. It was nice to be able to make her smile. And…the thought struck him suddenly. Of course. That was the other good thing about her. She was a girl. Easy to forget it, she was such a tomboy, but she was an actual girl. Didn’t girls have some kind of shared bond? Wouldn’t she be the best way of getting to Priya?

  He beamed at her. “Come on, let’s have a game of cricket. It’s been ages—I’ve missed you!”

  He clapped the delighted Georgiana on the shoulder, and they went out of the kitchen garden toward the lawns.

  Sebastian walked back toward his room after a tedious lunch with the dean, along cobbled streets and past the sun-dappled stone of the ancient colleges. He was thinking of Oliver. His conscience twinged as he thought of the way he had acted the other day. Of course Oliver would have been upset; anyone would. It must have looked as if he were flirting with Ravi, when in fact he simply found him interesting and a challenge. It was provoking not to be admired, and he knew that Ravi did not admire him. But Oliver must have had a boring day of it, handing out champagne without being able to taste a drop himself, of course. Sebastian had been a little drunk, or he would have been more sensitive. He would have to make it up to Oliver. Perhaps, he thought as he climbed the stairs to his rooms, they could go for a picnic, or something similar. The devil of it was, it was hard to find an excuse to go gallivanting with one’s valet without exciting suspicion. Perhaps if he could get invited to a country-house party this weekend… He opened the door and went into his rooms.

  “Oliver,” he began, and then stopped dead. The letter lay on the mantelpiece, insolent as an intruder. Even from here he could see the handwriting was Simon’s.

  He crossed and picked it up, his hands shaking. There was no more money. Simon had to be sensible, he had to understand. But he tore it open and read what was inside it, and his heart sank in despair.

  Mr. Sebastian,

  I think you must be making a mockery of me. I know you are a rich gentleman and can pay whatever I ask. I think it is not too much to ask two thousand pounds to keep your name out of the papers. I have met a very pleasant gentleman from The Illustrated Reporter who is very interested to hear about you and I. Of course I wouldn’t tell him a thing before hearing from you. I am sure you will see sense and let me have it for old times’ sake. If not, the story will run this weekend.

  Your humble servant,

  Simon Croker

  “Two thousand pounds!” Sebastian burst out furiously. The man had to be mad. He could never get such a sum. His mother held the purse strings too tightly and he could not ask her for such an amount with no explanation. And before the weekend!

  It was impossible to approach Lord Westlake again. He had made it clear that the so-called investments should show a profit before he would put more money into it. And to threaten him with the papers…some American rag, no doubt, but the story would be picked up in London too. Unfortunately, there was enough evidence to support it. He had been seen and photographed frequenting too many parties with the Set to hope to pass anonymously.

  “Sebastian?” Oliver came in. Sebastian could not answer his timid smile. Oliver stood there in his valet’s uniform, and that reminded him of Simon. He’d trusted Simon. He’d been a fool. Perhaps no one could be trusted.

  “When did that letter come?”

  “Yesterday. It was pushed under the door—”

  “Yesterday! Why the hell didn’t you tell me before?”

  Oliver looked startled and didn’t answer. Sebastian swore.

  “Pack my things. I’m going to London, alone.”

  If he had expected Oliver to make a scene, he was disappointed. Oliver hesitated, then turned away, his face impassive. The perfect servant, Sebastian thought bitterly. Perfect at hiding his feelings, and no doubt talking behind his back. It was unbearable. He shouted after him. “And be quick about it—I mean to have fun tonight!” It was childish but he didn’t care. If only Oliver had showed some emotion, some flicker of feeling. But he was as cold as Simon, as able to turn his emotions on and off.

  Sebastian snatched up the suitcase without looking at Oliver and stormed out. If he was quick he would be able to catch the last train to London.

  “Here.” Sebastian spoke to the cab driver, who clicked his tongue and whoa-ed his horse to a standstill. Sebastian paid him with his last coins and stepped out of the cab into the darkening evening, where the men were lighting the gas lamps. The old horse tossed its head and trotted off, and Sebastian was left staring at Featherstonehaugh House, iceberglike in front of him.

  He realized at once that he had not thought this through. There was a motorcar in front of the house and servants in livery were standing at the open door. Clearly Simon’s employer was on his way out for the evening. How had he imagined he would get to speak to Simon, anyway? One could hardly call at a gentleman’s house and ask to speak to his valet. The back door was a possibility, but there would be questions asked.…

  As he stood, irresolute, a tall young man in evening dress, top hat and cane, came out of the front door, and with a nod to the butler, hurried down the steps toward the motorcar. Behind him came Simon.

  Sebastian gasped sharply and headed across the road before he thought of what he was doing. As he drew close to the motorcar the man looked up at him with a curious expression. Sebastian realized he knew him. It was Lord Fintan. He had been there at the shooting party—of course, Sebastian realized. He really had seen Simon there; he hadn’t imagined it. He faltered in his pace—damn, this was going to be difficult to explain—and lifted his hat with an awkward smile.

  Lord Fintan tipped his own hat and smiled with an inquiring look.

  “My dear Sebastian—it is Sebastian, isn’t it? Were you looking for me?” he said. He sounded uncertain, and Sebastian could hardly blame him. He must have presented a very odd appearance, hesitating as if he were afraid of being seen. Behind Lord Fintan, Simon’s face registered wary surprise; then the mask of the professional servant froze over it. He stared right through Sebastian.

  “I…” Sebastian had no idea what to say. If he said not, he would have to walk on and miss the chance of speaking to Simon. If he said he was, he would have to produce some excuse. And since he had only the smallest of acquaintances with Lord Fintan, and no reason to speak to him, that would be difficult.

  “Only I am rather late, for an engagement with the Wellingboroughs…” Lord Fintan gestured to his pocket watch. “My mother is inside and I am sure she would be delighted to see you.”

  That settled it. “No, I thank you. I was just…taking an early evening walk.” Sebastian replied. He was angry at the shameful need to lie. Simon’s face remained impassive. Sebastian, with an abrupt bow to Lord Fintan, walked past.

  “Odd chap,” he heard Lord Fintan say to Simon as he stepped into the motorcar.

  “Quite, my lord.” Simon replied. Sebastian heard him closing the door close behind his master.

  Damn, damn, damn, thought Sebastian as he walked along the road, swinging his cane. It was clear there was no talking to Simon. Fear was like a knotted rope around his throat. He had to do something, and fast. But
he was almost out of money, and nothing else would make an impression on Simon. He paused and opened his pocketbook under a lamppost, careless of the pickpockets who swarmed the streets of London. It was empty, practically moth-eaten, save for his return ticket to Oxford—and two other small slips of paper.

  Sebastian opened them, wondering if they were pawnbrokers’ bills. But they were not. He remembered them as he looked at them: earlier this year, just after receiving his allowance, he had bought two tickets for Vronsky’s solo performance at the Albert Hall, when he would be premiering a piano arrangement of The Firebird, composed by Stravinsky. It was the most hotly anticipated musical performance of the year. The new Russian music had influenced everything from interior décor to clothes. It was a mark of how worried Sebastian had been that he had forgotten all about the tickets.

  Still, he was in no mood for music. He was about to tear them up when he paused. Fight fire with fire, they said. It was a good scandal story, that Sebastian Templeton, the urbane man about town, committed the unspeakable vice of the Greeks, as his don called it. But there could be a better story. For months the gutter press had been trying to fix him with a woman, one of the Set. He had laughed at the time. But what he needed now was exactly that: a woman. A woman to escort to the concert, a woman who would help him prompt a story for the papers that would make Simon’s look ridiculous, unpublishable. Better, a mysterious woman. A beautiful woman. A woman who had never before been in the papers…

  “Ada,” he said, and snapped his fingers. “Cab!”

  The sun came in through the large Georgian windows of Milborough House, and shimmered on the three dresses that lay in clouds of tissue paper across Ada’s bed. Ada herself, still in her tea gown, paced back and forth across the room.