With the lamp pooling his correspondence, he sat at his desk to complete the day’s business. It may have been the moan of the wind, or a sudden rush of loneliness that washed over him, but something caused Archer to shudder. A cold draft from beneath the study door brought with it a sense of unease, as if he was being stalked by some new, but expected evil. It crept across the Turkish rugs, wove its fronds around the carved table legs and climbed towards his hand with fingers as cold as death. As he picked up the first piece of correspondence, he knew what he was about to read, and hesitated.
He blamed his disquiet on the wind that hissed at the windows and troubled the hearth, the sudden rattles of the casements as angry gusts hammered on the glass, and the thought of those less fortunate than he who must endure nights like these in houses less welcoming.
Archer found a practical justification for his change in mood and passed it off as the stress of weather, but what was perplexing was how he knew the letter he was opening would bring dire news. The certainty that something dreadful was about to happen seeped from the paper to his fingers and into his skin. From there, it filtered into his blood where it coursed to his heart, freezing it before he read the final line.
A dish is served albeit cold to he who meddled with our gold.
To he who took my love and life and yet will take no Christian wife,
I set a trial and a trail for him to follow to the gaol.
And there to meet midwinter eve else brother dear be left to grieve.
The splendour falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
We have his sisters. Involve your catamite, and they will die before the shortest day.
His restlessness was well-founded and turned to sickness as realisation dawned. There was no name and no address, but to Archer, the sender was as obvious as what needed to be done. The first verse, poorly constructed and amateurish, pointed to one man, as did the use of Tennyson for the second, and the more he read and re-read, the more convinced he became of who was behind the threat.
Benjamin Quill.
Two
With Thomas away, it fell to James to cover the butler’s duties as well as his own. It was hardly a problem with only Lord Clearwater and Mr Hawkins to care for. Mrs Flintwich was now at Larkspur Hall, so the next morning, once he had attended to his usual pre-breakfast tasks, James saw to His Lordship’s coffee. Mr Hawkins had told him not to worry valeting him, but to concentrate on the master of the house, and the viscount, in turn, had told him not to prepare the breakfast room.
After setting the water to boil on the stove, James took the kitchen churn to the back door intending to replace it with that left by the dairy only to find nothing on the step but a blanketing of snow interrupted by footprints. Assuming Mr Hawkins had seen to the task, he returned to the pantry to discover there was no milk there either. He wasn’t surprised. Although Mr Hawkins drifted between above and below stairs as if he didn’t know which was his rightful place, it would be unusual for him to be up and about so early in the morning.
There was enough milk in the larder to see them through the day and, deciding that Mrs Flintwich had cancelled the usual order, he set the viscount’s tray and carried it up the backstairs to the first floor, stopping once to admire the snow-blanketed park from the back window.
It was hard to imagine that less than two months ago he was expected to work outside in this weather, running the streets to deliver telegrams and take replies. There was less wind troubling the house that morning, but the air was chilled to freezing, and he didn’t like the look of the sky. He hoped the roads would be cleared by the evening when they were due to set off to the railway station and the night train west to Larkspur. Thomas had told him what to expect at the country house, but had also warned that until he saw the place, he could not imagine what he was in for; sixteen bedrooms, stately reception rooms, including a library and a music room. The house even had a tower, and in its extensive grounds, its own dairy. There would be no problems with milk there. Apparently, there were three farms on the estate, each rented to independent farmers with conditions that certain produce was delivered to the Hall.
That was for tomorrow. Before James could see what he could barely imagine, he had to serve His Lordship, prepare the basement apartment for the retainers, pack the men’s clothes and his own, and finish his other duties. He turned his mind to them as he backed through the servants’ door at the end of the men’s corridor, letting it swing silently shut behind him. The passage was as cold as the rest of the house, but he had lit the fire in the study so the viscount would have warmth when he rose, and had lit the lamps on the stairs. It was just on seven o’clock, and the sun had not yet fully risen.
He placed the tray on the table beside the viscount’s door, followed Thomas’ rule of ‘Stop, take Stock and Start again,’ checked his uniform, and knocked four times in the jaunty rhythm that His Lordship preferred for his initial wake up call.
There was no reply, but that was not unusual. Yesterday, the viscount hadn’t woken until James had drawn his curtains and was setting the fire. When a further four raps produced no order to enter, James opened the door, collected the tray and let himself into the darkness.
The first thing that struck him was the lack of a morning smell. In the days he had been covering this duty, he entered an aroma of male sweat and stuffiness that, although not unattractive, was accented if Mr Hawkins had also spent the night in the room. Today, there was only the scent of the Viscount’s favourite perfume, Penhaligon’s Hammam Bouquet, an aromatic mix of lavender and bergamot which James thought exotic in a manly way. With only the spill from the corridor lamp, he placed the tray carefully on a side table and crossed to the window. Drawing the sumptuous drapes and revealing the dawn did little to light the room, but when he turned to greet His Lordship, it was obvious the bed had not been used.
Again, nothing too unusual there. He wouldn’t put it past the viscount to rise, dress himself and make his own bed, or to have spent the night with Mr Hawkins, although usually, it was the secretary who visited the master. Unperturbed, he left the room, took four paces across the springy carpet to the opposite door and repeated the routine of knocking, waiting and knocking again. Mr Hawkins never awoke on the first knock and seldom on the second, as was the case that morning, so James opened the door, crossed directly to the window and drew the curtains.
‘Good morning, Sir,’ he said, peering across the park into the gloom. ‘His Lordship’s tray is by his bed. Shall I…?’
He turned to find Silas waking alone.
‘Alright, Jimmy?’ he said, squinting as he lumbered onto one elbow. ‘Is it eight already?’
‘No, Sir, it’s only… I’m sorry, I assumed His Lordship was with you. I’d have let you be otherwise.’
Silas lifted his blankets and made a show of looking beneath them. ‘Can’t see him, Jimmy,’ he said, resurfacing with as much of a cheeky grin as he ever gave at that time of day. When he saw James’ confusion, he asked, ‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing, I expect,’ James said. ‘Only he is not in his room.’
‘Did he fall asleep in the study?’
It wouldn’t have been the first time, but James had already been in there to set the fire.
‘No, Sir,’ he said. ‘Shall I leave you to sleep?’
‘Not now you can’t,’ Silas said, throwing back his covers. ‘You’ve got me intrigued.’ He slipped from the bed with the front of his pyjamas tenting unashamedly. ‘I’ll just take a jimmy, Jimmy and be down in a jiffy. This might take a bit longer to come down,’ he added, swinging his
erection as he swaggered to the bathroom. ‘No need to stay.’
Mr Hawkins was not yet comfortable having someone dress him and preferred to do it on his own. However, he did like to have James around while he dressed and shaved as it gave them both a chance to catch up on each other’s news. James was also aware that Silas, in an unspoken way, liked to be admired when he was naked and, being honest, James was not unhappy about seeing him so. There had often been more subtle flirting than was expected between master and servant, but it was between friends in private, and the only impropriety involved was that they both had lovers.
Unsure what to do with the tray, James returned it to the kitchen. When the viscount called for breakfast, he would make fresh coffee and bring it to the study. He took the opportunity to drink some himself while he stood watching the bell-box, but no call came. Listening for it, he prepared the breakfast tray but heard nothing, and even after he had swept the retainers’ quarters and prepared the hearth, he had still not been summoned. When the carriage clock in the servant’s hall struck eight, he began to worry and, as that was the usual time to attend breakfast, he brought the tray above stairs.
James knew something was wrong when he entered the study to find Mr Hawkins disconcerted at the viscount’s desk. His thick, dark eyebrows met in the middle, his eyes were narrow, and he was chewing the edge of a nail.
‘Are you alright, Sir?’ James asked, placing the tray on the reading table.
‘Not exactly, Jimmy,’ Mr Hawkins replied, staring at the blotter. ‘You got one as well.’
‘One what, Sir?’
He approached the table and stood with his hands behind his back like a student waiting to hear a report from a teacher. Mr Hawkins gazed at him without raising his dropped head, but his eyes quickly fell to the desk where he pushed an envelope across and said, ‘This one’s for you, and I reckon we can forget the Sir shit.’
‘As you wish.’ James had no objection. The longer he worked at the house, the more difficult it became to separate the role of a servant from that of a friend. He and Silas preferred first name terms, and there was no-one else to hear. He took the envelope, confused more than intrigued. ‘Shall I open it now?’
‘You’d best.’ Silas handed him a letter opener.
James could tell from the crest the envelope was one of Lord Clearwater’s and the letter had not been posted. His name was written on the front in the viscount’s florid hand, but with less care than the man usually took in his writing, and the paper smelt mildly of his Indian scent. Removing the page within, he placed the envelope back on the desk and unfolded the letter. At first, he thought that there were three pages but then realised that two of them were five-pound notes. His next thought was that he had been dismissed, and his stomach lurched, but when Silas said, ‘I got two and all,’ and showed them, he calmed.
‘What for?’ James asked.
‘What does it say?’
James put the money aside, and unfolded the letter. His stomach lurched again when he read the first line.
If Silas is with you, tell him this letter says only that you are to take care of him. Read the rest when you are alone and don’t show him its contents.
He wanted to read more, but when Silas said, ‘Well?’ he pulled himself up short and pocketed the paper and the money.
‘It says only that I am to take good care of you,’ he said.
‘And the money?’
The letter hadn’t mentioned the money, at least, if it did, he hadn’t reached that part.
‘For emergencies,’ he improvised. ‘What does yours say?’
‘It’s a bit personal actually, Jimmy,’ Silas admitted. ‘But the gist is that Archer’s been called away and had to leave last night. Very sorry not to come with us tonight, but will see us at Larkspur as soon as he can get there.’
‘Did he say where he was called to? If you don’t mind me asking.’
‘I don’t, Jimmy, but no, he didn’t.’
Silas replaced his letter in its envelope, but unlike James, left it on the desk where he continued to stare at it while he folded the white fivers into his trouser pocket.
‘I expect it’s to do with business,’ James said, keen to offer reassurance.
Silas shrugged his shoulders. ‘Yeah.’ He was unconvinced.
James too was studying Silas’ envelope, but when he saw a tear fall from his friend’s eye, he was compelled to press the subject.
‘It’s nothing bad, is it?’ he asked.
‘Who knows?’ was the unhelpful reply.
‘You know you can tell me.’ James lowered his voice and altered his tone. He also put aside the affected polite manner of a footman and used his natural South Riverside accent. ‘We’re mates, after all.’
Silas smiled sadly. ‘Yeah, I know. Thanks,’ he said. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘No, there’s nothing wrong in it. Well, apart from… Just says he had to go away, but what’s got to me is the way he’s just gone. Not a goodbye nor nothing. I would rather he woke me at four in the morning than just go without saying. Especially in this.’ He thumbed towards the window where daylight was struggling to make itself known.
‘Is that when he left?’ James asked. ‘Four in the morning?’
‘I dunno. Didn’t say. But you know what I’m getting at.’
‘Yeah, it’s unusual, but obviously, it was something that couldn’t wait. His bed’s not been slept in and the clothes I laid out last night are still there. I don’t expect he’ll be gone long.’
Silas said nothing. Slumped in the chair, he bit his bottom lip.
‘I can ask Lady Marshall,’ James suggested. ‘Perhaps she knows something?’
‘No, don’t do that,’ Silas said. ‘Archer said he would only be a few days, not to worry and…’ His voice cracked. ‘He said he loved me.’
‘He does.’
‘Fuck it, Jimmy. He wrote in the past tense.’
‘Past?’
‘Yeah. He signed off with “I loved you.” Like, once but not no more.’
James understood Silas’ sullen mood and was determined to lift it. He’d never seen anyone so in love as the viscount, it was the main reason he played down his flirting with Silas. Not because he didn’t find the Irishman desirable, in fact, sometimes it was hard to be around him, the man was so lovable and arousing. James stayed aloof because Archer would be devastated if Silas cheated on him, and James cared for them both too much to come between them.
‘I would say that was an error,’ he said.
‘An error? How d’you figure that?’ Silas was derisive. Whether Archer had meant to suggest their love was over or not, he had assumed the worse.
‘Think about it.’ Behaving as Thomas would have done, James nonchalantly poured Silas coffee. ‘Something came up in the late hours. Archer was in a hurry, else he would have woken you to say goodbye, or woken me to find him a cab. So, he clearly had to leave and had little time for explanations. He rattled off two quick notes, the writing isn’t as neat as usual, and in his haste, simply misspelt the word love.’ Bringing the cup to the desk, he added, ‘It’s one letter different, that’s all, mate. Here, I put extra sugar in it.’
Silas ignored the coffee but not James’ words. ‘You think so?’ he asked, hope rising.
‘I do. Unless he said anything else to give you cause for concern in that direction?’
Silas considered the question, staring at James with his sea blue eyes, looking through him, but connecting. James returned the gaze, but he was more focused.
‘Not in that way,’ Silas said. ‘But the cash?’
‘We do have a long way to travel tonight,’ James reasoned. ‘Archer’s usually the one who carries the money. Makes sense to me.’
Silas was still not convinc
ed and continued to look through James. ‘It’s ten quid, Jimmy. More than you or I earn in six months. How long is he going to be away for?’ Desperation was creeping into his voice.
The more Silas rationalised his fear, the more James dreaded reading the rest of his own letter. He distracted them both by pouring himself coffee and bringing Silas a plate of toast. That too was ignored, but he did drink.
‘You know how generous he is,’ James said, doing his best to dismiss their shared concern. ‘How many staff does he have at Larkspur for only his mother and himself? I bet he keeps people on just so they can enjoy an income.’
He sat again and sipped his drink, holding it as Silas did with the cup in his palm, the handle redundant.
‘Aye,’ Silas sighed. ‘Maybe you’re right. But…’ He broke off, shaking his head and frowning. ‘It’s not like him to just bugger off. Definitely not in the middle of the night and in a bloody snowstorm. What if something’s happened to him?’
‘More likely something’s happened to his mother,’ James reasoned, trying to imagine what that might be. ‘She is travelling across Europe, perhaps he received a telegram and had to rush to her aid.’
The idea, which had come from a romantic novel, seemed to perk Silas up, and his eyes finally opened to their full glory in hope.
‘Yeah?’ he asked. ‘You think?’
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